Claiming My Untouched Mistress Read online

  ‘It was a very long time ago, bella,’ I said, forcing an indifference into my tone that I didn’t feel. I had exposed myself by confiding the details of my childhood. Why the hell had I done that? Perhaps because I wanted this woman more than I had ever wanted any woman. ‘My childhood gave me the tools to become the man I am today.’

  ‘I understand,’ she said, but the sympathy still shone in her eyes. And I knew she didn’t understand.

  I had meant that my childhood had made me ruthless and driven, prepared to do just about anything to get away from where I had started to arrive at where I was now.

  ‘You’ve worked so hard for your business,’ she continued. ‘But that’s why I wanted you to know about...’

  ‘I already knew,’ I said, to cut off her illogical confession and the way it was making me feel. The connection I had felt to her was not something I should encourage, so why had I, with that ill-advised confession about my background?

  ‘Bella,’ I added, ‘I did an Internet search on your background before I hired you.’ I could see I’d surprised her, so I continued. ‘Your social connections or the lack of them are of no interest to me.’

  ‘But aren’t they important if I’m to represent the Allegri Corporation at this—’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ I cut off the argument. ‘And Joe Donnelly was wrong to give you that impression.’ I was going to be having words with my friend to find out exactly what he’d said to Edie to give her the impression her background mattered—although I suspected Edie had simply got the wrong end of the stick; after all, Joe was as much of a mongrel as I was.

  ‘What I’m interested in is your intellect and your ability to assess my guests’ attitude to risk,’ I reiterated. ‘That’s why I hired you and that’s what I’m paying you for. And, believe me, I intend to get my money’s worth. We’ll meet each evening for a debrief with the rest of my management team after the guests have gone to bed—which will sometimes be at two or three in the morning. I’ll expect you to be alert and informative and articulate about every aspect of your interactions—I’m a night owl and I tend to conduct most of my business at night. I’ll also want a written analysis in the mornings before the next day’s activities begin. And as much useful data as you can give me. I’ll expect you to be my eyes and my ears at the tables whenever I’m not there. Believe me, your role here will not be easy. But pedigree means absolutely nothing to me. What I look for in an employee is results. And, more importantly, if you in any way think that someone is judging you I want you to tell me. As I have already explained...’ I wished once again I hadn’t blurted that information out, because she was looking at me now with a sort of hero-worship ‘...no one’s as much of a mongrel as I am. And anyone who judges you for it would also judge me, so they’re not someone I would want to do business with.’

  ‘I won’t disappoint you,’ she said breathlessly. And I knew she wouldn’t. I’d never seen someone so eager to please.

  But the thought sent an unwelcome shaft of unease through me.

  Her intellect, her data skills and her ability to read the play on the poker table weren’t the only reasons I’d hired her. My gaze raked over the silky dress, which hugged her curves like a lover, and the heat in my groin became intense and insistent.

  ‘But that’s not the only reason I offered you this job,’ I said, determined to be as open and honest with her as she had been with me—so that I could crush this foolish sense of connection once and for all. ‘There’s another reason I wanted you at my beck and call for the next ten days...’

  I watched the pulse in her collarbone flutter.

  ‘What’s that?’ she said, her voice coming out on a husky croak as her pupils darkened, and those expressive eyes became huge.

  She had to know what I was referring to. She’d initiated that damn kiss. The kiss that had been firing my imagination and keeping me awake every night since. Perhaps she was being coy. I almost wished she was, but somehow I doubted it. There was something about her that seemed so fresh and young and forthright. And to think I’d once believed she was hard to read. At the moment she seemed far too easy to read.

  ‘I think you know the reason,’ I said.

  Unable to quell the desire to touch her a moment longer, I lifted my hand and teased the lock of hair the stylist had left dangling. The temptation to feast on that damn mouth and finally ease the hunger in my groin was immense, but I resisted it.

  I wanted her to come to me. No, I needed her to come to me. Then there would be no confusion—no blurring of the lines between her employment and her decision to spend time in my bed. So I dropped my hand.

  Her breath gushed out, the pulse in her collarbone fluttering alarmingly as her breasts rose and fell in a staggered rhythm against the bodice of her dress.

  ‘The chemistry between us is off the charts, bella,’ I said, stating the obvious. ‘I think we would be foolish not to enjoy it while we’re here, in whatever down time we have.’

  Her tongue darted out to lick her lips. My gaze fixed on her mouth. Damn, but I wanted to taste those lips again so badly.

  ‘But anything that happens between us would be entirely your choice,’ I continued, my voice now a husky croak. ‘And would have absolutely no bearing on your employment with me. Is that understood?’

  She nodded, her eyes still wide. The emotions that crossed her face—astonishment, confusion, arousal—would have been amusing if the erection now pounding in my pants wasn’t getting all my attention. The important thing was that I could see no fear. And I’d take that.

  The serving staff chose that moment to re-enter the room with our entrées. I directed her to sit down. ‘I’m glad we got that settled. Now, do you want to join me for the next course and we can talk about what we’re actually here to talk about?’

