The Italian Count's Command Read online

  But she held back. Dante would love her to beg and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Not in a million years.

  She’d worked for him as his UK secretary before they’d married four years ago. Even then she’d known that beneath his smooth charm lay a shrewd obstinacy and ruthless drive that ensured he always achieved his goals.

  Unbeknown to her, he’d needed a wife urgently to secure a fabulous inheritance—and she’d been there, sitting on a plate, ready to be gobbled up. She blushed to think of her joyous acceptance of his proposal.

  With his uncle’s recent death he had acquired the power to buy whatever he wanted—including, should there be a battle, the custody of their child. She trembled, scared of the might ranged against her.

  From his penthouse in Milan, Dante’s bachelor uncle had ruled the Severini silk empire. The family silk mills in northern Italy supplied the great fashion houses of the world. She’d never realised that Dante had been poised in the wings to take over the reins. He’d never told her. But then she’d never figured in his future plans, so why should he?

  It was a nightmare situation. Her husband would want his son to inherit. That meant she’d effectively lost Carlo—unless she played her trump card: her threat to dishonour the Severinis.

  On the flight back to England after her fruitless quest to discover Dante’s whereabouts, she’d decided to publicly expose him for what he was: a ruthless, selfish manipulator who cared nothing for people’s feelings. Whose naked ambition and obsessive pride had caused him to rip a three-year-old from his mother’s loving care.

  Oh, God! she thought with a lurch of sickening misery. Carlo would be so bewildered! How dared Dante use her as a brood mare and rip her son away?

  Fiercely she tried to shut out the poignant vision of the dark-eyed angel who had illuminated her life. His sweet face with its ready smile had haunted her since his disappearance. It had been the hardest thing in the world not to break down and indulge in an orgy of weeping. And she was at the end of her tether now.

  ‘Dante,’ she interrupted wearily, breaking in on his vitriolic assassination of her character, ‘is this why you’ve called? To vent your spleen? To kid yourself that I’m to blame for your actions? If so, I am hanging up now—’

  ‘No!’

  She felt a small stab of satisfaction at that hastily rapped ‘no’. He needed something. Hopefully her—to take Carlo back. Maybe he’d decided he could return Carlo to her, and make babies—correction—descendants, with some other woman, now that he’d safely inherited his uncle’s fortune.

  She felt sick at that thought. A small part of her still loved Dante. Sighing, she acknowledged that you couldn’t switch off a grand passion like a light.

  But at least her gamble—of appearing to be indifferent to his cruelty—had paid off. He’d been thrown off balance. Her reaction to his call had not been what he’d expected. That was how you handled bullies. It disconcerted them.

  Trying not to raise her hopes, she pressed a hand hard against her thudding heart, crushing the rich silk jacket beneath her long fingers. And, keeping her breathing as light as possible, she enquired merely,

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Che Dio mi aiuti! You are a cold, unfeeling monster of a woman!’ he spat.

  Miranda almost sobbed out loud. He had turned her into an ice queen. It had been her only defence against his growing indifference over the past year.

  She managed to hold herself together. ‘I assume you’ll get to the point eventually.’

  Mentally urging him on with an almost hysterical panic, she sank to her knees, which seemed dangerously liquid. She saw Lizzie staring at her, a frozen expression on her face, and was touched that her sister felt so agitated on her behalf.

  Dante cleared his throat. ‘You must come to Italy. It is imperative that you do.’ It sounded as if a herd of wild elephants were dragging the words from him. His normally satiny voice was harsh and begrudging. ‘I’ve sent a ticket by courier. The flight is tomorrow. My chauffeur will meet you. I’m at my late uncle’s estate.’

  Oh, thank you, thank you! she cried in silent passion. He’d relented! No, she corrected. That seemed unlikely. He’d rather cut off his right hand.

  More probably, she thought rapidly, he’d discovered that looking after Carlo in strange surroundings was harder than he’d imagined. Heavens, she thought with a rare flash of waspishness, he must have been desperate to swallow his pride!

  But Carlo would be hers. The separation was to end. Her hand flew to her mouth to stop herself from groaning with heartfelt relief. She’d have him back, safe in her arms. Tomorrow!

  All of a sudden, she couldn’t contain herself any longer. And without even responding to her husband’s imperious demand, she put the phone down with a crash.

  Then burst into floods of tears. And, embarrassed, she ran up to her room to give vent to her relief in private.

  Lizzie gaped. She’d never seen her sister cry. Not even seven years ago, on the day their mother had died when she was twelve and Miranda eighteen. And since their father had left them all before their mother’s death, Miranda had then become the breadwinner and substitute mother.

  Dante had been the first person to get under Miranda’s skin, the first man to make her blossom and go starry-eyed. But then he was gorgeous, even Lizzie had to admit, more charismatic than his handsome younger brother, Guido, who managed the London office.

  Guiltily Lizzie chewed her lip. She dreaded what Miranda might say if she ever found out she was dating the wild and reckless Guido. But she had a life too, didn’t she? The Severini family was rich and she wanted in. It was scary now that Miranda had been cast aside with no income and the prospect of homelessness.

