Claiming My Untouched Mistress

I would have taken some satisfaction from that... But the increasingly relentless desire to ease the edge of her gown down, expose those peaks and feel them swell and elongate against my tongue wasn’t making me feel particularly impressed with my own control.

‘Fold,’ she said, passing her hole cards to Alexi, who was dealing—and eluding my attempts to force her to break cover, again.

I bit down on my tongue to stop the curse coming out of my mouth, like a damn rookie. But, as if she had sensed my frustration, her gaze flicked to mine.

It flicked away again almost immediately. But in that moment, as our gazes locked, I saw that flash of fire. A jolt of heat eddied through my system.

Her chest rose and fell and then stilled as she regained her composure. But the pebbled outline of her nipples became more prominent against the satin.

Desire flared in my abdomen like a meteor shower, as I finally solved at least some of the puzzle. The veneer of composure was just that—a veneer.

Whatever system Edie had devised, she had just exposed one major weakness.

Maybe she was still an enigma in some ways. But one thing I knew now with complete certainty—she was as hungry for me as I was for her. And for some reason she wanted to hide it. Which gave me the upper hand, because it was a weakness I could exploit.

Hot blood surged in my groin.

In fact, it was a weakness I was going to take great pleasure in exploiting.

Game on, bella.

CHAPTER THREE

HE KNOWS.

I had made a terrible mistake. I knew it as soon as my gaze met Allegri’s and held for a nanosecond too long.

I’d been avoiding eye contact all night, that penetrating blue gaze turning my stomach to molten lava and making my nipples tighten every time it caught mine.

I didn’t understand my reaction to him. The only thing I did know was that I couldn’t let him see it—or I would be completely at the mercy of it, and him. But the more I tried to control my physical responses, the harder they became to hide. And the more difficult I found it to keep my mind on the game.

I should have bet on that hand. I knew the probability he had a better one was fractionally greater than mine, given the way he had betted during the blinds, but if I never tested him, never lost, he would begin to suspect I had a system. The problem was, I had been avoiding going head to head with him all night, the fear of exposing the strange currents gripping my body too great to risk it.

But as soon as I’d folded again, and saw his jaw tense, the rush of exhilaration at frustrating him was like a drug, intoxicating me. As a result I had been incapable of stopping myself from lifting my head and staring directly at him.

He remained calm, the tensing of his jaw easing, and then his lips curved in a sensual smile that fed the rush of adrenaline.

I ripped my gaze away before he could see more. But I knew it was already too late. The giddy longing must have been written all over my face.

My breathing stopped. It just stopped. I had to fight for the next breath, but as I forced my lungs to function in an even rhythm again, my nipples became so hard they felt as if they were going to poke right through my dress.

I listened to the play continue around me, as Allegri finished off Galanti. The motor-racing entrepreneur subsided with good grace, throwing his pair of aces down with a hollow laugh when Allegri turned over his winning hand—a two to match the pair of twos already on the table.

‘Damn it, Dante, one of these days, I swear your luck will run out,’ Galanti said.

‘Keep dreaming, Alexi,’ Allegri said as he began methodically stacking the pile of chips he’d won.

Galanti cast a look my way as he knocked back the last of his whisky. ‘Maybe Miss Spencer has your number?’ Standing to leave the table, he offered me his hand. ‘You’ve been an impressive and beautiful opponent, Edie,’ he said with deliberate familiarity, the look in his eyes flirtatious.

‘Thank you, Mr Galanti,’ I said. As we shook hands, I tried to figure out why I had no reaction to this man and yet was finding it so hard to control the one I had to Allegri.

‘Good luck,’ Galanti said. ‘Maybe we could meet afterwards for a drink?’ he added. ‘I’m going to try my luck at the roulette table next, so I’ll be around to celebrate with you when you beat this bastard.’

The vote of confidence surprised me, but the invitation surprised me more—I made an effort to make myself invisible whenever I was around men. Both Jude and I had learned instinctively to shy away from male attention, thanks to the endless stream of lovers my mother had brought into our lives as teenagers.

