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

Except that it wouldn’t be uncomplicated. Or mindless. Not in the light of what he’d learned. Because she was vulnerable. Of course she was. And he couldn’t treat her as he would treat any other woman. He couldn’t just strip her naked and pleasure her and take what he wanted for himself before walking away. She had gone through too much to be treated as something disposable.

With an effort which tore at him like a physical pain, he moved away from the bed and went to stand by the window, where the darkness of the garden was broken by the flickering gleam of candlelight. Tiny pinpricks of light glittered on every surface, like fallen stars. Beneath the open window he could hear a couple talking in low voices which then abruptly stopped and something told him they were kissing. Was that envy he felt? Envy that he couldn’t just forget everything he knew and block out his reservations with a kiss?

It took several moments for the hunger to leave him, and when he had composed himself sufficiently, he turned back to find her sitting up on the bed looking at him—confusion alternating with the desire which was skating across her fine-boned features.

He drew in a deep breath. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d been so ill?’

Willow’s first reaction was one of rage as his words fired into her skin like sharp little arrows. Rage that her father and Dominic should have seen fit to include the information in their speeches and rage that he should suddenly have started talking to her in that new and gentle voice. She didn’t want him to be gentle with her—she wanted him hot and hungry. She wanted him tugging impatiently at her clothes like he’d been before, as if he couldn’t wait to strip her bare.

‘What does that have to do with anything?’ she demanded. ‘I had leukaemia as a child. What’s the big deal?’

‘It’s a pretty big deal, Willow.’

‘Only if people choose to make it one,’ she gritted out. ‘Especially since I’ve had the all-clear, which makes me as disease-free as you or the rest of the general population. What did you want me to do, Dante? Tell you all about the drugs and the side effects and the way my hair fell out, or how difficult it was to actually keep food down? When it comes to interacting with men, it’s not exactly what they want to hear as a chat-up line. It doesn’t really make you attractive towards the opposite sex.’ She glared. ‘Why the hell did Dom and my father have to say anything?’

‘I think I might have worked it out for myself,’ he said slowly. ‘Because I’d had my suspicions ever since we arrived.’

‘You had your suspicions?’ she echoed angrily.

‘Sure. I wondered why your sisters were acting as if I was the big, bad ogre and I wondered why everyone was so protective of you. It took me a while to work out why that might be, but now I think I have.’

‘So once I was very sick and now I’m not,’ she said flippantly. ‘End of subject, surely?’

‘But it’s a little bit more complicated than that, Willow?’ he said slowly. ‘Isn’t it?’

For a minute she stiffened as she thought he might have learned about her biggest fear and secret, before she told herself he couldn’t know. He wasn’t that perceptive and she’d certainly never discussed it with anyone else. ‘What are you talking about?’ she questioned.

His eyes narrowed. ‘Something tells me you’ve never brought a man back here before. Have you?’

Willow felt humiliation wash over her and in that moment she hated Dante Di Sione’s perception and that concerned way he was looking at her. She didn’t want him looking at her with concern—she wanted him looking at her with lust. So brazen it out, she told herself. You’ve come this far. You’ve dismissed your illness, so deal with the rest. She had him here with her—a captive audience—and judging by his body language, he still wanted her just as much as she wanted him.

‘And how did you manage to work that out?’ she questioned.

His eyes were boring into her, still with that horrible, unwanted perception.

‘Just that every time I was introduced as your partner, people expressed a kind of barely concealed astonishment. I mean, I know I have something of a reputation where women are concerned, but they were acting like I was the devil incarnate.’

For a second Willow thought about lying to him. About telling him that his was just another anonymous face in a sea of men she’d brought here. But why tell him something she’d be unable to carry off? She didn’t think she was that good a liar. And all she wanted was for that warm feeling to come back. She wanted him to kiss her again. She wasn’t asking for commitment—she knew she could never be in a position to ask for that. All she wanted was to be in his arms again.

She thought about the person she’d been when he’d met her at the airport—that bold and flirtatious Willow she’d never dared be before—and Dante had seemed to like that Willow, hadn’t he? She was certainly a more attractive proposition than the woman sitting huddled on the bed, meekly listening to him berate her.

‘I thought you would be the kind of man who wouldn’t particularly want a woman to burden you with every second of her past.’

‘That much is true,’ he conceded reluctantly.

‘So, what’s your beef?’

Rather unsteadily, she got off the bed, and before he could stop her she’d reached behind her to slide down the zip of her bridesmaid dress, so that it pooled around her ankles in a shimmering circle.

Willow had never stood in front of a man in her underwear before and she’d always wondered what it would feel like—whether she would feel shy or uninhibited or just plain self-conscious. But she could still feel the effect of the champagne she’d drunk and, more than that, the look on his face was powerful enough to drive every inhibition from her mind. Because Dante looked almost tortured as she stepped out from the circle of satin and stood before him wearing nothing but her underwear and a pair of high-heeled shoes.

And although people often told her she looked as if she could do with a decent meal, Willow knew from her time working in the fashion industry that slenderness worked in your favour when you were wearing nothing but a bra and a pair of pants. She could see his gaze lingering on the swell of her breasts in the ivory-coloured lace bra which was embroidered with tiny roses. Reluctantly, it travelled down to her bare stomach before seeming to caress the matching thong, lingering longest on the flimsy triangle and making her ache there.

Feeling as if she was playing out a part she’d seen in a film, she lifted her fingers to her breast and cupped the slight curve. As she ran her finger along a twist of leaves, she thought she saw him move, as if he was about to cross the room and take her in his arms after all, and she held her breath in anticipation.

But he didn’t.

Instead a little nerve began working furiously at his temple as he patted his pocket, until he’d found his car keys.