Claiming My Untouched Mistress

‘Over there,’ he said as he pointed into the inky blackness over my shoulder.

‘What am I looking at?’ Was he about to show me his yacht? I wondered. I wanted to believe he was vain and conceited, even though all I’d seen so far was passion and purpose—and an arrogance that he had clearly earned.

But just as I became far too aware of the masculine scent surrounding me, and the warmth of his body against the bare skin of my back, a red glow burst over the edge of the horizon, grabbing all my attention.

I gasped, shocked by the flagrant beauty of the natural light show as it spread and shimmered across the night sky, turning from red to pink to orange and myriad shades in between.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I whispered.

I’d never seen the Northern Lights before. I didn’t even know you could see them in Monaco, believing them to be a phenomenon of the Arctic Circle. My heart leapt into my throat. How had he known they would occur at this very moment? It was almost as if he’d conjured them especially for me.

I struggled to dismiss the foolish romantic thought, recognising it for what it was, a notion borne out of an overpowering physical response that I had not prepared for. But then he rested a hand on my hip and the gentle brush of his palm spread the fire in my belly through my body with the same intensity as the conflagration on the horizon.

I stood all but cocooned in his arms. I knew I should step away from him, the deep drawing sensation in my abdomen far too compelling. But the huff of breath against my ear, the intoxicating scent of soap and man, the strength of his restraint as he tensed behind me had the last of my caution flying out of the window.

We stood there together for several minutes, watching the show—and the drawing sensation in my stomach heated and spread. The mass of contradictions he stirred within me became harder and harder to explain. Why did he excite me so much? How could I enjoy standing so close to him when I knew how dangerous he was?

I shifted and turned as the lights began to fade.

His face was lit by the dying embers of the Aurora Borealis and a passion so fierce and all-consuming it terrified me. But it exhilarated me more.

It wasn’t terror I felt when he brought his hand up to cup my cheek then drew his thumb down my neck in a slow glide, to settle against the rampaging pulse on my collarbone. It was longing.

‘Don’t look at me like that, Edie,’ he murmured, using my Christian name—and the only real name I’d given him—for the first time. ‘Unless you want to share my bed once the game is over.’

It was supposed to be a warning, but to my dazed mind and the pheromones hurtling through my body it sounded more like a promise.

A promise I didn’t want to refuse.

I lifted shaking palms to his stubble-roughened cheeks. He clenched his jaw and tried to pull back, but I refused to let go.

Just this once, I wanted to go with my instincts and to hell with the consequences.

‘Damn it,’ he swore softly, but then he dragged me into his arms.

Joy burst through me—so inappropriate and yet so intoxicating—at the realisation I had snapped his cast-iron control.

He captured my lips with his. The kiss was firm and forceful, and demanding. Heat swooped into my sex and swelled in my breasts, shimmering through my body like the lights in the fiery night sky. My nipples tightened into hard aching points against the unyielding wall of his chest. My thighs trembled as his hands grasped my buttocks and drew me tight against him so I could feel the full measure of what I’d done to him. The thick outline of his erection ground against my belly.

The size and hardness shocked me, but it thrilled me more.

He wanted me as much as I wanted him. This seduction was real. We were equals.

His tongue thrust deep into my mouth in a relentless rhythm, devouring me. I opened my mouth wider, met his tongue thrust for thrust, the hunger consuming me.

But as the kiss continued, the sensations bombarding me became too strong, too overwhelming. What was happening to me? He was destroying my resistance and every ounce of my will. Why did I yearn to surrender to him?

I stopped massaging his scalp and gripped the silky waves of his hair in shaking fingers to tug his head back.

He grunted but let me go so abruptly I stumbled.

My survival instinct finally kicked in—several minutes too late—and I scrambled back, scared that I would throw myself back into that maelstrom of needs and desires if he made any attempt to kiss me again.

But he made no move towards me, his ragged breathing as tortured as my own. He swore, a guttural murmur of Italian street slang that I didn’t understand, then swung away and stalked towards the window. The horizon was dark again, the dance of iridescent colours gone.

He thrust his fingers through his hair, then shoved his hands into his pockets. His broad shoulders rose and fell as he heaved out a breath, his big body silhouetted by the sprinkle of lights from the bay.

