At Dante's Service

‘So are you going to allow one failed relationship to affect the rest of your life?’

‘No … but …’

‘You can’t live in the past, Rebekah. You need to move on.’

She frowned. ‘Are you speaking from experience?’

He gave her a bland smile, but she noticed that his eyes had hardened. ‘I’m a playboy, remember?’ he mocked her. ‘I don’t have a problem moving on to the next affair. Seriously, though, I’m sure it can’t be easy to move to a big city and make new friends. I could introduce you to a few people. In fact I’m attending the first night of the new musical that’s opening in the West End tomorrow, and the after-show party. Why don’t you come with me?’

It made sense to help Rebekah feel more settled in London, Dante told himself. She was a fantastic chef and he did not want her to be tempted to return to Wales. Maybe if he took her out a couple of times she would find her feet on the social scene.

Rebekah swallowed. Perhaps that flash of sexual awareness had been in his eyes after all.

‘You’re inviting me to spend the evening with you?’ She wanted to make sure she had not misunderstood him.

‘It will do you good to get out,’ he said briskly, as if he thought she needed to be encouraged to buck her ideas up.

Her stomach swooped as the realisation dawned that he had asked her out because he felt sorry for her. The words hovered on her lips to decline his invitation, but a spark of pride made her reconsider. She was not moping over Gareth and she was certainly not the pathetic victim of a failed relationship that Dante seemed to think. There was no reason not to go to the theatre with him. Her only plan for tomorrow night was to wash her hair. It was true that her social life was unexciting. She had kept in touch with a couple of friends she had made when she had worked for the catering company but they led busy lives and she’d only met up with them twice since she had started working for Dante.

‘All right, I’d like to go with you,’ she said quickly, before she could change her mind. ‘I’ve never been to a first night before. What do you think I should wear?’

‘These events are usually formal affairs and I imagine most women will wear full-length evening dresses.’

Rebekah ran her mind through the contents of her wardrobe and realised she had nothing suitable. ‘In that case I’ll have to go shopping.’

Dante took his wallet from his pocket, pulled out a credit card and pushed it across the table. ‘Take this and buy whatever you need.’

‘Certainly not,’ she said frostily, and pushed the card back to him. ‘I’m not a charity case and I can afford to buy my own clothes.’

He had never met such a proud and prickly woman, Dante mused as he returned the card to his wallet. All the women he knew would have seized the credit card and bought a dozen designer dresses with it, but Rebekah was looking at him with an outraged expression, as if he had suggested selling her grandmother. He felt a flare of irritation but also a grudging respect for her.

She stood up from the table and, as she leaned forwards to pick up his empty plate, his eyes were drawn to the sway of her breasts. His body tautened and, to his surprise, he felt a heady sense of anticipation at the prospect of taking her out tomorrow evening that he had not experienced for a long time.

If her mother knew how much she had paid for the dress she would have a fit, Rebekah thought guiltily the following evening as she got ready to go out with Dante. She still couldn’t quite believe herself that she had spent so much money on an impractical slither of silk that she would probably never have the opportunity to wear again. But she did not regret buying it. She had spent all morning traipsing up and down Oxford Street and had tried on dozens of evening gowns that hadn’t suited her. It had made her realise how much she relied on her chef’s uniform to disguise her unfashionably curvaceous figure.

Finally, as she had been on the brink of giving up and phoning Dante to say she had changed her mind about going to the theatre, a dress displayed in the window of an exclusive boutique in Bond Street had caught her eye. Initially the price tag had put her off, but the shop assistant had persuaded her to try it on.

‘The colour is the exact shade of your eyes,’ the woman had enthused. And so Rebekah had pulled off her jeans in the changing cubicle and stepped into the dress. The assistant had run the zip up her spine, and they had both stared at her reflection in the mirror.

‘It looks quite nice,’ Rebekah had ventured at last, finding it hard to believe that the person in the mirror was actually her.

‘You look absolutely stunning,’ the assistant had assured her. ‘The dress fits so perfectly it could have been made for you.’