  She nodded again, and regained her seat.

  The remainder of the meal was predictably excruciating, for both of us. Every time she placed a morsel of food into that too kissable mouth, or leaned forward, allowing the candlelight to flicker over the hint of cleavage, my groin tightened, the pounding in my pants becoming unbearable. But I forced myself to focus on laying the groundwork for our professional relationship.

  The only consolation was I could see her struggling to maintain her side of the conversation too. Somehow or other, we got through the meal without jumping each other.

  I quickly discovered she was every bit as bright and intuitive as I had believed, and she, I hoped, discovered that I wouldn’t pounce on her until she was ready.

  But as I bid her goodnight I couldn’t help bringing her trembling fingers to my lips. I kissed her knuckles, satisfied by the flare of heat she couldn’t disguise.

  ‘I’ll be back in two days’ time,’ I said, a little disconcerted when I saw her shoulders slump with relief. Perhaps I hadn’t been quite as unthreatening as I’d hoped. I would have to work on it. ‘The guests arrive that afternoon so we can meet for lunch that day.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll work out the formulas we talked about,’ she said breathlessly.

  I had to give her points for remembering the discussion, which had slipped my mind already.

  ‘Excellent, I look forward to it,’ I said. ‘Good night, bella,’ I added, giving her permission to leave.

  She nodded but, before she could hurry out of the room, I added, ‘And remember, you are a free agent when it comes to anything other than work.’

  ‘I know, Dante,’ she said, the glow of pleasure in her eyes having a strange effect on me.

  I realised it wasn’t just my groin that was throbbing painfully as I watched her rush from the room. My heart felt as if it had expanded to twice its normal size and was thundering against my ribcage.

  Dammit man, chill out.

  I returned to my seat to nurse the last of my wine—to cool off and get this insatiable hunger into perspective. It occurred to me
that it was probably a good thing I would be gone for the next two days, and once I returned there would be no time, for the first few days at least, for me to pursue Edie, because I would be far too busy—and so would she.

  I hadn’t lied, this week-long house party was important to my business—and I was not about to allow my desire for Edie Trouvé to get in the way of achieving everything I wanted to achieve. I’d been planning this event for months. I was on the verge of expanding the Allegri Corporation. I needed investors I could trust, and deciding who I did and did not want to invite into financial partnerships was crucial. I couldn’t afford to get distracted from those goals.

  But after those initial impressions had been made, and assuming Edie was as adept at what I was hiring her to do as she seemed, there would be time at the end of the week to indulge ourselves.

  Assuming she chose to do so.

  I stroked my thumb over the crystal, watched the red wine sparkle in the candlelight. The pounding in my groin increased as something raw clawed at me.

  What would I do if she chose not to come to me?

  I took a fortifying gulp of the expensive vintage, let the fruity flavours burst on my tongue—the moment of uncertainty reminding me unpleasantly of the boy I’d once been.

  I swallowed and coughed out a rough laugh, realising how ludicrous the direction of my thoughts was.

  The throaty sound—arrogant and assured—echoed off the antique furniture which had once belonged to a Portuguese prince. But which now belonged to me.

  Don’t be a damn fool, Dante. She wants you, just as much as you want her—you’re not that feral kid any more.

  This attraction was all about sex—and chemistry—I’d told her so myself.

  I finished the wine.

  All I had to do now was wait. And, luckily, I had something much more important to focus on than satisfying my libido—namely taking Allegri to the next level—to keep me busy in the meantime.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I BLINKED INTO the crisp morning light as it shone through the huge picture window in the guest villa’s bedroom and checked the brand new, state-of-the-art smartphone I had been given a week ago by Joseph Donnelly as part of my employee package.

  Pleasure rippled through me at the thought of another day working as part of Dante’s elite management team. We’d been up till two o’clock last night, going through the individual reports by each member of the team. Dante had presided over the meeting in his office and even though it had been the middle of the night, the energy and enthusiasm in the room had been addictive.

  I’d come to love those late-night meetings, when the guests had retired to their villas and we would gather—two other women and three men, all several years older than me—to pore over our individual reports and observations of everything that had gone on during the day and evening. Yesterday, Dante’s events manager had arranged a flotilla of yachts and sailing boats to take the guests and the team to a picnic on a private island off the coast. There had been a lavish lunch arranged, not what I’d call a picnic, then water skiing and snorkelling safaris—and, for the less athletically inclined, sunbathing—in the afternoon, followed by an evening barbecue and then a night sail back to base for the evening rounds of poker and vingt-et-un. Dante had rather cleverly subbed all the guests a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of chips for the week, with the promise that any profits they made by the end of the week would be theirs and any losses written off as a gesture of goodwill.

  Last night’s poker session had been my first chance to really shine. Everyone had been much more relaxed than the first night and, as a result, had bet more freely. I’d been able to gather much more data on their attitudes to risk. And when I’d detailed it all during our nightly round-up, in front of the other members of the team, and Dante, I’d felt Dante’s encouragement—and his approval.

  I was proving myself. Showing that his investment in me was worth it. I felt like a valued member of his team and it was intoxicating.