At last he turned back to me but, with his hair mussed and his movements far from smooth, he was nothing like the man who had faced me across the poker table and then the dinner table. No longer confident and controlled, and indomitable—instead he seemed wild, or barely tame, like a trapped tiger prowling the bars of its cage.

I touched trembling fingers to my lips, the soreness both devastating and invigorating. This new side to him should have scared me more but as he walked back towards me, still struggling to get a grip on the desire which continued to reverberate through my own body, I felt a giddy sense of kinship.

Was he as disturbed by the ferocity of that kiss, and how quickly it had raged out of control, as I was?

‘Forgive me,’ he growled when he reached me. ‘That got out of hand a lot faster than I intended.’

The apology sounded gruff but sincere. And gave me an answer I didn’t know how to handle. Dante Allegri, the ruthless unprincipled womaniser, was a lot easier to hate than the man before me, who seemed almost as troubled by that kiss as I was.

‘Can we... Can we get back to the game?’ I managed at last, surprised by my ability to string a coherent sentence together.

One eyebrow rose a fraction, but then he nodded.

‘Yes,’ he said.

Lifting one hand out of his pocket, he directed me to precede him into the poker salon. He made a point of not touching me again but, once we were seated at the table and he began to deal the cards, I could see he had regained his composure, and that cast-iron control.

I lifted my hole cards and examined them, but the probabilities I should be calculating as he dealt the first of the community cards and the blind betting began refused to come. My mind and every one of my senses had turned to mush.

My heart shrank in my chest as the play continued and he won the hand.

I tried to get my mind into gear during the next hand, but my judgement was off and my concentration shot. My mind and body were still reeling from the driving needs and inexplicable emotions he had ignited with a simple kiss. A kiss I had encouraged. No, a kiss I had initiated.

I wanted to weep, my panic increasing as he won the next hand. The unrequited need smouldered in the pit of my belly—the memory of his lips on mine, his hands kneading my buttocks, his tongue exploring in deep strokes—a distraction I couldn’t seem to conquer...

Long before the final hand was dealt, I knew I had lost and that I had only myself to blame. Because in those giddy moments when I had yearned for Dante Allegri’s kiss, then revelled in the stunning way it made me feel and then kidded myself it had devastated him too, I had become the one thing I’d always sworn I would never be... As weak and needy and gullible as my mother.

CHAPTER SIX

‘TWO FIVES...’ I threw my hole cards on the table next to Edie Spencer’s pair of eights. Unfortunately for her, the community cards included another five. ‘You lose, bella,’ I said, grateful that the poker game was finally over.

It had taken an epic force of will and all of my expertise to keep my mind on the cards in the last hour. Ever since that damn kiss. It was a miracle I’d managed to win. After she’d broken off the embrace, I had considered throwing the game to get this part of the evening over with so I could get my hands on her again.

It had been torture, sitting in the chair and struggling to keep my head straight while my blood rushed straight back to my groin every time she worried her bottom lip with her teeth, or the soft mounds of her breasts rose and fell against the lace of her gown.

But I had forced myself to stay focused, or focused enough, to get the job done. Yes, we clearly had phenomenal chemistry, the sort of explosive sexual connection I’d never had with any other woman. And we were both going to have fun exploring it to its fullest potential. But I wasn’t going to throw a game to have her—especially as I was pretty sure that’s exactly why she had initiated the kiss in the first place.

But her little plan had backfired, because if I had been struggling to keep my head straight and out of my pants after that kiss, she’d been even more distracted.

If she’d ever had a system—something I’d begun to doubt after our conversation over dinner had revealed her to be as spoilt and capricious as every other bored little rich girl who played the casinos on their daddy’s dime—it had fallen apart when we’d got back to the game.

She obviously hadn’t expected that kiss to go off like a rocket the way it had—which had to be why she’d called a halt to her attempted seduction so abruptly.

But as I raked in the last of her chips, I relished the surge of heat that shot straight to my groin at the thought of what the rest of the night would hold.

She hadn’t said anything, and it was hard to tell how she was taking the defeat because she had her head down. But then I detected the tiny tremor running through her body. Impatience and irritation warred with my desire.

Even though I still hadn’t figured out why this woman had such a turbulent effect on my usually smart libido, I wanted to take that incredible kiss to its logical conclusion. But if she was going to start crying and try to wheedle a concession out of me because I had beaten her, she could forget it. I’d won the game fair and square and I didn’t trade sexual favours—however hot they promised to be—for money.

