Passion's Mistress (12 page)

slide the robe from her shoulders, and extend the physical sense of touching

that had begun hours before over dinner with the veiled promise of passion

in the depths of those dark eyes. The shared flute of wine; a morsel of food

proffered from his plate; the deliberate lingering over coffee and liqueurs,

almost as if they were delaying the moment when they'd rise leisurely to

their feet and go upstairs to bed.

Even then, they'd rarely hurried, and only once could she recall him being so

swept away that he'd lost control, kissing her with such savage hunger that

she'd responded in kind, evincing no protest as he'd swiftly slaked his desire.

Afterwards he'd enfolded her close in his arms, then he'd made love to her

with such exquisite gentleness that she'd been unable to still the soft flow of

silent tears.

Carly blinked, then shook her head faintly in an effort to clear away any

further treacherous recollection from the past. Yet it wouldn't quite

submerge, and she gazed sightlessly into the mirror as she pondered what

Stefano's reaction had been when he'd discovered she'd left him.

Good grief! What are you? she demanded of her reflected image. A

masochist? He didn't choose to instigate a search to discover your

whereabouts, and in all probability he was pleased to be relieved of a

neurotic young wife who warred with him over his indiscretions.

Damn
. The silent curse whispered past her lips, and with a gesture of disgust

she turned off the light and moved into the bedroom.

There was no purpose to damaging introspection, she resolved as she slid

into bed. She was an adult, and, if he could handle spending the night hours

lying in another bed in the same room, then so could she.

The challenge was to fall asleep
before
he entered the bedroom, rather than

afterwards, and despite feeling tired it proved impossible to slip into a state

of somnolent oblivion.

How long she lay awake she had no idea, but it seemed
hours
before she

heard the faint click of the bedroom door as it unlatched, followed by

another as it was quietly closed.

Every nerve-end tautened to its furthest limit as she heard the indistinct

sound of clothing being discarded, and she unconsciously held her breath as

she visualised each and every one of his movements, her memory of his

tightly muscled naked frame intensely vivid from the breadth of shoulder to

his slim waist, the whorls of dark hair on his chest that arrowed down to his

navel before feathering in a delicate line to a flaring montage at the junction

of his loins. Firm-muscled buttocks, lean hips, and an enviable length of

strong muscled legs. Beautiful smooth skin, a warm shield for the blood that

pulsed through his veins and entwined with honed muscle and sinew.

It was a body she had come to know as intimately as her own as he had

tutored her where to touch, when to brush feather-light strokes that had

made him catch his breath, and how the touch of her lips, her tongue, could

drive him almost beyond the edge of sensual sanity.

But it had been little in comparison to the response he was able to evoke in

her, for all her senses had leapt with fire at his slightest touch, and she had

become a willing wanton in his arms, encouraging everything he chose to

give, like a wild untamed being in the throes of unbelievable ecstasy.

Abandoned, exultant-—passion's mistress.

Carly closed her eyes, tight, then slowly opened them again. Dear lord, she

must have been insane to imagine she could share this room with him and

remain unaffected by his presence.

Was this some form of diabolical revenge he'd deliberately chosen? Did he

really intend to
sleep?

The acute awareness was still there, a haunting pleasurable ache that fired all

her senses and ate into her soul. In the past seven years there hadn't been a

night when she didn't think of him, and many a time she'd woken shaking at

the intensity of her dreaming, almost afraid in those few seconds of regained

consciousness that she had somehow regressed into the past. Then she

would look at the empty pillow beside her and realise it had all been a

relayed figment of her overstimulated imagination.

Several feet separated each bed, yet the distance could have been a yawning

chasm ten times that magnitude. Carly heard the almost undetectable sound

of the mattress depressing with Stefano's weight as he slid in between the

sheets, followed by the slowly decreasing rhythm of his breathing as it

steadied into a deep, regular beat denoting total relaxation.

It seemed unbelievable that he could summon sleep so easily, and a seed of

anger took root and began to germinate deep within her, feeding on

frustration, pain and a gamut of emotions too numerous to delineate.

Rational thought disappeared as her febrile brain pondered the quality of his

lovemaking, and whether it would be any different now from what it had

been seven years ago.

In that moment she realised how much she was at his mercy, and that the

essence of Stefano Alessi the man
now
was inevitably different from the

lover she had once known.

At some stage she must have fallen into a blissful state of oblivion, for she

gradually drifted into wakefulness through various layers of consciousness,

aware initially in those few seconds before comprehension dawned that

something was different. Then her lashes slowly flickered open, and she saw

why.

In sleep she had turned to lie facing the bed opposite her own, and her eyes

widened as she encountered Stefano's steady gaze. Reclining on his side,

head propped in one hand, he regarded her with unsmiling appraisal.

Carly's first instinct was to leap out from the bed, and perhaps something in

her expression gave her intention away, for one of his eyebrows arched in

silent musing cynicism.

The gesture acted as a challenge, and she forced herself to remain where she

was. 'What's the time?' she asked with deliberate sleepiness, as if this were

just another morning in a series of mornings she woke to find herself sharing

a room.

'Early. Not long after six.' His eyes slid lazily down to her mouth, then

slipped lower to pause deliberately on the soft swell of her breast. 'No need

to rush into starting the day.'

Carly's fingers reached automatically for the edge of the sheet and pulled it

higher, aware of a telltale warmth tingeing her cheeks, and her eyes instantly

sparked with fire. 'If you think I'm going to indulge in an exchange of

pleasantries, you're mistaken!'

