She turned away, but not before he noticed the dark flare of colour which washed over her cheekbones and he felt his anger morph inconveniently into lust. How easy it would be to vent his feelings by giving her what she wanted. What he wanted. Even now. Despite the accusations he’d hurled at her and the still-unsettled question of how her indiscretion was going to be resolved, it was sexual tension which dominated the air so powerfully that he couldn’t hardly breathe without choking on it. He couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from her. She looked as brittle as glass as she held her shoulders stiffly, and although she was staring out of the small basement window, he was willing to lay a bet she didn’t see a thing.
But he did. He saw plenty. He could see the slender swell of her bottom beneath the dark denim. He could see the silken cascade of her blond hair as it spilled down her back. Would it make him feel better if he went right over there and slid down her jeans, and laid her down on the kitchen table and straddled her, before feasting on her?
He swallowed as an aching image of her pale, parted thighs flashed vividly into his mind and he felt another powerful tug of desire. On one level, of course it would make them both feel better, but on another—what? He would be stirring up yet more consequences, and weren’t there more than enough to be going on with?
She turned back again to face him and he saw that the flush had gone, as if her pale skin had absorbed it, like blotting paper. ‘Like I said, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.’
He shook his head. ‘But that’s where you’re wrong, little Miss Hamilton. There is.’
Did something alert her to the determination which had hardened his voice? Was that why her eyes had grown so wary?
‘What? You want me to write to your grandfather and apologise? And then to give some kind of statement to the press, telling them that it was all a misunderstanding? I’ll do all that, if that’s what it takes.’
‘No. That’s not what’s going to happen,’ he said. ‘It’s a little more complicated than that. My grandfather wants to meet the woman he thinks I’m going to marry. And you, my dear Willow, are going to embrace that role.’
The grey of her eyes was darker now, as if someone had smudged them with charcoal and a faint frown was criss-crossing over her brow. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Then let me explain it clearly, so there can be no mistake,’ he said. ‘My grandfather is a sick man and anything which makes him feel better is fine with me. He wants me to bring you to the family home to meet him and that’s exactly what’s going to happen. You can play the fantasist for a little while longer because you are coming with me to Long Island. As my fiancée.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
A SOFT BREEZE wafted in through the open windows, making the filmy drapes at the window shiver like a bridal veil and the mocking significance of that didn’t escape Willow. She drew her hand over her clammy brow and looked around the luxurious room. She could hardly believe she was here, on Dante’s estate, or that he had persuaded her to come here for a long weekend, despite the many objections she’d raised.
But he’d made her feel guilty—and guilt was a powerful motivator. He’d said that her lies about being his fiancée had given his grandfather hope, and it was in her power to ensure that a dying man’s hopes were not dashed.
‘You seemed to want to let your family believe that you were going to be my bride,’ were his exact, silken words. ‘Well, now this is your chance to play the role for real.’
Except that it wasn’t real, because a real bride-to-be would be cherished and caressed by her fiancé, wouldn’t she? Not kept at a chil
ly distance as if she was something unwanted but necessary—like a bandage you might be forced to wrap around an injured arm.
They were installed in an unbelievably cute cottage in the extensive grounds, but in a way that was worse than staying in the main house. Because in here there was the illusion of intimacy, while in reality they were two people who couldn’t have been further apart. She was closeted alone with a man who clearly despised her. And there was only one bed. Willow swallowed. This time it was a king-size bed, but the principle of where to sleep remained the same. Was he really willing to repeat what had happened at the wedding—sharing a bedroom, while keeping his distance from her?
Dante had telephoned ahead to tell the housekeeper that they wished to be guaranteed privacy. She remembered the look on his face as he’d finished the call. ‘They’ll think it’s because we’re crazy about each other and can’t keep our hands off each other,’ he’d said mockingly.
But Willow knew the real reason. It meant that they wouldn’t be forced to continue with the farce for any longer than necessary. There would be no reason for Dante to hide his undeniable hostility towards her. When they were with other people they would be sweetness and light together, while in private...
She bit her lip, trying hard to block out the sound of the powerful shower jets from the en-suite bathroom and not to think about Dante standing naked beneath them, but it wasn’t easy. Their enforced proximity had made her achingly aware of him—whether he was in the same room, or not.
They had flown in by helicopter an hour earlier and Willow’s first sight of the Di Sione family home had taken her breath away. She’d grown up in a big home, yes—but this was nothing like the crumbling house in which she’d spent her own formative years. This, she’d realised, was what real wealth looked like. It was solid and real, and clearly money was no object. The white marble of the Long Island mansion was gleaming and so pristine that she couldn’t imagine anyone actually living in it. She had been aware of the endless sweep of emerald lawns, the turquoise flash of a swimming pool and the distant glitter of a huge lake as their helicopter had landed.
A housekeeper named Alma had welcomed them and told Dante that his grandfather was sleeping but looking forward to seeing them both at dinner.
‘And your sister is here, of course,’ she said.
‘Talia?’ questioned Dante as the housekeeper nodded.
‘That’s right. She’s out making sketches for a new painting.’ Alma had given Willow a friendly smile. ‘You’ll meet Miss Natalia at dinner.’
And Willow had nodded and tried to look as she thought a newly engaged woman should look—and not like someone who had recently been handed a diamond ring by Dante, with all the emotion of someone producing a cheap trinket from the remains of a Christmas cracker.
‘What’s this?’ she’d asked as he had deposited a small velvet box on her lap.
‘Your number one prop,’ came his mocking response as their helicopter had hovered over the Di Sione landing pad. ‘The bling. That thing which women love to flash as a symbol of success—the outward sign that they’ve got their man.’
‘What an unbelievably cynical thing to say.’
‘You think it’s cynical to tell the truth?’ he’d demanded. ‘Or are you denying that women view the acquisition of diamonds as if it’s some new kind of competitive sport?’