  Pulling back the covers, I raced into the adjoining walk-in wardrobe and found the selection of swimsuits Nina had picked out for me. So far I’d only worn the one-piece ones, too shy to be seen by Dante wearing anything as skimpy as the bikinis she had selected.

  My skin flushed.

  Yesterday, Dante had asked me to join his crew for the evening sail back to La Villa Paradis and I’d imagined he’d had his eyes on me the whole time. Of course, he hadn’t; that was just my overactive imagination. Since our dinner four days ago, he’d been nothing but professional with me. But it had still been a heady feeling—remembering the way he had looked at me that night at supper and the things he’d said.

  I pulled the tiny triangles of blue Lycra out of the drawer and slipped them on. I’d never worn a bikini before which, considering I was half-French, was probably sacrilege.

  I wasn’t ashamed of my body; I’d inherited my mother’s physique, slim but curvaceous. But I’d never worn anything so revealing before. Instead of feeling over-exposed though, awareness shimmered over my skin. And I imagined Dante looking at me, and liking what he saw, my breasts cupped by the stretchy fabric, my round hips and flat stomach displayed to their best advantage. I’d never felt so young and alive and carefree. And Dante was responsible for that, for freeing me and my sister from our debts and bringing me here and showing me he had faith in my abilities. I hadn’t realised until these last few days of working with Dante and his team, and not having to worry about the basics—such as where the next meal was coming from—how much the last year, and even the years before that, had dragged me down with worry. I was only twenty-one years old, but I’d been burdened with so much grief and responsibility ever since our mother had died that I hadn’t felt young in a long, long time.

  I took a deep breath and flung the pashmina away which I had planned to wrap around my shoulders. I slipped on a pair of sandals and grabbed a towel from the pile in the bathroom.

  There were three private beaches on the estate, with steps leading down to them from the extensive gardens. Two were large stretches of open sand well stocked with loungers, a beach bar where staff served a range of food and drink from 11:00 a.m. onwards, and hot showers so the guests could rinse off before returning to their accommodation. But two days ago I had found a tiny cove at the far end of the headland. The beach was a small crescent of white sand and there was an outdoor shower to rinse off and an unstaffed beach shelter furnished with lounging couches and a fridge stocked with delicacies. Despite those amenities, it was obviously too low-key for the guests because no one seemed to use it. I’d been there several times for a morning swim and had yet to meet anyone else there.

  As a result, I had come to consider it my own private beach. I headed through the gardens for the entrance to the steps down to the cove, breathing in the fragrant scent of flowers, listening to the tinkle of the water fountains, admiring the view across the headland of the pastel-coloured houses of Villefranche on the other side of the bay.

  My spirits were high, buzzing at the thought of taking an early morning swim in the cool blue ocean in my revealing bikini.

  No one would see me but me. No one else would be up yet; our team didn’t have to assemble for the morning briefing about today’s activities—and the rundown of who to concentrate on and who Dante had already eliminated from his roster of possible investors—for another two hours. And none of the guests usually emerged until at least noon. But still, wearing the skimpy swimwear and going for a swim alone felt reckless, exciting, exhilarating.

  I found the partially hidden entrance to the steps behind one of the garden follies—a Japanese pagoda with a pond full of koi carp. I rushed down the steps hewn into the rock-face, then stopped dead as I came to the platform above the cove.

  Someone else was here, swimming across the inlet. His broad shoulders and dark head sliced through the waves in smooth, purposeful strokes.


  Dante.

  I recognised him instantly because of the way he moved, eating up the water, his powerful body forging its own path regardless of surf or tide.

  I noticed the small pile of clothes on the sand. Was he swimming naked?

  My breathing stopped at the errant thought, my heart thundering so hard against my ribs I became light-headed. I shrunk back against the warm rock-face, behind a lavender bush that grew out of the crevice, so that I could see him clearly but he could not see me.

  I devoured the sight of him, those strong steady strokes echoing in my abdomen and making my breasts feel swollen and heavy, barely confined by my bikini.

  At last he swam back towards the shore. And walked out of the surf, slicking his hair back. His body emerged from the sea and my breathing speeded up. The pounding in my chest plunged deep into my abdomen.

  His torso was hard and contoured like a work of art; the water shining on his bronze skin shimmered in the sunlight and made him look like some sort of god. A sea king like Poseidon, powerful and indomitable. I was less than fifteen feet away from him but thankfully, because of the sound of the waves buffeting the shore, he couldn’t hear my ragged breathing, which was becoming heavier by the second as I waited for him to emerge the rest of the way. From this distance I could see the white marks of scars that marred his skin and the dark ink of a tattoo that covered his left shoulder then looped around his neck. My heart hit my chest as I recalled his devastating revelations about his childhood four nights ago, and the guarded, wary way he had responded to my sympathy for that traumatised child. As if he had regretted revealing so much.

  I swallowed down the thickening in my throat as I revisited the emotions that had bombarded me that night—horror for what that little boy must have endured, and huge admiration for the man he had become.