The Mistress That Tamed De Santis

And she was devastated.

But she couldn’t let her emotions get the better of her. She had to move forward. She’d long known how it felt not to be wanted or needed or loved, but she’d never let that stop her from doing what she needed to before. She’d go to the ball, hold her head high and continue building that swelling interest in her business. She might not have succeeded in many things in her life, but she was not failing at that. She had her gilt-edged invitation card, she had her dress and she had her years of standing on stage and being stared at. This would be easy.

As long as she kept her distance from the Crown Prince.

But when the liveried guards waved her in to the grand ballroom of San Felipe palace an hour later, she stood a second in the doorway and took in the sight before her. There was grand, and there was opulent, and there was majestic. This was more than all those things, but it wasn’t the dazzling venue making her dizzy.

It was anticipation and fear and deep-buried desire.

She ached to see him.

Her heart thundered as she greeted a few people. Several society faces were now familiar to her and they welcomed her. She knew it was only because of her club’s success and her social-media status, but she’d take it.

The first time she saw him, he was only a few yards from her but a crowd separated them. His immaculately tailored tuxedo emphasised his height and proud stance, and she saw he was intently listening to a tall brunette in a form-flattering black gown. Bella froze as she recognised the woman. At that exact moment Francesca Accardi glanced over at her. Time halted as she looked right at Bella, her eyes widening slightly, only then she turned to smile coyly again at Antonio, her face animated.

But she’d offered no nod or smile or any outward sign of recognition towards Bella.

That old rejection stung, but most especially because Francesca was her own blood. Her half-sister was their father’s favourite and now she was with Antonio?

Feeling cold, Bella stared at him. He’d turned to see what had caught Francesca’s attention. Now his eyes remained on Bella even as Francesca tried to talk with him. But only for a moment. Then he too glanced away as he muttered something in response to the brunette.

There’d been no smile. No polite inclination of his head. No sign of recognition whatsoever. There was only a callous blanking. He’d seen her, but chosen to pretend he hadn’t.

He hadn’t acknowledged her at all.

Blinking, Bella turned, blindly moving towards the back of the ballroom. She would never, ever let him know just how much he’d hurt her in that moment.

And she would never, ever forgive him.

She spoke to more people. Made herself take a glass of champagne. She’d have a few sips and then she’d leave. But she wouldn’t run immediately. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. So she smiled. Talked. And the hurt morphed into an anger that grew bigger and hotter with every moment. She smiled more. Talked more. Laughed more.

She wouldn’t show any of them any weakness.

Ten minutes later she glanced from the group of young businessmen she was talking to to find his fiery gaze on her.

Still no smile. No inclination of his head. But she read his anger this time. Adrenalin surged through her blood.

This time she was the one to turn her back.

She kept talking, but her awareness of him was more acute than ever. She sensed him near, looking icy, but she could feel the simmering fury coming towards her in waves.

She sent her own angry vibes right back at him.

As her smile brightened and her laughter rang her tension mounted. He stood nearer still, but still didn’t speak. There was only the look, only the sharpness in the atmosphere and only the two of them felt it.

Finally he passed close enough to speak to her.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said in leashed, low tones.

‘You’re ordering me to leave?’

‘As if you would if I did.’ He kept walking past her but his quick glance back was rapier-sharp.

She answered with a death look. But her body felt charged. It didn’t care whether it was anger or lust, her body just craved his attention. And she had it now—his gaze on her, his eyes watching as she talked with other guests.

For the next half-hour she talked and laughed and acted like the social butterfly she was supposed to be and it came easy. Every few minutes she glanced at him, their gazes clashed, held, fought until she turned away.