The decision to decline Galanti’s invitation was instant and unequivocal. But as I opened my mouth to cry off, Allegri spoke.

‘Get lost, Alexi. Miss Spencer is out of bounds—she’s all mine now.’

Galanti laughed and left, apparently unaware of the subtle edge in Allegri’s voice. But I’d heard it, along with the hint of possessiveness.

She’s all mine now.

What was that supposed to mean?

I made the mistake of looking at him again, and my blood pressure spiked on cue. He was watching me, the way he had been all night. But, instead of frustration, all I saw now was satisfaction, and challenge, daring me to react to his outrageous remark.

He finished shuffling the cards, his strong wrists and capable fingers flexing in practised motion, never taking his gaze off me.

The tension in the room increased as the door closed behind Galanti, leaving us alone in the plush salon. The huge mullioned window gave us a spectacular view of the bay, the boats moored in the marina adding a sprinkle of lights to the dark sea, but the overwhelmingly masculine space, luxuriously furnished in leather and mahogany in accents of green and brown, suddenly seemed dangerous... And exciting.

Allegri had dismissed the serving staff over an hour ago. At the time it had seemed a generous gesture—it had been past midnight. But now we were alone together I was wondering if he had planned it.

For the first time, the strange melting sensation at my core and the panic it caused was joined by a spark of anger at his proprietary comment to Galanti.

I’d spent the last year of my life being bullied and belittled by Carsoni and his hired muscle—I didn’t like it.

‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t make decisions for me, Mr Allegri,’ I said, in as placid a voice as I could muster while I was burning up with indignation.

‘And what decision would that be?’ he asked, cutting the pack one-handed.

‘The decision to have a drink with Mr Galanti,’ I huffed, indignation getting the better of me.

‘As you had already decided to give him the brush-off,’ he said, ‘I hardly think I took the decision away from you.’

He cut the cards again, and smiled that sensual smile—which did diabolical things to my heart rate. The arrogant comment rattled me, but it infuriated me more, loosening my tongue.

‘Actually, I hadn’t decided to give him the brush-off,’ I lied.

‘Yes, you had,’ he said with complete confidence. The slight curve of his lip unsettled and confused me—was he amused by my futile attempt to misdirect him?

And how the heck did he know I had been planning to give Galanti the brush-off?

‘How could you possibly know that?’ I blurted out.

His blue gaze darkened and, to my horror, an answering heat hit my chest and spread across my collarbone like a rash.

‘Because he’s not your type, bella,’ he said. The gruff tone, and his easy use of the endearment, made the rash spread up my neck and hit my cheeks. ‘I am.’

CHAPTER FOUR

THE DESIRE I had been trying and failing to control for hours shot through my system like a fine wine, but I was through caring about it as Edie Spencer’s gaze finally flashed the green fire I had witnessed downstairs.

Welcome back, bella.

Satisfaction joined with the intoxicating jolt of power and passion as I saw indignation flush her pale skin. The challenging light heated her eyes to a sparkling emerald. She really was exquisite. Provocative, fearless and, from the system I had yet to fully fathom, also wildly intelligent. Whatever game she was playing, she was proving to be a worthy opponent. Not something I was used to when it came to the spoilt children of the rich.

I was going to have a great deal of fun winning this game—and then mining the sexual chemistry we so clearly shared. If she was anywhere near as hot in bed as she was at the table, this was liable to be a very entertaining night.

‘You’re extremely arrogant, Mr Allegri,’ she said, but I caught the catch of breath in her throat as she said it. ‘Perhaps you should concentrate on the game, instead of my fictitious attraction to your charms.’

‘I happen to be very good at multi-tasking,’ I replied as I placed the pack on the table, suddenly less interested in dealing the cards than I was in dealing with her. ‘I can play and read your responses at the same time—which is how I know it’s me you want, not Alexi.’

‘What responses?’ she said, her chest rising and falling again in an erratic rhythm. ‘I don’t have any response to you, whatever your ego might be telling you.’

