The Mistress: The Mistress\Wanted: Mistress and Mother (23 page)

“This is the garden,” Dante said as they came to a gate. “It’s
in a real mess, very neglected, overgrown with blackberries and bracken, I’ve
been meaning to get it cleared, but my gardener is getting old. It takes all his
time just to keep up with the regular work, let alone this. Oh, and one other
thing...” His hand paused on the gate. “The bill is to come to me.”

“Hugh employed me,” Matilda pointed out.

“Hugh does not need to pay for my renovations—you will send the
bill to me, Matilda.”

But she didn’t want to send the bill to him—and it had nothing
to do with money. Financially it made not a scrap of difference to Matilda who
picked up the bill. Instead, it was the disturbing thought of being answerable
somehow to Dante, of him employing her, that made Matilda strangely nervous.

“Do you need an advance?”

“An advance?” Instantly, she regretted her words. Her mind had
been utterly elsewhere and now she sounded stupid.

“An advance of money,” Dante not too patiently explained. “To
pay the subcontractors. I don’t know what arrangement you had with Hugh—”

“
Have
with Hugh,” Matilda
corrected, watching as Dante’s face darkened. Clearly he was not used to being
defied, but even though an advance would be wonderful now, even though she had a
hundred and one people that would need to be paid, and very soon, she damn well
wasn’t going to give in to him, absolutely refused to let him dictate his terms
to her. “My business is with Hugh. If you want to settle up with him, that’s
your choice.”

Surprisingly he didn’t argue, but as he pushed open the gate
she could tell he was far from pleased, but, refusing to back down, refusing to
even look at him, she stepped into the garden and as she did all thoughts of
money and who was the boss faded in an instant. Despite Dante’s gloomy
predictions, all she could see was beauty—the sleeping princess that lay beneath
the overgrown bracken and thorns.

Dante’s manicured gardens were wonderful, but, for Matilda,
nothing could beat the raw natural beauty of a neglected garden, a blank canvas
for her to work on. It was about the size of a suburban block of land, the
centrepiece a massive willow, more than a hundred years in the making, one
lifetime simply not enough to produce its full majesty. But that was part of the
beauty of her work. A new garden was a mere a sketch on the canvas—the colour,
the depth was added over the years, seeds sown that would flourish later,
shrubs, trees that would develop, blossom and grow long, long after the cheque
had been paid and her tools cleared away.

“Vistas.” It was the first thing that came to mind and she said
it out loud, registering his frown. “Lots of walkways all coming from the
willow, lined with hedges and each one leading to a different view, a special
area for Alex...”

“You can do something with it?”

She didn’t answer, just gave a distracted nod as she pictured
the bosky paths, a water feature at the end of one, a sand pit at the end of the
other, and...

“A castle,” Matilda breathed. “An enchanted castle, like a
fairy-tale. I know someone who makes the most beautiful cubby houses...” Her
voice trailed off as she stared down at the ground, her sandals scuffing the
earth. “We’ll use turf for now, but I’ll plant lots of different things so that
each path will be different—clover for one, daisies for another,
buttercups...”

“Will you be able to do it in the time-frame?”

Matilda nodded. “Less perhaps. I’ll know more tomorrow once
it’s cleared. I’ve got some people coming at six. There’ll be a lot of noise,
but only tomorrow...”

“That’s fine. Katrina has already said she will take Alex out
or to her place during the day. You’ll have the place to yourself...” He paused
and Matilda wondered if he was going to raise the money issue again, but instead
it was a rather more difficult subject he brought up. “I’m sorry she made you
feel uncomfortable.”

“She didn’t,” Matilda attempted, then gave in as he raised a
questioning eyebrow. “OK, she did make me feel a bit uncomfortable, but it’s
fine.”

“I’ll take you and show you the summerhouse. But you don’t have
to cook for yourself, you’re very welcome to come over for—”

“I’ll be fine,” Matilda interrupted. “In fact, it’s probably
better that I stay there...” Blowing her fringe skyward, Matilda attempted the
impossible but, ever direct, Dante beat her to it.

“After what happened on Friday?” He checked and despite a deep
blush Matilda gave a wry smile.

