Out of the frying pan and into the fire…

When designer Eva St. George, branded wild and shameless by the media, is caught with tycoon Dante Vitale, it’s guaranteed to make the headlines. With a fledgling reputation to salvage, how can Eva refuse Dante’s exit strategy?

Only, his solution is not to leave but to stay—together!

This ruthless Italian’s sole focus is business, and if they can convince the world they’re truly in love, they both just might get what they want. With enough heat between them to rival the Sahara, the fine line between business and pleasure is going up in flames.

‘I’ve given the press a story that will melt their cynical little hearts,’ Dante said, knowing his tone was sending the temperature in the room into a rapid decline. ‘The real thing.’

The frown in her brow deepened.

‘The real thing?’ Eva asked, her voice as softly decadent as whipped cream.

‘Si. Love.’ The word was like poison on his tongue, making it swell, and his next words sounded thick. ‘I’ve provided them with a true romantic fairytale.’

Without looking up, Eva gave a little scoff of disbelief and began to scratch at the arm of the sofa, making patterns of what looked like love hearts. ‘And who is the heroine in this fabricated tale?’

Dante smiled the half-smile that never failed to make women weak at the knees and tumble backwards onto a satin-covered mattress.

‘You are, tesoro.’

VICTORIA PARKER’s first love was a dashing heroic fox named Robin Hood. Then came the powerful, suave Mr Darcy, Lady Chatterley’s rugged lover—the list goes on. Thinking she must be an unfaithful sort of girl, but ever the optimist, she relentlessly pursued her Mr Literary Right and eventually found him lying between the cool, crisp sheets of a Mills & Boon®—her obsession was born.

If only real life was just as easy…

Alas, against the advice of her beloved English teacher to cultivate her writer’s muse, she chased the corporate dream and acquired various uninspiring job titles and a flesh–and–blood hero before she surrendered to that persistent voice and penned her first Mills & Boon® romance. Turns out creating havoc for feisty heroines and devilish heroes truly is the best job in the world.

Victoria now lives out her own happy–ever–after in the north–east of England, with her alpha exec and their two children—a masterly charmer in the making and, apparently, the next Disney Princess. Believing sleep is highly overrated, she often writes until three a.m., ignores the housework (much to her husband’s dismay) and still loves nothing more than getting cosy with a romance novel. In her spare time she enjoys dabbling with interior design, discovering far–flung destinations and getting into mischief with her rather wonderful extended family.

A Reputation to Uphold

Victoria Parker

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For Tony, who has developed a saintly patience with regard to his ‘missing’ wife. For my amazing children, Ben and Issy, who graciously accept when Mummy is busy. And for Megan Haslam and Kathryn Cheshire for their keen insights and endless encouragement

Thank you all.

And finally, I dedicate this book to Nanna Beena, Auntie Dot, Lynn, Helen and my beautiful sister, Phillipa. To always remember that life is not about waiting for the storm to pass…it’s about learning to dance in the rain. As my characters Dante and Eva are about to discover…

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EXCERPT

CHAPTER ONE

‘DON’T DO THIS to me, Finn. Please. Not today.’

Over the din of society’s elite, Eva St George crushed her mobile phone against the shell of her ear and sank a fingertip in the other. Hoping the snowy crackle was a particularly bad line and not an indication that her brother was still knee-deep in Switzerland.

‘Damn.’ Pushing off the oriental silk-covered wall, she swerved through the cliques—women dripping in jewels, adorned in the latest haute couture, and male powerhouses garbed in bespoke evening wear. And all the while her eyes were locked on the ornate double doors leading from London’s most prestigious ballroom. ‘Finn, give me a minute.’

Twenty-foot banners hung from the high ceiling in swathes of candyfloss-pink emblazoned with crystal love-hearts—the emblem for Breast Cancer United, the charity Eva and Finn supported. One night a year, together, they launched the fund-raiser in honour of their mother.

Right now, the omission of togetherness was the sting of a needle sinking into her heart.

Palm flat, she pushed the heavy oak and swept into the vast reception of the Royal Assembly Rooms, wobbling on her five-inch heels as plush fawn carpet gave way to sleek graphite marble.

‘Okay. Talk to me. Where are you?’

‘Look, sis, I’m really sorry. Every airport is closed. I’ve even tried to pay some rookie half a mill to fly me there but he can’t get clearance.’

Pain exploded behind Eva’s eyes and her hand shot up to her temple. ‘Oh, God.’

‘You can do this, Eva.’

Eyes darting this way and that, she spotted an alcove and slunk into the small space, swallowing past the wretched knot in her throat. ‘Finn. They’re expecting both of us. How can I possibly...?’ She stopped herself short. Inhaled long and deep, then pursed her lips, releasing the warm air in one soft stream. Knowing full well she could do it on her own; she just didn’t relish the thought. Speaking in front of hundreds of people who were no doubt waiting for the ‘Diva’ to nosedive wasn’t the nicest prospect in the world. Not only that, in a strange sort of way it felt as if they were letting their mother down. And, since her death, Eva had let her down enough. But the last thing she wanted was for Finn to worry or feel guilty.

‘Don’t worry, okay? I can handle this.’

‘Of course you can,’ he said with an encouraging bluster that said he wasn’t entirely convinced. ‘We’re talking about the woman who has just won the admiration of Prudence West, the soon-to-be Duchess of Wiltshire. Congrats, by the way.’

Eva rubbed her temple, waiting for her brain to catch on to the change of subject amidst the escalating throb, as she mentally altered a speech for two speakers. Problem was, it was taking a while and, by the time she realised what she was doing, her fingers wore more make-up than her face.

Scrambling in her vintage clutch for a tissue before she ruined her best dress, she said, ‘Thanks, Finny. Prudence West is lovely. She adored my gown designs.’

‘So she should—anyone with an ounce of taste can recognise a star in the making. Westminster Abbey, huh?’ His deep voice paused as if he were relishing every word. ‘My little sister under the royal spotlight. I’m so proud of you.’

Eva smiled and thought, not for the first time, how much she missed him. Finn was the only sane person in the family. Well, as sane as any jet-setting racing driver could be.

Tissue-hunting abandoned, Eva slipped her fingers from her clutch and leaned against the narrow ochre wall. ‘I can see perfectly well what you’re doing and I love you for it. And by all means give me an Abbey full of duchesses and I’ll collude in the art of dazzling every one. Then sit me behind my machine or in my design studio and I’ll make their every dream come true. But when it comes to this...’ A heavy sigh gushed from her mouth, making her lips tingle with dryness. ‘Dad’s here too, playing devil’s advocate over his flurry of ex-wives as they hurl daggers at each other. Honestly, Finn, the man would give Henry the Eighth a run for his money. He’s half cut, making an utter fool of himself. Why can’t he have more respect, especially tonight?’

‘Head high, turn a blind eye.’

‘Good in theory, lousy in practice.’ With her free hand she rubbed her bare shoulder to ward off a sudden ominous chill. ‘I’ve worked so hard for this, Finn. If something goes wrong tonight my face will be splashed on every tabloid in the country.’

‘Nothing is going to go wrong. Listen...’ she heard him inhale; the fact that her stoic-under-pressure sibling felt the need inched her tension levels as high as the opulent chandelier filling the reception ‘...I was worried about you. I know how much today means to you. So I sent...’

A group of guests hustled past and she turned her back to them to face a mural of the Angel Gabriel filling the inside wall of the alcove. She just hoped it was a good omen. ‘Sent? Sent what?’

‘He won’t crowd you but he’ll be there if you need him.’

Need? She didn’t need anyone. To be continually let down? No, thanks.

Hold on... He? A thread of unease tightened around her chest, then unravelled so fast her heart began to whirl. ‘He? Who’s he? You keep breaking up.’

‘I’ve...asked Vitale...come in my place.’

Before her eyes the Angel Gabriel morphed into Lucifer, horns and all, while Eva went up in flames. ‘Dante? No way—call him off.’

‘Call him off?’ A dark chuckle hummed down the line. ‘Despite his bloodthirsty reputation, he isn’t a Rottweiler, Eva.’

‘Oh, yes, he is.’ Voice feathery, her hormones went on a rampage, tearing through her body, piping her ve180ins with more heat. ‘He’s...he’s a snarling, arrogant brute.’

