Her eyes followed him everywhere.
His dark, intense manner made him easy to find. Amelie’s hand, manicured and tanned, fit perfectly in the crook of his arm. And the sight of it made Maggie’s heart ache. He was the perfect party guest. Good looking, intelligent, well-known and unimpressed. She watched with cynical amusement as various guests tried, and failed, to draw him into conversation.
Damn him, Maggie wanted him. Her body was attuned to his as she’d never known possible. As though they were magnets, drawn together despite the animosity that flowed between them.
At one point, she found herself standing, speaking to one of Cressida’s sisters, when she felt something against her back. And she knew it was him. He made a polite apology to the social doyen and then lowered his head, to whisper against her ear, “Do you remember what it feels like to have me sucking ice cream from your body?”
She gasped, her whole body vibrating at the memory she’d been trying to forget.
“Yes,” she’d been able to squeeze out, before she looked away, her cheeks flaming.
Finally, though, guests had started to leave, and Maggie had taken her opportunity. “I’m knackered, dad,” she’d said with her best approximation of a yawn. In reality, she hadn’t ever felt more alert.
“Of course you are, sweetie. You go on up. I’ll try to hold Cressida off from waking you tomorrow.”
Maggie was too distracted to even acknowledge the joke. Cressida was determined to make an equestrian out of Maggie, and had woken her for early morning rides every morning that she’d spent back at the lodge.
“Thanks, dad. See you tomorrow.”
As she undressed, she despised herself for acquiescing to his demands so easily. But he’d begun something, an inevitable coming together, that she was now desperate to experience.
She rubbed a coconut moisturiser over her body, and brushed her hair until it shone like a Titian painting. She sat on the edge of her bed, feeling alternately stupid and turned on.
Finally, an hour after returning to her room, she pulled a night shirt on and grabbed a book. It was Winter, after all.
Two hours after returning to her room, she got the message.
He wasn’t coming.
But was it some sick psychological game he was playing with her? Or had he been held up? Oh, God, was he too busy with Amelie to bother coming to her room? Out of nowhere, she pictured the other woman. Beautiful, untouchable, cold, stunning, glamorous. She was perfect for a man like Dante.
She flipped onto her back and stared up at the ceiling, wishing like wildflowers that they hadn’t crossed paths again.
She had spent the last two years telling herself she’d been right to sneak out that night. To leave him before the light of day could intrude on the fog of what they’d shared.
By the time she’d discovered she was pregnant, months had passed. By then, she’d seen in the newspapers that his divorce had gone through, and he’d returned to the bachelor scene with resounding success.
It had become almost an obsession, tracking his love life. Living vicariously through the women who got to share his bed and know his love. Their daughter was no help, when it came to forgetting him. She was his spitting image. Even her manner was aloof, at times. For a one year old, that was no mean feat, but May managed it.
Maggie let out a strangled sound of frustration and bashed her pillow with her fist.
He was not coming. It was four o’clock. Practically morning. She drifted her eyes shut and tried to force him from her mind. But her dreams, ah, her dreams, how they were always tortured by him. Without fail. And that night was no different.
She woke a little after five, a moan frozen on her lips as she opened her eyes and saw him, leaning indolently against the door.
“Is it really you?” She whispered, her brain still lingering in a dream-like state.
His smile was ironic. “Mmm.” That sound he made. So sexy, so him. “I was regrettably delayed.”
Her eyes flashed, as she bit down on the desire to ask if the beautiful Amelie had been the reason for his lateness.
“You’re here now.” She lifted her chin.
“Yes.” He lifted his shirt over his head, exposing his broad, muscled chest. It took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to stare.
“I’m tired.”
He stepped out of his pants. “I see.” He walked towards her bed, his eyes locked mockingly on hers.
“One kiss, then I’ll go if you want me to.”
Her cheeks flushed. “Fine.” She was determined not to let him affect her. She braced herself, but not sufficiently. Was there any way she could ever immunise herself to his total power over her?
His tongue was a sensory invasion, waging war with hers, clashing and demanding, dictating terms. He moved his naked body over her, and lowered himself so that his arousal was pressed hard against her pelvis. With a duvet and her night gown between them, she felt her body melt with need. He ran his hands along her arms, catching her fingers in his and pinning her arms above her head.
“Do you want me to go?” He asked, rotating his hips.
“Screw you,” she breathed, arching her hips instinctively.
“Exactly what I was thinking,” his grin was cold and calculating.
He pulled aside the sheet and lifted her nightgown. He had forewarned her that he was impatient. That he didn’t want the preamble. Still, he paused only long enough to protect them from unwanted consequences (too little, too late, Maggie couldn’t help thinking!), and then he thrust deep inside of her. Her eyes flew wide with surprise, as his body invaded hers. How quickly she remembered that pleasure and began to moan as he moved. How her treacherous body embraced him, and adored him. Her hands ran over him, hungry, wishing, wanting, begging, pleading. She lifted her head, so that she could kiss his smooth, satin shoulder.
Her orgasm was intense. All the more for the fact she hadn’t been with a man since that night.
