Fiona Hood-Stewart – At Her Latin Lover's Command: The Italian Count's Command / The French Count's Mistress / At the Spanish Duke's Command (страница 2)

Shaking, she replaced the phone in its cradle, intent on keeping up an appearance of self-control. If she let out her true feelings, she knew that she’d probably smash the entire contents of the house in frustration before sinking into a morass of self-pity.

It was sheer will-power alone that held her slender body rigid and erect. She was unbelievably tired but she couldn’t let up, wouldn’t give in to what she saw as weakness. Never had, never would, whatever the challenge.

‘I must call in the authorities. We’ve spent the past fourteen days jetting around, trying to trace Dante’s whereabouts,’ she said coldly. ‘And,’ she added, ‘I’ve had my fill of those Severini lackeys who clam up the moment his name is mentioned.’

‘It’s company policy—’ Lizzie began.

‘I said I was his wife!’ she snapped. ‘Showed them my passport!’

‘They’d had instructions from Dante about an impostor—’

‘How dare he do that to me?’ Miranda fumed. ‘I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life! Being escorted off the premises by security men…!’

Thinking of the terrible wall of silence she’d encountered from Dante’s continental staff in some of the major capitals of Europe, she jerked up her head stubbornly. This was war.

‘I want my son,’ she clipped in a curt understatement. ‘And…’ Her voice faltered before she could rally it. She swallowed. ‘He’ll be wanting me.’

In a quick movement she turned away, ostensibly to make the call, but it was a means of hiding the sudden rush of tears that blurred the steely blue of her agonised gaze.

The word ‘want’ didn’t begin to describe her need—or Carlo’s. It was more visceral than just missing him desperately. It was as if part of her had been ripped away to leave a raw and bleeding wound.

But Carlo would be suffering more deeply. He wouldn’t understand why she wasn’t there any more, why she didn’t tuck him up in bed, cuddle him and play with him…

‘Oh, dear heaven!’ she whispered under her breath.

Thinking about him, and how miserable he must be, she felt as if swords were being plunged into her body over and over again.

But tears weren’t an option. She needed to stay calm and alert. On no account could she afford to surrender to the misery and fear that churned in her stomach, which kept her awake long into the bleak and empty night.

A small, stifled moan escaped her pale lips. No child! No husband! And she’d loved them both with such an all-consuming passion…

At that moment the phone rang, its shrillness startling her so profoundly that she grabbed it and clamped it to her ear, her nerves scattered into pitiful shreds as she answered without thinking, almost spitting out her name.

‘Yes? Miranda here!’

There was a crackling sound and then silence, giving her the opportunity to regain her composure. So she took a deep breath and began again.

‘Miranda Severini. Who’s there?’ she asked, sounding several degrees cooler in tone.

‘Dante.’

Dante! The shock at hearing the caressing murmur was so great that she staggered. In desperation her elegant hand caught at the marble-topped table, the force of the movement breaking a nail. Blindly she stared at its jagged edge, her mind racing.

Contact with him at last! Suddenly her heart thundered with hope but she didn’t give her husband the satisfaction of hearing her plead for her own child. She knew she’d either scream at him hysterically or be choked into silence by her tears.

Pride prevented her from offering him either of those alternatives. With a supreme effort she schooled herself to remain silent, waiting for him to continue while her heart thudded and jerked painfully within her chest.

‘Miranda? Dica! Speak!’

Annoyingly the huskily spoken words seeped into her very veins. He’d always split her name into three lyrical syllables; Mee-rahn-dah. And to her dismay, memories of their love-filled days briefly melted the marrow of her very bones.

Then she clenched her teeth to remind herself of Guido’s revelation. On that fateful day when she’d had that terrible fever, her brother-in-law had poured coffee into her and brought blankets so that she could curl up on the sofa.

She’d known that Dante had gone off with Carlo, but didn’t understand why. Everything had been such a blur. Guido’s sympathy with her plight had caused him to spill the beans.

He’d told her that Dante had married her for the sake of his inheritance. Apparently he had fathered her son purely to curry favour with his childless uncle. The moment Dante’s uncle had died and the inheritance was safely in the bag, he’d spirited Carlo away, too cowardly to face her out.

