Di Sione's Virgin Mistress

“I have the tiara you want and you have to pay for it.”

Dante Di Sione could forgive the beautiful blonde he kissed in the airport lounge for accidentally taking the suitcase with his grandfather’s precious tiara in it. But then she has the nerve to blackmail him into accompanying her to her sister’s wedding!

So when news of their supposed engagement breaks, Dante takes his revenge and ensures that Willow plays the part of his loving wife-to-be to the full. Only, he has no idea that Willow has faked all that bold confidence...and is a virgin!

Book 5 of The Billionaire’s Legacy

Dante smiled, but it was a smile edged with impatience—and a danger that even Willow could recognise was sexual.

‘That depends on you and what you want.’

‘What I want?’ she said faintly.

‘Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but I thought that you were as frustrated by your sister’s interruption as I was. I was under the distinct impression that our fake relationship was about to get real, and in a very satisfying way. It would certainly be more convincing if we were properly intimate instead of just pretending to be. So, are we going to play games with each other? Or are we going to give in to what we both clearly want?’

The Billionaire’s Legacy

A search for truth and the promise of passion!

For nearly sixty years Italian billionaire Giovanni Di Sione has kept a shocking secret. Now, nearing the end of his days, he wants his grandchildren to know their true heritage.

He sends them each on a journey to find his ‘Lost Mistresses’—a collection of love tokens and the only remaining evidence of his lost identity, his lost history…his lost love.

With each item collected the Di Sione siblings take one step closer to the truth…and embark on a passionate journey that none could have expected!

Find out what happens in

The Billionaire’s Legacy

Di Sione’s Innocent Conquest by Carol Marinelli

The Di Sione Secret Baby by Maya Blake

To Blackmail a Di Sione by Rachael Thomas

The Return of the Di Sione Wife by Caitlin Crews

Di Sione’s Virgin Mistress by Sharon Kendrick

A Di Sione for the Greek’s Pleasure by Kate Hewitt

A Deal for the Di Sione Ring by Jennifer Hayward

The Last Di Sione Claims His Prize by Maisey Yates

Collect all 8 volumes!

Di Sione’s Virgin Mistress

Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition by describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring often stubborn but always to die for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life...

Books by Sharon Kendrick

Mills & Boon Modern Romance

The Ruthless Greek’s Return

Christmas in Da Conti’s Bed

The Greek’s Marriage Bargain

A Scandal, a Secret, a Baby

The Sheikh’s Undoing

Monarch of the Sands

Too Proud to Be Bought

The Bond of Billionaires

Claimed for Makarov’s Baby

The Sheikh’s Christmas Conquest

One Night With Consequences

Crowned for the Prince’s Heir

Carrying the Greek’s Heir

At His Service

The Housekeeper’s Awakening

Desert Men of Qurhah

Defiant in the Desert

Shamed in the Sands

Seduced by the Sultan

Wedlocked!

The Billionaire’s Defiant Acquisition

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.

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For Sarah-Jane Volkers, who will know exactly why this book is dedicated to her when she reads it!

And to the brilliant Rafael Vinoly, whose words painted such a perfect vignette of Long Island life...

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

The Billionaire’s Legacy

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

DANTE DI SIONE FELT the adrenaline pumping through his body as he walked into the tiny airport terminal. His heart was pounding and his forehead was beaded with sweat. He felt like he’d been running. Or just rolled away from a woman after a bout of particularly energetic sex. Even though it was a long time since he could even remember having sex. He frowned. How long?

His mind raced back over the past few weeks spent chasing across continents and flitting in and out of different time zones. He’d visited a dizzying array of countries, been presented with a whole shoal of red herrings and wandered up against several dead ends before arriving here, in the Caribbean. All in pursuit of a priceless piece of jewellery which his grandfather wanted for reasons he’d declined to share. Dante felt the tight clench of his heart. A dying man’s wish.

Yet wasn’t the truth that he had been tantalised by the task he’d been given and which he had taken on as a favour to someone who had given him so much? That his usually jaded appetite had been sharpened by a taste of the unusual. Truth was, he was dreading going back to his high-octane world of big business and the slightly decadent glamour of his adopted Parisian home. He had enjoyed the unpredictability of the chase and the sense that he was stepping outside his highly privileged comfort zone.

His hand tightened around the handle of his bag which contained the precious tiara. All he needed to do now was to hang on to this and never let it go—at least, not until he had placed it at his grandfather’s sickbed so that the old man could do what he wanted with it.

