The Italian Boss's Mistress of Revenge

‘It’s decision time,’ Dante said, edging closer, touching the pads of his fingers to her cheek, his touch electric. ‘So what’s it to be? Close down the hotel or warm my bed and give your colleagues a fighting chance? It’s up to you.’

Mackenzi shied away from his hand—more to hide the tremors that resonated through her than from any revulsion to his touch. ‘With no guarantees, of course.’

‘Life doesn’t come with guarantees. The fate of Ashton House is up to you. Decide.’

She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could so easily block out the scent of him and the acute awareness of his presence that fired her skin to simmering heat. It was an outrageous demand, no kind of deal at all, and she should turn him down flat. But in standing up for herself she’d be letting the hotel down. And in agreeing to share his bed the hotel might be spared after all. Did she really have a choice?

‘Yes,’ she whispered through lips suddenly ashen- dry.

‘I didn’t hear you,’ he said, extracting every last shred of humiliation from her.

‘Yes,’ she repeated, louder this time. ‘I’ll sleep with you.’

He smiled then, a smile that simultaneously turned her thoughts to panic and her nipples to bullets. ‘I knew you’d see reason.’

Trish Morey is an Australian who’s also spent time living and working in New Zealand and England. Now she’s settled with her husband and four young daughters in a special part of South Australia, surrounded by orchards and bushland, and visited by the occasional koala and kangaroo. With a lifelong love of reading, she penned her first book at age eleven, after which life, career and a growing family kept her busy, until once again she could indulge her desire to create characters and stories—this time in romance. Having her work published is a dream come true. Visit Trish at her website, www.trishmorey.com

Recent titles by the same author:

THE SHEIKH’S CONVENIENT VIRGIN

THE BOSS’S CHRISTMAS BABY

THE SPANIARD’S BLACKMAILED BRIDE

THE GREEK’S VIRGIN

A VIRGIN FOR THE TAKING

The Italian Boss’s Mistress Of Revenge

Trish Morey

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my big sister, Toni.

Congratulations on achieving your half-century!

Happy birthday, Sis. Here’s to the next 50 years

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS a filthy night. Which suited Dante Carrazzo’s filthy mood right down to the ground.

The BMW’s windscreen wipers struggled to keep pace with the blinding rain, while its headlights picked out little more in the night fog than the ghostly shadows of gum trees looming claw-like over the unfamiliar Adelaide Hills road. If there was a boutique-hotel anywhere in the area, it sure didn’t want to be found.

Which was probably no surprise, given his plans for it.

He steered the car tight around another bend, his frustration mounting as his headlights met nothing other than their own reflection over a slick ribbon of road disappearing into the gloom.

Tiredness tugged at his senses and stung his eyes, eight hours behind the wheel after a full day’s battling to bring the Quinn deal to fruition starting to take its toll. Dante clamped down on the weakness the same way he did any other, forcing himself to alertness. It had been a long time, but he knew this was the right road. It had to be here, hidden under this blanket of fog, somewhere…

He was past the poorly lit turn-off before he realized it. With a muttered curse, he wheeled the car around at the first opportunity and headed back, pulling the car into the long driveway and towards the distant, eerie glow of lights that heralded his destination.

Ashton House.

At last.

Shrouded in swirling mist, the old mansion turned boutique-hotel looked almost sinister, its windows dark and unwelcoming, the old sandstone walls glowing unnaturally in the muted lantern light. He parked the car, mentally adding to his description the words, “brooding” and “resentful”.

Almost as if it hated him just as much as he hated every last thing it represented.

So be it.

The fog wrapped around him as he stepped from the car, icy droplets stinging his skin. He pulled his bag from the car and strode the few feet to the arched entrance-lobby, leaning against the night bell as he swiped the dampness from his coat. He waited precisely ten seconds before pressing it again.

‘I have a reservation,’ he said, brushing past the open- mouthed night clerk into the warm interior the second the door finally opened.

Behind him he heard the massive timber-panelled door being shut, closing out the swirling mist and cold. ‘I’ll certainly check for you, sir,’ said the clerk, making his way to the polished timber reception-counter. ‘Although I’m afraid we seem to have a full house tonight.’

Dante fixed the clerk with a stare that would splinter rocks. ‘I hope that doesn’t mean you’ve given my room away.’

The clerk frowned, his eyes flicking nervously away to his screen. ‘It will only take a moment to check, sir. What name did you say?’

‘I didn’t. And it’s Carrazzo. Dante Carrazzo.’

‘Ah!’ The clerk straightened as if someone had shoved an iron rod up his spine. Dante caught the smell of fear that came with it. It came as no surprise. All of the staff would be wondering—now that he owned Ashton House lock, stock and barrel—exactly what it was he had in mind for it. All of them would be on tenterhooks.