She bit down on her lip until blood formed in her mouth, simply to stop herself from screaming out as pleasure overcame her.
His own release was equally quiet, but nonetheless intense. His body was wracked with the exertion of breathing as he thrust finally into her.
He removed himself quickly afterwards, and lay beside her for just a moment.
“You weren’t kidding about no foreplay,” she said after a while, when the silence had begun to needle her.
He turned his head, and his eyes were cold, filled with hatred. “It is a pretence we do not need,” he responded firmly.
Two years of abstinence had been all the foreplay Maggie needed, she agreed silently.
“Dante,” she said, searching her mind for something to say. “What does… I mean… I know you’re angry… b-but…”
“B-b-but?” He imitated cruelly, rolling his eyes. He slashed a hand through the air. “Angry does not even begin to explain what I am.”
Maggie was shocked to feel tears sting at her eyes. “It was just a job,” she muttered, closing her eyes tightly, to stop the moistness from spilling down her cheeks.
“I know that now. And you were so very good at it. If I had known that your services were for sale, I would certainly have paid for another night with you.”
Her hand seemed to fly through the air of its own accord, striking his cheek with a satisfying sound of flesh on flesh. “Don’t,” she snapped, sitting up and smoothing her nightie down over her legs.
“Don’t what? I am simply pointing out the obvious, mi dolor, that you took money for sleeping with me. If it is upsetting to you, perhaps you should consider a change of profession.”
“It isn’t like that.” She sat up, desperate to make him understand. “You were the only Mark I ever slept with.”
His laugh was like a gun in the cool night air. “Mark?” He shook his head. “You mean Target? Is that how you referred to us? The men who saw you dressed like a whore and fell at your feet?”
Her cheeks flamed, her heart
broke, but she gritted her teeth. “You approached me. If you were faithful to your wife, we would never have spoken.”
“My wife did not deserve my fidelity,” he snarled menacingly.
“Every wife deserves fidelity,” she contradicted hotly. “As does every husband. It is a basic tenet of marriage.”
“Not my marriage.” He reached over and pushed one sleeve of her nightie down, exposing a shoulder and the top of her breast.
“Don’t just… you can’t just… argh!” She made a sound of frustration and pulled the sleeve back in place.
“I can do whatever I want with you. If necessary, I will pay you for the pleasure.”
“No,” she shook her head emphatically. “I don’t want your money.”
His eyes glittered. “But you do want me. So stop acting like some wounded virgin and just accept that your past has caught up with you.”
She thought of the daughter they had in common. The daughter he knew nothing about, and she felt a hot flush of guilt. It had been so easy to justify that secret. He was based in another country. He was certainly not father material. They were not compatible, beyond the bedroom. But now, guilt at what she’d kept from him ate at her stomach.
One weekend. And then she had to hide herself away from him again.
“This can’t go on,” she said seriously, desperately. “After this weekend, I don’t want to see you again.”
“I would expect not,” he drawled coldly. “You will have other Marks to screw over by then.”
Her cheeks flamed. Let him think what he wanted. Her love for their daughter May meant this could never be more than a fling.
“Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”
He stood and pulled his clothes on quickly.
“You’re going?” Her bravado disappeared in an instant.
His smile was riddled with derision. “Amelie will be wanting me.”
Maggie tried not to react, but she knew her hurt was obvious on her features. She fell back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling until he left. She had not trusted her voice to speak, in the end.
The eggs were sticking. She was distracted. She swore under her breath and lifted the spatula to gently flip them over on themselves. A slight brown patch, but otherwise, they were unharmed.
“I can do this, y’know,” Annie said over her shoulder.
Maggie shook her head. “It’s fine.” She needed the distraction. Desperately.
“The buffet’s almost set then. Ham’s out, fruit’s out, pastries are out. Just need the eggs and sausages.”
“Okay, two more minutes,” Maggie said with a nod, wishing that she and Rosie hadn’t sold The Darling Buds of May Café. She missed cooking every day. It was such an organic way to keep herself busy.
She turned the eggs once more, this time before they caught the bottom of the pan, and then slid them into one of the waiting stainless steel trays. “Eggs can go,” she said quietly to one of the teenagers who’d been roped into acting as a waiter for the weekend. She turned her attention to the sausages. Though she was vegan, she insisted on the best quality. These pork Cumberland pieces were free range and reared in accordance with organic standards, and she’d heard them described as the best sausages anyone had eaten before.
One by one, she lifted them onto the platter and then nodded at the other teenager.
“You’re not going out?” Annie asked after a moment.
“No.” She arranged her features into an imitation of a smile. “I had my fill of family time last night.”
“I see.” Annie moved across the kitchen with the usual alacrity she employed. “Then you’ll have a coffee with me.”
“Yes,” Maggie practically leaped in the air with joy at the prospect. “Coffee is what I need.”
Her hair was bundled on top of her head in a voluminous, messy bun, but a tendril escaped as she drank the black life-giving force. She pinned the rogue strand back under the elastic and tried to focus on what Annie was saying.
But her mind kept wandering. Torturous flashbacks of the night before permeated her mind, making breathing difficult.