‘Hey, he’s a good guy. I’d trust him with my life. He won’t let me down.’ That was exactly what she was afraid of. ‘Dante wouldn’t be the global success he is today if he purred like a pussycat. You don’t know him, Eva.’ She knew enough but she had no intention of telling Finn that. He’d ask why and then she would be in trouble.

Air whipped in and out of her lungs. Her breasts threatened to escape from the ruched bands of cerise satin and she pressed the flat of her hand to her stomach, begging the tremulous churn to subside. Except her fingers shook so badly her tummy began to swirl like a washing machine on full spin.

‘I thought he was staying in Singapore, setting up his precious department store. Not that the man hasn’t got enough of them.’ That was another thing Finn was good for—dropping information on Dante Vitale without her having to ask questions. She liked to know when he honoured London with his presence so she could go into hiding. Ridiculous. How old was she? Too old. She thanked heaven Finn was trying to speak again before that line of thought took hold.

‘He’s back to get...’ The line hissed. His voice faded in and out. ‘I was speechl...’

‘Finn! Are you there?’ Oh, God. ‘I’m going to kill you, Finn, you hear me? With my bare hands. I’ll never forgive you for this.’ A total lie. She’d forgive him anything. But Dante? Her nerves were already fraying like torn taffeta.

The line’s-gone-dead tone resounded through her head like a death blow and her eyes shuttered. Trust Finn to pour petrol on the blaze without even realising it.

Breathe, Eva, breathe.

Okay. She had two choices. Stand. Or topple off her brand-new stilettos. And wouldn’t the vultures love that!

No choice really. Standing tall, spine pin-straight, she sucked in air. Get a hold of yourself. Remember why you’re here.

Of course she could face the upper echelons of society and make her annual speech. So she didn’t have Finn by her side—so what? She was a grown woman who was forging her own way to success. She’d just landed one of the biggest contracts of the decade and she refused to let her inebriated father, his ex-wives or the mighty Dante Vitale witness her fall from grace.

It had taken years to climb from the depths of hell after her mother’s funeral. Thankfully, the passage of time had washed the grime from her past. No longer was she faced with another hideous front page photograph every morning while every tacky tabloid in the country savaged her reputation. And she wasn’t going back there. Ever. Unless it was to showcase her creations and prove to the world she was more than the daughter of a famous designer and a notorious eighties pop star.

Chin up, shoulders pinned, she sauntered back into the ballroom where the air was awash with cultured tones and the tinkle of feminine flirtation.

Turning a blind eye to her father’s attention-seeking wave, she hit the wide mahogany bar and gripped the thick brass rail surrounding it.

Smiling sweetly at the bartender, she ordered her usual. ‘Sparkling mineral water, please.’

She could do this.

Definitely.

Then it hit her—a deliciously warm musky scent embracing her body in cashmere and teasing her dormant senses to life. Dizzying need, long forgotten, popped her eardrums to bring his dark, rich, Italian lilt direct to her brain in high definition.

‘Being a good girl tonight, are we, Eva?’

Skin erupting with a million pinpricks, her stomach wove a torrid sensual spell. It took every stitch of effort to stand tall, keep her head high and inhale enough oxygen so she didn’t pass out.

‘It’s all in a good cause, Dante,’ she said, proud of her strong, if a little sassy voice—the adage ‘fight fire with fire’ flaming to mind.

Ungluing her sexy heels, she forced an even sweeter curve upon her lips and turned oh, so languidly to face him. And realised the strength of Hercules couldn’t have prepared her.

Air locked at the base of her throat as she collided with eyes the colour of burnt umber, gleaming with intelligent purpose and deeply set in a face that could only be described as pure Italian masculinity. Satin-sheen golden skin, an abundance of thick, glossy saddle-brown hair tumbling over his forehead and flicking over his ears.

Eva fiddled with the strap of her handbag to stop herself from tracing the curve of his gorgeous cynical mouth—a mouth she’d spent half her adolescence yearning to kiss.

There was something almost deadly about his beauty, she thought, as she skimmed the wide set of his shoulders, encased in the finest black evening-wear money could buy, the tuxedo only serving to lend his sophistication a ruthless, savage edge.

Eva licked her suddenly dry lips. ‘Well, this is a nice surprise.’

‘I doubt it,’ he said, his fiercely intent gaze searing over her face.

The man saw too much and the idea that he could see inside her, her heart thumping full pelt, her blood rising to boiling-point, peeved her off. She was over this man—had been for years.

Although, in all fairness, it was perfectly natural to still find his dark magnetism so devastating. Right at this minute she knew every woman in the room had been enticed into a delirious state—staring at the forbidden, wanting past endurance. More fool them because never again would he hold power over her. Where her once vulnerable and innocent heart had been deceived, now she knew the difference between lust and love. And she wanted neither. From Dante or any man.

Picking up her crystal tumbler, she relished the cool condensation against her palm and used it to motion to an old client. ‘Look, I’m not sure what Finn told you, but I don’t need my hand held to speak to a few friends. I’m a big girl. I suggest you go home to your latest mistress. Business or otherwise.’

Renowned for his stupendous retail mind, his financial wizardry and his ferocious talent in the bedroom, Dante Vitale was a one-night wonder. With the exception of his wife, Natalia, of course. If she remembered correctly, that had been a two-month wonder. Almost as long as her father lasted with one of his fine specimens.

The worst thing was, she’d been so pathetically enraptured with him she would’ve taken one night. But his taste ran to sultry brown eyes, sleek brunettes with svelte sun-kissed bodies. Pure Italianesque. Little wonder he’d never given Eva a second glance. Until she’d literally thrown herself into his path. And even then...

Her face began to burn as the mortal humiliation came back to her in a torrid rush of heat. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I need to mingle.’ Feet bolting, she managed two steps before a steel arm wrapped around her waist and hauled her back to the bar.

Eva shuddered from top to toe, the melting sensation back with a vengeance as a lock of his shockingly thick hair fell across one eye as he tossed her a ‘stay put’ look.

He ordered a finger of single malt and pinned her in place with the wide span of his hand, only his thumb and forefinger touching her satin sheath. The tiniest contact enough to send all the heat from her face down to her knickers.

‘Don’t you think your dress is a little revealing, Eva?’ he said with a satiric bite. ‘This is a charity fund-raiser, not a nightclub.’ He knocked back the shot and carefully lowered the glass to the polished mahogany bar.

‘There’s nothing wrong with my dress and you know it.’ It was nun-like in comparison to what his usual dates wore. ‘Why are you here, Dante? I understand what Finn was trying to do. He has no idea what happened. But you...’ She shook her head. ‘You should’ve refused. Especially since you can’t bear to look at me for more than five seconds.’

As if to deny her accusation, he deigned to look at her—with such cold detachment he might as well have tossed the whisky-coated rocks in her face.

‘I’m here because I owe Finn, nothing more. As you’ve accurately pointed out, I have far more pleasurable things to do than babysit a loose cannon. But if you think for one minute I intend to break my word to him, you are sadly mistaken.’

She closed her eyes momentarily. ‘People grow, people change.’

‘No. They do not.’ He leaned a touch closer and she went strangely woozy. ‘Especially when they still have the power to stop traffic.’

Only Dante could twist a compliment into an insult with that cynical mouth. His dark eyes flickered down her body and she cursed her penchant for decadent ice cream.

Then he continued in that same thick, dark drawl, ‘That was quite a pile-up you caused in Piccadilly Circus. Did you enjoy the world staring at your body?’

Distaste filled her mouth. ‘That billboard was a campaign for—’

He waved her off with a dismissive flick and Eva sighed. What was the point of arguing with a man who saw everything in black and white? So she stuck with the facts, praying he’d just walk away. ‘Go home, Dante. I don’t need a chaperone.’

‘Apparently you do,’ he said, his caustic gaze dropping to the mineral water she held in a death grip. ‘At least you’re not plastered.’

She gasped. And to think she’d once thought herself in love with the guy!

‘You’re locked in the past. You don’t know me. I drown in work these days.’

‘Really.’ One word, brimming with derision, and she wondered if he even knew what she did for a living. He’d been in Singapore for the past year or so, Italy before that, but he’d seen Finn on occasion. Maybe he didn’t care enough to ask, but frankly she’d had enough of being dragged through the wringer.

