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  Ariana and Stefano were rigidly polite but soon gave in and drifted off, leaving Mia standing with Dante.

  ‘Where’s Roberto?’ Mia asked, as he was supposed to be escorting her for her entrance into the ballroom.

  ‘Roberto is unwell,’ Dante said. ‘It’s nothing serious, but unfortunately he’s unable to attend.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mia blinked, sorry to have missed seeing him.

  ‘I can’t escort you in,’ Dante said. ‘That might be...inappropriate.’

  ‘Of course,’ Mia agreed, more than a little relieved because there were practically sparks flying between them.

  ‘However,’ he continued, ‘I have asked Gian—’

  ‘Dante,’ Mia interrupted, ‘you don’t have to rummage amongst family and friends for someone to escort me. I am perfectly capable of walking in alone.’

  ‘Very well,’ Dante said, admiring her greatly, and then, as the MC called his name, he added, ‘Oh, and just so you know, I shan’t dance with you, Mia. I think you know why.’

  He left her standing there, a little breathless, a little stunned, as if she’d just been thoroughly kissed, and then, as it was her turn to be introduced, Mia entered the ballroom alone.

  Heads turned as Rafael Romano’s widow made her entrance. There were, Mia was sure, whispers behind manicured hands that the widow wore red. Still, she focussed instead on the gorgeous décor as she made her way to the head table. The ballroom was heavenly and lavishly furnished, with rose-gold brocade walls and ornate arches and a central chandelier that cast endless stars over the many tables, which were adorned with silverware and a centrepiece each of a tall column of fragrant gardenias.

  The people seated at her table were all standing and as Mia approached she was grateful to Gian, who politely kissed her on the cheeks, and only when she had taken her seat on a gorgeous Chiavari chair did the rest of her table sit down.

  It was going to be a very awkward night, although she had expected no less.

  Mia was seated between a minister—of what, she couldn’t quite catch—and Gian, which provided somewhat of a buffer for this dinner of discontent. Ariana, looked ravishing in a black ballgown, was seated on the other side of Gian. She was pointedly silent towards Mia. Stefano and Eloa had eyes only for each other, while Luigi and his wife made no attempt to be friendly.

  And Dante?

  He sat opposite Mia, with the minister’s wife by his side and someone Mia didn’t know on the other. But she was beautiful and laughed loudly at everything Dante said and gazed up at him with utter adoration.

  Would he be so cruel as to bring a date?

  Mia truly didn’t know.

  There was a toast to Rafael to kick off the night, and they were told by the MC that all the champagne was from his private cellar. Naturally Mia raised a glass and took a pretend sip, though the flash of tears in her eyes as she toasted Rafael were genuine as she thought of her dear friend.

  They nibbled their way through the antipasti and for the primo piatto it was ravioli, stuffed with pecorino, in a creamy white truffle sauce. It was perfection and Mia wished she wasn’t too nervous to fully enjoy it.

  ‘This was Rafael’s favourite meal,’ Mia commented to Gian.

  ‘Indeed.’ Gian nodded. ‘The whole menu was chosen by Ariana to reflect that—the truffles are from his home.’

  ‘How lovely,’ Mia said, and glanced over at Ariana, who refused even the slightest truce, and instead rather pointedly turned her elegant shoulders and spoke to the guest on her other side.

  When the main course was served, Mia had filetto di maiale alla mela, and it took her straight back to the fragrant scent that had greeted her after a long ride on Massimo, but the gentle reminiscence was soured when she saw the woman next to Dante place her hand on his arm as she vied for his attention. Worse, he turned to her and smiled in agreement at whatever it was she had said.

  Oh, Mia was more than jealous. Disappointment coursed through her for no matter how she might deny her reasons for being here, the simple fact was that she wanted time alone with Dante.

  She wanted that dangerous dance.

