The Mistress: The Mistress\Wanted: Mistress and Mother (26 page)

Chapter 8

“I
’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

“It’s fine.” Matilda attempted, struggling to sit up, slightly
disorientated and extremely embarrassed that Dante had found her in the middle
of the day, hot and filthy in nothing more than the skimpiest of shorts and a
crop top, lying on a blanket with her eyes closed. Absolutely the
last
person she was expecting to see at this hour, he
was dressed in his inevitable dark suit, but there was a slightly more relaxed
stance to him. He held a brown paper bag in one hand and he didn’t look in his
usual rush—his usually perfectly knotted tie was loosened, the top button of his
shirt undone. But his dark eyes were shielded with sunglasses making his closed
expression even more unreadable if that were possible.

“You’ve done a lot.”

“It’s getting there.” Matilda nodded. “And if I keep going at
full speed, I could still be done by early next week.”

He didn’t say a word, he didn’t have to. Just a tiny
questioning lift of his eyebrow from behind his dark glasses was enough for
Matilda.

“I am allowed to take a break,” Matilda retorted.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You might not have
said
it but I
certainly
heard
it. I am allowed to take a break,
Dante. For your information, I’ve been working since first light this
morning—apart from a coffee at ten I haven’t stopped.”

“You don’t have to justify yourself to me.”

“No, I don’t,” Matilda agreed.

“How you organise your time is entirely your business. It’s
just...” His voice faded for a moment, a hint of a very unusual smile dusting
across his face. “I think I must be in the wrong job. ‘Flat out’ for me is
back-to-back meetings, endless phone calls, figures, whereas the twice I’ve seen
you work, you’re either taking an impromptu shower with a water bottle or dozing
under a tree.” She opened her mouth to set him straight, but Dante spoke over
her. “I am not criticising you, I can see for myself the hours of work you have
done. For once I was not even being sarcastic—I really was thinking back there
when I saw you that I am in the wrong job!”

“You are.” Matilda smiled, the wind taken out of her sails by
his niceness. “And for the record, I wasn’t dozing.”

“Matilda, don’t try and tell me that you weren’t asleep. You
didn’t even hear me come over. You were lying on your back with your eyes
closed.”

“I was meditating,” Matilda said and seeing the disbelieving
look on his face she elaborated further. “I did hear you come over, I just...”
It was Matilda’s voice fading now, wondering how she could explain to him that
in her deeply relaxed state she had somehow discounted the information.

“Just what?”

“I didn’t hold onto the thought.”

“You’ve lost me.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “You’re
really telling me that you weren’t asleep!”

“That’s right—I often meditate when I’m working, that’s where I
get my best ideas. You should try it,” she added.

“I have enough trouble getting to sleep at one in the morning,
let alone in the middle of the day.”

“My point exactly,” Matilda said triumphantly. “I’ve already
told you that I wasn’t asleep. You’re very quick to throw scorn, but sometimes
the best way to find the answer to a question is to stop looking for it.”

“Perhaps.” Dante gave a dismissive shrug. “But for now I’ll
stick with the usual methods. I actually came to see if you wanted some lunch.”
Before she could shake her head, before she could come up with an excuse as to
why she didn’t want to go over and eat with Katrina, Dante held out the paper
bag he was holding. “I bought some rolls from the deli.”

“The deli?”

“Why does that surprise you?”

“I don’t know,” Matilda admitted, her neck starting to ache
from staring up, feeling at a distinct disadvantage as Dante hovered over her.
Wiggling over, she patted the blanket for him to sit beside her. “It just does.
How come you’re home?”

“I live here,” Dante quipped, but he
did
sit down beside her, pulling the rolls out of the bag and
offering one to her. “I’ve spent the entire morning trying to read an important,
complicated document relating to the case and haven’t got past the second page.
My new administrative assistant cannot distinguish between urgent and urgent
yet.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Invariably anyone who wants to speak with me says that it is
urgent—but she puts them all through, then I get waylaid. I decided to follow
your business methods, they seem to be working for you.”

“What method?” Matilda gasped. “I didn’t know I had one!”