Her mouth shaped for speech, ready to tell him what she’d achieved. All about her stunning new boutique, the new contract for the soon-to-be Duchess she’d fought tooth and nail for—

When suddenly he snorted like a displeased horse. ‘And what work would that be, Eva?’ Eyes glittering, he traced her décolletage, a look that turned almost cruel—a striking contrast to the velvet now stroking his voice. ‘Slipping between the warm sheets of the morning papers...hot off the press. Now I’m back in London, what will I wake to find tomorrow? I wonder.’

Eva gritted her teeth and tightened her fingers around her clutch, the temptation to swipe the mocking look off his face far beyond her usual realm of control. Honestly, what was the point of defending herself? He’d made up his mind. It shouldn’t hurt so much, it really shouldn’t. And the only reason her insides felt as if they were being picked apart was because she wanted him gone.

Chin up, she was determined to stand her ground. This time there would be no regrets.

‘Is this the support you promised Finn? To come in here, berate me, when you obviously have no idea what I’ve been doing for the past few years? Claw at my confidence before I have to go on stage? Wow. I’ll be sure to tell him what a grand job you did. Now, get your hand off me and disappear into the night. That is your usual parting gift, after all.’

* * *

Dante tightened his grip on her warm stomach and felt the muscles clench under his palm, the tiny contractions spiking his pulse so hard his jaw set. It took no more than a second to convince himself he was misreading the pain in Eva’s eyes. Then he snatched his hand back and set her free.

A wisp of her sultry scent drifted up his nose as she spun with the grace of a ballerina and sashayed through the clumps of dowdy patrons—a dark pink firework amongst a sea of sickly candy, her position as co-founder of the charity blatant in her choice of colour.

Dante tore his gaze from her sinful behind and ordered another shot of single malt.

Maledizione! He’d handled that really well. And she was right. He should’ve told Finn to find someone else. The crackling atmosphere was like a dark storm brewing in the room, threatening to rain destruction on them all.

Flawless, that was the word people used for her beauty. But it was a lie. Her flaws lay buried deep, hidden under dark lashes, lurking in the wary shadows of her mesmerising mossy-green eyes.

Assuming he’d buried his memories was his first mistake, because he could still feel the damp warmth of her blanched almond skin beneath his lips, the pure tone hinting at an innocent enchantment that was her dangerous allure. The only truth was her curves, which should, quite frankly, be illegal.

Heat, swift and decadently erotic, flooded his veins.

Eva St George. Wild child. Fantasy pin-up for every hot-blooded man.

Raising the glass to his lips, he downed the second finger of Scotch, the warm amber liquid lubricating his throat and inflaming the annoyance swirling in the pit of his stomach. He should not have touched her again. But if there was one thing Dante loathed it was a woman turning her back on him. He did the walking. He was in control. Always.

It didn’t help that the only time he’d ever lost it was with Eva. No matter how many times he insisted he had merely been comforting her on the night of her mother’s funeral, he couldn’t escape the fact that sanity had slipped from his grasp. And he’d almost taken her...Cristo, on the floor of the pool-house!

And tonight. She must be hurting. That was the pain in her eyes. That was why Finn had asked him to come. Because he knew Dante would remember. For all her wild ways, she’d loved her mother and watching her struggle with remembered grief was not a sight he relished. That, he insisted, was because of his loyalty to her brother, his friend.

The thought of Finn brought him back down into the ballroom with an almighty thud. He had to forget the past, deliver on his promise to Finn and get the hell out of here. He could be nice. For at least twenty minutes.

Sliding a fifty across the bar, he turned to face the bustling glitterati, taking less than five seconds to find her, courtesy of the dress that smothered her luscious body as if poured with silken oil.

Eva now had a flute of champagne in her long slim fingers and curved those famous do-me-now lips to lure another man. You don’t know me. People change, she says!

He didn’t want to hear it. For the first fifteen years of his life he’d hoped, prayed, pleaded for such change from his equally wild mother. So he’d switched off years ago to Finn’s ramblings about his precious little sister. Diverting conversation had quickly become an art form. Finn naturally had a soft spot for her and Dante liked the man too much to smash his rose-tinted view.

Shaking his head, he crossed the space between them, the stark light of the bar fading as the crowds parted and he moved deeper into the extravaganza; where butlers in black and white vintage garb enticed the waifs with canapés and tall glasses of pink froth, and the pianist seduced with classical opera which seeped through his skin and eased the tension from his spine. By the time he caught up, Eva sat alone at one of the huge round tables, washed in a soft peach hue courtesy of a thousand tiny crystal tea lights.

Sitting on the deep velvet seat beside her, he pinched the stem of her champagne flute and handed it to a passing waiter before ordering his senses to go on mute. ‘Here we are again.’

Her dark blonde head snapped around, the long, luxuriant waves swaying about her bare shoulders. ‘Can’t you take the hint? I. Am. Fine. You need to. Go. Home.’

Dante leaned back, knowing full well he projected ennui. ‘No.’

Her eyes glittered with the first sparks of her temper but he had to give her credit because she banked the fire, no doubt disinclined to cause a scene. ‘What are you doing back here anyway? I thought Singapore had captured your full attention.’

‘Impossible. Nothing is enough to capture my full attention.’

She leaned her perfect body into the back of the chair and crossed her arms, the action slow, controlled, pushing her breasts upward, affording him a delicious view of her satiny cleavage. He allowed his eyes to drop. That was what she wanted, wasn’t it? His full undivided attention. It wouldn’t last—it never did.

‘How stupid of me to forget,’ she said, her husky voice mocking. ‘Guess I thought business was different.’

Dante tore his eyes from her. ‘Singapore was a huge success. Two Vitale department stores in twelve months and one of the most lavish malls in the world.’

‘You sound disappointed. That wasn’t enough?’

‘It’s never enough.’ Now he had his sights set on the biggest prize of all. The jewel in the Vitale crown would be the Knightsbridge store he’d wanted for almost a decade. He just needed to convince the seller that Dante was the superlative choice. Problem was, Yakatani, the staunch Japanese businessman, wanted a family man and that particular vessel had sailed four years ago. Flying the flag of treacherous betrayal.

A swell of rabid emotion, black and cold, inflated his chest and he fisted his hand where it lay on the pristine white tablecloth. When he caught Eva glancing down he stretched his fingers wide.

‘So what now?’ she asked, a small furrow lining her brow. ‘Why come to London?’

‘Why not?’ he said with a careless shrug that tore at his stiff muscles as he tamped down on the dark current of unwanted, loathsome feeling.

‘There’s more to it than that. I can see it in your face.’

She saw far too much.

Dante cleared his throat and glanced around the room, content that she would drop the conversation when he wasn’t forthcoming. Seconds blurred into minutes of warding off the waves of sensuality that poured effortlessly from the woman beside him, which only served to heighten his determination in what now felt like an enjoyable exercise in self-restraint.

So he focused on the towering glass vase taking centre stage on the table, overflowing with cream and dusky pink blooms, each rose delicately wrapped in ivory voile to cup the open bud, and streams of pearls cascading from a lofty hydrangea to pool upon the tablecloth. And, before he knew it, his mind’s eye trailed those very pearls over every inch of Eva’s body, skimming up those long satiny legs and teasing them between her thighs, where she was hot and wet—

Cristo, for the life of him he could not understand why fatal attraction still poured through his blood...scoring his cheekbones. For a second he wondered if he’d made a sound.

‘Dante, are you okay?’

There, he had his answer, Dante noted, without allowing himself to react.

Lazily, he shifted in his seat. Turned and raised one dark brow. ‘Sì. Of course.’

‘Well, you didn’t answer me,’ she said. And for a second he was thrown, his back nudging the velvet pad of the chair. When was the last time someone had the audacity to demand an answer from him? Then again, this was Eva and he should’ve expected nothing less. Any woman who could turn sweet grieving vulnerability into an all-out seductive war on mankind took daring to a whole new level.

Dante yanked at the sleeves of his white dress shirt until shards of diamond light bounced off his platinum cufflinks. He didn’t suppose Eva would be a risk to his deal. She was more front page scandal than the business section type and he needed to talk about something before he touched her.

‘I was considering your question: why London?’ He drew his answer out. Waited until he had her rapt attention. Waited to feel the power of the word on his tongue, the weight of it lifting his spirits. ‘One word. Hamptons.’