I decided not to argue the point. I simply let my gaze drift down to her nipples and watched them swell against the satin. I could only imagine how desperate she must be now for relief. The peaks begging for the sharp strong tug of my lips. Some women were extremely sensitive there; I would hazard a guess she was one of them from the way the flush she’d kept at bay for three hours spread across her collarbone under my examination.

‘How about we test that theory,’ I said, ‘and take a recreational break?’

She stiffened, but the blush was out of control now. And all the more arresting for it.

She didn’t respond so I added, ‘We’ve been playing for three hours—and I’m starving.’ I let the implication hang in the air that it wasn’t just food I was hungry for—while enjoying her attempts to stifle the now livid blush rioting across those pale cheeks.

I saw her debate my request, unsure whether to take the bait or not. If she knew anything about me at all—and I would hazard a guess she had done more than her fair share of research on my habits from her play so far—she would know I frequently played for twenty-four hours straight without the need for sustenance. I didn’t get hungry during a match, all my focus on the turn of the cards. But right now I was distracted, so why not run with it? After all, that delectable flash of temper and heat in her eyes was even more challenging than her play.

I wondered exactly how bold she really was.

Would she play it safe and decline my offer? Keep her cards close to her chest and continue to deny the chemistry making both our bloods boil? Or would she take the risk of exposing her own hunger, to get the upper hand in the game of cat and mouse we were now playing?

I was hoping it would be the latter, but had I overestimated her daring?

I thought I probably had when she looked away and I saw her throat move as she swallowed.

But then, to my surprise, she turned back to me and those mesmerising emerald eyes sparked with defiance—and a steely determination.

‘I’d love a supper break,’ she said, the tiny quiver in her voice contradicted by the thrust of her nipples and the flagrant colour still flaring on her cheeks. ‘But only because I’m hungry and I need all my energy to concentrate on beating you.’

‘Touché, bella.’ I chuckled, enjoying her audacious threat, and the sparkle of green fire. I picked up my cell-phone and texted Joe to get a meal up here pronto. She hadn’t just taken the bait; she’d swallowed it whole then spat it back out again.

Why that should make me relish bedding her even more than beating her was probably a little perverse—as a rule I never slept with an opponent, however tempted—mixing poker with sexual pleasure could get complicated fast... But, right now, my goal was a simple one. Stoke the hunger between us until she gave up all her secrets.

Then I could make quick work of defeating her at the table—and we could both reap the rewards.

CHAPTER FIVE

HAD I COMPLETELY lost my ever-loving mind?

Why had I agreed to stop play and share a meal with Dante Allegri? It was stupid and reckless to the point of being extremely dangerous—especially if you factored in the pheromones rioting through my body every time he so much as glanced at me.

But I didn’t realise how dangerous my situation was until I was sitting opposite him at a table in the adjoining salon, set with sparkling crystal, fine china and antique silverware. His devilishly handsome face—illuminated by the flicker of candlelight—looked more savage than suave as the prickles of sensation all over my skin refused to subside.

It was as if my body had a death wish.

He lifted my plate to serve me from the banquet displayed on a sideboard which had been brought up from the casino kitchens by a troop of waiters who, to my dismay, had disappeared again almost immediately.

‘What’s your pleasure, Miss Spencer?’ The formal address sounded ridiculous, given the way I could feel his voice caressing my skin as he spoke my name in that husky, amused tone.

Wake up, Edie. This isn’t real...he’s not interested in you... He’s a practised seducer trying to use his industrial-strength sex appeal to weaken all your defences.

I shouted the mantra in my head as I fought the strange sensation—a mesmerising mix of lethargy and fizzing urgency—which had taken over my body and drawn me into this perilous position.

I should have resisted the urge to challenge him, to provoke him and to accept the gauntlet he’d thrown down, but I was here now and I couldn’t back down so I’d just have to play out this hand to the best of my abilities. Maybe I’d had some vague notion of playing him at his own game but, as the intimacy drew in around me and my ribs contracted around my thundering heartbeat, I realised the recklessness of that knee-jerk decision. I had no experience at all of men, especially not rich, powerful, sexually magnetic men who exuded the kind of confidence and charisma Dante Allegri did without even trying. I might as well have been a mouse, trying to impress a lion.

