The Mistress: The Mistress\Wanted: Mistress and Mother (22 page)

“This is me,” Matilda said as they neared her apartment block,
and she rummaged in her bag for her keys. “I’ll be fine now.”

“I’m sure that you would be,” Dante said, “but you are my
dinner guest and for that reason I will see you safely home.”

Why did he have to display manners now? Matilda wondered. He’d
been nothing but rude since they’d met—it was a bit late for chivalry. But she
was too drained to argue, just gave a resigned shrug, let herself into the
entrance hall and headed for the stairwell, glad that she lived on the second
floor and therefore wouldn’t have to squeeze into a lift with him again.

“Home!” Matilda said with false brightness.

“Do you always take the stairs?”

“Always,” Matilda lied. “It’s good exercise.” They were at her
front door now. “Thank you for this evening. It’s been, er...pleasant.”

“Really?” Dante raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I’m not sure that
I believe you.”

“I was actually attempting to be polite,” Matilda responded,
“as you were by seeing me to my door.” She was standing there, staring at him,
willing him to just go, reluctant somehow to turn her back on him, not scared
exactly, but on heightened alert as still he just stood there. Surely he didn’t
expect her to ask him in for coffee?

Surely!

How the hell was she going to spend a fortnight in his company
when one evening left her a gibbering wreck? She
had
to get a grip, had to bring things back to a safer footing, had to let
him know that it was strictly business, pretend that he didn’t intimidate her,
pretend that he didn’t move her so.

“Thank you for bringing the plans, Dante. I’m looking forward
to working on your garden.” She offered her hand. Direct, businesslike, Matilda
decided, that was how she’d be—a snappy end to a business dinner. But as his
hand took hers, instantly she regretted it.

It was only the second time they had made physical contact. As
his hand tightened around hers she was brutally reminded of that fact, despite
the hours that had passed, despite a dinner shared and the emotions he had
evoked, it was only the second time they had touched. And the result was as
explosive as the first time, and many times more lethal. She could feel the heat
of his flesh searing into hers, as his large hand coiled around hers, the pad of
his index finger resting on her slender wrist, her radial pulse hammering
against it. And this time the feel of his gold wedding band did nothing to
soothe her, just reminded her of the depths of him, the pain that must surely
exist behind those indecipherable eyes. Never had she found a person so
difficult to read, never had she revealed so much of herself to someone and
found out so very little in return.

But she wanted to know more.

“You interest me, Matilda.” It was such a curious thing to say,
such a hazy, ambiguous statement, and her eyes involuntarily jerked to his like
a reflex action, held by his gaze, stunned, startled, yet curiously reluctant to
move, a heightened sexual awareness permeating her.

“I thought perhaps I bored you.”

“Oh, no.” Slowly he shook his head and she started back,
mesmerised, his sensuous but brutal features utterly captivating. “Why would you
think such a thing?”

“I just...” Matilda’s voice trailed off. She didn’t know what
to say because she didn’t know the answer, didn’t know if it was her destroyed
self-confidence that made her vulnerable or the man who was staring at her now,
the man who was pinning her to the wall with his eyes.

“He really hurt you, didn’t he?” It was as if he were staring
into her very soul, not asking her but telling her how she felt. “He ground you
down and down until you didn’t even know who you were any more, didn’t even know
what it was that you wanted.”

How did he know? How could he read her so easily—was she that
predictable? Was her pain, her self-doubt so visible? But Dante hadn’t finished
with his insights, hadn’t finished peeling away the layers, exposing her raw,
bruised core, and she wanted again to halt him, wanted to stop him from going
further—wanted that mouth that was just inches from hers be silent, to kiss
her...

“And then, when he’d taken every last drop from you, he tossed
you aside...”

She shook her head in denial, relieved that he’d got one thing
wrong. “I was the one who ended it,” Matilda reminded him, but it didn’t sway
him for a second.

“You just got there first.” Dante delivered his knockout blow.
“It was already over.”

He was right, of course, it had been over. She could still feel
the bleak loneliness that had filled her that night and for many nights before
the final one. The indifference had been so much more painful that the rows that
had preceded it. She could still feel the raw shame of Edward’s intimate
rejections.

“I’m fine without him.”

