Kitabı oxu: «The Mistress That Tamed De Santis»

CHAPTER ONE

CROWN PRINCE ANTONIO DE SANTIS strolled along the dark street, savouring the stolen moment of freedom as he walked off the burn from the last eighty minutes in the palace gym.

Silence. Solitude. Darkness. Peace.

He checked the hood of his sweatshirt still hid most of his face. He’d soon have to turn back. In less than an hour this road would be crawling with workers frantically finishing preparations and testing the barricades they’d installed over the last day. The crowds would gather early too. San Felipe’s car rally was prestigious, hotly contested and the starting gun for the annual carnival, which meant Antonio’s next couple of weeks were even more packed than usual. State balls, trade meetings, society events, the carnival celebrations required a round-the-clock royal presence as the world’s wealthy and glamorous came to indulge and experience his country’s beauty. And with his younger brother away, Crown Prince Antonio was the only royalty on offer.

He’d do it all anyway; he always did.

He approached an intersection. The road to the left headed into the heart of the city and was the entertainment ‘strip’—lined with restaurants and bars that would soon be packed for race action. He glanced up at the ornate exterior of the former firehouse on the corner—the latest building to have been reclaimed and refurbished into a hot night spot. But after only a week of business, the city’s residents were debating the merits of this particular establishment more than any other.

BURN.

The four bronze letters bolted to the wall screamed both defiance and demand. He read it as a blatant statement of intent—she was here, she didn’t care, and she didn’t intend to hide.

Antonio frowned. Suddenly the window just ahead was flung wide open. The shutter banged on the wall right beside him. If he’d been one pace on, he’d have been knocked out cold on the pavement.

He halted. Even with the relaxed rules in carnival season, the club ought to be closed at this hour. He glanced into the open window, expecting to see a few intoxicated patrons still partying, but no noise streamed out. No endless thud, thud, thud of drum and bass. No high-pitched giggles, loud laughs or low murmurs. It seemed there was no one in the vast room—until something white silently flashed in the deep recesses. He looked closer, tracking the fast-moving creature as the white flashed again. The woman wore a loose white top and...nothing else? The most basic instinct had him locking on her legs—unbelievably long legs that right now were moving unbelievably fast.

Pyjamas. Short pyjamas.

His suddenly slushy brain slowly reached a conclusion. She opened another window down the side of the room and turned again. She wore ballet flats on her feet, not for fashion, but for function, dancing across the floor—spinning so quickly her auburn hair swirled in a curling ribbon behind her. She leapt and landed near the window on the opposite side of the room and opened that one with another dramatic, effervescent gesture before turning yet again. That was when he saw her face properly for the first time.

She was smiling. Not one of the usual sorts of smiles Antonio received—not awed or nervous or curious or come-hitherish... This smile was so full of raw joy it made him feel he should step back into the darkness, but he couldn’t find the will to turn away.

Heat kicked hard in his gut.

Anger. Not lust. Never lust.

He’d have to have spent the last six months living under a rock not to know she’d moved to San Felipe. Given he ruled the island principality, he knew exactly who she was and why she was here. And he didn’t give a damn that she was even more stunning in real life than in any of the pictures saturating the Internet. Bella Sanchez was here to cause trouble. And Antonio didn’t want trouble in San Felipe.

Nor did he want Bella Sanchez.

He didn’t want anyone.

Yet here he was with his feet glued to the pavement, watching her whirl her way round the room with glorious abandon, from one window to the next in flying leaps until she’d opened them all.

She executed another series of dizzying spins across the floor, and suddenly stopped—positioned smack bang in the centre of the window frame he was looking through.

‘Enjoying the view?’ Her smile had vanished and her voice dripped with sarcasm.

When he didn’t move, she glided closer, her feline green eyes like lasers. She wasn’t even breathless as she stared him down like a Fury about to wreak revenge on a miscreant.

Antonio’s reflexes snapped. She thought she could shame him into scuttling away? Another hit of heat made him clench his muscles. He pushed back the hood of his sweatshirt and coolly gazed back up at her, grimly anticipating her recognition of him.

Her eyes widened instantly but she quickly schooled the shock from her face—her expression smoothing until she became inscrutable. Somehow she stood taller. She had the straightest back of anyone he’d ever seen.

‘Your Highness,’ she said crisply. ‘May I help you with something?’

Unfortunately he couldn’t reply; his tongue was cleaved to the roof of his mouth. How could she look this radiant so early in the morning? She had to have had an extremely late night and yet here she was without a scrap of make-up on, looking intolerably beautiful.