Sure, I’d had girlfriends in the past whom I’d supported. I liked to treat women I was sleeping with well. And if I was seeing someone on a regular basis I always offered them a generous allowance so they could devote their time to me and had everything they needed. I could be demanding—my lifestyle was expensive and I needed them to revolve their schedule around mine—so it seemed only fair to offer them compensation. I also always gave them a generous parting gift when the relationship reached its natural conclusion. I was a wealthy man, I considered these women friends and I didn’t want anyone calling me a cheapskate, so why wouldn’t I?

But I wasn’t about to be emotionally manipulated by some spoilt young woman because she’d taken a chance with her daddy’s money and lost. And I resented the implication that I should.

Despite all that, as Edie continued to sit there, her head bent and her shoulders starting to tremble alarmingly, a weird thing happened. I found myself wanting to take the tremor away. And not just because I had plans for the rest of the night that would become a lot less palatable if she started freaking out about the million euros of her daddy’s money she’d lost.

‘Bella, don’t get too upset. I’ll sub you a million so we can have a rematch some time.’ It was the best I could offer without feeling like a chump. And once I said it I warmed to the idea.

Up until we’d both got distracted by that kiss, I’d enjoyed the challenge of playing with her. Our sexual attraction had added an exciting level of eroticism to the game—like high-stakes foreplay. I would enjoy playing her again, and figuring out if she actually had a system and, if so, what it was, or whether her success in the earlier part of the evening had been down to plain old dumb luck.

Instead of taking me up on the offer though, she shook her head. Still not looking at me.

My impatience and frustration spiked, along with that weird feeling of empathy.

‘Look at me, bella.’ Leaning across the table, I tucked a knuckle under her chin and nudged her face up.

What I saw though—when her emerald eyes finally met mine—was so real it shocked me to my core.

Her eyes were dry, without the self-pitying tears I had been expecting, but also dazed and unfocused—she looked shattered. Devastated.

A stab of something ripped through my chest. And the trickle of unwanted sympathy turned into a flood.

‘Bella? What’s going on?’ I said, disorientated and concerned—not just by the haunted look in her eyes, but also by my desire to take her anguish away.

Why did she look so shattered? And why the hell did I care?

‘N... N... Nothing,’ she stuttered, shaking her head. She stood up. ‘I have to go.’

She walked past me, her back ramrod-straight, her face a deathly shade of white, her whole body consumed by tremors now.

I grasped her arm, felt the shudder of reaction. ‘Don’t...’

Go.

The word got trapped in my throat before I could utter it.

Grazie a Dio.

What was wrong with me? We’d kissed, once. And yeah, it had been spectacular, and unexpected. And I wanted more. But I wasn’t about to beg her to stay. So I took a different tack. ‘Where are you going in such a rush? Stay and have a drink,’ I said, attempting to sound relaxed and persuasive.

I tugged her round to face me, disturbed by the sparkle of moisture in her eyes. I’d been expecting tears. But the sheen of distress looked genuine, something she was making every effort to contain, not use to guilt-trip me about my win.

How could she seem so fragile and breakable now, when she’d been so strong and determined earlier in the evening? And why did I still want her so much? Because her vulnerability wasn’t doing a damn thing to stem the tidal wave of longing that had tortured me ever since our kiss.

Surely it was all an act? It had to be. But why couldn’t I convince myself of that?

‘Bella...’ I cupped her cheek, brushed my thumb across the soft skin, stupidly relieved when her pulse jumped against my palm. And her eyes darkened.

She still wanted me too. I hadn’t imagined that much, at least.

‘It’s only money,’ I said, certain the cause of her distress had to be her parents’ reaction. Perhaps her father would be angry. What man wouldn’t be at a million-euro loss, even an indulgent father?

‘You’re good. Just not good enough on this occasion. But I’ll give you a chance to win it back, if that’s what you want.’

‘Thank you. That’s very generous of you,’ she said.

‘Then you’ll stay, join me for a drink?’ I hated the element of doubt in my voice. We both knew I wasn’t just talking about her staying for a drink—the promise of that kiss was still snapping in the air around us.

‘Yes, okay,’ she said.

‘Good,’ I said, more relieved and excited than I should have been at her concession. I placed a light kiss on her forehead, pleased when her breathing stuttered. I forced myself not to take her lips again though, before we were both ready.

She drew away and I had to stop myself from dragging her back into my arms, the desire to stake my claim on her all but overwhelming.