She had dated a lot of men, but slept with considerably less. She always looked for partners who were respectful and kind. Dante Velasco was neither of those things. He was harsh and angry and hurtful and resentful. He treated her like something distasteful that he just happened to find attractive. And yet she wanted him with an actual mind-bending need.
It was hours before the breakfast was over, but Maggie stayed resolutely absent. She told herself it was because there was work to do in the kitchen. Things to prep for that night’s feast; cleaning to be done.
But it all boiled down to the desire to avoid one man, and one man only.
And yet, as she dressed for the formal ball much later that day, she couldn’t help but feel hurt that he hadn’t sought her out. She’d spent the afternoon reading in the library, but he could have found her easily enough. If he’d wanted to. He hadn’t.
What had she expected? A declaration of love? A desire to get to know her beyond the bedroom? Two years ago, she’d had the most incredible night of her life, and she’d run from it. From the possibility that if she stayed, he’d ask her to leave. In a sexless life as a single mum, this weekend was at least a relief to her deprived libido.
She just had to remember that the only thing Dante Velasco was putting on the table was incredibly passionate, mind-blowing sex. She mentally repeated the words he’d said, two years earlier. Words she’d clung to in order to justify her decision: I am my own person. I do not want to compromise that with commitments – to a family. That is not my way.
3
Amelie was a vision, in a silver ball gown. With her flossy blonde hair pinned into a hairstyle that reminded him of cotton candy, and her face expertly made up, she looked as though she’d just stepped out of a fashion magazine. Her expression was one of permanent disinterest, a trait that both amused and bored him. He listened to her description of the travel plans on her horizon, but his attention was wandering.
So were his eyes.
No matter where he stood, or who he talked to, his gaze kept pulling, like a moth to flickering flame, to Maggie. Her dress was obviously expensive, but she could have worn a potato sack and outshone all the other women in the room. Her autumnal complexion glowed in the warmth of the space, her cherry red hair had been braided around her head like a crown, highlighting her elegant neck and symmetrical face. She wore black, simple and long, and cut in a way that hid her figure in a swathe of fabric intrigue.
But he knew. Beneath the acres of expensive silk was a body men would go to war for. He stifled a groan as he felt himself harden, and turned his attention back on his date.
Why had he even agreed to come to this thing? He and Amelie were not serious. They’d slept together once, a year ago, and kept in contact simply because it was an easy enough thing to do. She’d been miserable at the prospect of turning up to another family event without a date, yet again. He knew that. Had he taken pity on her? It was unlike him, but the only explanation that fit.
“Are you even listening?” She demanded, her ice-cold eyes flaring in annoyance.
She was used to being adored, and his lack of willingness to do so was a bone of contention between them. “No,” he responded unapologetically.
Amelie gritted her teeth together. “Why not?”
Because I have found the woman who’s been tormenting me in my dreams for two years, and I need to have her in my arms again now. “You have already told me about your trip.”
“But I’m telling you about the photographer now.”
“A man named Paul Jones. You claim to dislike him vehemently, but the way you bring him into every conversation makes me think otherwise,” he drawled with perceptive certainty.
“Oh, you, but…” her usually unflappable face screwed up with surprise, then fell in desperation. “How did you know?”
“A guess.” He tried to focus
his attention on the model. “Why have you not just told him how you feel?”
She bit down on her lower lip. “He thinks I’m vain and boring,” she said with a sadness in her voice.
Even Dante, who rarely minded upsetting people, did not feel it would be kind to point out that the photographer had a point. “So either you accept that he is not interested or you show him otherwise.”
She nodded enthusiastically. “How?”
He stared down the length of his nose at her. “Do I look like Auntie Mame?”
“Who?” She frowned.
Dante laughed. Every now and again, he felt every single one of his thirty eight years. That moment was one of them. “An old movie.”
Amelie put a hand on his forearm and leaned in closer. Her eyes shone with emotion. “I think I really like him, Dante. What should I do?”
He was not proud of himself, but he could feel Maggie’s eyes on them. Just as his eyes had sought her out all night long, hers had done likewise. For that reason alone, he put a finger beneath Amelie’s chin and tilted her face to his.
“And don’t give me any of that ‘be yourself’ crap,” she said with a grimace. “I’ve tried that. He aint buying.”
Dante did not believe in emotional game playing. But the desire to stick the knife in, just a little, to the woman who had schemed with his wife was too strong to resist.
Marrying Veronika had been a mistake. A terrible mistake. And he’d realised it months after their secret ceremony. She had been callous and manipulative, and even then, when it was over, she had hired the best divorce attorney in Russia. It was the lawyers who’d engaged the services of the agency. The agency who had sent the irresistible Maggie to catch him in a compromising position. And he’d gone for her, hook, line and sinker. With his marriage in tatters, he wouldn’t have been human if he’d been able to resist her. The certainty, afterwards, that she’d used him, had cut deep. Deeper than it should have. His desire for her now was mingled with a sharp need to make her feel as he had.
He leaned down, ostensibly to whisper in Amelie’s ear. “I will give you five minutes to discuss this privately. Let’s move to another room though. I can barely hear myself think in here.”