Antonio actively avoided being alone with women—especially models, actresses and socialites—but, given his single status and Crown Prince title, they littered his path and made their play nonetheless. Over the past few years he’d met hundreds, if not thousands, of stunning, willing women. He’d refused every single one.

But none had ever looked as gorgeous as Bella Sanchez did right now. And none had looked as haughty.

At his continued silence, she stepped closer. ‘You were spying on me?’

His anger sharpened. He’d avoided meeting her most of all and now she made him sound like a peeping Tom. No matter that in part he felt like one.

‘It is past closing hours,’ he said stiffly.

‘You’re policing me?’ As she stared down at him that haughty barrier locked fully into place, leaching the last of the vitality in her eyes. ‘The club is closed.’

Her English accent was muddied. He figured it was from the years she’d spent abroad and the mix of people in her life.

‘I’m merely ventilating the rooms,’ she explained.

‘Getting rid of suspicious smells?’ He’d heard the rumours and he wasn’t going to ignore them.

A small smile emerged, nothing like the earlier one. ‘This is a non-smoking venue, not some den of iniquity.’

‘There are other vices,’ he replied with calm consideration. ‘Salvatore Accardi warned me this operation was going to bring San Felipe nothing but trouble.’

‘He would know all about trouble.’

She didn’t so much as blink as she snapped back her answer.

He’d wanted to see her reaction to his reference to Accardi—but he’d got almost none.

Salvatore Accardi, former Italian politician, had taken up permanent residence in his San Felipe holiday home. And Salvatore Accardi was reputedly Bella Sanchez’s father.

Twenty-odd years ago she’d been born of scandal, supposedly the love child of the married Salvatore and his sex-symbol mistress. Their affair had been splashed across all the newspapers of the day. But Salvatore had never acknowledged Bella as his baby. He’d refused to undergo paternity testing. He’d stayed with his long-suffering wife, pregnant at the time, and raised their daughter, who’d been born a mere three months before Bella.

Bella had been raised in the public eye, eventually dancing professionally before becoming chatelaine of this party house in the heart of Antonio’s principality. And according to Salvatore Accardi now, her presence would attract nothing but sleaze to San Felipe.

‘Is it so terrible to provide a place for people to have fun?’ Bella asked, shrugging one of her delicate shoulders. She looked slender, but strong.

Antonio frowned at the direction—distraction—of his thoughts.

‘This isn’t about that,’ he said coldly. ‘This is revenge. This is setting up so you’re right in Accardi’s face.’

‘Is that what he told you?’ Her poise cracked briefly as anger flashed. ‘Do you honestly think you can believe everything—or anything—he says?’

At a gut level Antonio had never much liked Salvatore Accardi, but nothing had ever been proven. All those rumours of corporate and political corruption had remained only rumours. And if the man had the personal morals of an alley cat, that was his own business. He’d owned property in San Felipe for too long for Antonio to find reason to require him to leave.

Just as there’d been no reason to refuse a work permit and residency to Bella Sanchez.

And didn’t everyone have the right to be believed innocent until proven guilty?

In her white short pyjamas Bella looked both innocent and unbearably sensual, because that white cotton was thin and she wore nothing beneath it. And when she moved? He could see the outline of her slim waist and generous curves.

‘I’m not sure a venue like this suits San Felipe,’ he said tightly.

‘As if there aren’t other clubs?’ she questioned softly but her gaze was sharp. She almost leaned out of the window frame, making him acutely aware of her unfettered breasts. ‘This isn’t a sex club. There are no pole dancers or strippers.’ She lingered over her quiet words, but then her eyes glinted. ‘Definitely no drugs in dodgy back-room deals.’

Her voice shook with fierceness. He knew her mother, Madeline Sanchez, one of the world’s greatest ‘mistresses’ in a time when such things had been scandalous, had overdosed more than a year ago in a Parisian apartment. Everybody knew all there was to know about Bella Sanchez.

‘This is a legitimate bar and dance floor,’ she added more calmly. ‘And I’m a responsible club owner.’

‘You’re young and inexperienced.’ He paused pointedly. ‘In managing a commercial enterprise, that is.’

Her eyes widened, for a split second she looked furious. But he watched the change as she controlled her emotions once more—the stiffening of that already ramrod-straight spine, her smile so different from the one earlier, the hint of calculation as she glanced at his casual attire.