‘Nooo,’ she breathed, evidently interested. Although he guessed it was merely the conditioned response of a practised woman.

Still, he allowed himself a small smile. It was almost his. He could feel the power of ownership fizzing in his blood.

‘Hamptons have the most beautiful departments I’ve ever seen,’ her voice now wistful.

Dante cottoned on to the reason for her enthusiasm. Shopping. Every woman’s idea of nirvana. To someone like Eva, he imagined the experience akin to an orgasm.

With mind-blowing speed and precision, his imagination inflamed, offering him an erotic image of Eva exploding under his fingertips...beneath his mouth...coating his tongue. Her glorious body arching like a bow...

A loud female voice shot through the haze and Dante winced. Maledizione, he needed sex—to drive out the tension of the last few weeks that had slowly, surely pervaded his body. That was the issue here. It had nothing to do with her.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to our co-founder, Eva St George.’

Rapturous applause filled the air and Dante watched the rose hue drain from Eva’s cheeks. Watched her throat work, the slender column pulsing.

‘Eva? What is it?’

‘Nothing. I’m fine,’ she said with such ease that he realised his imagination was playing tricks on him. Again.

‘Of course you are,’ he said as he nodded towards the podium where the operatic beauty who was tonight’s entertainment stood waiting. If the card she’d slipped him earlier was anything to go by, she was more than willing to perform personally at his request. ‘Show them Eva St George, the Princess of the Press.’

She looked at him then. Properly. For the first time since he’d arrived. Her eyes were swirling tempests which spoke of barely concealed anger. Was she still vexed with him? Even after he’d sat and spoken to her for at least ten minutes?

Dante almost asked what more she expected of him, but each guest now stood waiting. Watching.

‘You’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘What are you waiting for? Go.’

‘It’s not that,’ she said, scratching at her lower lip. His eyes narrowed on her short, unpolished fingernails. ‘Dante, listen. If I only ever ask this one thing of you, will you do it?’

He didn’t like the sound of this. Women and favours were a risky business. There were only three things to be certain of in this life. Ownership, power and control.

‘Ask me,’ he said.

‘Will you leave? Now. Please.’

* * *

Eva stepped down from the podium, willing her ribbon-like legs to keep her upright. She’d never thought it was physically possible to want to cry and whoop at the same time but now she knew. All she’d had to do was stand on a stage—in front of hundreds of people—on her own, and pour her heart out.

But she’d done it. She’d actually done it!

Slightly deaf from a thundering show of hands, she gripped the hand rail and tottered down the steps from the stage. From the corner of her eye, she saw her father beckoning and the temptation to go to him was so strong her feet altered course. But the sight of Claire, wife number six, tugging on his arm stopped her mid-step and she feigned ignorance. There was a happy bubble floating in her chest and no way was that woman popping it.

After a few obligatory handshakes, Eva spotted the heavy gold brocade curtains shrouding the double doors leading onto the terrace. She’d prefer a hot bath and eight hours’ sleep, but in her position leaving early was out of the question. So she’d take ten minutes’ peace instead. Escape beckoned and, like a prowling cat, she edged around the room, slinking around the guests. She slithered through the small gap in the curtains onto the terrace beyond and quietly closed the door behind her....

And walked into a dense wall of nipping icy air. The fight left her body in one long rush and her shoulders slumped. ‘It’s over.’ Done. For the girl who’d always found large crowds intimidating, she wished her mother could’ve seen her standing tall.

Wrapping her hands around her upper arms to ward off the chill, she tipped her head skyward, gazing at the beauty of nature’s palette—the richest blue imaginable, sparkling with diamanté-studded brilliance. Focused on the biggest, the brightest star and revivified the words she spoke every year, only on this night. ‘I miss you. I’ve made mistakes—so many mistakes—but I’m trying to move on. Make something of my life. Be the person you knew I could be. And I swear I’ll make you proud if it’s the last thing I do.’

Closing her eyes, she became lost in time, remembering the sight of her mother teaching her how to work with her nimble fingers. How to stitch another beautifully perfect pearl on dense shot silk and create someone’s dream, fill it with romance and beauty and love—all the things she would never have. Only gift. Just as her mother had for women the world over. Until the dark shadows had come knocking and the world went black, everyone left.

Dante.

Thank God he’d left earlier. The thought of him watching her. His beautiful, intense gaze was like a brain-wiping device—

‘Eva.’

She flinched and spun around as her hand flew up to her chest to stop her heart bursting through her skin.

‘Dante,’ she breathed. ‘I thought you’d gone. I asked you to.’

He stood in the shadows, face dark, body rigid, his hands stuffed deep in his trouser pockets. ‘I gave my word to Finn. Let us call it a compromise.’

‘So you sat out here the entire time?’

‘Like I said, I promised Finn I would be here if you needed me.’

I needed you once. You left.

As if the last five years had disappeared, the same thoughts began to run through her head, the pictures replaying like an old black and white movie. Hold me. Touch me. Take me.

‘I don’t need anyone.’ Not any more. Her warm breath filled the air like a puffy cloud but her voice, icy and brittle, didn’t sound as if it belonged to her.

No words. He simply looked out towards the gardens where the cool mist lay like a thick veil, swirling as if beckoning its master back into the Cimmerian lair. And that air of danger seemed to thicken further still, become seductive in its intensity as Dante turned back and closed the short distance between them. Through the dim light she couldn’t make out his expression but the heat pouring from his body wreaked chaos on her senses.

‘It was a good speech, Eva,’ he said, his deep voice imbued with warm sincerity—a hint of the man she once knew. No, Eva, that man did not exist. ‘Your mother would be proud of you.’

Oh, God. Hold it together. Hold it together. ‘Thank you,’ she said, but it was a choked sound that tore from her soul and if he didn’t leave right now, she was going to...

He growled, long and low, as if he understood, and hauled her into his arms. And the past crashed into the present with heart-stopping brutality. No thought, no hesitation, she buried her face in Dante’s neck, drank in his expensive, darkly sensual cologne and luxuriated in the lashing strength of his arms around her, his long fingers fanning the bare skin on her back....yet he said nothing. He was just there. Where she needed him.

No. No! She didn’t need him. She didn’t need any man. Never had, never would. They let you down, left. Brought nothing but heartache and pain.

So pull away—you have to pull away.

Except...where once cold, she could now feel Dante’s hot breath caressing the underside of her ear, whispering over the highly sensitised skin of her neck and she trembled from tip to toe. Pull away, Eva—do it now. So why did she ignore the screaming in her head and answer the flaming shrill in her blood to sink her fingers into his gorgeous thick hair and pull him closer still?

Another husky, cursing groan rumbled up his hard chest, vibrating over her aching breasts, and her heart began to thrash against her ribcage. This was not good. It felt good but it was a bad, bad idea. He hated her, for Chrissakes. And hadn’t she already learned her lesson with this man?

Loosening her grip on his neck, she eased down from her tippy toes, her fingertips scoring down his sculpted shoulders, unfurling to push him away. But when her palms smoothed over red-hot silk and she felt the carved perfection of his body, heat splashed through her midriff, flooding her core, banishing all thought and she wanted... More.

Suddenly his lips were there, hovering over hers, and oh, the temptation to touch again, taste him, to see if he was just as thrillingly wonderful as she remembered, made her slide her lips across his in a gossamer-soft stroke...press a moist kiss to the corner of his full mouth...

Dante’s entire body hardened to iron ore....

A flare of electricity danced across her skin and, right then, she knew her mistake. His power had undergone a seismic shift and increased tenfold over the years. Which made him even more dangerous than she’d ever thought possible.

As if he heard her question the force of his dominance, his large hands curved around her waist and cinched vice-tight until she could barely breathe. Then he lifted her entire weight from the floor as if she weighed nothing more than a spool of French lace.

Crushing her body to his, he murmured in her ear, so dark, so quiet, she almost didn’t hear him. ‘You cannot help yourself, can you, Eva? What is it you want this time? Another night—or shall I just take you up against the wall?’

What? Oh, oh, God. Hot and sharp, a prick of hateful regret stabbed her throat. So when her words came they were laden with biting precision. ‘In your dreams, Dante.’