He allowed himself a wry smile. Given his reputation, they had a right to be.

‘We…we weren’t expecting you tonight, not with all the Melbourne airports closed.’

‘Do you have a room for me or not?’ His eyes were stinging again, indigestion burning his stomach. After the day and night he’d had, what he needed right now was a few hours of precious sleep, not a discussion about his travel arrangements. And if they’d given away his room…

‘I’m sorry. Of course, sir,’ the night clerk blustered, passing a pen for Dante to sign the register, while at the same time reaching for the room key. ‘Your suite was held. It’s just that we didn’t expect you until morning.’

‘Last time I looked,’ he replied smoothly, his voice modulated to low while every word was aimed like a barb, ‘it was morning. Now, what time will the manager be here?’

‘Mac—Mackenzi will be on from seven.’

‘Good,’ he said, scribbling his signature on the registration form. ‘Have this Mackenzi meet me in the restaurant at nine. Now, remind me where I can find this suite…’ The clerk gave him directions as soon as Dante had convinced him he was capable of carrying his own luggage. But he’d barely started down the passageway before he heard his name.

He turned on a sigh, impatient and unimpressed. ‘What is it?’

The clerk shrank noticeably in response, as if already wishing he could take back his interruption. ‘I meant to tell you, Mr Carrazzo, the staff organized a welcome package for you. You’ll find it waiting in your suite. But please, don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything else you need.’

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he growled, ‘I will.’ He turned and made his way down the old stone-walled billiards room, and through the passageway that led to the wing where the presidential suite took up half the space. If the staff really believed something as insignificant as a welcome package was going to change his mind about this place, then they were in for a major disappointment.

The plush carpet absorbed his footfall. The hotel slept silently around him, the only sound the burst of rain against the roof signalling the end of the brief respite, while the distant roll of thunder promised still more bad weather to come.

Weariness dragged at him now, muting the feeling of triumph that had come with learning Ashton House was his. He paused and took a breath, the key lodged deep into the timber double-doors that marked the entry to his suite—the same suite that Jonas and Sara Douglas had shared seventeen years ago.

Seventeen years it had taken him to get here.

Seventeen years, and now the last asset, the jewel in the crown of the Douglas Property Group, was finally his. That deserved some kind of celebratory toast, surely?

The door swung open to a dimly lit corridor as the heavens really opened above, the noise from the rain now a deafening roar. The bedroom lay to the left, he seemed to recall, so instead he turned to the right, remembering a sitting room, snapping on the lights and immediately dimming them down low. He dropped his bag and opened a timber sideboard. Bingo. He emptied two tiny bottles into a tumbler and took a swig, rolling the malt whiskey around his tongue before tossing it back, appreciating the burst of fire all the way down to his belly. He sighed an appreciative sigh. He’d needed that.

A few seconds later and he’d shrugged out of his jacket and reefed out his shirt, unbuttoning his sleeves as he circled the room. Unexpectedly, it wasn’t at all cold in the suite, despite the two walls where uncovered French windows looked out into foggy rain-streaked blankness. Another wall held a door that he remembered led to the bathroom and connected with the bedroom beyond—and a bed that beckoned.

Could he sleep in a room that had once housed Sara and Jonas?

Oh, hell, yes! It would be nothing more than the sweet, satisfying taste of revenge that would fuel his dreams tonight.

He finished in the bathroom, leaving his clothes where they fell noiselessly under the hammer of rain on the roof, and stepped naked into the bedroom.

And that was when he found her.

CHAPTER TWO

THE NAKED SKIN of lean shoulder-blades glowed pearlescent under the wash of light angling from the bathroom door, while copper-lit mahogany hair flowed in waves across the pillow. Her face was turned away, but even shadows couldn’t hide the fine line of her jaw or the sweep of long lashes over high cheekbones.

Some welcome package, he thought with reluctant appreciation, muscle weariness morphing into testosterone- fuelled interest in an instant. He moved closer to the bed. By rights, his bed.

He had to hand it to the staff here, they were nothing if not creative. Nowhere else had the personnel tried the Goldilocks approach, trying to soften his attitude by pressing a little tender flesh onto him. And that flesh did look tender, he mused. Tender, smooth and very inviting.

Not that he was really interested. No-one decided who Dante Carrazzo slept with. And no whore was about to change his mind about what he had planned for this place. She would just have to find herself another bed to warm tonight. It shouldn’t take her long, given her obvious attributes.

He was about to rouse her when he caught sight of himself and cursed. In this state, he’d never convince her that her services weren’t required.

Wrapped in one of the white hotel-robes from the closet, he reached once again for her shoulder, just as a clap of thunder shook the room, the curtained windows lighting up a scant second later. She stirred and murmured, and he thought his job already done, but she merely rolled over, sinking back into oblivion on a sigh.

