A Reputation to Uphold

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.