Di Sione's Virgin Mistress (The Billionaire's Legacy 5)

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.

So ask him his name. Stop being so tongue-tied and awkward.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Willow, almost as if it was an afterthought—but she forced herself to pull her hand away from his. To break that delicious contact before he did.

‘Dante.’

‘Just Dante?’ she questioned when he didn’t elaborate further.

‘Di Sione,’ he added, and Willow wondered if she’d imagined the faint note of reluctance as he told her.

Dante took a sip of his beer and waited. The world was small, yes—but it was also fractured. There were whole groups of people who lived parallel existences to him and it was possible that this well-spoken young Englishwoman who blushed like a maiden aunt wouldn’t have heard of his notorious family. She’d probably never slept with his twin brother or bumped into any of his other screwed-up siblings along the way. His heart grew cold as he thought about his twin, but he pushed the feeling away with a ruthlessness which came easily to him. And still he waited, in case the soft grey eyes of his companion suddenly widened in recognition. But they didn’t. She was just looking at him in a way which made him want to lean over and kiss her.

‘I’m trying to imagine what you’re expecting my response to be,’ she said, a smile nudging the edges of her lips. ‘So I’m not going to do the obvious thing of asking if your name is Italian when clearly it is. I’m just going to remark on what a lovely name it is. And it is. Di Sione. It makes me think of blue seas and terracotta roofs and those dark cypress trees which don’t seem to grow anywhere else in the world except in Italy,’ she said, her grey eyes filling with mischief. ‘There. Is that a satisfactory response—or was it predictable?’