  As desserts were cleared away—again a selection of Rafael’s favourites all chosen by Ariana and displayed to perfection—Eloa at least made an attempt at conversation. ‘Ariana has also been helping us with our wedding preparations.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mia smiled. ‘When is the wedding?’

  ‘May,’ Eloa said.

  ‘It’s going to be amazing.’ Ariana slipped in a dig. ‘Anyone who’s anyone has been invited.’

  And Mia, given she hadn’t been, was clearly a no one to them.

  Eloa at least had the decency to blush.

  When the meal was over, and before the speeches and silent auction, there was to be socialising and dancing. Of course, out of respect to Rafael, Mia sat out the dancing and thankfully Gian took the poisonous Ariana off to dance.

  Yet, despite the tension at the table, despite Ariana’s caustic words, despite herself even, Mia found that she had missed them all.

  Yes, even if it made perfect sense that she hadn’t been invited to Stefano and Eloa’s wedding, even if it would be hell to attend, it hurt that she wouldn’t be there.

  That their lives were all moving on without her.

  She was hormonal, Mia decided, sniffing back sudden tears and then doing her best to speak with the Minister of Something, though she had no real idea what was being said. That she could not focus had nothing to do with her less than fluent Italian, for the minister spoke in perfect English. It was more that she was so acutely aware of Dante. Like a black panther, he sleekly worked the room; his beauty was raw and exquisite and accentuated by his stunning attire and she was very aware that she knew the beauty of his body beneath.

  But then came the hell of watching him dance with his date.

  Mia had never been jealous in her life until Dante, but now she found that it felt like a corkscrew stabbed into her chest, twisting tighter and tighter, making it impossible to focus on what the Minister of Something said. ‘Of course we attend every year, but this is special indeed.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mia attempted. ‘Rafael would have loved it.’

  ‘Yet he didn’t attend last year?’

  ‘No,’ Mia agreed, though her eyes kept drifting to the dance floor as she tried to fathom how it might feel to be wrapped in those velvet arms. ‘Rafael wasn’t well.’

  ‘That’s obvious now! Although we weren’t privy to that information at the time...’ On and on he went, clearly affronted that he hadn’t been personally informed that Rafael was ill. ‘I’ve done a lot for the foundation...’ the minister continued, but it was all white noise to Mia as she watched Dante laugh at whatever his dance companion had said.

  Dante laughed. Mia had never, ever seen Dante laugh before. The corkscrew twisted again and she gritted her jaw at the exact moment his eyes met hers—another woman in his arms, his narrowed eyes assessing her. She felt them scald her bare shoulders and it was as if his hands were at the back of her neck and freeing the tie, for her breasts felt prickly in the fabric of her gown...and then his gaze came back to her eyes and her cheeks stung as if she’d been slapped.

  ‘Don’t you agree?’ the minister said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Mia couldn’t even attempt to recall whatever he’d said, for not only hadn’t she been listening but Mia was suddenly, embarrassingly, near to tears. ‘If you’ll please excuse me for a moment,’ Mia said. She made her way out of the ballroom and to the powder room, which was as decadent as any she’d seen—not that she had the energy to really take in her surroundings. Instead she gripped a marble bench and looked into a large antique mirror at unfamiliar, made-up eyes that were glittering as brightly as the diamonds that hung from her ears.

  ‘You’re doing well, Signora,’ a middle-aged woman said. ‘It must be a difficult nigh
t for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Mia smiled, and after taking a moment to gather her breath she stepped out of the bathroom and walked almost straight into Dante.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said, and led her across the foyer. He took a sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘I am running the speech by you, in case we are seen stepping out.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Finally, they had some privacy for he had led her to a delicious occasional garden. As the French doors closed on them, she dragged in a lungful of cool night air. It was Mia who spoke first. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Who?’ Dante frowned, and then he saw that her neck was not just red but mottled and he could almost taste her jealousy. It was such an unexpected turn-on to see the cool and collected Mia anything but that he smiled as realisation hit.

  ‘That’s the minister’s daughter; she’s not my date.’