“Better than fine,” Dante said softly, and she held her breath
as that cruel, sensual mouth moved in towards hers. She still didn’t know what
he was thinking. Lust rippled between them, yet his expression was completely
unreadable. The same quiver of excitement that had gripped her in the restaurant
shivered through her now, but with dangerous sexual undertones, and it was
inevitable they would kiss. Matilda acknowledged it then. The foreplay she had
so vehemently denied was taking place had started hours ago, long, long before
they’d even reached the garden.

He gave her time to move away, ample time to halt things, to
stop this now, and she should have.

Normally she would have.

Her mind flitted briefly to her recent attempts at dating where
she’d dreaded this moment, had avoided it or gone along with a kiss for the sad
sake of it, to prove to herself that she was desirable perhaps.

But there was no question here of merely going along with this
kiss for the sake of it—logic, common sense, self-preservation told her that to
end
this
night with a kiss was a foolish move, that
for the sake of her sanity she should surely halt this now. But her body told
her otherwise, every nerve prickling to delicious attention, drawn like a magnet
to his beauty, anticipating the taste of him, the feel of him in a heady rush of
need, of want.

His mouth brushed her cheek, sweeping along her cheekbone till
she could feel his breath warm on the shell of her ear then moving back, back to
her waiting lips, slowly, deliberately until only a whisper separated them, till
his mouth was so close to hers that she was giddy with expectation, filled with
want—deep, burning want that she’d never yet experienced, a want that suffused
her, a want she had never, even in the most intimate moments, experienced, and
he hadn’t even kissed her. Her breath was coming in short, unyielding gasps, his
chest so close to hers that if she breathed any deeper their bodies would touch.
She was torn between want and dread, her body longing to arch towards his, her
nipples stretching like buds to the sun, his hand still on the wall behind her
head, and all she wanted was his touch.

As if in answer, his mouth found hers, the weight of his body
pushing her down, his lips obliterating thought, reason, question, his masterful
touch the only thought she could process, his tongue, stroking hers so deeply so
intimately it was as if he were touching her deep inside, his skin dragging hers
as his mouth moved against her, the sweet, decadent taste of him, the heady
masculine scent of him stroking her awake from deep hibernation, awareness
fizzing in where there had been none.

His power overwhelmed her, the strength of his arms around her
slender body, the hard weight of his thighs as he pinned her to the wall and a
vague peripheral awareness of a warm hand creeping along the length of her
spinal column then sliding around her rib cage as his mouth worked ever on. A
low needy sigh built as it slid around, his palm capturing the weight of her
breast, the warmth of his skin through the sheer fabric of her dress had her
curling into him, needy, wanton, desperate, swelling at his touch, her breasts
engorging, shamefully reciprocating as the pad of his thumb teased her jutting
nipple. So many sensations, so many responses, his tongue capturing hers in his
lips, sucking on the swollen tip, his body pinning her in delicious confinement,
his masculinity capturing her, overwhelming her. Yet she was hardly an unwilling
participant—fingers coiling in his jet hair, pulling his face to hers as her
body pressed against him, his touch unleashing her passion, her desire, flaming
it to dangerous heat, a heat so intense there was no escape, and neither did she
want one. His kiss was everything a kiss should be, everything she’d missed.

Till now.

And just as she dived into complete oblivion, just as she would
have given anything, anything for this moment to continue, for him to douse the
fire within her, he wrenched his head away, an expression she couldn’t read in
his eyes as he looked coolly down at her.

“I should go.”

Words failing her, Matilda couldn’t even nod, embarrassment
creeping in now. He could have taken her there and then—with one crook of his
manicured finger she would have led him inside, would have made love to him,
would have let him make love to her. What was it with this man? Emotionally he
troubled her, terrified her even, yet still she was drawn to him, physically
couldn’t resist him. She had never felt such compulsion, a macabre addiction
almost, and she hadn’t even know him a day.

“I will see you on Sunday.” His voice was completely normal and
his hands were still on her trembling body. She stared back at him, unable to
fathom that he could appear so unmoved, that he was still standing after what
they’d just shared. Blindly she nodded, her hair tumbling down around her face,
eyes frowning as Dante reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a handful of
chocolate mints, the same ones she had surreptitiously taken at the
restaurant.

“I took these at the restaurant for you...” Taking her hand, he
filled it with the sweet chocolate delicacies. She could feel them soft and
melting through the foil as he closed her fingers around them. “I know you
wanted to do the same!”