He braced. She was sizing him up and about to fire her own shot. And oddly, he was looking forward to it.

She swept her arm across her body in a dramatic gesture, drawing his attention to her attributes once more. ‘Why don’t you come in and find out for yourself?’ she invited in a sultry tone. ‘Come inside and see if you can find anything wrong with my club.’

It was a blatant dare—she’d switched into ‘Bella Sanchez, Sex Symbol’ without skipping a beat.

But it wasn’t that challenge that did it for him. Not that coy smile of sophisticated amusement. It was the emotion lurking in the backs of her eyes. The anger she was trying hard to control—that slight tremor in her fingers before she curled them into a fist.

‘Yes.’

He said it because she didn’t expect him to.

She thought he’d politely and coldly refuse, smile distantly and retreat, like the conservative Crown Prince he was. She’d called his bluff.

So he’d called hers. Because at this moment, he damn well felt like doing the last thing anyone—least of all her—expected.

And she hadn’t expected it. Her shock flashed for one satisfying second.

He waited while she unbolted the heavy door, opened it and stepped aside for him to enter. He paused just inside the room, watching as she closed the door and marched around him to lead the way.

‘No suspicious smells, see,’ she said pointedly. ‘Nothing illegal.’

The ground-floor space was sleek and smelled clean, not yet permeated with the lingering, less than fragrant scent of five hundred sweaty clubbers dancing there night after night.

He glanced up—away from the back view of her never-ending legs—and saw the decadent wallpaper and the wrought-iron railings protecting patrons who wanted to party on the mezzanine floor. The chandeliers gleamed even this early in the morning. He hadn’t been in a nightclub in a decade. He’d been crowned in his early twenties, but had been aware of the restraints on his behaviour for years before that. He’d always been dutiful. He’d had to be.

Only now he felt the stirrings of a desire he’d buried deep all those years ago. When had he last danced?

‘You’ll want to see the liquor licence.’ She stalked over to the main bar. ‘And there it is, exactly where it should be. The emergency exits are well marked,’ she added, all officiousness. ‘It was formerly a fire station, you know.’

He did know. But there’d be no putting out the fire in her eyes.

‘The rest of the paperwork is upstairs,’ she said defiantly, turning to face him.

‘So lead the way,’ he answered bluntly. He was committed now.

For a split second her shock was visible again.

Yes, Crown Prince Antonio would never ordinarily go up into the back room of a notorious nightclub in the sole company of a supposedly scandalous siren...but he felt like doing it just to see that reaction again.

He suppressed a smile as he followed her to one of the winding staircases that were like pillars at each side of the room. But as he climbed behind her his amusement faded.

He hadn’t been so alone with a woman so barely attired in years. And it shouldn’t have been a problem now. Except her legs went on for ever. He tried to tear his attention from them. Failed. Was relieved when they reached the mezzanine and she darted ahead to open another window. She then headed to a small alcove that hid a door marked ‘Private’.

Another flight of stairs.

This time he gave in to the temptation to look. She would never know. But there was the faintest flush on her porcelain cheeks as she waited for him to walk into her office.

The top floor was clearly her private space and very different from the dark and sensual decor of the club downstairs. This room was lighter, with white walls and a cream rug covering the floorboards. A large desk dominated the room. A laptop sat open on it, paper files spread beside it. A filing cabinet was behind the desk, while a couple of chairs sat at angles in front of it. But Antonio remained standing because there was another door—open—through which he could see a small kitchenette. And given she was wearing pyjamas, he figured it was safe to assume there was a bed in there too. Tension hit. This had been a mistake. And Antonio couldn’t afford any mistakes.

* * *

Bella stared. Crown Prince Antonio De Santis had accepted her challenge and was standing in her small office. She’d thought he’d decline, all unbending regal politeness. But it seemed he really had chosen this morning to inspect her business—obscenely early, name-dropping the man who refused to acknowledge her and dressed like that.

She’d recognised him the second he’d pulled back the hood of his sweatshirt but he looked nothing like the austere Crown Prince she’d seen on screens and in magazines. That man was tall and broad-shouldered, with not a hair out of place and almost always dressed in an immaculate midnight-blue suit. Perfect for the reserved, always polite but distant Prince.

The man in front of her now hadn’t shaved. His hair was mussed. He must have been out running or something what with the old sweatshirt, track pants and trainers he was wearing. And the edge she’d glimpsed in his eyes? She never would have expected that. Nor would she have expected to feel breathless and hot in his company. Not so hyper-aware.