His mouth felt dry. He could use a drink, and...something else. Something to distract him from the fact that the adrenaline was beginning to trickle from his system, leaving him with that flat, empty feeling which he’d spent his whole life trying to avoid.

He looked around. The small terminal was filled with the usual suspects which this kind of upmarket Caribbean destination inevitably attracted. As well as the overtanned and ostentatiously wealthy, there seemed to have been some photo shoot taking place, because the place was full of models. He saw several giraffe-tall young women turn in his direction, their endless legs displayed in tiny denim shorts and their battered straw hats tilted at an angle so all you could see were their cute noses and full lips as they pouted at him. But he wasn’t in the mood for anyone as predictable as a model. Maybe he’d just do a little work instead. Get on to René at his office in Paris and discover what had been going on in his busy and thriving company while he’d been away.

And then his gaze was drawn to a woman sitting on her own. The only pale person in a sea of tanned bodies. Her hair was blond and she looked as fragile as spun sugar—with one of those pashmina things wrapped around her narrow shoulders which seemed to swamp her. She looked clean. He narrowed his eyes. Like she’d spent most of her life underwater and had just been brought up to the surface. She was sitting at the bar with an untouched glass of pink champagne in front of her, and as their eyes met, she picked up her glass, flustered, and began to stare at it as if it contained the secret to the universe—though he noticed she didn’t drink any.

Was it that which made him start walking towards her, bewitched by a sudden demonstration of shyness which was so rare in the world he inhabited? With a few sure strides he reached her and put his bag down on the floor, right next to a remarkably similar brown leather carry-on. But then she lifted her head and all he could think about was the fragile beauty of her features.

‘Hi,’ he said.

‘Hi,’ she said in a very English accent as she blinked up at him through thick lashes.

‘Have we met before?’ he questioned.

She looked startled. Like someone who had been caught in an unexpected spotlight. She dug her teeth into her lower lip and worried them across the smooth rosy surface.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said, then shook her head so that the strands of fair hair shimmered over her narrow shoulders like a silky cascade of water. ‘No, we haven’t. I would have remembered.’

He leaned on the bar, and smiled. ‘But you were staring at me as if you knew me.’

Willow didn’t answer—not straight away—her head was too full of confusion and embarrassment combined with a powerful tug of attraction which she wasn’t quite sure how to handle. Yes, of course she had been staring at him because—quite honestly—who wouldn’t?

Beneath the pashmina, she felt the shiver of goose bumps as she met his mocking gaze, acknowledging that he was probably the most perfect man she’d ever seen—and she worked in an industry which dealt almost exclusively with perfect men. Dressed with the carelessness only the truly wealthy could carry off, he looked as if he’d only just fallen out of bed—though probably not his own. Faded jeans clung to unbelievably muscular thighs, and although his silk shirt was slightly creased, he still managed to convey a sense of power and privilege. His eyes were bright blue, his black hair was tousled and the gleam of his golden olive skin hinted at a Mediterranean lineage. Yet behind the brooding good looks she could detect a definite touch of steel—a dangerous edge which only added to his allure.

And Willow was usually left cold by good-looking men, something she put down to a certain shyness around them. Years of being ill, followed by a spell in an all-girls school, had meant that she’d grown up in an exclusively female environment and the only men she’d ever really met had been doctors. She’d been cocooned in her own little world where she’d felt safe—and safety had been a big deal to her.

So what was it about this man with the intense blue eyes which had made her heart start slamming against her ribcage, as if it was fighting to get out of her chest?

He was still looking at her questioningly and she tried to imagine what her sisters would say in similar circumstances. They certainly wouldn’t be struck dumb like this. They’d probably shrug their gym-honed shoulders and make some smart comment, and hold out their half-empty glasses for a refill.

Willow twisted the stem of the champagne glass in between her finger and thumb. So act like they do. Pretend that gorgeous-looking men talk to you every day of the week.

‘I imagine you must be used to people staring at you,’ she said truthfully, taking her first sip of champagne and then another, and feeling it rush straight to her head.

‘True.’ He gave a flicker of a smile as he slid onto the bar stool beside her. ‘What are you drinking?’

‘No, honestly.’ She shook her head, because surely the champagne must be responsible for the sudden warmth which was making her cheeks grow hot. ‘I mustn’t have too much. I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘I was going to ask if it was any good.’

‘Oh. Yes. Of course. Right. Silly of me. It’s...’ Feeling even more flustered, Willow stared at the fizzing bubbles and drank a little more, even though suddenly it tasted like medicine on her tongue. ‘It’s the best champagne I’ve ever had.’

‘And you often drink champagne on your own at airports, do you?’ he drawled.