A loud throat-clearing from behind acted like a fist striking glass, shattering the moment. As soon as Dante slackened his grip she jolted back and slammed into the wall, wincing as rough stone bit into her skin.

Claire and her father stood at the top of the stone steps, just watching like a couple of bloody voyeurs.

‘Well, well, well,’ said Claire. ‘What have we here?’

Eva stabbed her palms with blunt nails. ‘Oh, I...’ What on earth was she supposed to say?

She risked a look at Dante. He stood like cast bronze. Just staring at Eva. Eyes hard, jaw so stiff she fancied his teeth ached. He was angry. No. He was furious. With her. Well, he wasn’t the only one!

‘I was just saying to Nick, here,’ Claire said, all innocence and light, catching Eva’s attention, ‘where has that gorgeous boy got to? I want to be the first to congratulate him.’

Eva felt Dante stiffen beside her and the air became so heavy she could feel it bearing down upon her shoulders.

Ohhh, something was not right. Anguish unravelled behind her breast and Eva knew in an instant that she was about to be very stupid. She was about to fall in the trap Claire was spinning for her. But she was missing something here and she didn’t like it one bit.

‘Congratulate him?’ Eva asked.

Claire’s ice-blue eyes glittered with venom. ‘Didn’t you know? Dante here is engaged to my old school chum, Rebecca Stanford.’

Eva blinked, sure she mustn’t have heard correctly. He was getting married again? ‘What?’

‘Yes,’ said Claire. ‘She came to see me yesterday after she flew in from Singapore.’

Eva sucked in air so quickly she almost lost her balance. This was not happening. But Claire hadn’t finished hammering the nails in her coffin yet.

‘We had a lovely lunch with Prudence West. I believe you’re designing her gown. Such an honour.’

Eva felt Dante’s gaze burning into her cheek. She couldn’t look at him. She hated him right now. Years of hard work, clawing her reputation back from the brink. Working eighteen hour days to build the Eva St George brand. And then one look at this devil incarnate and everything was tossed to hell!

‘I hope she forgives you, Eva. It’s not nice to poach someone else’s fiancé.’

Eva reached out for Claire’s arm, knowing the violent quiver of her hand betrayed her inner state but she was too far gone to care. ‘Listen, Claire, you’re taking this all the wrong way. Dante is my...’ What? Friend? Claire was too clever to fall for that blazing lie. And how much, if anything, had she heard? Brain reeling, Eva tried to think of their last words. Something about...oh, God—taking her against the wall! ‘There is nothing going on here.’

‘Didn’t look that way to me. Oh, don’t worry, my lips are sealed. Although I feel I should warn you.’

From the corner of her eye, Eva saw Dante shift his attention to the swell of her chest. Heard him groan in disgust.

But, before she had the chance to follow his gaze, Claire spoke. ‘You haven’t taken the microphone off your dress.’

CHAPTER TWO

DANTE’S HAND SHOT to the ruffled bodice of Eva’s gown and he curled his fingers around the small black mike, warm from her—or should he say their—body heat and tore it free.

He dropped the plastic shell to the frosted stone and crushed it beneath his heel in a satisfying crack.

‘Please tell me...’ she whispered, standing tall, lifting her chin in the face of adversity ‘...that what just happened didn’t really happen. I’m just in some nightmare. I mean, you are here, after all.’

Dante held up one flat palm to prevent another word until he’d at least shaved the edge off his volatile mood and figured out what the hell was going on.

Nick St George paused as his viper wife tried to tug him back into the ballroom and Dante fired the spineless man with the Vitale glare before they disappeared from view. How could he have stood there and let that bitch set Eva up for a fall? What she was hurtling into he had no idea, but he was determined to find out.

As for him...Cristo, he’d bet his Lamborghini that within five minutes Rebecca would hear of his apparent indiscretion. A shaft of unease fired through his gut, yet, as quickly as it flared, he thrust it away. Rebecca would be easily placated. The good old-fashioned way.

Eva smoothed her tight sheath over her curvaceous hips, brushing the wrinkles free. ‘I have to get out of here,’ she said. ‘I have to think.’ Head swiveling, she searched the floor. ‘There’s little point going back in there; Claire will have me hung, drawn and quartered by now.’ She spotted her bag leaning against the old stone wall and bent over to snatch it up.

Dante’s heart rate kicked up a few thousand beats per minute as the heart-shaped curve of her full derrière filled his vision and brought forth a multitude of sinful images.

Cristo, she was lethal.

He tore his eyes away as she straightened up and shimmied past him, heading for the stone steps. ‘Well done, Dante; you’ve most likely just ruined me. At the ball in honour of my mother!’

Dante blinked. ‘I have ruined you? Forty minutes I’ve been in your company and already you have wreaked havoc in my life.’ Every time. Dannazione, the woman never failed.

Pausing on the edge of the top step, she swung around, mouth agape. ‘What exactly have I done to you? Just tell Rebecca Stanford the truth. I was...upset. You came for Finn and you gave me a...a...brotherly hug.’

Brotherly? He still had an erection that minus two degrees couldn’t diminish. There was nothing fraternal about that!

‘Siblings do not kiss each other,’ he bit out.

He wished the lighting were better so he could see if the flush on her chest was real. Because he was sure the woman had just propositioned him. Again. She was no innocent. She knew where kisses led. Given another three minutes, he could have taken her up against the bloody wall.

Cristo, she was like a Venus flytrap. Luring, bewitching, with that sweet, grieving vulnerability, which she knew would beguile him. Because, in a once-in-a-lifetime moment of weakness—so she’d known she was not alone—he’d told her the brief details of burying his own mother. For two minutes of time he’d resurrected the fetid blend of conflicting emotions, only to bury them back into the depths. So the siren knew exactly how to play him.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘obviously, I was of unsound mind. Because I have no interest in you. Whatsoever. In fact, you can rest assured hell will freeze over before I touch you again. Give me some credit, for heaven’s sake, I’ve got some pride.’

Something close to affront clawed down his chest. It was as unsettling as it was idiotic.

‘Just tell Rebecca you hate me,’ she went on. ‘Nothing but the truth. I promise you within seconds your stunning fiancée will tumble back onto your well-frequented bed!’

Dante almost laughed. Almost. ‘My sleeping arrangements seem to bother you, Eva.’

Her head reared. ‘Hardly. I couldn’t care less what you do. But you could’ve told me you were getting married,’ she said, her husky voice fracturing with a heartfelt anguish that made him pause mid-step, frowning at the contradiction between her words and tone. ‘I was caught completely unawares. I could’ve at least come up with a better look than a shocked guppy for a retort.’

‘Because appearances are everything, of course.’ There was truth in that sarcastic inflexion and he knew it. She knew it. Any bad press would smash his deal to kingdom come if he didn’t play it carefully. And, as for Eva...

Clip clopping down the steep stone slabs in those ridiculously high, sexy-as-hell stilettos, she continued to chatter incessantly. ‘And now they’ll all think the worst. That you...and I...’ A husky groan poured from her mouth to wrap around his self-restraint and choke it near to death. ‘That I’m a fiancée-poacher. A marriage-wrecker! Not the best marketing ploy, wouldn’t you agree, Dante?’

‘Which is why we need to talk,’ he ground out. How could he take control of the situation if he didn’t know what was at stake? His brain was still having problems processing what his ears told him. ‘Is what Claire said correct? You make wedding gowns and you won the contract for the next Duchess?’

Screeching to a halt on the lower patio, she stood stock-still...then turned around eerily slowly, bristled and nigh on exploded in front of him, arms thrusting in the air. ‘Why are you so incredulous?’

Why, indeed?

‘Maybe I pictured you drinking yourself into oblivion and sleeping till noon. Partying yourself onto the front pages every day can be exhausting, so they say.’ He gave her an unaffected shrug that tore at his spleen. Because suddenly his memories veered from Eva splashed across the headlines to his mother. Stumbling through the door half-dressed. Slurring her words. Polluting the air with the stench of whisky and vomit. Invariably with another man in tow.

‘In all honesty,’ he continued, the unwelcome memories making his stomach revolt, his voice bitter, ‘I never thought you could manage a day’s work in your life. So I am surprised. That is all.’ Surprised? She might as well have stunned him with a laser gun. He did not like the feeling. It blasted his equilibrium to pieces.