“Turning the phone off and disappearing. Katrina is out with
Alex today. I thought there was more chance of actually getting some work done
if I just came home, but first I must have some lunch.”

“I didn’t hear the chopper!”

“I drove,” Dante said, “and it was nice.” They ate in amicable
silence until Dante spoiled it, his words almost causing her to choke on her
chicken and avocado roll. “I was thinking about you.”

“Me?”

“And how much I enjoy talking to you.” He took off his dark
glasses and smiled a lazy smile, utterly comfortable in his own skin as Matilda
squirmed inside hers, wriggling her bare feet in the moss and staring at her
toes. “And you’re right, it’s nice to take a moment to relax.”

Relaxed certainly wasn’t how Matilda would describe herself
now. He was so close that if she moved her leg an inch they’d be touching, if
his face came a fraction closer she knew they’d be kissing. Desire coursed
through her as it had when she’d cut herself, only this time Dante didn’t seem
to be pulling back, this time he was facing her head on. It was Matilda who
turned abruptly away, terrified he’d read the naked lust in her eyes. She took a
long drink from her water bottle then, blowing her fringe skywards and trying to
keep her voice normal, determined not to make a fool of herself again, to be
absolutely sure she wasn’t misreading things, she said, “You should try
meditating if you want to be relaxed.”

“It wouldn’t work,” Dante dismissed.

“It won’t if that’s your attitude...” She could feel the
atmosphere sizzling between them, knew that if she said what was on her mind
then she’d be crossing a line, playing the most dangerous of dangerous games.
“Try it,” she breathed, her eyes daring him to join her. “Why don’t you lie back
and try it now?”

“Now?” Dante checked, a dangerous warning glint in his eyes,
which she heeded, but it only excited her more.

“Now,” Matilda affirmed. “Just lie back.”

“Then what?” Dante’s impatient voice demanded instruction as,
impossibly tense, he lay back.

“You close your eyes and just breathe,” Matilda said, her head
turning to face him, her own breath catching in her throat as she gazed at his
strong profile. She’d been right with her very first assessment of Dante. He was
astonishingly beautiful—his eyes were closed and black, surprisingly long lashes
spiked downwards onto indigo smudges of exhaustion. His nose was chiselled
straight, so straight and so absolutely in proportion to the rest of his
features she could almost imagine some LA cosmetic surgeon downing his tools in
protest as he surveyed the landscape of Dante Costello’s flawless face.

Flawless.

A perfectionist might point out that he hadn’t shaved, but the
stubble that ghosted his strong jaw, merely accentuated things: a shiver of
masculinity stirring beneath the surface; a glimpse of what he might look like
in the intimate dawn of morning. His full mouth was the only softening feature,
but even that was set in grim tension as he lay there.

“You have to relax,” Matilda said, her words a contradiction
because her whole body lay rigid beside him, her own breath coming in short,
irregular bursts. Even her words were stilted, coming in short breathy sentences
as they struggled through her vocal cords. “Use your stomach muscles and breathe
in through your nose and out through your mouth.”

“What?” One eye peeped open.

“Abdominal breathing,” she explained, but from the two vertical
lines appearing over the bridge of his nose Matilda knew she was talking to the
hopelessly unconverted.

“You don’t move your chest,” Matilda explained. “Remember when
Alex was a baby and you watched her sleep?”

The frown faded a touch, a small smile lifting one edge of his
mouth.

“Babies know how to relax,” Matilda said. “They instinctively
know
how to breathe properly.”

“Like this?” Dante asked, dragging in air, and Matilda watched
as he struggled with the concept. His stomach was moving but so too was his
chest.

“Almost. Look, I’ll help you. Just push against my hand.”
Sitting up slightly, she instinctively moved to correct him. She’d shown this to
numerous friends, knew how to show him simply, but her movements were hesitant,
her hand tentative as it reached out towards him, hovered over the flat plane of
his stomach, knowing,
knowing
where this could lead,
wanting to pull back, to end this dangerous game, but curiously excited to
start, to touch him, to feel him...