She shook her head. ‘No. Actually, I’m celebrating the end of a job.’

Dante nodded, knowing this was his cue to ask her about her job, but the last thing he wanted was to have to listen to a résumé of her career. Instead, he asked the bartender for a beer, then leaned against the bar and began to study her.

He started with her hair—the kind of hair he’d like to see spread over his groin—because although he wouldn’t kick a brunette or a redhead out of bed in a hurry, he was drawn to blondes like an ant to the honeypot. But up close he could see anomalies in her appearance which made her looks more interesting than beautiful. He noted the almost-translucent pallor of her skin which was stretched over the highest cheekbones he’d ever seen. Her eyes were grey—the soft, misty grey of an English winter sky. Grey like woodsmoke. And although her lips were plump, that was the only bit of her which was—because she was thin. Too thin. Her slim thighs were covered in jeans onto which tiny peacocks had been embroidered, but that was as much as he could see because the damned pashmina was wrapped around her like an oversize tablecloth.

He wondered what had drawn him towards her when there were other more beautiful women in the terminal who would have welcomed his company, rather than looking as if a tiger had suddenly taken the seat beside her. Was it the sense that she didn’t really fit in here? That she appeared to be something of an outsider? And hadn’t he always been one of those himself? The man on the outside who was always looking in.

Maybe he just wanted something to distract him from the thought of returning to the States with the tiara, and the realisation that there was still so much which had been left undone or unsaid in his troubled family. Dante felt as if his grandfather’s illness had brought him to a sudden crossroads in his life and suddenly he couldn’t imagine the world without the man who had always loved him, no matter what.

And in the meantime, this jumpy-looking blonde was making him have all kinds of carnal thoughts, even though she still had that wary look on her face. He smiled, because usually he let women do all the running, which meant that he could walk away with a relatively clear conscience when he ended the affair. Women who chased men had an inbuilt confidence which usually appealed to him and yet suddenly the novelty of someone who was all tongue-tied and flustered was really too delicious to resist.

‘So what are you doing here?’ he questioned, taking a sip of his beer. ‘Apart from the obvious answer of waiting for a flight.’

Willow stared down at her fingernails and wondered how her sisters would have answered this. Her three clever, beautiful sisters who had never known a moment of doubt in their charmed lives. Who would each have doubtless murmured something clever or suggestive and had this gorgeous stranger tipping back his dark head and laughing in appreciation at their wit. They certainly wouldn’t have been sitting there, tying themselves up in knots, wondering why he had come over here in the first place. Why was it only within the defining boundaries of the work situation that she was able to engage with a member of the opposite sex without wishing that the floor would open up and swallow her?

This close, he was even more spectacular, with a raw and restless energy which fizzed off him like electricity. But it was his eyes which were truly remarkable. She’d never seen eyes like them. Bluer than the Caribbean sky outside. Bluer even than the wings of those tiny butterflies which used to flutter past on those long-ago summer evenings when she’d been allowed to lie outside. A bright blue, but a hard blue—sharp and clear and focused. They were sweeping over her now, their cerulean glint visible through their forest of dark lashes as he waited for her answer.

She supposed she should tell him about her first solo shoot as a stylist for one of the UK’s biggest fashion magazines, and that the job had been a runaway success. But although she was trying very hard to feel happy about that, she couldn’t seem to shake off the dread of what was waiting for her back in England. Another wedding. Another celebration of love and romance which she would be attending on her own. Going back to the house which had been both refuge and prison during her growing-up years. Back to her well-meaning sisters and overprotective parents. Back to the stark truth that her real life was nowhere near as glamorous as her working life.

So make it glamorous.

She’d never seen this man before and she was unlikely to see him again. But couldn’t she—for once in her life—play the part which had always been denied to her? Couldn’t she pretend to be passionate and powerful and desirable? She’d worked in the fashion industry for three years now and had watched professional models morph into someone else once the camera was turned on them. She’d seen them become coquettish or slutty or flirtatious with an ease which was breathtaking. Couldn’t she pretend that this man was the camera? Couldn’t she become the person she’d always secretly dreamed of being, instead of dull Willow Hamilton, who had never been allowed to do anything and as a consequence had never really learned how to live like other women her age?

She circled the rim of the champagne glass with her forefinger, the unfamiliar gesture implying—she hoped—that she was a sensual and tactile person.

‘I’ve been working on a fashion shoot,’ she said.

‘Oh.’ There was a pause. ‘Are you a model?’

Willow wondered if she was imagining the brief sense of disappointment which had deepened his transatlantic accent. Didn’t he like models? Because if that was the case, he really was an unusual man. She curved her lips into a smile and discovered that it was easier than she’d thought.