Blinking, her stunned mouth worked around words. ‘Oh, just go away, Dante, and leave me be. Go seduce your bride. I hope you’ll both be very happy. Burning in hell.’

Then off she went, swerving around the cobbled stone path. Dante rocked on his heels, tempted to let her go. The more time he spent with her, the more frustration clawed his insides. She was the most disobedient, agitating woman he’d ever met. So why was he still standing here allowing the frost to travel up his limbs?

‘Bloody woman.’ With a growl, he caught up with her as she strutted beneath the ornate lamps illuminating the gardens, and the dim glow casting her body with a warm sheen.

Thought vanished. His guts pinched with a peculiar nip. ‘Cristo,’ he burst out, making her pause mid-step. ‘Your back!’

Unthinking, he reached out, dusting his fingertips across the raw, scraped flesh marring her beautiful almond skin...felt a shudder ripple down her vertebrae before she jerked away.

‘Don’t touch me.’

Dante set his jaw—she hadn’t said that ten minutes ago. Or five years ago. But he was not going there. ‘Your skin needs treating, Eva.’

She swirled around, scepticism widening her eyes. ‘What do you care? If you didn’t hear me the first time, I’ll tell you again. I’m a big girl. I can look after myself.’

She was right. She didn’t need his help. Eva St George, the Princess of the Press, knew exactly how to play the game. And let’s not forget, she’d just stood in front of hundreds of people and made a speech from her very soul about the mother she’d adored. That kind of emotional strength was not indicative of weakness.

‘Go home, Dante.’ Chin up, Eva thrust her shoulders back with a lofty flounce. ‘You’re fired!’

A humourless laugh burst from his lips. ‘Fired?’

‘Your job as brotherly stand-in is over. Quite frankly, you’ve been appalling. I hope I never lay eyes on you again.’

Fury bubbled in his blood. Why, he had no idea, because technically she was doing him a favour.

Dante stepped forward, close enough to make out the tiny freckles kissing her pert nose, and murmured, ‘That makes two of us, tesoro.’ And he meant it. The woman reminded him of cyanide. Troublesome. Deadly potent. She’d been toxic enough years ago and her seductive allure had somehow quadrupled with age.

‘Good,’ she said, stepping backward straight onto a patch of black ice.

Dante snatched at her arms, cupping her elbows to stem her fall.

Time stilled as he trailed his gaze over her exquisite face and, the chilly eve forgotten, he pictured laying her down on a bed of grass—the same lush colour as her eyes—curving his hands around her stunning body, feeling the weight of her heavy breasts in his palms, glorying in the sweet sinful taste of her skin. He wanted to cup her face. Take her breath away with his lips. He wanted to kiss her. Properly. No. He wanted to devour that impertinent mouth.

Dante swore he could hear her thunderous heartbeat echo his own. And he knew. Her entire body thrummed with a craving so intense she vibrated with the power of it. She had just lied to him outright. Of course she had. She still wanted him. More than ever.

His mouth twisted, even as he acknowledged the revelation. It was still there. Incomparable. Extraordinary. A ferocious desire that crackled the air with tiny fireworks and wreaked havoc on the exploding senses. His own control was barely leashed, his brain a fog...until she tore from his hold. ‘Get your hands off me!’

Dante’s jaw went slack. Cristo, the way she wielded her sexual power would render a lesser man witless.

‘Next time you want to play games, cara, I suggest you choose a man unaware of your technique. Despite my reputation, I am extremely particular when it comes to the women I take to my bed. And the hot and cold routine turns me off.’

Her lips parted with a stunned smack and for one second he thought she was going to hit him. And the bizarre thing was, he wished she would.

‘I wouldn’t sleep with you if the future of civilisation depended on it,’ she hurled back before she swivelled on her heel.

A noxious blend of rage, frustration and unadulterated desire swirled behind his ribs. ‘Eva, I’m not done with you. Do not walk away from me.’

She didn’t walk. She marched. He refused to bend to her will and go after her. He was in control. Always.

So instead he watched thick clumps of vaporous air swell in front of his face long after she’d disappeared from view. And, as the anger waned, unease flooded his psyche as he asked himself the very same question he’d asked Eva hours earlier...What will I wake to find tomorrow? I wonder.

* * *

Slivers of daylight shone through the slits of her duck-egg curtains and, with one last look at the Sunday morning headlines, Eva tugged the top edge of her quilt and watched the mountain of newspaper scatter upon the parquet floor. Pulling the blankets up over her head, she nestled further into the lavender-scented warmth and closed her eyes, trying to block out the bold script etched on her brain like the tombstone of what remained of her career.

Soon-To-Be Duchess Threatens to Give St George the Royal Snip.

Is Diva up to Her Old Tricks?

Watch Out, Brides! Eva’s on the Prowl.

‘Thank you, Dante Vitale.’ Writhing against the sheets, she kicked the blankets away from her over-warm skin, half-tempted to sue him for disclosure.

Then again, what on earth was she thinking kissing him in the first place? You would think the humiliation of five years ago had been enough to last her a lifetime. The only saving grace was that Dante’s scathing one-liner about taking her up against the wall didn’t appear in print!

Her pride was an ultra-fine thread stretched so taut it threatened to snap at any second.

‘Enough.’ She was quickly forgetting her new life motto: no regrets. Move on. It was time for a plan. A strategy.

Glancing over at the clock, she groaned when she saw that the small hand had only turned a quarter since the last time she’d looked. Eight forty-five a.m. Still too early.

She needed to call Prudence West. The serene soon-to-be Duchess had left a disarmingly polite message on Eva’s answering machine last night before she’d even arrived home.

‘Thank you, Claire.’

By then it had been too late to call her back and Eva knew what was coming—‘You’re fired’, delivered with dignified, heart-cracking finality. After all, she knew how destructive bad press could be. She could hardly blame the woman, especially in her position.

The lump swelling in her chest made it hard to breathe. How many more clients would she lose? How could she ensure that business kept walking through the door? This wasn’t anything like when she’d started out on her own. This time she had other staff to think about. Her seamstress, Katie, who had two little boys to feed at home. Her assistant, who would have a nervous breakdown if she couldn’t go clubbing on Friday night. Not forgetting the rent for her boutique downstairs, which was colossal.

Responsibility tore her insides to shreds. What if she could persuade Prudence West to stick by her? Surely, everyone would follow suit. If she appealed to her, told her the truth...

The buzzer shrilled through her apartment for the hundredth time since seven a.m. and Eva yanked the blankets back over her head. ‘Go away!’ This was just like when her mother died.

Princess of the Press, Dante had called her. Four tiny words with the power to crush. Because, in all honesty, she felt ruled...almost owned by them. Blood-sucking creatures to whom decency was a foreign concept. This morning they didn’t want the truth; they wanted sensationalism. In the past, how many times had she tried to give her version of events, only for her words to be twisted beyond recognition, ensuring she was as red and fiendish as the she-devil herself?

The phone shrilled, making her temples throb, and she waited until the answering machine kicked in.

‘Eva, pick up the phone.’ Dante’s fierce bark filled the air of her apartment.

‘Oh, great.’

‘I am outside parked at the kerb, surrounded by reporters and I’m warning you, if you don’t pick up—’

Thrusting back the covers, she scrambled across the wide dark wood sleigh bed to retrieve her cordless from the bed-stand. Determined to be calm, composed and totally in control.

‘What?’ she snapped. ‘What will you do, Dante? Haven’t you done enough damage?’

‘Me?’ he said, incredulity and exasperation lacing his voice. ‘May I remind you that your reputation precedes you? And do not speak to me of damage when I have just endured thirty minutes of female temper tantrums from my ex-fiancée!’

‘Ex-fiancée?’ she repeated, her mood lifting. And in that moment Eva knew she was a horrible, horrible person. The man undoubtedly brought out the worst in her. But why shouldn’t he at least feel a smidgeon of the turmoil she was in?

A long sigh poured from her lips. ‘For heaven’s sake, just tell the woman you love her.’ Where was the man’s famed intelligence? No wonder his marriage hadn’t lasted long.

A stunned silence, then, ‘Love? What has love got to do with it?’

‘Ah, well, say no more,’ she said sardonically. ‘It’s usually why people get married, didn’t you know?’