An incredulous smile broke onto her lips at the gesture, a tiny
glimmer that maybe things were OK, that the attraction really was mutual, that
Dante didn’t think any less of her because of what had just taken place. “You
stole them?” Matilda gave a tiny half-laugh, recalling their earlier
conversation.

“Oh, no.” He shook his head and doused any fledgling hope with
one cruel sentence, cheapened and humiliated her with his strange euphemism.
“Why would I steal them when, after all, they were there for the taking?”

Chapter 4

W
hat
she had been expecting, Matilda wasn’t sure—an austere, formal
residence, surrounded by an overgrown wilderness, or a barren landscape
perhaps—but with directions on the passenger seat beside her she’d found the
exclusive street fairly easily and had caught her breath as she’d turned into
it, The heavenly view of Port Phillip Bay stretched out for ever before her.
Chewing on her lip as she drove, the sight of the opulent, vast houses of the
truly rich forced her to slow down as she marvelled at the architecture and
stunning gardens, tempted to whip out her faithful notepad and jot down some
notes and deciding that soon she would do just that. The thought of long
evenings with nothing to do but avoid Dante was made suddenly easier. She could
walk along the beach with her pad, even wander down to one of the many cafés she
had passed as she’d driven through the village—there was no need to be alone
with him, no need at all.

Unless she wanted to be.

Pulling into the kerb, Matilda raked a hand through her hair,
tempted, even at the eleventh hour, to execute a hasty U-turn and head for the
safety of home. Since she’d awoken on Saturday after a restless sleep, she’d
been in a state of high anxiety, especially when she’d opened the newspaper and
read with renewed interest about the sensational trial that was about to hit the
Melbourne courts and realising that it wasn’t just her that was captivated by
Dante Costello. Apart from the salacious details of the upcoming trial, a whole
article had been devoted solely to Dante, and the theatre that this apparently
brilliant man created, from his scathing tongue and maverick ways in the
courtroom to the chameleon existence he’d had since the premature death of his
beloved wife, his abrupt departure from the social scene, his almost reclusive
existence, occasionally fractured by the transient presence of a beautiful
woman—anodynes, Matilda had guessed, that offered a temporary relief. And though
it had hurt like hell to read it, Matilda had devoured it, gleaning little,
understanding less. The face that had stared back at her from the newspaper
pages had been as distant and as unapproachable as the man she had first met and
nothing,
nothing
like the Dante who had held her in
his arms, who had kissed her to within an inch of her life, who had so easily
awoken the woman within—the real Dante she was sure she’d glimpsed.

Matilda had known that the sensible thing to do would be to
ring Hugh and tell him she couldn’t do the work after all—that something else
had come up. Hell, she had even dialled his number a few times, but at the last
minute had always hung up, torn between want and loathing, outrage and desire,
telling herself that it wouldn’t be fair to let Hugh down, and sometimes almost
managing to believe it. As honourable as it sounded, loyalty to Hugh had nothing
to do with her being there today. Dante totally captivated her—since the second
she’d laid eyes on him he was
all
she thought
about.

All
she thought about, replaying
their conversations over and over, jolting each and every time she recalled some
of his sharper statements, wondering how the hell he managed to get away with
it, how she hadn’t slapped his arrogant cheek. And yet somehow there had been a
softer side and it was that that intrigued her. Despite his brutality she’d
glimpsed something else—tiny flickers of beauty, like flowers in a desert—his
dry humour, the stunning effect of his occasional smile on her, the undeniable
tenderness reserved exclusively for his daughter. And, yes, Matilda acknowledged
that the raw, simmering passion that had been in his kiss had left her hungry
for more,

“Careful.” Matilda said the word out loud, repeated it over and
over in her mind as she slipped the car into first gear and slowly pulled out
into the street, driving a couple of kilometres further with her heart in her
mouth as she braced herself to face him again, her hand shaking slightly as she
turned into his driveway and pressed the intercom, watching unblinking as huge
metal gates slid open and she glimpsed for the first time Dante’s stunning
home.

The drive was as uncompromising and as rigid as its owner,
lined with cypress trees drawing the eye along its vast, straight length to the
huge, Mediterranean-looking residence—vast white rendered walls that made the
sky look bluer somehow, massive floor-to-ceiling windows that would drench the
home in light and let in every inch of the stunning view. She inched her way
along, momentarily forgetting her nerves, instead absorbing the beauty. The
harsh lines of the house were softened at the entrance by climbers—wisteria,
acres of it, ambled across the front of the property, heavy lilac flowers
hanging like bunches of grapes, intermingled with jasmine, its creamy white
petals like dotted stars, the more delicate foliage competing with the harsh
wooden branches of the wisteria. The effect, quite simply, was divine.