Her hand still hovered over his stomach but it was just too
much, too intimate, and instead she placed her other hand on his chest, feeling
the warmth of his skin through his shirt, feeing the breath still in him. Her
fingers ached, literally ached to move his loosened tie, to creep between the
buttons and feel his skin against hers. But she pushed away that thought,
concentrated instead on keeping her voice even as she delivered her
instructions. “My hand shouldn’t move. Breathe in through your nose, using your
stomach, and then out through your mouth—here.” It seemed more appropriate now
to touch his stomach than when the initial contact had been made, and she gently
brushed her hand along on his stomach, felt the heavy leather of his belt, the
coolness of his buckle and the silk of his trousers. Her whole body rippled with
a lust she had never experienced—never thought she could experience—and she
herself had engineered it because she wanted to be closer to him. More than that
she didn’t know, just knew she couldn’t take a minute more of the crazy feelings
that had been going on. “Push against my hand,” Matilda said, “and then hold
your breath before letting out it. And just let your mind wander.”

For a second, two perhaps, he did. She felt him relax a touch
beneath her, but it was fleeting, resistance rushing back in, his hand pushing
hers away, Dante turning now to face her.

“Show me,” he said.

“I don’t want to.” Matilda shook her head, knew she was
incapable of going back to that tranquil place with Dante so close, but he was
insistent. “If it’s so easy to do, prove it.”

Lying on her back Matilda closed her eyes, willed herself calm,
trying to force herself to relax. But she could feel the tension in her hands
and she drew on her reserves, dragged in the fragrant air, holding it, holding
it and slowly letting it out, could feel his eyes watching her body move. And
amazingly it happened. Somehow she did wander to that place she visited so
often, but it was a different journey altogether, one she had never taken
before. With every breath she sank deeper and yet her desire grew, visualising,
willing his hands to touch her, for him to rest his palm on her stomach,
fleeting, decadent thoughts that were hers only, her limbs heavy against the
damp grass, the erotic thought of him near her stomach tightening with the
anticipation of a touch that might never come.

His breath on her face caught her unawares. Her mind hadn’t
ever been so attuned to her body. She had been so sure his eyes had been there,
the shiver of his breath on her cheeks was a shock, but even as her mind
processed the sensation it was experiencing a new one—his mouth, pressing
lightly on hers, so soft if it hadn’t have been him it would surely have been
imperceptible, could almost have been put down to imagination for nowhere else
did he touch her. The sun blocked out as he hovered over her, her eyes still
closed as she blissfully attuned to the feel of his lips lightly on hers until
it wasn’t enough. He was waiting for her bidding, she instinctively knew that.
She could smell the bitter orange and bergamot undertones of his cologne, his
breath mingling with hers, and after seconds that seemed to drag for ever she
gave him her consent with her mouth, pressed her own lips into his.

The greeting was acknowledged by the reward of his cool tongue
parting her lips, slipping inside, and that delicious taste of him, the intimate
feel of his mouth inside hers, his tongue languorously capturing hers, playing a
slow teasing game, long strokes that made her want more, countered by a tiny
feather-light stroke on the tip of her tongue and then a gentle sucking as he
dragged her deeper into him. And it was the most erotic of kisses yet the most
frustrating, because still nowhere else did he touch her. Only their mouths were
touching only their mouths in contact, and she wanted more, her body arching,
trying to convey her needs. But he misread them, just kissed her ever on, till
she burnt for more, literally ached for more, and only then did he give it, but
in a selfish, measured dose.

The hand that she desired, that she anticipated around her
waist to pull her towards him, instead lay on the soft inner flesh of her thigh,
and the impact was as acute as if he’d struck her with a branding iron. It was
her thigh, for heaven’s sake, Matilda mentally begged, just a few square inches
of flesh, and it wasn’t even moving, but it was intimate, it was so damned
intimate that it was surely wrong to be lying here beneath him now. She wished
his hand would move, but it didn’t. Instead, it pressed harder, almost
imperceptibly at first but slowly she could feel his fingers digging into the
tender flesh. Her breath in his mouth was coming faster now, and just as she
went to push him away, to move his hand to safer ground, Dante was the one who
stopped. Propped up on his elbow, she could feel him gazing down at her and she
lay there vulnerable, reluctant to open her eyes, terrified, excited at the same
time, wondering what he would do next.