She never felt that around any guy.

‘You’ll find everything is in there.’ She opened the file and turned it so he could read it, reading it upside down herself. She wanted him to see every single piece of paper and be satisfied and leave as soon as possible. She wasn’t going down without a fight. She’d prove to all her doubters that she could manage this club. She’d prove it to him.

So never mind that she was in her shortie pyjamas, her top slightly too loose and with no bra beneath, because she couldn’t be embarrassed. Never mind that she’d only managed two hours’ sleep because she had so much to do. The club had been open only a week and, while it looked promising, she had a long, long way to go before it could be declared a success and she could sell up and start up the business of her heart.

But he didn’t say anything about the paperwork. She glanced up and caught him staring at her. Again.

She was used to men looking. They all wanted the same thing, right? They all thought they knew everything there was to know about her. But the ice in this man’s eyes was something else. It burned.

He stood silent. Guarded. Judging.

She’d not expected that from San Felipe’s broken, beloved Prince. Wasn’t he supposed to hide a wounded heart? Wasn’t he supposed to be kind and benevolent under the weight of all that duty?

Everyone knew his story. His ‘One True Love’ had tragically died of cancer barely two months after his coronation and the accident that had claimed the lives of both his parents. He’d not been linked to another woman since. The Prince had buried his heart with his girlfriend. And, according to the glossy mags, the nation believed only the love of a pure and perfect woman could heal him and bring him happiness...

That woman clearly wasn’t her given he was looking at her like that.

Forbidding. Disapproving.

Thrown off balance, she felt goaded into provoking a reaction from him. Beneath the fifty feet of ice he hid behind, it had to be there—emotion of some kind.

She should have been intimidated. She should have remained polite. She should have respected the power he held. But she was too tired. And too hurt.

‘Why are you staring at me like I’ve forgotten something?’ She stepped out from her desk. ‘Should I have curtseyed as you walked in?’ She lifted her chin at his utter impassivity. ‘Should I get on my knees before you?’

She regretted the sultry taunt the second she’d uttered it.

Because there was no reaction. He didn’t move a muscle. Didn’t speak a word. Just kept, ever so coolly, regarding her.

Her cheeks burned as shame grew. She’d been everything the world expected her to be—a scandalous, tarty temptress. But she was a big fat faker.

And he wasn’t. He really was as frozen-hearted as they said. And every bit as breathtaking.

‘You’re going to have to do better than that,’ he finally said. ‘Do you think you’re the first woman to try seducing me by stripping and dancing in front of me?’

His words hit like hailstones.

‘I didn’t strip.’

‘Only because you didn’t bother getting dressed properly.’

‘And I didn’t dance for you.’ She ignored his interruption. ‘I was just warming up alone. You’re the one who stopped to watch. You could have kept walking, Tony.’

For a split second she got a reaction—his jaw dropped. Before he snapped it shut and then shot his words like bullets.

‘What did you just call me?’

‘Tony,’ she repeated, refusing to back down. ‘Crown Prince Antonio is too much of a mouthful.’

There was a pause, then his gaze skittered down her body—so deliberately. ‘Too much of a mouthful,’ he echoed slowly.

This time Bella’s jaw dropped. Did he say that while scoping out her breasts? Which, yes, were on the fuller side. Especially for a dancer.

Crossing his arms, he continued to regard her, making her feel uncharacteristically vulnerable. His complete attention wasn’t like any ordinary audience of thousands. His scrutiny was way more intense.

‘I’ve seen it all, every artifice, every attempt to attract me,’ he muttered. ‘It won’t work.’

‘Because we’re all out to entrap you?’ she asked, shocked at his direct approach. ‘You think I’m trying to use my feminine wiles to draw you in? Because you’re the biggest prize?’

‘Aren’t you?’ he answered, cocking his head. ‘Or are you just trying to provoke me? You want to win a reaction from “the Ice Prince”,’ he mocked. ‘Because you’re all about getting the reaction.’

She drew breath at the accuracy of his hit.

‘I’ve had every kind of play,’ he continued with a quietness that belied the edge to his words. ‘The sympathy, simpering agreement and the bitchy comebacks of the treat-me-mean kind...there’s nothing I haven’t seen or heard, so don’t bother.’

Anger rushed along her veins, scalding her skin. ‘You think I want you anywhere near me?’

His lips twisted in a coolly mocking look and he didn’t bother to answer.

‘You’re unbelievably arrogant,’ she said.

‘You think?’