‘In your world, maybe,’ he growled down the line. ‘Let me up, Eva, we need to talk. There’s only one way out of this mess.’

‘I don’t want you here. It’ll make things look worse.’

‘Believe me,’ he said. ‘Things could not possibly get any worse.’

Oh, yes, they could—he could come up here and she could murder him for the unforgivable things he’d said to her last night. He could witness sleep-deprived Eva, eyes heavy with fatigue. But, more importantly, ‘I refuse to provide the wolf pack with even more fodder.’ And how could she approach Prudence then? Oh, it’s okay, he always calls for a friendly brunch early on a Sunday morning? Yeah, right.

She heard him exhale and swore she could feel his warm breath trickle over her collarbone. Reaching up, she stroked the goose-pimples dotting her skin...and then yanked her hand away. What was wrong with her? How could she still crave the man’s touch? A man so cynical. So savagely brutal.

‘I have the answer to everything,’ Dante said in a shiver-inducing low tone. A rich velvet she’d never heard before, didn’t trust. It was luring, almost spellbinding.

‘You do?’ she asked, drawn in against volition.

‘Sì,’ he said, silky as sin. ‘The perfect plan.’

‘What, like a miracle?’ And hold on a minute, why did he want to help her all of a sudden? Yesterday she’d been an alcoholic tramp. Goodness and hearts didn’t generally figure in the Vitale phrase book. ‘Did Finn send you?’

‘No, I have not spoken to him since yesterday. The lines are down. It’s either me or nothing.’

Lips parting, she almost told him nothing sounded wonderful but something stopped her. The business. Katie’s two little boys. The rent.

She thrust her hands through her hair, tugged at the roots, tried to shake out the kinks.

If Dante could help with the press in some way, maybe she should hear him out. The man wore power as comfortably as other people wore shoes and thinking of herself was selfish, right? In reality, she had nothing left to lose.

Dipping her chin, she glanced down and winced at the cosy, ratty PJs. Hardly the uber-chic designer look.

Drat. There was that pride again.

‘Okay. Give me five minutes.’

‘Three,’ he said before disconnecting.

Mouth agape, she stared at the phone...realised she was wasting valuable dressing time and tossed it across the pearly-pink throw. ‘Odious, obnoxious, offensive snake. I must be mad.’

* * *

Gripping the thick knot of his dove-grey tie, Dante pushed the silk further up his throat and straightened the lapel of his black jacket. Tension pumped through his blood, making him hard all over—energised, taut, inordinately satisfied he’d given the press the perfect picture of ruthless determination by upending every last one of them from Eva’s doorstep.

In one respect he questioned why she hadn’t given them the boot herself but on the other hand he was grateful she hadn’t unleashed her tongue. He had plans for Miss St George and the sooner he brought her round to his way of thinking the better. Obstinate to the nth degree, he knew he’d have a fight on his hands but the predator in him could already smell the scent of glory.

And why the hell was she taking her own sweet time opening the door?

A seed of a sinister thought detonated and a strange emotion settled in the pit of his stomach, curdling thick and black. Did she have someone in there? In her bed. Entertaining. Was that why she was ignoring the press?

Dannazione, he’d never thought of that. And for the man who was renowned for meticulous planning, that should’ve told him something. Yes, he assured himself, it told him his deal was hanging in the balance and if she...

Sweat bubbled on his nape and trickled down his spine at the thought of walking in there. Seeing another man in her bed. Her full do-me lips meshed with his.

Heart twisting, it tore from his chest and dropped into the well of his stomach.

The sound of metal sliding across metal filtered from inside and scored his suddenly sensitized skin like talons down a chalkboard.

Rolling his shoulders, he inhaled slow and deep. Yet when the solid oak door swung open he realised the intense lung workout had been an utter waste of energy resources.

There she was. Tousled. With that adorable sleepy look about her. The one he remembered from sleeping over at Finn’s and watching an eighteen-year-old Eva tumble down the stairs on legs so long it had taken her an age to fathom the art of walking gracefully. It would’ve just turned noon and she’d mooch round the kitchen wearing huge earphones and skimpy cotton pyjamas, the small, tight shorts leaving nothing to the imagination.

For a moment he wondered what she wore to bed these days and then cursed inwardly as his blood pressure spiked through the roof.

So he focused on the now. This Eva. Twenty-seven years old and more beautiful than ever. All that gorgeous hair falling down around her face and caressing her bare shoulders. A tiny vest-top in a soft blush colour that threw her dense cleavage into stunning effect and a long dark pink skirt that reminded him of a gypsy. But Cristo, it was the bare feet that really snagged him. Perfect little toes painted pearly-white as if she walked on heavenly clouds. And there it was again. That hint of innocence he knew to be fake.

‘Are you entertaining in your bed?’ he asked, his voice so hard it almost cracked his skull. And, just to make sure there was no misunderstanding, he rephrased. ‘Are you sleeping with anyone at all?’

‘Did you really just say that?’

‘Yes.’ After all, it would ruin all his plans if she had a multitude of boyfriends all over the place. Was her rock star still on the scene? A man with a perpetual hangover. The perfect couple.

Dante ground his back teeth. ‘Just answer my question, Eva.’

His don’t-mess-with-me tone was met with an arch of her delicate blonde brows.

‘Good morning to you too,’ she said, hand braced on the door frame as if she was half-tempted to slam it in his face. ‘You’re in a lovely mood this morning.’

He smiled. It was an evil twist, he knew it. ‘I’ll be in an even better mood when you answer me.’

Firing darts of ire, her eyes drifted to the wall above the door frame, breasts rising and falling as she grappled for control. ‘No. I don’t... I haven’t...’ Chin down, she straightened to her full impressive height. ‘What exactly does my private life have to do with you, anyway?’

‘Plenty, considering the newspapers this morning,’ he said, striding past her, not entirely convinced by her claims to single status but willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. For now. ‘Haven’t you heard? We’re the new golden couple.’

She laughed—a hollow sound that serrated his spine. ‘There’s nothing golden about you. Anyway, I haven’t managed to get past the front page yet.’

‘Then I assure you, you’re in for a real treat.’

Dante heard the door click shut and her mocking remark, ‘Come in, why don’t you,’ as he strode down the narrow hallway and found himself in a...cosy lounge flooded with light.

Cream muslin hung in swathes at the wide windows, softening the stark glare of December and bleaching the dark oak floors. Huge, squashy gold sofas—the curling up with a book type—framed a large coffee table and took centre stage around a black Edwardian fireplace. Frames in every shape and size covered the hessian-covered walls—large gilt mirrors and reprints of times gone by—brides of every era and the accompanying fashions. There wasn’t a moneyed feel at all. It was tastefully eclectic with a subtle romantic ambience. But, maledizione, the clutter sent ants crawling across the back of his neck as if marching down a vine.

‘You are still messy,’ he said. It used to drive Finn insane. Between Eva and her mother, their family home had been a constant artistic chaos. It was a sure bet you’d be pricked by a sadistic pin or three from sitting on a perfectly innocent-looking chair.

‘So shoot me.’

Reluctantly his mouth curved at the petulance in her voice, until his eyes fell on a dressmaker’s dummy filling one corner of the room with a voluminous frothy tulle skirt tacked around the waist. Stepping closer, his breath snatched—the retail connoisseur in him enchanted by the sight of delicate pearls stitched into the weave.

‘By hand?’ he asked. Knowing it to be impossible because it would have taken her—

‘Yes, of course. Took me almost a week.’

Every day he was shown a multitude of beautiful clothing, but this... ‘It’s exquisite. I see you have inherited your mother’s eye for detail. Her unmistakable genius with fabric.’

Even as she stood behind him he could sense frank bewilderment that he’d complimented her work.

Having been subjected to his father’s particularly vicious brand of criticism since the day he’d been torn from his mother’s graveside, he had no problem with dishing it out. No longer did it make him angry to hear; it only made him strive to be harder, stronger, more powerful than ever before. But the beauty in Eva’s raw talent stopped him dead in his tracks for there was not one fault in any stitch or placement of pearl.

‘Why didn’t you tell me the extent of your success last night? Your boutique?’

She gave a little huff. ‘Oh, come off it, Dante. You had no interest in my life or anything I had to say.’