It was the first time in her life that she had ever been called stunning, Rebekah had thought wryly, but to her amazement the dress really did suit her. The bodice had some sort of built-in support so that it was not necessary to wear a bra and the low-cut neckline was more daring than anything she had ever worn before. The delicate shoulder straps were decorated with sparkling crystals but, other than that, the dress was a simple sheath of violet silk that caressed her curves like a lover’s hands. Her cheeks had flushed hotly as she had imagined Dante’s hands sliding over the silky dress. But the sensuous material made her feel like a beautiful and sensual woman.

She had bought the dress, and also the silver stiletto sandals and matching purse that had been displayed with it. And, having spent so much money, she had decided to go completely mad, and had visited the beauty salon at Harrods and had an array of treatments that had left her looking and feeling as though she had discarded the dull, tired Rebekah Evans she had been for the last two years and transformed into a new Rebekah who was seductive and self-confident.

Perhaps, when he saw her in the dress, Dante would realise he did not need to feel sorry for her, she thought, remembering her humiliation the previous evening. She made her way carefully up the stairs from the staff apartment in the basement of the house, discovering that walking elegantly in high heels and a long skirt was an art she needed to learn quickly. Her new-found confidence wavered slightly and she hesitated outside the sitting room while she took a deep breath before she opened the door and walked into the room.

Dante was in the process of pouring himself a drink. He had told Rebekah to be ready for seven p.m., but it was only five to and he assumed she would not appear for at least another fifteen minutes. In his experience, women were rarely ready for a date on time.

He glanced round in surprise when he heard the door open and was so astonished at the sight of her that he froze with his glass midway to his lips.

‘Rebekah …?’ His voice deserted him as, for one crazy second, he wondered if the exquisite creature standing across the room was really his chef, who he had only ever seen wearing an unflattering uniform that made her appear as shapeless as a sack of potatoes. She walked towards him, moving with a fluid grace that held him mesmerised. As she came closer he noted that her incredible violet eyes were the exact same colour as her floor-length gown.

It was definitely Rebekah, but what a transformation! He had never seen her hair loose before and he could not take his eyes from the glossy chocolate-brown mane that rippled down her back. Soft grey shadow on her eyelids emphasised the colour of her eyes and her lips were defined with a slick of rose-coloured gloss.

As for her dress—Dante took a gulp of his drink to ease the sudden dryness in his mouth. She looked as though she had been poured into it and the silky material moulded her voluptuous figure. He stared at the creamy upper slopes of her breasts and felt a fierce throb of arousal in his groin that made him catch his breath. Utterly disconcerted, he was conscious of heat flaring along his cheekbones. He was not usually lost for words, but he did not know what to say and the casual greeting he had been about to make died on his lips.

Only once before in his life had he been so overwhelmed by a woman, and the memory caused his jaw to tighten. He did not want to feel this powerful attraction to Rebekah. He had asked her to accompany him tonight on a whim, thinking that it would be nice to give her a treat by taking her to the theatre in thanks for her hard work at the christening. He had been intrigued by the idea of her wearing an evening gown, but he had not expected her to turn into a gorgeous sex siren who made his heart race and had a disturbing effect on another pertinent area of his anatomy.

Dante’s silence stretched Rebekah’s nerves until she blurted out, ‘If the dress is not suitable then I won’t come with you tonight. I … I don’t have anything else to wear.’ She felt crushed by his reaction—or rather lack of it—to the dress. And that made her feel angry with herself because deep down she admitted that she had wanted to impress him.

‘The dress is fine. You look charming.’ Dante forced himself to speak. But as soon as the words were out and he saw the little flash of disappointment on her face he cursed himself that his tone had been unnecessarily brusque. He walked over to her, smiling with the careless charm that came so easily to him, but the delicate rose scent of her perfume filled his senses and it took all his willpower to resist the urge to run his fingers through her long satiny hair.

Flicking back the cuff of his jacket to check his watch gave him something to do with his hands. ‘We should go,’ he murmured. ‘The traffic is usually hellish along Shaftesbury Avenue.’