‘Do I look like a model?’

He raised his dark eyebrows. ‘I’m not sure you really want me to answer that question.’

Willow stopped stroking the glass. ‘Oh?’

His blue eyes glinted. ‘Well, if I say no, you’ll pout and say, Why not? And if I say yes, you’ll still pout, and then you’ll sigh and say in a weary but very affected voice, Is it that obvious?’

Willow laughed—and wasn’t it a damning indictment of her social life that she should find herself shocked by the sound? As if she wasn’t the kind of person who should be giggling with a handsome stranger at some far-flung spot of the globe. And suddenly she felt a heady rush of freedom. And excitement. She looked into the mocking spark of his eyes and decided that she could play this game after all. ‘Thank you for answering me so honestly,’ she said gravely. ‘Because now I know I don’t need to say anything at all.’

His gaze became speculative. ‘And why’s that?’

She shrugged. ‘If women are so unoriginal that you can predict every word they’re going say, then you can have this conversation all by yourself, can’t you? You certainly don’t need me to join in!’

He leaned forward and slanted her a smile in response and Willow felt a sense of giddy triumph.

‘And that would be my loss, I think,’ he said softly, his hard blue eyes capturing hers. ‘What’s your name?’

‘It’s Willow. Willow Hamilton.’

‘And is that your real name?’

She gave him an innocent look. ‘You mean Hamilton?’

He smiled. ‘I mean Willow.’

She nodded. ‘It is—though I know it sounds like something which has been made up. But it’s a bit of a tradition in our family. My sisters and I are all named after something in nature.’

‘You mean like a mountain?’

She laughed—again—and shook her head. ‘A bit more conventional than that. They’re called Flora, Clover and Poppy. And they’re all very beautiful,’ she added, aware of the sudden defensiveness in her tone.

His gaze grew even more speculative. ‘Now you expect me to say, But you’re very beautiful, too.’ His voice dipped. ‘And you respond by...’

‘And I told you,’ interrupted Willow boldly, her heart now pounding so hard against her ribcage that she was having difficulty breathing, ‘that if you’re so astute, you really ought to be having this conversation with yourself.’

‘Indeed I could.’ His eyes glittered. ‘But we both know there are plenty of things you can do on your own which are far more fun to do with someone else. Wouldn’t you agree, Willow?’

Willow might not have been the most experienced person on the block where men were concerned and had never had what you’d call a real boyfriend. But although she’d been cosseted and protected, she hadn’t spent her life in total seclusion. She now worked in an industry where people were almost embarrassingly frank about sex and she knew exactly what he meant. To her horror she felt a blush beginning. It started at the base of her neck and rose to slowly flood her cheeks with hot colour. And all she could think about was that when she was little and blushed like this, her sisters used to call her the Scarlet Pimpernel.

She reached for her glass, but the clamp of his hand over hers stopped her. Actually, it did more than stop her—it made her skin suddenly feel as if it had developed a million new nerve endings she hadn’t realised existed. It made her glance down at his olive fingers which contrasted against the paleness of her own hand and to think how perfect their entwined flesh appeared. Dizzily, she lifted her gaze to his.

‘Don’t,’ he said softly. ‘A woman blushing is a rare and delightful sight and men like it. So don’t hide it and don’t be ashamed. And—just for the record—if you drink more alcohol to try to hide your embarrassment, you’re only going to make it worse.’

‘So you’re an expert on blushing as well as being an authority on female conversation?’ she said, aware that his hand was still lying on top of hers and that it was making her long for the kind of things she knew she was never going to get. But she made no attempt to move her own from underneath and wondered if he’d noticed.

‘I’m an expert on a lot of things.’

‘But not modesty, I suspect?’

‘No,’ he conceded. ‘Modesty isn’t my strong point.’

The silence which fell between them was broken by the sound of screaming on the other side of the terminal and Willow glanced across to see a child bashing his little fists against his mother’s thighs. But the mother was completely ignoring him as she chatted on her cell phone and the little boy’s hysteria grew and grew. Just talk to him, thought Willow fiercely, wondering why some people even bothered having children. Why they treated the gift of birth so lightly.

But then she noticed that Blue Eyes was glancing at his watch and suddenly she realised she was missing her opportunity to prolong this conversation for as long as possible. Because wouldn’t it be great to go home with the feeling of having broken out of her perpetual shyness for once? To be able to answer the inevitable question, So, any men in your life these days, Willow? with something other than a bright, false smile while she tried to make light of her essentially lonely life, before changing the subject.