He didn’t mistake the touch of hurt in her voice and he was man enough to admit he deserved it. One desperate phone call from Finn, one look into those dazzling green eyes and he’d known trouble was coming. Deflecting it, however, hadn’t brought out the best in him and in the end it had been a pointless pursuit.

‘I had no idea about your work.’ Now he wished he hadn’t closed his ears to Finn’s animated renditions. Without them, he’d been left with one possible avenue.

So this morning he’d ignored every flammable headline and had his investigators expose her business interests. She’d built her small bridal couture company from nothing. Nothing. Laser gun time. Stunned would be an understatement. Where was her inheritance—her mother’s legacy? Blowing millions of pounds within a few years on the party scene must’ve been one hell of a joyride. He assumed that when the money had run out she’d had to make a trade of some kind.

At first glance he’d thought Finn would have provided capital but no, she’d done it all herself, through banking loans and hard work. And he felt something he’d never thought he’d feel for her. A measure of respect.

‘Now you do,’ she said. ‘Except do me a favour and lay off the congratulations regarding Prudence. She’s already left one message and I shouldn’t think the next royal wants an engagement-wrecker to bless her gown.’

The anguish in her voice sliced at his throat. He knew what it is was like to work night and day with recognition continuing to be far from reach. At twenty-three he’d fought for the chance to save the ailing Vitale empire. The battle had been endless until desperation had forced his father to hand him the reins. It had taken Dante almost six months of working 24/7 to operate back into the black. So he knew the determination, the frustration, the rage.

‘Won’t stop me trying to change her mind, though,’ Eva said with a dose of grit that made his mouth tilt. Ah, there it was. The fight.

‘So why are the shutters locked downstairs?’ he asked.

‘Luckily, I only open the last Sunday of every month. I wanted to contact some of my clients before facing the hounds.’

‘It is best you do not speak with them until we get our story straight,’ he said, hearing his autocratic tone ricochet off the walls.

A small frown creased her brow. ‘Our story? There is no story, Dante, only the truth. If that doesn’t set me free I’ll just have to wait until the furore dies down. There’ll always be other jobs.’ But she wanted this. Desperately. Oh, she tried to hide it, but the stiff smile she tried on for size visibly cracked her composure.

She wanted it, just as much as he wanted Hamptons. Neither could afford tittle-tattle. Yakatani not only preferred committed family men but he was inordinately disturbed by tabloid fodder. With plenty of multi-billionaires in the running, he had his pick of the auspicious crop.

Dante considered the tartan wingback chair, decided not to take the risk and walked over to the windows to inspect the street below. Decent enough area for a boutique, he supposed. Mayfair or Bond Street would be better.

Rolling his neck, he breathed deeply. Truth time. Explanations he wasn’t very good at because as a rule he answered to no one. ‘I had an arrangement with Rebecca.’

He allowed her to soak up the admission, wrestle her thoughts into some kind of order. When her words came they were doused with intrigue. ‘What kind of arrangement?’

‘I needed a fiancée to close the Hamptons business deal.’ And with that one strategic purchase he would make Vitale the biggest retail phenomenon in the world. Then his father would have no choice but to acknowledge his first son—his bastard son—as the rightful heir. Finally he would prove to the old man that he was worthy of the Vitale name. That he was no longer a dirty stain on a virtuous thousand-year legacy. That he wasn’t tarnished by his mother’s bad blood. That he was strong enough to live only for Vitale and nothing, nothing would stand in the way of his success.

Fingers delving into his hair, he thrust the memories back into the dark depths. Locked down his emotions with ruthless efficiency.

‘I had no intention of marrying the woman,’ he said. One stab at the marital state had been enough to inoculate him against the institution for life. ‘I only bumped into her a couple of weeks ago in Singapore.’ Dante had known Rebecca from Cambridge days. A striking brunette who had a tendency to flirt with him outrageously. But she had chosen the wrong day and the wrong man to play with.

She’d cornered him and while he’d been sorely tempted to take what was on offer that night, to lose himself, drive out the anger, something had stopped him. Despite her overt sexuality, she’d turned him to stone.

While he’d never been the small-talk type, he had listened. To dampen his fury. To forget his father, his half-brother. It soon became apparent she was neck-deep in debt and needed funds—astronomical amounts. She was desperate. And, like a shark smelling bait, Dante’s killer instincts had kicked in and within seconds he’d pounced on that weakness and a business arrangement had been born.

‘Oh,’ Eva said, ‘you must want Hamptons very much.’ Warm, understanding, her husky voice wrapped around him, taking the edge off the chill that had been pervading his bones for so long.

And, before he knew it, need hit him with the force of a jet, tearing through his body. It took all of his restraint not to walk over there and slide his fingers across her deep silken cleavage, over her décolletage, up the sweet column of her throat. He wanted to sink into that gorgeous thick blonde hair, tilt her head for his kiss and drown in the sinfully erotic taste of her tongue.

Which was inconceivable for so many reasons; his brain refused to wrestle one to the fore. Putting her troublesome tempestuous nature and loose morals to one side, Finn would never forgive him for slaking his lust on his little sister. And this, whatever this was, had turned into business and never the twain shall meet.

So he narrowed his focus, his desire, on the only thing that mattered to him. ‘I need this deal, Eva. Except now my business relations with the owner are heading for the toilet. Rebecca claimed it is embarrassing enough for me to be seen embracing ‘the likes of you’ without her friends believing her a fool in unrequited love.’ She’d even hinted that she’d fallen for him and such lies inflamed his gut.

Dante turned from the view, leaned against the sill and caught Eva stuffing some letters under the plush cushion of the sofa before she sat down. The hunch she was hiding something expired as she curled her long legs under her bottom and writhed to find comfort.

How different she seemed in her own surroundings. She looked sumptuous and snuggly and... He shook his head. Appearances meant nothing. Business, Dante—focus.

‘I assume all her friends thought it was a love-match?’ she asked.

‘Her words. Certainly not mine.’

‘So what do you plan to do now?’

Crossing his arms over his chest, he locked on his target. To eyes narrowing warily. He responded to that glimpse of suspicion by raising a dark eyebrow. ‘I’ve already done it.’

‘Of course you have, Action Man. Care to elaborate?’

He ignored the sarcasm; she’d thank him soon enough. Instead his mind drifted to earlier that morning. When he’d stood in his office listening to Rebecca’s histrionics, mouth shaping to quieten her with a lucrative financial bonus. And all the while his eyes kept drifting to the front page headlines. To Eva. And he knew. Even if Rebecca took another cool million and stood by him, Eva would suffer. A good business reputation was something money couldn’t buy and, regardless of fault, of the past, they were in this together. Finn had always stuck by him, whatever the storm, and Dante owed him. He could help Eva while ensuring Yakatani remained happy.

There had been moments; Cristo, there still were moments of doubt, of reason—telling him not to trust her. Putting her business acumen to one side, he wasn’t convinced she would come over as ‘wife’ material in front of Yakatani. His investigators might have failed to unearth any recent inflammatory stories but that meant nothing when her weekends could be made up of secluded private parties and dangerous liaisons.

Slowly, inexorably, his gaze roamed over her apartment, the blatant romanticism of her career choice. Something didn’t make sense. She did not make sense.

Dante scrubbed his jawline with the back of his hand. He’d just have to keep an extra-close eye on her. If only to ensure she played by the rules. His rules.

The tension in his midsection eased, just a touch. This plan could work. It had to work.

They could have it all.

‘I’ve given the press a story that will melt their cynical little hearts,’ he said, knowing his tone was sending the temperature in the room into a rapid decline. ‘The real thing.’

The frown in her brow deepened, even as she focused on the fireplace. As if she were somewhere else. In thought so deep her expression was almost dream-like in its intensity.

‘The real thing?’ she asked, her voice as softly decadent as whipped cream.

‘Sì. Love.’ The word was like poison on his tongue, making it swell, his next words sounding thick. ‘For surely there is only one reason I could be torn from the bonds of an engagement. The fact that I’ve fallen madly in love with someone else. I’ve provided them with a true romantic fairy tale.’

Without looking up, Eva gave a little huff of disbelief and began to scratch at the arm of the sofa, making patterns of what looked like love-hearts. ‘And who is the heroine in this fabricated tale?’

Dante smiled. The half smile that never failed to make women weak at the knees and tumble backward onto a satin drenched mattress.

‘You are, tesoro.’

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