I breathed in the delicious aroma of the food as I concentrated on choosing a selection but, as my mouth watered and my stomach grumbled, I’d never felt less like eating.

I picked a few dishes from the lavish array of French cuisine—which I noted was plentiful enough to have fed me and my sister for a week—only to find myself entranced by the play of his strong capable hands as he ladled the fragrant samples of delicately spiced fish and lightly steamed vegetables, the rich gratin and colourful salads onto a gold-rimmed fine china plate.

He had wide callused palms and long fingers and blunt, carefully clipped nails. His skin looked darkly tanned against the pristine white cotton of his shirt. He’d lost the tuxedo jacket several hours ago but before serving me he had rolled up his shirt sleeves, giving me a disturbing view of the corded muscles in his forearms, the sprinkle of dark hair, as he placed my plate on the table.

He proceeded to serve himself a large helping, then sat down opposite me. He lifted a bottle of wine out of the ice bucket set next to the table and uncorked it in a few efficient strokes, then tipped the bottle towards my glass.

‘Some wine? I assure you this white goes well with Argento’s skate au beurre noir.’

Drinking probably wasn’t a good idea, but with my heart battering my chest at approximately five hundred beats per second I had to do something to slow it down, so I nodded.

He poured me a shallow glass, not enough to get me drunk, I realised with relief, but as he served himself I noticed the bottle’s label. A Mouton Rothschild Blanc from the turn of the new century. I took a generous gulp to hide my surprise, letting the fresh, delightfully fruity taste moisten my dry mouth.

I wondered why he hadn’t boasted about the wine, which I knew sold for thousands of euros a bottle, because one of the many things we had been forced to do after my mother died, to pay off her debts, was auction everything in her wine cellar.

‘Buon appetito,’ he said, nodding to my plate before picking up his own cutlery.

I scooped up a mouthful of buttery fish and creamy potatoes, but I could barely taste it as I swallowed. He was still watching me. Assessing my weaknesses, I was sure, with that focused, intensely blue gaze as he devoured his own food.

‘Where are you from, Miss Spencer?’ he asked finally. He leaned back in his chair and lifted his wine glass to those sensual lips.

I watched him swallow and took another sip from my own glass as I gave up trying to eat the food and attempted to come up with a convincing answer.

Unfortunately I hadn’t prepared for this eventuality, having convinced myself Allegri wouldn’t even be in the house tonight.

‘A small town north of Chantilly. Lamorlaye,’ I said, mentioning a town close enough to Belle Rivière that I would know the details, just in case he knew the area too.

‘You’re French?’ His eyes narrowed as his brows rose up his forehead. ‘And yet you speak English without an accent.’

‘I’m half-French, half-British,’ I clarified, my heartbeat stuttering under that inquisitive gaze. I knew it was always best to keep as close to the truth as possible, because then it was harder to get caught out in a lie, but I didn’t want to give him information that might make it possible to track me down after I won tonight’s game... If I won tonight’s game.

The jolt of panic had me taking another sip of my wine to calm the nerves that were jiggling around in my stomach with Argento’s skate.

‘I live most of the year in Knightsbridge,’ I said, plucking the most expensive area of London I could think of out of thin air. ‘But the city is so stifling at this time of year,’ I continued, lying through my teeth now to put him off the scent. I needed to sound urbane and cosmopolitan and a little bored to keep up the pretence that I was a rich heiress amusing herself for the summer. ‘So I prefer to stay at my parents’ estate in Lamorlaye from May to September... The social scene in Chantilly is so much more exclusive and refined than Paris, and our chateau has a pool and a tennis court and a cinema so I can keep in shape and entertain myself when I’m not socialising or making flying visits to Monaco, or Cannes, or Biarritz.’

‘You don’t work?’ He sounded both suspicious and unimpressed.

I slipped my hands off the table and rested them in my lap, rubbing the calluses on my palms I’d been hiding all evening. The last thing I wanted him to know about was the night-time cleaning jobs I’d taken on in the last year—along with the accountancy work I’d been doing for local businesses ever since my mother died four years ago. If he knew how desperate I was to win this game, it would only make me easier prey.