“Welcome!” Hugh pulled open the car door for her and Matilda
stepped out onto the white paved driveway, pathetically grateful to see him—not
quite ready to face Dante alone. “Matilda, this is my wife Katrina.” He
introduced a tall, elegant woman who stepped forward and shook her hand, her
greeting the antithesis of Hugh’s warm one. Cool blue eyes blatantly stared
Matilda up and down, taking in the pale blue cotton shift dress and casual
sandals she was wearing and clearly not liking what she saw. “You’re nothing
like I was expecting. I expected...” she gave a shrill laugh... “I don’t know.
You don’t look like a gardener!”

“She’s a designer, Katrina,” Hugh said with a slight edge.

“I’m very hands-on, though,” Matilda said. “I like to see the
work through from beginning to end.”

“Marvellous,” Katrina smiled, but somehow her face remained
cold. “Come—let me introduce you to Dante...”

Matilda was about to say that she’d already met him, but
decided against it, as clearly both Hugh and Dante had omitted to mention the
dinner to Katrina. She wasn’t sure what to make of Katrina. She was
stunning-looking, her posture was straight, her long hair, though dashed with
grey, was still an amazing shade of strawberry blonde, and though she had to be
around fifty, there was barely a line on her smooth face. But there was a
frostiness about her that unsettled Matilda.

The interior of the house was just as impressive as the
exterior. Hugh held open the front door then headed off to Matilda’s car to
retrieve her bags and the two women stepped inside and walked along the
jarrah-floored hallways, Matilda’s sandals echoing on the solid wood as she took
in the soft white sofas and dark wooden furnishings, huge mirrors opening up the
already vast space, reflecting the ocean at every turn so that wherever you
looked the waves seemed to beckon. Or Jasmine smiled down at you! An inordinate
number of photos of Dante’s late wife adorned the walls, her gorgeous face
captured from every angle, and Matilda felt a quiet discomfort as she gazed
around, her cheeks flaming as she recalled the stinging kiss of Dante.

“My daughter.” Katrina’s eyes followed Matilda’s and they
paused for a moment as they admired her tragic beauty. “I had this photo blown
up and framed just last week—it’s good for Alex to be able to see her and I know
it gives Dante a lot of comfort.”

“It must...” Matilda stumbled. “She really was very
beautiful.”

“And clever,” Katrina added. “She had it all, brains and
beauty. She was amazing, a wonderful mother and wife. None of us will ever get
over her loss.”

“I can’t even begin to imagine...” Despite the cool breeze from
the air-conditioner, despite the high ceilings and vastness of the place,
Matilda felt incredibly hot and uncomfortable. Despite her earlier misgivings,
she was very keen to meet Dante now—even his savage personality was preferable
to the discomfort she felt with Katrina.

“Dante especially,” Katrina continued, and Matilda was
positive, despite her soft words and pensive smile, that there was a warning
note to her voice, an icy message emanating from her cool blue eyes. “I’ve never
seen a man so broken with grief. He just adored her,
adored
her,” Katrina reiterated. “Do you know, the day she died he sent flowers
to her office. It was a Saturday but she had to pop into work and get some
files. She took Alex with her—that was the sort of woman she was. Anyway, Dante
must have rung every florist in Melbourne. He wanted to send her some jasmine,
her namesake, but it was winter, of course, so it was impossible to find, but
Dante being Dante he managed to organise it—he’d have moved heaven and earth for
her.”

It was actually a relief to get into the kitchen. After
Katrina’s onslaught it was actually a relief to confront the man she’d been so
nervous of meeting again. But as she stepped inside it was as if she was seeing
him for the very first time. The man she remembered bore little witness to the
one she saw now. Everything about him seemed less formal. Of course, she hadn’t
expected him to greet her in a suit—it was Sunday after all—but somehow she’d
never envisaged him in jeans and a T-shirt, or, if she had, it would have been
in dark, starched denim and a crisp white designer label T-shirt, not the faded,
scruffy jeans that encased him, not the untucked, unironed white T-shirt that he
was wearing. And she certainly hadn’t pictured him at a massive wooden table,
kneading bread, with his daughter, Alex’s eyes staring ahead as she rhythmically
worked the dough.