  ‘You’re flirting with her.’

  ‘God, no,’ Dante said.

  ‘You were laughing with her.’

  ‘I was trying to keep things light,’ Dante admitted. He laughed a false laugh, the one he must have used, and for some reason it made her giggle. ‘She always tries to flirt with me; it is the same every year, though usually I have a date. She is thoroughly over-excited tonight because I appear to be alone. But I am not alone,’ Dante said, and as he stepped closer to Mia her smile faded. ‘Am I?’

  Mia swallowed, before answering. ‘No.’

  ‘Who am I here with tonight, Mia?’ he provoked in a low sexy drawl that demanded she answer.

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Pardon?’ he said.

  Her voice was husky. ‘You’re here with me.’

  ‘Yes,’ Dante said, ‘and never forget it. I dance my duty dances, but the only one I want to dance with is you. Know this, Mia—every year that you come to the Romano ball, I will come alone.’

  And with those words, Dante moved his own goalposts.

  He had sworn only one more night, but the thought of meeting each year at this event was tempting indeed. It might be for only one night, once a year, yet it was more of a commitment than Dante had ever made to anyone before.

  The thought of them never quite ending was tempting indeed.

  He stepped closer still and her world shrank further; even the sounds from the ball faded to nothing, for she could hear her own pulse in her ears.

  ‘You got the earrings, I see,’ Dante said, as his finger lightly touched one sparking jewel.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, but her voice came out high, as if owned by a teenage boy, for his hand was warm on her neck. ‘Should I leave them in the suite’s safe or...?’

  ‘They’re yours,’ Dante said. ‘From me.’

  ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Dante, please don’t buy me gifts.’

  ‘But I want to,’ Dante said silkily.

  ‘We should go back in,’ Mia attempted, because now things were dangerous. Now, finally alone, there was nowhere to hide the lust that thrummed between them. She shivered, though not from the cold. It was because his hand trailed from her neck, down her bare arm and then to the curve of her waist. The feel of his palm caused sensation to pool at her centre, and the slight dig of his fingers made her sex clench.

  ‘Did you know,’ Dante said, and his voice felt like a lick to her ear, ‘that this hotel is named after the old Duke’s mistress?’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ Mia responded, and her eyes met his. They glittered with ire—was Dante inviting her to be his mistress?

  Or was it desire? For she was so exquisitely turned on now it was as if they danced alone.

  ‘It is said,’ Dante continued, his breath on her cheek, ‘that the Duke and Duchess were to host a private dinner for the Principe and Principessa in this very dimora...’ He registered her frown at the unfamiliar word. ‘Mansion,’ he translated. ‘But instead of being here to greet his esteemed guests, the Duke was, yet again, visiting Fiordelise, and so was, yet again, inexcusably late. Always he was late, and so it was decided that Fiordelise would have her own suite next to his...’ She knew he could not kiss her and ruin her make up, but his mouth was so close that it almost felt as if he were. ‘The Duke was never late again.’

  She had to fight her own lips for they wanted to stretch to meet his. ‘We can’t do this, Dante.’

  ‘Why not?’ Dante asked, as his hand slid around to the small of her back. ‘I have to have you, Mia.’ She recalled how that night his hand had felt like a balm as he’d pushed into her, and possibly he was thinking the same thing for now he pressed against her and her hips fought not to press back.

  ‘Then we can’t be seen, Dante.’ Mia shivered, as she gave in to the knowledge that tonight they must meet.

  ‘We shan’t be,’ Dante said, and he took her hand. For a second she thought he was about to kiss her fingers in that decadent way again, but instead he pressed something cold into her palm and closed her fingers over it.

  He let her go then and she dared not look at what he’d handed her. But she could feel the cool metal and it took a second to dawn on Mia that he had handed her a key and that they must have adjoining suites.

  ‘If you want me tonight,’ Dante said, ‘all you have to do is turn the key and you will find that the door on the other side is already open.’