With a nod of her head she spun round and preceded him out of the sitting room. Dante could not prevent his eyes from following the gentle sway of her bottom beneath its covering of shimmering silk, and as they walked down the hall to the front door he glanced towards the stairs and almost gave in to the fierce urge to sweep her into his arms and carry her up to his bedroom. He had been looking forward to the evening, but now he felt tense and frustrated and not in the mood to act the role of urbane playboy that was the façade he presented to the world.

CHAPTER THREE

THE show was spectacular—an extravaganza of music, dancing and amazing costumes that earned the cast and director a standing ovation when the curtain fell. Rebekah had enjoyed every moment of it, especially as she’d had an excellent view of the stage from the private box she had shared with Dante.

In the car on the way to the theatre she had sternly told herself to stop being stupid about his lukewarm reaction to seeing her dressed up. He quite clearly wasn’t interested in her, and the sooner she accepted that fact the better. Following her silent pep talk she had been determined to make the most of the evening. She had never been to a top London show and she knew her grandmother would want to hear all the details.

And so when she had taken her seat next to Dante at the theatre she had willed herself to ignore the fierce tug on her senses as she breathed in the spicy tang of his aftershave. In the twenty minutes before the lights dimmed she studied the programme with him and peered over the balcony to spot the celebrities in the audience, many of whom Dante knew personally and a few he had represented in their divorce petitions.

‘I hear the game show host Mike Channing has recently married for the third time,’ he told her, directing her gaze to a man with an alarming orange tan. ‘Against my advice, he didn’t bother with a pre-nup. That’s going to be expensive when his new wife decides to become the next ex-Mrs Channing.’

Rebekah shook her head. ‘I feel sorry for you that you are so cynical.’

‘I prefer realistic,’ he replied with an amused smile. ‘And you don’t need to feel sorry for me. I’d rather be a cynic than a sucker. It’s a fact of life that some women make a career out of divorcing rich husbands.’

There had been an edge of bitterness in Dante’s voice that had puzzled her, Rebekah recalled later, when they were at the after-show party. Why would a self-confessed serial playboy have such a scathing view about marriage?

Perhaps he had been badly affected by his parents’ divorce when he had been a child, she mused. From across the room she watched him chatting to an attractive blonde in a skimpy gold dress and thought wryly that his determination to avoid commitment did not stop women flocking to him. But, in a room packed with A-list celebrities and London’s social elite, his stunning looks and virile sex appeal made all other men fade in comparison.

From the moment she had seen him dressed in a tuxedo she had been blown away by his sexy charm and had longed to trace his chiselled jaw and run her fingers through the lock of dark hair that fell across his brow. Her infatuation with him was becoming a serious threat to her peace of mind and her common sense told her that the only way to end her fascination with him would be to look for another job.

At that moment he glanced over at her and she hastily turned her head, hoping he had not been aware of her staring at him. A waiter paused in front of her to offer her a drink. She briefly contemplated risking one glass of champagne, but she knew it would give her a headache and instead she chose the fruit punch that she had already discovered was deliciously refreshing, with a zing to it that she thought might be sherbet.

‘Rebekah.’ Dante appeared at her side. He gave her an intent look. ‘Are you enjoying yourself? I noticed you’ve been chatting to a few people.’

‘I’m having a great time,’ she assured him brightly. ‘Please don’t feel you have to stay with me all evening. You’re highly in demand,’ she added drily, aware, as she was sure he must be, of the numerous predatory female glances directed his way.

‘Someone would like to meet you,’ he explained. He turned to the lean-faced, silver-haired man who had just joined them. ‘This is Gaspard Clavier.’

‘Yes … I know,’ Rebekah said faintly. She knew she was gaping, but she could not help it. The world-famous French chef was an iconic figure and her personal hero. She couldn’t believe he had asked to be introduced to her but, to her astonishment, the Frenchman lifted her hand to his lips with a Gallic flourish.