“I don’t think Katrina would approve somehow if she knew. She
doesn’t even know that we had dinner, let alone...”

“It’s none of Katrina’s business,” Dante pointed out, but
Matilda shook her head.

“Oh, but she thinks it is.”

“Matilda.” His black eyes were boring into her, and she could
only admire his boldness that he could actually look at her, unlike she,
herself, who gave in after once glance, choosing instead to stare at her toes as
he spoke. “I will tell you what I told Katrina. I have no interest in a
relationship—any relationship. For now I grieve for what I have lost: a wife and
the happiness of my daughter.” Still she looked down, swallowing down the
questions that were on the tip of her tongue. But either he could read her mind
or he had used this speech many times before, because he answered each and every
one of them with painful, brutal honesty, his silken, thick accent doing nothing
to sweeten the bitterness of the message.

“I like women—I like beautiful women,” he drawled, wrapping the
knife that stabbed her in velvet as he plunged it in. “And as you would have
seen in the paper yesterday, sometimes I keep their company, but there is always
concurrence, always there is an understanding that it can go nowhere. If I
misled you on Friday, I apologise.”

“You didn’t mislead me.” Matilda croaked the words out then
instantly regretted them. In that split second she understood what Dante was
offering her, what this emotionally abstinent man was telling her—that she could
have him for a short while, could share his bed, but not his heart. And all
Matilda knew was that she couldn’t do it, couldn’t share his bed knowing she
must walk away, that deadening his pain would only exacerbate hers. His hand
reached out towards her, his fingers cupping her chin, lifting her face to his.
Yet she still refused to look at him, knew that if her eyes met his then she’d
be lost.

“You didn’t mislead me, Dante, because it was just a kiss.”
Somehow she kept her voice even; somehow she managed to keep her cheeks from
flaming as she lied through her teeth. “A kiss to end the evening. I certainly
had no intention of taking things further, either then or now.” She knew she
hadn’t convinced him and from the slight narrowing of his eyes knew that he
didn’t believe her. Taking a breath, she elaborated, determined to set the tone,
and the boundaries in order to survive the next couple of weeks. She didn’t want
to be one of Dante’s ships that passed in the night. “Since Edward and I broke
up, I’ve been on a few dates, had a few kisses, but...” Matilda gave a nervous
shrug. “You know the saying: you have to kiss a lot of frogs...” From his
slightly startled look clearly he didn’t know it. “One kiss was enough for me,
Dante.”

“I see.” He gave a tight smile. “I think.”

“It won’t be happening again,” Matilda affirmed, hoping that if
she said it enough she might even believe it herself.

“I just wanted to clear things up.”

“Good.” Matilda forced a bright smile, relieved this torture
was almost over. “I’m glad that you did.”

“And I’m sorry that you did not enjoy the kiss.” His words
wiped the smile from her face, his eyes boring into her. She couldn’t be sure,
but Matilda was positive he was teasing her, that he knew she was lying and, of
course, she was. It had been the most breathtaking kiss of her life, her whole
body was burning now just at the mere memory, but it was imperative Dante didn’t
know. He’d made it clear he wasn’t interested in anything more than the most
casual of casual flings, and that was the last thing she needed now—especially
with a man like Dante. There was nothing casual about him, nothing casual about
the feelings he evoked, and if she played with this particular fire, Matilda
knew she’d end up seriously burnt. “Because I thought that—”

“Could you show me where I’m staying, please?” Matilda snapped,
following Dante’s lead and refusing to be drawn somewhere she didn’t want to go.
She turned abruptly to go, but in her haste to escape she forgot about the
blackberries. Her leg caught on a branch, the thorn ripping into her bare calf,
a yelp of pain escaping her lips.

“Careful.” Dante’s reflexes were like lightning. He pulled back
the branch and held her elbow as Matilda stepped back and instinctively
inspected the damage, tears of pain and embarrassment filling her eyes at the
vivid red gash.

“I’m fine,” she breathed.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s just a scratch. If you can just show me where I’m
staying...” she said. She almost shouted it this time she so badly wanted out of
there, wanted some privacy from his knowing eyes, but Dante was pulling out a
neatly folded hanky and running it under the garden tap, before returning and
dropping to his knees.

