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

Miranda tore her gaze away and lifted Carlo out, clean and sparkling. They both dried him, their eyes meeting over his sopping curls as he chattered happily.

On impulse, Miranda hugged her damp son’s body to her, her eyes closing in silent thanks that she could see and touch and love him again. This was worth a million arguments, hours of cold hostility. Whatever Dante felt about her, whatever happened, she would withstand it because of these precious moments.

When she lifted her blurred eyes, blinking her spiky wet lashes, she met the full force of Dante’s intense gaze. And she felt her limbs become watery.

Seeing her weakness, he gently turned Carlo around.

‘I’ll do your pyjamas for you,’ he said softly, reaching for a pair decorated with trains.

Miranda watched as he slowly eased them on her son’s little arms and legs, which were limp with fatigue now, the constant battering of chatter abruptly silenced.

‘Up we go.’

Dante stood up and swung Carlo into his arms. Walking into his bedroom with Miranda following in a dream, he tenderly deposited their son in the great vastness of his bed and snuggled up beside him with a book.

‘Mummy come too.’

Sleepily, Carlo lifted an arm and beckoned Miranda by repeatedly holding his palm flat and then curling his fingers up, a gesture that had always touched her heart.

This was what they had used to do, when Dante was home. ‘A Carlo sandwich,’ she recalled and Dante smiled. Obediently she scrambled up the other side of Carlo with a sensuous whisper of silk.

‘Lovery Mummy,’ Carlo murmured, stroking the material.

Lovely Mummy! It was wonderful to hear those words again. She kissed her son’s soft cheek, awash with love, and he burrowed contentedly between them. She lay there while Dante read the story and Carlo stopped fidgeting and grew steadily limper.

The bed had a lingering fragrance. She inhaled it and the essence of Dante’s male body permeated every part of her being. His arm, slung protectively around Carlo, was touching her. Wanting to maintain that contact, she leaned into it, her cheek sliding against his skin.

Her hand curved around Carlo’s head in a tender caress. She could feel elation rising inside her and risked a glance up at Dante as he read the story. After a moment he met her gaze and faltered, his voice tailing away into a throaty whisper.

‘We would be fools,’ she whispered softly, seeing that Carlo was asleep, ‘to throw all of this away by sticking to a cold-blooded business arrangement.’

He put down the book and in silence he studied Carlo’s small face. Miranda held her breath, knowing he was considering her suggestion. For them both, this child of theirs was so important that they would do anything to make him happy.

Carlo. Adoringly she gazed at him. Twin black fringes lay heavily on the sweet, olive-skinned face. The cupid’s bow mouth was no longer laughing but soft and crumpled in sleep. The energetic bomb of a body had become floppy and heavy. Her heart filled with love.

Slowly Dante eased away and stood up. Without looking at her he said quietly,

‘Time to talk.’

Nerves jangling, she nodded and slid from the bed, following Dante to the door. Then a few feet along the landing he turned, muttering, ‘Baby monitor…’ and as she sidestepped out of the way, so did he. They collided. The rest was a blur.

But she found herself somehow in his arms and his mouth was hard on hers, driving hard as if violent passions were being released.

Fire roared through her body as if she’d been ignited. Everything would be all right! she thought exultantly as his hands pulled her hard to him, echoing her desperate need to feel every inch of him, to be so close that not a hair’s breadth lay between them.

‘Miranda, Miranda!’ he breathed into her eager mouth.

She felt she was soaring to the sky. Her hands locked around his beautiful head and she could feel the clean silk of his hair and smell his familiar smell of subtle vanilla and man.

Her straps were being eased down. His mouth wandered hotly over her naked shoulders, skimming over her skin in tense, passionate kisses. She felt delicate fingers slipping into her lacy bra, his lips exploring the deep V of her cleavage.

She let out a gasp and then a little whimper of pleasure when he lightly touched a straining nipple. Forcing his head up, she kissed him deeply, luxuriating in his expert touch, the fierce stabs of desire, and the hard promise of his body.

At some time she must have torn open his shirt because her hands could now move unhindered over his muscular chest, every inch of which had become familiar to her. And her fingers lingered over his heavily beating heart because it was a miraculous confirmation that he, too, must be experiencing a wild and unstoppable arousal.

Her conscious mind no longer operated. It was as if she was intoxicated by the drug of love. He could make her forget everything when he made love to her. She had no will of her own, only a pagan drive to become part of him.

Fiercely demanding, she pushed him against the wall and pressed herself harder against the contours of his body, moving in the sinuous way that always made him lose control.

Almost immediately he bucked and groaned, lifting her skirts and curving his hands beneath her taut buttocks to lift her up.

Wantonly she tucked her naked legs around his waist and pulled off her top. As she did so, Dante buried his mouth in her breasts, his fingers busy with the fastening of her bra.

She took his face between her hands and kissed him with slow and tender passion, shuddering when the lace barrier had been removed and they were skin to skin.

Her senses were filled with him, her heart hammering loudly in her ears.

‘I love you! I love you!’ she breathed.

And then he froze. Jerked back, a stunned expression on his face.

She shouldn’t have said that! She’d scared him away! Wide-eyed, she stared at him as he slowly lowered her to the ground, his eyes black and fathomless.

Her skirts fell back into place with a sensual whisper but it was lost on Dante. He was going to reject her and call her a sex-crazed harlot, she thought hysterically. And felt a feral wail of misery and frustration rise up within her.

CHAPTER NINE

‘DANTE! Dante!’

She blinked. Someone was calling from downstairs.

‘It’s Guido!’ Dante grated, looking angry.

Though whether he was annoyed with himself for succumbing to her, or with Guido for choosing that moment to arrive, she didn’t know.

‘What…?’ She swallowed, to lubricate her throat, and then frantically snatched up her bra. ‘What’s he doing here?’

Hastily dealing with the buttons of his shirt, he shot her an unreadable look.

‘I expect he’s brought your things from England. You’d better tidy yourself up,’ he rasped, smoothing down his ruffled hair and avoiding eye contact. He pushed open a door, to reveal a bedroom. ‘It would look odd if you didn’t come down to thank him.’

Biting her lip, she scooped up her top and pulled it on, following him into the bedroom as he checked his appearance in the dressing-table mirror. His eyes were black and liquid, his lips parted to allow his shortened breath to escape.

‘Dante?’ she said uncertainly.

‘Please,’ he muttered, closing his eyes. ‘I have to come back to earth.’

Miranda felt a sudden stab of elation. Maybe, she thought with rising hope, he had pulled away from her because he’d heard his brother calling—and not for any other reason.