Breath hissed through his teeth as his eyes drank in the new, improved view. Even with her eyes closed she was some temptress, her lips full and inviting. But it was the cream-skinned breasts topped with dusky nipples that shook his resolve, nipples he could see were already firming with their exposure to the air.

Not the only things around here firming.

Heat targeted his groin, ramping up the pressure to an ache, and relaying the message that he was now way, way overdressed. What had been before no more than a general but suppressible interest in the fairer sex, had combusted into something much more carnal. Much more necessary. What would it take to wake her up? If she could sleep through a storm like this, it might take a while to wake her by conventional methods.

Which left him with the unconventional.

He made a sound like a growl. Maybe he had been too hasty, wanting to dispose of her so soon. It wasn’t like he was about to change his mind about this place, but he was due a celebration. What better place to have it than in the very room where Jonas and Sara had lain the night before they’d smiled like sharks and had told him the truth?

Pain, savage and raw, sliced through him at the memories, turning to bile in his throat, as if it had only been yesterday and not all those years ago.

Damn them! He would bury every part of their memory, every part of their legacy, just as he buried himself deep inside this woman.

Then he would toss her out.

He returned to the bathroom, locating what he needed before dispensing with the robe. Now it was time to find out just how difficult his Goldilocks would be to rouse. The more difficult the better, he acknowledged. For tonight he didn’t want conversation.

Tonight was all about retribution.

She was still on her back when he returned, her face to one side, her arms flung wide, her perfect breasts exposed for the taking. His taking. He took a moment to drink her in. The face was almost angelic in repose, while the naked form of a goddess called to him like a siren. He took in the twin globes of her breasts, and the shapely dip to her waist, and what lay lower, hidden for now by the covers, but hinting at more hidden treasures. If he wasn’t mistaken, her lower end was just as bare as her top—and, if he’d had any doubt that his surprise visitor wasn’t intended for his pleasure, the fact she lay there naked removed any such doubt in a heartbeat. So, she was into saving time? He appreciated such little economies, especially tonight.

He dragged in a sudden burst of air, and needed to balance the weight of blood pooling in his groin. He was glad she hadn’t awakened when that clap of thunder had rent the skies. This way would be much more entertaining. ‘And much more satisfying,’ he murmured as he gently knelt down on the bed alongside her.

She barely stirred, even when he pushed a wayward coil of hair from her face. Unable to resist a further touch, he ran the back of one finger down one shadowed cheek and was rewarded by the merest hint of a sigh, her lips parting as she drew in air, lifting her chest and doing amazing things to those breasts.

His gaze lingered there, taking in the creamy glow of her skin and the pebbled peaks of her breasts, calling to him now like beacons. He would answer that call, but there was no rush, and right now he hadn’t finished with her mouth.

With the pad of one thumb, he gently traced the outline of her lips, feeling her warm breath against his skin, taking her murmur of pleasure as a sign of encouragement.

He dipped his head, drinking in the warm, feminine scent of her skin before giving her mouth the briefest of passes. She sighed, her head rolling to one side. He brushed her lips with his own, finding them warm and welcoming. She moved under his mouth, even in sleep finding that sweet spot where their lips meshed perfectly, inviting him to linger, inviting him to explore further.

Reluctantly he pulled away, watching her shadowed face as her body reacted to what he was doing, looking for any hint of her wakefulness but finding none. It was different, he realized, pleasuring a woman asleep, different and more arousing. There was something more evocative, more empowering.

Sex by stealth.

He allowed himself a smile as his hand found her shoulder, cupping it, enjoying the contrast of toned flesh and bone under his hand as his mouth once again met hers. Even in sleep her movements mimicked his, wanting to participate, trying to hold on longer to the fantasy. His tongue traced the line of her mouth, and she shuddered beneath him, turning the kiss electric. ‘Oh, yes,’ she gasped into his mouth on a sigh.

Her breathing was quickening, and he lifted his head, half-surprised at the jolt he’d just experienced, half-expecting that first flicker of wakefulness, because he knew she’d felt it too. But still it didn’t come, despite the firmed breasts and jutting nipples, despite the noticeable shallow hitch to her breathing. She was dreaming about sex, he could tell, imagining a lover who visited deep in the night and made her every wish come true.

He growled and gave a smile. Only too soon she would open those eyes and discover he was real. What colour would those eyes be? he wondered absently as he ran his fingertips along the curve of her collarbone. Brown, he decided, his fingers dipping into the space between them. They would have to be brown with her colouring. His hand made the return journey, his fingers spread wider this time so that his thumb scooped across the rise of her breasts.

This time she moaned, arching her back and shifting fractionally in her sleep, sending her bed clothes lower, exposing a hint of curvy waist above the sensual flare of hips. Honey-smooth skin, gleaming in the lowlight. His mouth went dry. Even asleep and unknowing she was an invitation. How much more so would she be when awake?