Yes, she did. But swirling beneath the frost-covered atmosphere was elemental attraction at its most basic. He was appallingly attractive—her body yearned to get closer to his. And when he didn’t back away from her challenge?

Primitive instinct could be a powerful thing. But she had more of a brain than that. So her basic instinct could go bury itself back in the cave it had been dwelling in for the last three years.

‘I have no desire to attract you,’ she declared passionately. Totally meaning every word. ‘This isn’t some ploy with which I hope to gain your grace or favour or sexual interest. You do not interest me in the least.’

‘You interest me,’ he said softly, slicing the ground from under her.

Sensual awareness feathered over her skin.

‘Why San Felipe?’ He stepped closer. ‘Why now?’

Her heart stopped beating as she looked up into his blue eyes. For a second he actually looked human—as if he actually cared. And for a second she longed to open up and just be honest.

But as if she could ever tell him. When he’d so arrogantly assumed she wanted to land herself a princely lover? When he chose to listen to the father who’d always refused to recognise her?

He’d be just another man who denied her.

She wanted him to leave but she couldn’t tear her gaze from his. She’d thought she could handle anything. But she wasn’t sure she could handle him.

He reached out as if to take her hand. ‘Why now, Bella?’

Abruptly she turned to avoid his touch.

‘Careful—’

His warning came too late. As she whirled to escape her weak ankle went and she stumbled, catching her thigh on the corner of her desk.

* * *

Antonio winced at the grimace of pain on Bella’s face as she grabbed the desk to stop herself falling down. She’d gashed her leg, just above her knee. As he looked close he saw a long, jagged scar running in a wonky line up her shin.

She paled, her lips pressed together to mute any sound of pain.

It had been so long since he’d had any kind of physical comfort. Or offered any. He’d almost forgotten how. ‘Bella?’

‘It’s fine.’ She straightened and drew in a deep breath.

‘I’m sure,’ he replied, but he knew it wasn’t.

‘Wouldn’t want you thinking this was another ploy.’

‘It is my fault you fell,’ he said stiffly, his hands at his side, wanting to help her yet feeling oddly impotent.

‘You feel responsible? Rest easy, I won’t sue you.’ Her lips compressed. ‘It’s no more damaged than it already was.’

‘It still needs dressing.’ Blood was already oozing from the small wound. ‘You have a first-aid kit?’

‘Of course.’ She didn’t move.

He sighed at her reluctance. ‘I need to see it. Or I’ll revoke your operating licence.’

She gritted her teeth and limped behind her desk. His irritation smouldered. She really didn’t want him to help. Was that because he’d really offended her or because he’d struck too close to the mark?

She had been trying to get a rise out of him, but she hadn’t meant the vampish ‘on her knees’ offer—not when she’d jumped to get away from him.

She clutched the small container but he held out his hand. Sending him a death look, she passed it to him. Antonio bit back the smile of satisfaction and opened the lid.

‘Lean on the desk,’ he told her.

‘This isn’t necessary.’

He wasn’t used to repeating instructions. He glanced up and her stormy expression clashed with his. ‘Lean on the desk.’

Slowly, stiffly, she rested her body back.

‘Thank you,’ he said, ultra-politely.

He knelt at her feet, inwardly grimacing at the irony given her provocative remark only moments ago.

He knew an injury had ended her professional career. In the last decade Antonio had attended the ballet only out of duty but he could appreciate the strength and commitment it would have taken Bella to reach the level she had.

Her body was still incredibly athletic. This close he could smell her light, floral scent. It made him think of summer sun, not endless nights in a darkened dance club. In his mind’s eye he saw her on the floor, bumping and grinding up close to her patrons. He gritted his teeth. Not jealous. And not aroused.

He was not aroused by her.

He wasn’t like all the other red-blooded men in the world. He didn’t have time to be. He didn’t have the right. But just at this moment, he was every inch a mere man.

‘Do you dance your way through all your tasks?’ he asked, trying to distract himself from her sweet scent and delicate skin. He dabbed the blood and prepped a plaster as quickly as he could, not touching any part of her beyond necessary.

‘Is that a serious question?’ she mumbled.

‘Yes.’ Satisfied with how the plaster neatly covered the gash, he glanced up to read her expression. She was sitting unnaturally still—apparently holding her breath.

She met his gaze with those deep green eyes that were now almost liquid. ‘You want to know if I dance while brushing my teeth?’

He inwardly smiled at the image. ‘I bet you brush in time to the music playing in your head.’