'Define
pleasantries
,' Stefano drawled, and she froze, her eyes widening into

huge pools of uncertainty in features that had suddenly become pale. There

wasn't a shred of softness in his voice, and she was frighteningly aware of

her own vulnerability in the face of his superior strength.

'Afraid, Carly?'

'Of a display of raging male hormones?' she managed with a calmness she

was far from feeling. He looked dangerous, like a sleek panther

contemplating a helpless prey, and it was impossible not to feel

apprehensive.

Her lashes flicked wide as his gaze travelled to the base of her throat, then

his eyes captured hers with an indolent intensity, and she dredged up all her

resources in an attempt to portray some measure of ease.

'Is that all you imagine it will be?' he queried silkily.

'Sex simply to satisfy a base animal need?'

'Cynicism doesn't suit you,' he said in a voice that was deadly soft.

'I've learnt to survive,' she returned with innate dignity, 'Without benefit of

anyone other than myself.'

Stefano looked at her for what seemed an age, his gaze dark and inscrutable.

'Until now.'

'Payback time, Stefano?' She forced herself to study him, noting the almost

indecently broad shoulders, the firm, sculptured features that embodied an

inherent strength of will. 'Are you implying I should slip into your bed and

allow you to score the first instalment?'

'With you playing the role of reluctant martyr?' He paused, and his voice

hardened slightly. 'I think not, my little cat. I don't feel inclined to give you

that satisfaction.'

Her stomach lurched, then appeared to settle. It was only a game, a by-play

of words designed to attack her composure. Weil, she would prove she was a

worthy opponent.

'What a relief to know I don't have to fake it,' she told him sweetly. 'Is there

anything else you'd like to discuss before I hit the shower?'

There was lurking humour evident in those dark eyes, and a measure of

respect. 'Last week I extended an invitation to Charles and his wife to dine

here this evening. They flew in from the States yesterday.'

The thought of having to act the part of gracious hostess in his home, while

appearing capable and serene, was a hurdle she wasn't sure she was ready to

surmount—yet. However, Charles Winslow the Third was a valued

colleague, who, the last time she'd dined in his presence, had been in the

throes of divorcing one wife in favour of wedding another.

'What time had you planned for them to arrive?' she queried cautiously,

unwilling to commit herself.

'Eight. Sylvana will prepare and serve the meal.'

She had to ask. 'Are they the only guests?'

'Charles's daughter, Georgeanne.'

Seven years ago Georgeanne had been a precocious teenager. Time could

only have turned her into a stunning beauty. 'Another conquest, Stefano?'

she queried with musing mockery.

'I don't consciously set out to charm every female I come into contact with,'

he drawled, and she gave a soundless laugh.

'You don't have to. Your potent brand of sexual chemistry does it for you.'

'An admission, Carly?'

'A statement from one who has sampled a dose and escaped unscathed,' she

corrected gravely, and glimpsed the faint edge of humour curve his generous

mouth.

'And tonight?'

She looked at him carefully. 'What if I refuse?'

'Out of sheer perversity, or a disinclination to mix and mingle socially?'

'Oh,
both
,' she disclaimed drily. 'I just love the idea of being a subject of

conjecture and gossip.'

'Charles is a very good friend of long standing,' Stefano reminded her.

'In that case, I'll endeavour to shine as your hostess,' Carly conceded. 'What

of
my
friends?' she pursued.

'Sarah?'

'Yes.' And James. She would mention it when she phoned Sarah this

afternoon.

'Feel free to issue an invitation whenever you please.'

Stefano watched with indolent amusement as she slid from the bed, slipped

her arms into a towelling wrap, then escaped to the adjoining
en suite.

Breakfast was a shared meal eaten out on the terrace, after which Stefano

withdrew upstairs only to re-emerge ten minutes later, immaculately attired

in a dark business suit.

He looked every inch the directorial businessman that he was, and

arrestingly physical in a way that set Carly's pulse racing in an accelerated

beat. She watched with detached interest as he crossed to the table and

brushed gentle fingers to Ann-Marie's cheek.

Somehow she managed to force her features into a stunning smile when his

gaze assumed musing indolence as it rested on her mobile mouth.

'Bye. Don't work too hard.' The words sounded light and faintly teasing, but

there was nothing light in the glance she spared him beneath dark-fringed

lashes.

Minutes later there was the muted sound of a car engine as the Mercedes

traversed the long curving driveway.

Ann-Marie's appointment with the neurosurgeon was at ten, and afterwards

Carly drove homer' in a state of suspended shock as she attempted to absorb

Ann-Marie's proposed admission into hospital the following day, with

surgery scheduled for late Wednesday afternoon.

So
soon,
she agonised, in no doubt that Stefano's influence had added

sufficient weight to the surgeon's decision to operate without delay.

It was impossible not to suffer through an entire gamut of emotions, not the

least of which was very real fear. Even the neuro-surgeon's assurance that

the success-rate for such operations was high did little to alleviate her

anxiety.

Stefano arrived home shortly after four, and half an hour later the breeder

delivered Françoise—a small, intelligent bundle of black curls who proved

to be love on four legs.

The delightful pup took an instant liking to the hulking Prince, who in turn

was initially tolerant, then displayed an amusing mixture of bewitchment

and bewilderment as Frangoise divided her attention equally between him

and her new mistress.

There was a new kennel, an inside sleeping-box, leads, a collar, a few soft