The ache in his groin turned more insistent, more demanding, the beast alive, wanting and hungry. Then she murmured something—a name, almost an entreaty. Richard?

Suddenly his little game lost appeal. Half of him wanted to take his time and play this game for all it was worth, to explore every curve and hollow of her flesh, to savour the secret pleasure while he waited for her to awaken, but the other half of him craved release. Release, followed by blessed sleep. The last thing he wanted was her thinking of someone else while he made love to her. He wanted her awake. He wanted her to realize just who it was making love to her, and then he’d proceed to obliterate every trace of ‘Richard’ from her memory.

And there would be time enough to explore later. Now it was time for business. His fingers scooped down her chest. Right now her breasts were at the top of his agenda.

‘Time you woke up, Goldilocks,’ he said, before his mouth descended on one perfect nipple.

The dream was back. Her night caller was here again—the one who spoke to Mackenzi not with words but with heated lips and sweet caresses, the dark stranger who drugged her with sensuality and reassured her that she was desirable and warm and all woman. The one who made her want to believe it.

And tonight he seemed more persuasive, more convincing and more real than ever.

But it was a dream—it was always a dream—and she knew the rules; that if she opened her eyes her dream lover would vanish and it would be over. And yet for just a dream her senses were buzzing, her pulse racing, and she wished more than anything that for once it was more than just a dream—because tonight she felt like a real woman, and because she wanted to believe, more than anything, what he was telling her.

So, so much!

She felt his fingers stroking her hair and her face, setting her skin tingling. She felt his lips pressed gently on her own, she even imagined she could feel his warm breath on her face.

So real.

So real that, she wondered, would tonight be the night? Or would her dream lover flee once more before the dawn and leave her tossing and turning, damp and slickened with sweat, yet still unfulfilled, and doubting herself more than ever?

And, worst of all, believing that what Richard had told her must be true.

That she was no kind of lover at all.

That she was frigid.

She drifted then, on a sea of sensation and unearthly pleasures, wondering vaguely why her mystery lover would return for a repeat performance if she was, wondering why only he seemed to unleash such unfamiliar passion in her. She sizzled inside now, as her mystery lover’s lips moved over hers, and heat became electric as she felt the dart of moist flesh zip from one side of her mouth to the other. She trembled under the caress, imagining that this time she could even taste him, while she willed his attentions on further. Further south. Where her need was building in an increasingly desperate ache.

If he could make her tremble like that by nothing more than a mere touch of his lips, what more could he do by moving his attention to other, more demanding locations?

She gave herself up to the sensations spiralling down her body, the sensual drug taking control as a familiar unfairness echoed once more through her senses. Richard. How was it that he had never elicited anywhere near such a physical response in her as her dream lover? Had it really been all her fault?

And then nothing mattered—not Richard, or her questions or her self-doubts. Her heart was beating so loudly now, her pulse a sensual drumbeat that turned to a throb deep down inside and drowned out such plaguing thoughts. If her dream lover could make her feel so good, so real, even just for the moment, then who cared? Not her. She just wanted to enjoy for as long as it lasted.

Sound outside her heartbeat interrupted her thoughts— a voice, and words that made no sense, tumbling together into fairy tales and nonsense—and then all was silent apart from her groan as she felt his tongue circle her nipple, sending flaming arrows deep down inside. From somewhere in the passion-blinded recesses of her mind it occurred to her: her dream lover had never spoken before, not with words.

Fear shimmied up her spine as she pushed away at the remnants of sleep, still at war with herself, torn between not wanting to do anything to banish her dream lover, and yet knowing that this time was different—that tonight something was majorly out of step.

Jagged lightning hastened her ascent, and she opened her eyes to a booming roll of thunder that made the building shake around her. Yet it was nothing compared to the thunderclap of finding his dark head at her breast.

It wasn’t a dream! The sensual web that had wound itself around her while she’d slept was no figment of her imagination, her arousal no fantasy. This man—and what he was doing to her—was shockingly real.

She cried out something garbled and panicked, jerking herself away, her hands reaching for the bed clothes and dragging them higher.

‘Good morning, Goldilocks, I was beginning to think you’d never wake up.’ His voice soothed, even as what felt like a steel band clamped around her, anchoring her to the bed. But she couldn’t have moved a muscle, even if she’d tried, not when another bolt of lightning lit up the room and the face of her dream lover with it.

A moment of frozen shock turned into a chill of abject horror, for even after the lightning had passed and the room plunged back into darkness, the lines and planes of the face hovering close remained boldly etched in her mind’s eye. The lines and planes of a face she knew only too well.

‘Dante!’

The very man with the power of life and death over the hotel. The very man she’d sworn to fight tooth and nail to ensure he wouldn’t destroy this property and the livelihoods of all who worked within it.