‘No,’ he said, his patience dwindling as he moved away from her, because despite the fact that she was swaddled beneath that fat, white duvet, the image of her slender body wearing nothing but her bra and pants was seared into his memory. He swallowed. ‘I want you to do that right now, or the deal is off—and if I have to drive myself back to London and break into your apartment in order to retrieve what is rightfully mine, then I will do it. Do you understand, Willow?’
She met his eyes and nodded with an obedience which somehow made his heart twist.
‘Yes, Dante,’ she said. ‘I understand.’
CHAPTER SIX
THE STRONG SMELL of coffee filtered into her senses, waking Willow from her restless night. Slowly, her eyelids flickered open to see Dante standing by her bed with a steaming mug in his hand. He was already dressed, though looked as if he could do with a shave, because his jaw was dark and shadowed.
So were his eyes.
‘Where did you find the coffee?’ she asked.
‘Where do you think I found it? In the kitchen. And before you ask, the answer is no. Everyone else in the house must be sleeping off their hangover because I didn’t bump into anyone else along the way.’
Willow nodded. It was like a bad dream. Actually, it was more like a nightmare. She’d spent the night alone in her childhood bed, covered up in a baggy T-shirt and a pair of pants, while Dante slept on the chaise longue on the other side of the room.
Pushing her hair away from her face, she sat up and stared out of the windows. Neither of them had drawn the drapes last night and the pale blue of the morning sky was edged with puffy little white clouds. The birds were singing fit to burst and the powerful scent of roses drifted in on the still-cool air. It was an English morning at its loveliest and yet its beauty seemed to mock her. It reminded her of all the things she didn’t have. All the things she probably never would have. It made her think about the disaster of the wedding the day before. She thought about her sister laughing up at her new husband with love shining from her eyes. About the youngest flower girl, clutching her posy with dimpled fists. About the tiny wail of a baby in the church, and the shushing noises of her mother as she’d carried the crying infant outside, to the understanding smiles of the other women present, like they were all members of that exclusive club called Mothers.
A twist of pain like a knife in her heart momentarily caught Willow off-guard and it took a moment before she had composed herself enough to turn to look into Dante’s bright blue eyes.
‘What time is it?’ she asked.
‘Still early.’ His iced gaze swept over her. ‘How long will it take you to get ready?’
‘Not long.’
‘Good,’ he said, putting the coffee down on the bedside table and then walking over to the other side of the room to stare out of the window. ‘Then just do it, and let’s get going as soon as possible, shall we?’
It was couched as a question but there was no disguising the fact that it was another command.
‘What about my parents?’
‘Leave them a note.’
She wanted to tell him that her mother would hit the roof if she just slunk away without even having breakfast, but she guessed what his response would be. He would shrug and tell her she was welcome to stay. And she didn’t want to stay here, without him. She wanted to keep her pathetic fantasy alive for a while longer. She wanted people to see what wasn’t really true. Willow with her boyfriend. Willow who’d just spent the night with a devastatingly attractive man. Lucky Willow.
Only she wasn’t lucky at all, was she?
Sliding out of bed, she grabbed her clothes and took the quickest shower on record as she tried very hard not to think about the way she’d pleaded with Dante to have sex with her the night before. Or the way he’d turned her down. He’d told her it was because he was cold and sometimes cruel. He’d told her he didn’t want to hurt her and maybe that was thoughtfulness on his part—how ironic, then, that he had ended up by hurting her anyway.
Dressing in jeans and a T-shirt and twisting her hair into a single plait, Willow returned to the bedroom, drank her cooled coffee and then walked with Dante through the blessedly quiet corridors towards the back of the house.
She should have realised it was too good to be true, because there, standing by the kitchen door wearing a silky dressing gown and a pair of flip-flops, stood her mother. Willow stared at her in dismay. Had she heard her and Dante creeping through the house, or was this yet another example of the finely tuned antennae her mother always seemed able to call upon whenever she was around?
‘M-Mum,’ stumbled Willow awkwardly.
A pair of eyebrows were arched in her direction. ‘Going somewhere?’
Willow felt her cheeks grow pink and was racking her brains about what to say, when Dante intercepted.
‘You must forgive us for slipping away so early after such a fabulous day yesterday, Mrs Hamilton—but I have a pile of work I need to get through before I go back to Paris and Willow has promised to help me.’ He smiled. ‘Haven’t you?’
Willow had never seen her mother look quite so flustered—but how could she possibly object in the face of all that undeniable charm and charisma Dante was directing at her? She saw the quick flare of hope in her mother’s eyes. Was she in danger of projecting into the future, just as Great-aunt Maud had done last night?
Kissing her mother goodbye she and Dante went outside, but during the short time she’d spent getting ready, the puffy white clouds had accumulated and spread across the sky like foam on a cup of macchiato. Suddenly, the air had a distinct chill and Willow shivered as Dante put the car roof up and she slid onto the passenger seat.
It wasn’t like the outward journey, when the