Шантель Шоу – Hired: Mistress: Wanted: Mistress and Mother / His Private Mistress / The Millionaire's Secret Mistress (страница 10)
‘I don’t generally drive to work, I use a helicopter.’
‘Of course you do,’ Matilda sighed, rolling her eyes.
‘It is not my helicopter.’ She could hear the teasing note in his voice. ‘More like a taxi service. I would rather spend that hour or two at home than in the car. When we bought the place it was meant more as weekender, or retreat, but since the accident I have tried not to move Alex too much. It is better, I think that she is near the beach with lots of space rather than the city. A luxury high rise apartment isn’t exactly stimulating for a small child.’
Why did he always make her feel small?
‘I use the apartment a lot, though. I tend to stay there if I am involved in a difficult trial.’
‘I guess it would be quieter.’
‘A bit,’ Dante admitted. ‘I tend to get very absorbed in my cases. By the time they go to trial there is not much space left for anything else. But it is not just for that reason.’ They were walking quickly, too quickly for Matilda, who almost had to run to keep up with him, but she certainly wasn’t going to ask him to slow down. The sooner they got to her apartment block the sooner she could breathe again. ‘The press can be merciless at times. I prefer to keep it away from my family.’
They were safely over the bridge now, walking along the dark embankment on the other side of the river.
‘This is me,’ Matilda said as they neared her apartment block, and she rummaged in her bag for her keys. ‘I’ll be fine now.’
‘I’m sure that you would be,’ Dante said, ‘but you are my dinner guest and for that reason I will see you safely home.’
Why did he have to display manners now? Matilda wondered. He’d been nothing but rude since they’d met—it was a bit late for chivalry. But she was too drained to argue, just gave a resigned shrug, let herself into the entrance hall and headed for the stairwell, glad that she lived on the second floor and therefore wouldn’t have to squeeze into a lift with him again.
‘Home!’ Matilda said with false brightness.
‘Do you always take the stairs?’
‘Always,’ Matilda lied. ‘It’s good exercise.’ They were at her front door now. ‘Thank you for this evening. It’s been, er…pleasant.’
‘Really?’ Dante raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘I’m not sure that I believe you.’
‘I was actually attempting to be polite,’ Matilda responded, ‘as you were by seeing me to my door.’ She was standing there, staring at him, willing him to just go, reluctant somehow to turn her back on him, not scared exactly, but on heightened alert as still he just stood there. Surely he didn’t expect her to ask him in for coffee?
How the hell was she going to spend a fortnight in his company when one evening left her a gibbering wreck? She
‘Thank you for bringing the plans, Dante. I’m looking forward to working on your garden.’ She offered her hand. Direct, businesslike, Matilda decided, that was how she’d be—a snappy end to a business dinner. But as his hand took hers, instantly she regretted it.
It was only the second time they had made physical contact. As his hand tightened around hers she was brutally reminded of that fact, despite the hours that had passed, despite a dinner shared and the emotions he had evoked, it was only the second time they had touched. And the result was as explosive as the first time, and many times more lethal. She could feel the heat of his flesh searing into hers, as his large hand coiled around hers, the pad of his index finger resting on her slender wrist, her radial pulse hammering against it. And this time the feel of his gold wedding band did nothing to soothe her, just reminded her of the depths of him, the pain that must surely exist behind those indecipherable eyes. Never had she found a person so difficult to read, never had she revealed so much of herself to someone and found out so very little in return.
But she wanted to know more.
‘You interest me, Matilda.’ It was such a curious thing to say, such a hazy, ambiguous statement, and her eyes involuntarily jerked to his like a reflex action, held by his gaze, stunned, startled, yet curiously reluctant to move, a heightened sexual awareness permeating her.
‘I thought perhaps I bored you.’
‘Oh, no.’ Slowly he shook his head and she started back, mesmerised, his sensuous but brutal features utterly captivating. ‘Why would you think such a thing?’
‘I just…’ Matilda’s voice trailed off. She didn’t know what to say because she didn’t know the answer, didn’t know if it was her destroyed self-confidence that made her vulnerable or the man who was staring at her now, the man who was pinning her to the wall with his eyes.
