At Her Latin Lover's Command: The Italian Count's Command / The French Count's Mistress / At the Spanish Duke's Command

‘How can you think that?’ she cried in horror.

‘You show all the classic signs. I warn you, Miranda,’ he snarled, his face close to hers, ‘if you ever let any illegal substances get within snorting distance of this house, you’ll be on the next flight to England before you know it. Carlo will never see you again—nor will he ever want to! You’ll be wiped from our lives as if you never existed!’

‘I’ve never taken any drugs! Never would in a million years!’ she choked out. ‘I had a nightmare, that’s all. But it was horrible!’ she muttered, shuddering. Her eyes grew enormous, and thinking of it, she began to breathe fast with fear, hating the feeling of helplessness in her dream. ‘So horrible that I daren’t sleep!’ she blurted out. ‘It’ll come back again if I do, I know it.’

Dante frowned. ‘This is not like you to be so negative and defeatist.’

‘I know! But this isn’t any ordinary nightmare, Dante! I live every vile, terrifying second. Someone is assaulting me and I can’t raise a finger to stop it even though every sense is intensified. I smell bad breath. I taste something foul. I feel…’

She clammed up. Would not tell him of those rough, hurting hands. And the frightening blank in her mind that came next. That was even worse and it fed her imagination in ways she didn’t want to know. But he had seen in her face the extent of her horror because he said gruffly,

‘Take it easy. Maybe you’ve learnt your lesson and it’s over—’

‘That’s the trouble!’ she jerked in despair. ‘It isn’t. It returns to haunt me even in the daytime. And comes back night after night.’

A little more of the dream unfolded each time. One day maybe the whole horrific event would reveal itself—and she dreaded that more than anything.

His expression was bleak. ‘Relax,’ he advised tautly. ‘Don’t try to relive it. You have to forget it.’

If only she could! She closed her eyes in misery and felt his hand cover hers, stilling its trembling in an instant. He had the ability to make her feel secure. Even if it was an illusion.

‘Thank you,’ she said, with a grateful glance at his harrowed face. ‘I feel safe with you. No, please!’ she protested when he made to draw his hand away.

‘Be realistic. I can’t stay, can I?’ he said, not unkindly.

But she gripped his wrist to stop him leaving, overwhelmed by an illogical sense of hysteria and trying desperately to locate the protective barrier of her self-control, which seemed to have deserted her for the moment.

‘I need someone here for a short time, till I’ve got myself together again,’ she pleaded, hating the sense of panic that had turned her into a pathetic wimp. ‘I don’t know what’s happening to me, Dante. I’m sorry to be a nuisance and I hate feeling so feeble about this. But the truth is, I’m absolutely terrified of being alone and falling asleep. Please. I am begging you. Stay for a while!’

The tip of his tongue moistened his lips as he contemplated her doubtfully.

‘If this is a ploy—’

‘It’s not! I swear!’ she half sobbed.

‘You must talk to an expert—’

‘I’m not mad!’ she protested.

‘No, but you’re disturbed. You need to discover what has caused this,’ he gritted. ‘I’ve never seen you like this before. Something happened which is festering in your subconscious. You need to know what you did. Only then will you be able to deal with it.’

There was a long pause while she gazed at him anxiously, willing him to remain with her. Holding his warm, dry hand, she felt his strength flow into her. Dizzily she conceded that she needed him badly. Longed to feel his arms around her again, protective and comforting.

‘Stay!’ she croaked, full of longing for him.

He gave a small and resigned sigh. ‘Very well. Just till you fall asleep,’ he muttered grudgingly.

Virtually snatching his hand from hers, he sat down on the bed, plumping up the pillows behind him and settling down so that his back was turned to her.

In relief, Miranda snuggled as close as she dared. ‘I wish I could understand why I have these dreams,’ she mumbled.

He grunted. ‘I should have thought that was obvious. When did they begin?’

‘The night after you left.’

An icy silence stretched long into the semi-darkness. ‘As I expected. I think you’d better go to sleep,’ he growled.

But she wasn’t ready to do so. Dante had found her that fateful night when she’d had that fever. Perhaps he could throw light on what had happened. He might have seen something that would explain what she’d done in her delirium—maybe an overturned table which might have caused her bruises, sheets which had wrapped themselves about her and made her think she was being restrained…

She had to know. A part of her life was missing and her brain was trying to fill in the gaps by giving her these awful nightmares. She’d ask him to discuss it. Now.

‘Dante!’

Tentatively she touched his shoulder, the silk of his robe slipping beguilingly beneath her fingers. He flinched and she withdrew her hand. His body was hot, every muscle held in tension. He was hating this enforced togetherness. And she supposed that he was only staying with her to keep her quiet.

‘Don’t—do—that!’ he gritted out.

She pressed her lips together in dismay. The days of curling up together like two spoons in a drawer were long gone. This was probably the last time he’d ever be physically close to her.

All because of someone who’d fed him lies—who?—and her strange illness which had prompted her to fling champagne about and thrash around in bed, thus sealing the death of her marriage.

‘That night—’

‘I don’t want to talk about it!’

She noticed that his fist had clenched so tightly that the knuckles were white.

‘I need to know what happened—!’

‘Then talk to your boyfriend,’ he said coldly. ‘Or the people in the clubs you frequented—’

‘There was no boyfriend!’ she declared vehemently, sitting up and wriggling around to confront him. ‘No clubs! No reason,’ she added, her hair swinging around her angry face, ‘other than an all-consuming fever that…’

Her voice tailed away. She gulped.

‘An all-consuming fever,’ he husked.

Anger had ceased to dominate his expression. His eyes had fired with desire. His lips had parted over his teeth as his breath hissed in and out in short, hot bursts. They were inches away. In a moment, she imagined wistfully, she would be in his embrace and the past would be forgotten.

She let her eyelids flutter down and waited, hoping for the miracle to happen.

‘Hold me!’ she whispered, intending it to be a soundless wish.

And yet he’d heard her, his impatient outbreath making her snap open her eyes at once in alarm and disappointment.

‘Damn you, Miranda! Stop using your body as a weapon!’ he snapped.

She blinked in confusion. ‘What?’