“Dante, Alexandra,” Katrina called. “Matilda has arrived.”

Only one pair of eyes looked up. Alexandra carried on kneading
the dough and any thought of witnessing Dante’s softer side was instantly
quashed as his black eyes briefly met hers.

“Good afternoon.”

His greeting was also his dismissal.

His attention turning immediately back to his daughter, picking
up a large shaker and sprinkling the dough with more flour as the little girl
worked on.

“Good afternoon.” Matilda forced a smile to no one in
particular. “You’re making bread...”

“No.” Dante stood up, dusted his floured hands on his jeans “We
are kneading dough and playing with flour.”

“Oh!”

“We’ve been kneading dough and playing with flour since
lunchtime, actually!”

Another “oh’ was on the tip of her tongue, but Matilda held it
back, grateful when Katrina took over this most awkward of conversations.

“It’s one of Alex’s pastimes,” Katrina explained as Hugh came
back in. “She was upset after lunch—you know what children can be like.” Dante
gave a tight smile as Katrina dismissed the slightly weary note to his voice.
Something told Matilda that whatever had eventuated had been rather more than
the usual childhood tantrum. “Hugh, why don’t you go and take Matilda around the
garden?” Katrina said. “It seems a shame to break things up when Dante and Alex
are having such fun.”

“Hugh’s supposed to be resting,” Dante pointed out. “
I’ll
take Matilda around.”

“Fine,” Katrina said, though clearly it was anything but! “Then
I’ll go and check that everything’s in order in the summerhouse for
Matilda.”

“The summerhouse?” Dante frowned. “I had the guest room made up
for her. Janet prepared it this morning.”

“Well, it won’t kill Janet to prepare the summerhouse! She’s
the housekeeper,” Katrina explained to a completely bemused Matilda. “I can help
her set it up. It will be far nicer for Matilda. She can have some privacy and
it might unsettle Alex, having a stranger in the house—no offence meant,
Matilda.”

“None taken.” Matilda thought her face might crack with the
effort of smiling. “It really doesn’t matter a scrap where I stay. I’m going to
be working long hours, I just need somewhere to sleep and eat...”

“There’s a lovely little kitchenette in the summerhouse. I’ll
have some bacon and eggs and bread put in, that type of thing—you’ll be very
comfortable.”

“It’s your fault.” Dante broke the appalling silence as they
stepped outside.

“What is?” Matilda blinked.

“That you’ve been banished.” He gave her a glimmer of a dry
smile. “You’re too good-looking for Katrina.”

“Oh!” A tiny nervous giggle escaped her lips, embarrassed by
what he had said but relieved all the same that he had acknowledged the problem.
“I don’t think she likes me very much.”

“She’d have been hoping for a ruddy-faced, gum-chewing,
crop-haired gardener. I have the ugliest staff in the world—all hand-picked by
Katrina.” Startled by his coarseness, Matilda actually laughed as they walked,
amazed to find herself relaxing a touch in his presence.

“Yesterday’s newspapers can’t have helped matters much,” she
ventured, referring to the string of women he’d dated since his wife’s death,
but Dante just shrugged.

“Ships that pass in the night even Katrina can live with.”

The callousness of his words had Matilda literally stopping in
her tracks for a moment, waiting for him to soften it with a smile, to tell her
he was joking, but Dante strode on, forcing Matilda to catch him up, and try to
continue the conversation. “Do your in-laws live here with you?”

“God, no.” Dante shuddered. “They live a few kilometres away.
But we’re interviewing for a new nanny at the moment—preferably one over sixty
with a wooden leg if Katrina has her way. That’s why she’s around so much. Like
it or not at the moment I do need her help with Alex, but if I decide to stay
here in Australia...” He stopped talking then, just simply stopped in
mid-sentence with no apology or explanation, clearly deciding he had said
enough. Silence descended again as they walked on the manicured lawn past a
massive pool, surrounded by a clear Perspex wall. Matilda gazed at the pool
longingly.

“Use it any time,” Dante offered.

“Thanks,” Matilda replied, knowing full well she wouldn’t. The
thought of undressing, of wearing nothing more than a bikini around Dante not
exactly soothing.