“Please.” Matilda was practically begging now, near to tears,
not with pain but with embarrassment and want, the thought of him touching her
exquisitely unbearable. But Dante wasn’t listening. One hand cupped her calf,
the other pressed the cool silk into her stinging cut, and it was as soothing as
it was disturbing—the ultimate pleasure-pain principle as his hands tended her,
calming and arousing. Matilda bit so hard on her lip she thought she might draw
blood there, too, her whole body tense, standing rigid as he pressed the
handkerchief harder, her stomach a knot of nervous anticipation as she felt his
breath against her thigh.

“I’ll just press for a minute and stop the bleeding, then I’ll
take you over to the summerhouse...” Strange that his voice was completely
normal, that his body was completely relaxed, while hers was spinning in wild
orbit, stirred with naked lust, shameful, inappropriate thoughts filling her
mind as he tended her. She couldn’t believe her own thought process as she stood
there, gazing down. His fingers were pushed into her calf as the cool silk
pressed on her warm skin, his breath on her leg as he spoke. And how she wanted
to feel that delicious mouth again, but on her thigh this time, almost willing
with her eyes for his fingers to creep higher, to quell the pulse that was
leaping between her legs, to calm the heat with his cool, cool hand. “I think
there’s a first-aid box...”

“I’ll be OK.” She shivered the words out.

“Of course you will, it’s just a cut, but...” His voice faded
as he looked up at her, his eyes fixing on hers. And she stared back, trapped
like a deer in the headlights, knowing he could feel it now, could see her
treacherous arousal, could smell her excitement,
knew
that she had lied when she had said she didn’t want him.

The silence fizzed between them as he continued to stare, and
for that moment the choice was entirely his—reason, logic, had gone the second
he’d touched her. If Dante pulled her down now, they both knew that she wouldn’t
even attempt to resist...

“Matilda...” His voice was thick with lust, his eyes blatantly
desiring her. Thank God he spoke, thank God he broke the spell, gave her that
tiny moment to stab at self-preservation and pull back her leg. Her face flaming
she turned around, denied absolutely what was taking place, turning and heading
for the gate, practically wrenching it open, just desperate for some space, some
distance, a chance to think before her body betrayed her again.

* * *

There for the taking.

Those were the words he’d taunted her with on Friday night and
those were the words that taunted her now as he led her over to the summerhouse
and briefly showed her around.

As the door closed on Dante, not even looking at her
surroundings, Matilda sank onto the bed and buried her face in her hands,
cringing with shame, as sure as she could be that Dante had witnessed her
arousal, had sensed her desire.

What was wrong with her? She wasn’t even, according to Edward,
supposed to like sex, yet here she was acting like some hormone-laden teenage
girl with a king-sized crush, contemplating an affair with a man who wanted
nothing more than her body.

And
how
she was contemplating!
Despite her attempts at indifference, despite her brave words before, she wanted
him. But unlike Dante, it wasn’t just bed she wanted but the prelude to it and
the postscript afterwards, the parts of him he wasn’t prepared to give.

For the first time she took in her surroundings. The
summerhouse was certainly comfortable—in fact, it was gorgeous. A cedar
attic-shaped building, tucked away at the rear of the property, no doubt it had
once been a rather impressive shed, but it had been lovingly refurbished, the
attention to detail quite amazing. A small kitchenette as you entered, and to
the left a small
en suite
with a shower, the rest of
the floor space taken up by a large bed and a television and CDs. Janet, the
rather prim housekeeper, came over with her bags and filled up the fridge with
produce, explaining that the previous owners had used it as a bed and breakfast,
but since the Costellos had owned it, for the most part it had remained
empty.

“Mr Costello wanted to know if you’ll be joining him for
dinner,” Janet said, once she had stocked up the fridge with enough food to feed
a small army. “It’s served at seven-thirty once young Alex is in bed, except for
Tuesdays and Thursdays. I have my bible class on those nights...”

“No,” Matilda quickly answered, then softened her rather snappy
response with a smile. “I mean, tell him, no, thank you,” she added.