She frowned, pieces of the jigsaw of that day still missing. It puzzled her that her bed had been in such a mess, though she supposed she must have tossed and turned in her fevered state. But she couldn’t understand what the empty champagne bottles were doing in the rubbish bin, or why two glasses were in the wrong cupboard.

‘Miranda!’

‘Yes? You have something to say to me?’ she prompted, as if Dante were a casual friend who should be apologising for a rude remark, and not the man who’d scattered her trust and love to the four winds.

Love! Her lip quivered. He had become her enemy. A heartless brute who’d told her in an e-mail that she’d seen the last of him and Carlo. And that she wouldn’t get a penny from him—but could support herself by whoring! Whatever had brought that on? He’d also accused her of being drunk. Was he trying to make out a case for divorce?

There was a silence. She could hear his regular breathing. He was deliberately toying with her. He must know how frantic she’d be!

Gritting her teeth, she fought to hold back her fury. In the huge, ornate mirror she unexpectedly caught sight of herself. She stared at the woman who bore no resemblance to how she felt inside.

To all appearances she was an ice-cool ash-blonde, immaculately groomed despite just returning from the tedious trawl to Dante’s offices in France, Spain and Milan, the chignon still smooth, the understated cream suit the epitome of classy designer elegance.

Except that she could see—despite the impeccable make-up—there were tell-tale signs of bruised, tired eyes beneath, and that her pale gold skin no longer glowed or reflected the light but seemed as dead as she felt, deep in her heart.

All her inner turmoil, she vowed, would be kept from Dante. He’d never know how badly he’d hurt her. Play the victim, she’d decided, and she’d become the victim.

Besides, Carlo needed her to be strong. Tough. On the ball. For you, my darling son, she thought, I’d bite my tongue till it bleeds.

‘Dante,’ she said, injecting a faint element of boredom into her voice, ‘I have a call to make. Get on with it.’

His breath hissed in with sharp displeasure. She’d chosen the blunt words deliberately. Dante loathed ugly speech.

‘I do apologise if I am ringing you at an inconvenient time,’ he drawled, heavily lacing his words with sarcasm. ‘I am aware that you don’t give a damn about my son. I also know that looking after him interfered with your own selfish needs. However, I did think you might ask how he is, perhaps out of social politeness…’

She shut out his scathing tones as he continued to berate her in that vein. Of course her only thought was for her child! Her impulse was to yell at the top of her voice, to demand if Carlo was missing her. To plead to be told where Dante had taken their son…

But she held back. Dante would love her to beg and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Not in a million years.

She’d worked for him as his UK secretary before they’d married four years ago. Even then she’d known that beneath his smooth charm lay a shrewd obstinacy and ruthless drive that ensured he always achieved his goals.

Unbeknown to her, he’d needed a wife urgently to secure a fabulous inheritance—and she’d been there, sitting on a plate, ready to be gobbled up. She blushed to think of her joyous acceptance of his proposal.

With his uncle’s recent death he had acquired the power to buy whatever he wanted—including, should there be a battle, the custody of their child. She trembled, scared of the might ranged against her.

From his penthouse in Milan, Dante’s bachelor uncle had ruled the Severini silk empire. The family silk mills in northern Italy supplied the great fashion houses of the world. She’d never realised that Dante had been poised in the wings to take over the reins. He’d never told her. But then she’d never figured in his future plans, so why should he?

It was a nightmare situation. Her husband would want his son to inherit. That meant she’d effectively lost Carlo—unless she played her trump card: her threat to dishonour the Severinis.

On the flight back to England after her fruitless quest to discover Dante’s whereabouts, she’d decided to publicly expose him for what he was: a ruthless, selfish manipulator who cared nothing for people’s feelings. Whose naked ambition and obsessive pride had caused him to rip a three-year-old from his mother’s loving care.

Oh, God! she thought with a lurch of sickening misery. Carlo would be so bewildered! How dared Dante use her as a brood mare and rip her son away?