‘He really hurt you, didn’t he?’ It was as if he were staring into her very soul, not asking her but telling her how she felt. ‘He ground you down and down until you didn’t even know who you were any more, didn’t even know what it was that you wanted.’
How did he know? How could he read her so easily—was she that predictable? Was her pain, her self-doubt so visible? But Dante hadn’t finished with his insights, hadn’t finished peeling away the layers, exposing her raw, bruised core, and she wanted again to halt him, wanted to stop him from going further—wanted that mouth that was just inches from hers be silent, to kiss her…
‘And then, when he’d taken every last drop from you, he tossed you aside…’
She shook her head in denial, relieved that he’d got one thing wrong. ‘I was the one who ended it,’ Matilda reminded him, but it didn’t sway him for a second.
‘You just got there first.’ Dante delivered his knockout blow. ‘It was already over.’
He was right, of course, it had been over. She could still feel the bleak loneliness that had filled her that night and for many nights before the final one. The indifference had been so much more painful that the rows that had preceded it. She could still feel the raw shame of Edward’s intimate rejections.
‘I’m fine without him.’
‘Better than fine,’ Dante said softly, and she held her breath as that cruel, sensual mouth moved in towards hers. She still didn’t know what he was thinking. Lust rippled between them, yet his expression was completely unreadable. The same quiver of excitement that had gripped her in the restaurant shivered through her now, but with dangerous sexual undertones, and it was inevitable they would kiss. Matilda acknowledged it then. The foreplay she had so vehemently denied was taking place had started hours ago, long, long before they’d even reached the garden.
He gave her time to move away, ample time to halt things, to stop this now, and she should have.
Normally she would have.
Her mind flitted briefly to her recent attempts at dating where she’d dreaded this moment, had avoided it or gone along with a kiss for the sad sake of it, to prove to herself that she was desirable perhaps.
But there was no question here of merely going along with this kiss for the sake of it—logic, common sense, self-preservation told her that to end
His mouth brushed her cheek, sweeping along her cheekbone till she could feel his breath warm on the shell of her ear then moving back, back to her waiting lips, slowly, deliberately until only a whisper separated them, till his mouth was so close to hers that she was giddy with expectation, filled with want—deep, burning want that she’d never yet experienced, a want that suffused her, a want she had never, even in the most intimate moments, experienced, and he hadn’t even kissed her. Her breath was coming in short, unyielding gasps, his chest so close to hers that if she breathed any deeper their bodies would touch. She was torn between want and dread, her body longing to arch towards his, her nipples stretching like buds to the sun, his hand still on the wall behind her head, and all she wanted was his touch.
As if in answer, his mouth found hers, the weight of his body pushing her down, his lips obliterating thought, reason, question, his masterful touch the only thought she could process, his tongue, stroking hers so deeply so intimately it was as if he were touching her deep inside, his skin dragging hers as his mouth moved against her, the sweet, decadent taste of him, the heady masculine scent of him stroking her awake from deep hibernation, awareness fizzing in where there had been none.
His power overwhelmed her, the strength of his arms around her slender body, the hard weight of his thighs as he pinned her to the wall and a vague peripheral awareness of a warm hand creeping along the length of her spinal column then sliding around her rib cage as his mouth worked ever on. A low needy sigh built as it slid around, his palm capturing the weight of her breast, the warmth of his skin through the sheer fabric of her dress had her curling into him, needy, wanton, desperate, swelling at his touch, her breasts engorging, shamefully reciprocating as the pad of his thumb teased her jutting nipple. So many sensations, so many responses, his tongue capturing hers in his lips, sucking on the swollen tip, his body pinning her in delicious confinement, his masculinity capturing her, overwhelming her. Yet she was hardly an unwilling participant—fingers coiling in his jet hair, pulling his face to hers as her body pressed against him, his touch unleashing her passion, her desire, flaming it to dangerous heat, a heat so intense there was no escape, and neither did she want one. His kiss was everything a kiss should be, everything she’d missed.