‘Work’s so overrated, don’t you think?’ I said. ‘And anyway, I’d hate to be tied down like that. I’m a free spirit, Mr Allegri. I much prefer the danger of riding my luck at the roulette table or the excitement of calculating my odds during a game of Texas Hold ’Em than shackling myself to a boring nine-to-five job,’ I continued, the lies floating out of my mouth like confetti at a high society wedding—the sort I’d only ever seen in magazines or on the Internet.

His frown lowered and for a split second I thought I’d overdone the rich airhead act. He had to know I wasn’t an idiot from the way I’d played so far. But then the crease in his brow eased and a cynical, knowing smile curved those wide sensual lips. But while my panic at being caught in a lie downgraded, what I saw flicker across his face for a split second had my heart bouncing back into my throat.

Disappointment.

When he spoke again, his voice rich with condescension, I was convinced I must have imagined it. Surely, like all the rich men I’d ever met, he preferred his women pretty and vacuous—the way my mother had always taken great pains to appear when trying to attract a new ‘protector’.

‘From the way you play poker,’ he said, faint praise evident in every syllable, ‘I’d say your time has been very well spent.’

Picking up my glass, I toasted him with unsteady hands. ‘Touché,’ I whispered, repeating the provocative phrase he’d uttered earlier, in an attempt to sound more confident and provocative.

He toasted me too and knocked back the last of his wine. But when his gaze fixed on my face again, while it still prickled over my skin, ablaze with an intense, focused desire that still disturbed me on so many levels, something crucial had been lost—his regard for me as a worthy opponent and an intelligent woman. He was looking at me now as an object of desire and contempt, not as an equal. The way all my mother’s ‘protectors’ had always looked at her.

Anxiety and inadequacy twisted in my stomach, wrestling with the confusion and longing that was already there. I tried to dismiss the feeling of regret that he despised me now.

It was stupid to care what he thought. I wasn’t here to impress him. I was here to win this game by whatever means necessary. And who was he to judge me anyway? A man who had made his fortune by ruthlessly exploiting the addictions of poor, deluded fools like my brother-in-law until they forgot about everything that mattered. And betrayed everyone who loved them.

I pushed the contempt I felt for myself and this necessary charade onto him. If I looked at it that way, Dante Allegri was as much to blame for my family’s disastrous circumstances as Jason was. Maybe more so, because Jason had always been weak and easily led, unlike Allegri, who must have come out of his mother’s womb with a well-developed sense of entitlement and a complete lack of compassion and empathy or how would he ever have been able to achieve what he had?

Unfortunately my growing sense of grievance against Allegri did nothing to temper the huge surge of adrenaline when he wiped his mouth with his napkin, threw it on the table and then stood and held out his hand.

‘Come with me, Miss Spencer. I have something you might enjoy seeing before we resume our play.’

He towered over me. He was a tall man, at least six foot three, and I was only a sliver over five foot four but, with his shirt sleeves rolled up and standing over me, it wasn’t just his height that was intimidating. This close, I could see how toned and powerful his body was beneath the tailored shirt and trousers. All lean muscles and coiled strength, he looked like a bareknuckle fighter who would be completely merciless in his pursuit of the win.

The enormity of what I was trying to achieve—beating Allegri at his own game in his own casino—hit me with staggering force but, instead of my flight instinct kicking in, as it probably should have done, the surge of adrenaline, and the rising tide of anger, at all my family had suffered as a result of this man’s cold-blooded business practices, had my fight instinct kicking in instead.

Whatever happened now, I would do everything and anything to beat this man.

I took the hand he offered and forced what I hoped was a seductive, confident smile onto my lips. ‘That sounds intriguing,’ I said, pleased when my voice barely quivered.

But when he folded my arm under his, tugging me close to his side—until all I could feel was the bunch and flex of his strong body next to mine and all I could smell was the clean scent of cedar soap and the devastating scent of him—my fight instinct blurred into something volatile and dangerous.

He escorted me to the mullioned window which looked out over the bay and let go of my arm, to step behind me.