She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. ‘Can I go and freshen up first?’

‘Of course,’ I said, even though I wanted to demand she stay.

I wasn’t possessive with women. And I had no idea where the ludicrous desire not to let her out of my sight came from, so I ignored it.

But, as I watched her leave the room, the rush of blood to my groin became all but unbearable.

I poured myself a glass of expensive single malt Scotch while I waited for her, to calm my frustration and my impatience.

Walking to the window, I savoured the smoky liquor as it burned down my throat. Once she was in my bed, and I had begun to tap the heat we had ignited with that kiss, Edie Spencer would soon forget the money she’d lost. And the problem of explaining it to her father.

Hell, if we were as good together as I was anticipating, and that kiss had suggested, I could offer to support her until the fire between us burnt out. She clearly had expensive tastes, no income of her own and enjoyed the thrill of gambling with money she hadn’t earned. Perhaps I could employ her as a hostess for the week-long party I was throwing at my new estate in Nice at the end of the month? Edie would be perfect for such a role, smart, beautiful and classy—and well versed in how to charm elite businessmen after her privileged upbringing. Her skill at the table might also be useful.

Of course, I might have a job on my hands persuading her to work for a living. But after her reaction tonight to losing her father’s million euro stake, I didn’t think it would be that hard to persuade her to take the job. I was a generous employer. Plus taming that free spirit of hers could be enjoyable for both of us.

I bolted back the last of the Scotch, finally feeling more like myself. The burn in my throat matched the warm weight in my gut—a weight which I understood now and knew would be easily resolved once Edie returned.

I glanced at my watch, surprised she was taking so long.

My cell-phone buzzed. I lifted it out of my pocket and read Joe Donnelly’s text.

We’ve got a problem. Call me.

I sighed, tempted to ignore the request. It was four in the morning and Edie would be back soon.

But my innate professionalism took over. Joe wasn’t the hysterical type, so if there was a problem he couldn’t fix it must require my attention.

I clicked on the call button.

Joe picked up instantly. ‘How’s the game going?’ he asked without preamble.

‘I won ten minutes ago, why?’

Joe cursed, the Irish slang he never used unless he was rattled.

‘Is Edie Spencer still with you?’ he asked.

‘She’s freshening up,’ I said, but already the hairs on the back of my neck were going haywire.

‘So she’s not actually in the room with you?’

‘No... What’s going on, Joe?’ I asked, but I already knew something was very wrong, the twisting pain in my gut one I recognised from a very long time ago.

‘The bank draft she paid us with—it’s forged. And so is her ID. The accounting department figured it out ten minutes ago, when they noticed a shortfall in the night’s takings in the casino’s accounts.’

The pain sharpened, turning into the hollow ache that had crippled me as a kid. She wasn’t coming back.

‘The good news is we think we might have figured out who she really is.’ Joe was still talking but I could barely grasp the meaning of the words, the blood rushing in my ears, the tremble of reaction in my fingers a combination of fury and something far, far worse. Helplessness.

‘Who is she?’ I asked, fury burning in my gut now, obliterating the distant echo of an anguish I had once been unable to control.

‘Ever heard of Madeleine Trouvé?’ Joe asked.

‘No,’ I said, resisting the urge to shout at my friend as my head began to pound. ‘Is that her real name?’ I said, keeping my voice low and even, although it was the opposite of how I felt. Edie Spencer had tricked me, made a fool of me. Made me relive a moment in my life I had spent a lifetime overcoming. And she would pay for that. As well as the money she’d just swindled me out of. ‘We need to track her down,’ I said.

Something I intended to do personally. She owed me a million euros. But I knew it wasn’t just the money. My fingers clutched so hard on the whisky tumbler it shattered in my fingers.

‘Madeleine Trouvé was the French It girl of the nineties,’ Joe continued. ‘Famous for the high-profile affairs she had with a string of rich, powerful and mostly married men. Seriously, you’ve never heard of her?’ Joe asked, sounding incredulous.

‘I don’t have time for twenty questions,’ I shouted, losing the tenuous grip I had on my temper as I wrapped a napkin around my bleeding fingers. The sting of expensive liquor in the cuts grounded me, turning the emotion churning in my belly into a cold, hard knot of anger. ‘How the hell can Edie Spencer be her—the woman I just played can’t be more than early twenties...’

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