  Forget the corkscrew in her chest, Mia thought, for the key she held in her palm now wound her far tighter, albeit somewhat further below. The weeks since the invitation had arrived had caused silent, frantic negotiations with herself, insisting that she did not want to sleep with Dante again, while knowing she really did.

  Except there was the pregnancy that Mia had not revealed to Dante—not that she had a chance to now—for the French doors were opening and Dante abruptly dropped contact and stepped back.

  ‘Dante.’ Stefano came out to the occasional garden and saw them standing there, grim faced, with Dante still holding the paper. ‘There you are.’ Stefano took in the very tense atmosphere and thankfully completely misread it, so much so that he assumed they were engaged in a row! ‘You told Ariana and me to put the animosity on hold for one night,’ Stefano challenged. ‘Surely you can take your own advice? The speeches are about to start.’

  ‘I’ll be right there.’ Dante said, and accompanied his brother back to the ballroom, leaving Mia to slip the key into her small purse and make her own way back alone.

  Dante took up the microphone and thanked everyone for coming; he spoke of his father and how important this night had always been to him.

  Mia stood there, trying to mimic his calm, trying to laugh when appropriate, trying to concentrate on the rest of the night, while the key in her purse seemed to pulse like a nuclear alarm.

  All she could think about was that tonight she would be with Dante.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE REST OF the ball passed by in a blur, but finally there came an appropriate time for Mia to leave and she headed up to her suite. She found that not only could Dante be tender when he so chose, he could be romantic too. There was champagne chilling and a silver tray of handmade chocolates, as well as a glorious display of roses in the deep blood-red colour of the dress. She doubted the colour choice was coincidental and it told Mia he had taken in every detail of what she wore.

  Her breathing was coming a little too fast, as if Dante were actually present. As she took out the key from her purse, Mia truly didn’t know what to do.

  Oh, she knew what she wanted to do—her slightly frantic eyes took in her surroundings and found that the lounge had an adjoining door—and she wanted to turn the key in the lock and be thoroughly made love to by Dante.

  But would it be wrong not to tell him about the baby first?

  Mia truly did not know how to say the words. Should she just blurt them out?

  Or would she chicken out and write a note, slide it
under his door, and await her fate?

  She sat at the walnut desk, a stack of thick cream paper embossed with ‘La Fiordelise’ in swirling gold in front of her, and thought of Fiordelise waiting for the Duke to visit as she tried to work out her I’m pregnant speech.

  Dante, I don’t know how to tell you this...

  Dante, there was a problem after I took the pills...

  Dante...

  Her heart was thumping, but more with frustration than fear, because she knew the second she told him about the pregnancy their magical night would end and everything would change. And then Mia made the first truly selfish decision of her life: while she knew she had to tell him, and she would tell him, she wanted Dante tonight.

  She abandoned her writing and turned the key in the adjoining door.

  He might be ages, Mia told herself. After all, there were many guests to thank and to say goodbye to, but she jumped when a mere moment later the lever on the door slowly lowered. She stood as the door was pushed open and there was no question now if she would tell him.

  No questions in her mind at all.

  ‘Mia.’ He took a step forward and she stumbled towards him.

  And when he took her in his arms, all the fear of telling him, the uncertainty all hushed as if a plug had been pulled and all that was left was the vacuum of them into which he drew her.

  Dante pulled her right into him and held her as he had wanted to the entire night, and she revelled in the bliss of being back in his strong, warm embrace.

  He kissed her temple, and her eyes screwed closed at his soft touch, then a tiny cry came to her mouth as he kissed her cheeks.

  ‘Dante...’ She sought his mouth, but he denied it, and lowered his head to the tender skin on her neck and inhaled her scent.

  He could feel her shaking, literally trembling with desire. Dante wanted her naked in bed—his bed, or hers, he cared not which. He just wanted to kiss every inch of her, but then he lifted his head and their mouths met and everything changed.