  With a shudder, Lizzie remembered the penny-pinching days of her childhood. Since Miranda’s marriage, she’d become used to living in the lovely house here in Knightsbridge, and charging all her shopping to Dante’s account.

  So with Miranda possibly blowing the chance she’d had to be one of the idle rich, she, Lizzie, had to take over the running now. If Dante didn’t take her sister back, Lizzie thought, she’d bag herself a Severini of her own to provide the luxury lifestyle she craved.

  ‘Look at it! Miranda, just clock this place!’ Lizzie screeched.

  Miranda was beginning to regret agreeing to her sister’s plea to be found a place on the flight too. For the whole journey, Lizzie had been pestering her to reconcile with Dante. In addition, Lizzie’s envy of the sumptuous villa on the shores of Lake Como had made Miranda squirm.

  Meeting the chauffeur’s cynical gaze in the driving mirror, she looked away in embarrassment. Then she realised that the car had stopped in front of some imposing gates. She tensed. They must have reached their destination.

  Her stomach began to churn like a washing machine and she forgot Lizzie’s embarrassing worship of conspicuous wealth. In a few moments Carlo would be snuggling up to her. She could hardly breathe for excitement.

  ‘Miranda, this is money with a capital M!’ gloated Lizzie. ‘Couldn’t you try to patch things up? Oh, please, please! Look what you’d be missing—’

  ‘I’ve told you!’ Miranda frowned with impatience. ‘I’m here for one reason only and that’s to take Carlo from that swine I stupidly married! I swear,’ she cried with low and heartfelt passion, ‘that I will move heaven and earth if necessary to take my baby back to England—’

  ‘You’re hopeless! All right. Get a damn good divorce settlement at the very least,’ counselled Lizzie crossly. ‘Screw him for all you can.’

  The massive wrought-iron gates swung open electronically. As the limo purred through them, Miranda’s face lit up with relief and she couldn’t prevent a warm smile from seeping out at the thought of her son’s dear little body, soon to be held close to hers.

  With a start, she noticed that the chauffeur’s eyes had hardened at the sight of her pleasure and she wondered what Dante had told his staff about her.

  ‘Is this actuall
y Dante Severini’s house?’ she asked, breathless with excitement.

  There was a moment’s hesitation before a grudging grunt. ‘Si.’

  Not ‘Si, signora,’ the usual courteous response, she noted. Miranda gritted her teeth at the deliberate insult and then dismissed it. What did it matter what lies Dante had told? She’d be shot of the lot of them in an hour and on her way back home.

  The car crawled up the long driveway and her tension mounted. So this, she thought in amazement, was the estate that Dante had coveted, along with the business!

  She could see why. It was breathtakingly situated on the shores of Lake Como in the north of Italy. The gardens had been laid out in a mixture of English and Italian styles, so that rhododendrons and azaleas and plane trees harmonised surprisingly well with the palms and banana plants set amid elegant terraces and statues.

  And she’d never even known of its existence.

  ‘Jumping elephants!’ Lizzie shrieked as the house finally came into view. ‘My brother-in-law’s become a billionaire at least! Jammy devil!’

  ‘Lizzie!’ she scolded, humiliated by the chauffeur’s disgusted glance.

  ‘What? I’m only saying what’s true,’ protested her sister. ‘Forget the divorce. You’re looking great, Miranda. This is your big chance. Play your cards right as we discussed, get back into his bed, and life’ll be a ball!’

  Miranda was barely listening, far more interested in studying the house. Four storeys high, the pale ochre building was both graceful and imposing. An eighteenth-century palace, fit for a prince. Or a highly ambitious man.

  It was quite the most beautiful house she had ever seen, straight out of a fairy tale. It sat serenely in the lush green gardens, with what must be magnificent views over the stunning blue lake.

  Yet despite its grandeur the house seemed welcoming and friendly as if centuries of love and care had given it a mellow personality of its own.

  Even Lizzie had been silenced as they came to a halt by the broad stone staircase.

  Now I truly understand why he schemed with such desperation, Miranda mused soberly. This was a prize that Dante could not bear to lose. Even if it meant deliberately deceiving a woman he knew was madly in love with him. Why not marry the poor sap and give her a little happiness for a short time, before consigning her to the rubbish heap?

  Miranda’s heart beat a tattoo in her chest as she slid from the luxurious car. Trembling with anticipation and almost sick with excitement and joy, she watched Dante’s tall figure emerge from the imposing house and concentrated on dealing with the way her heart contracted at the sight of him. Behind her, Lizzie tumbled out, still rhapsodising in ear-splitting shrieks to some boyfriend on her mobile.

  A jolt of disappointment hit her. Just Dante had appeared. No Carlo. Her stomach lurched with fear and then she steadied herself. Carlo must be having a nap. She smiled, as lovingly remembered images of her sleeping son filled her mind.

  And smiling adoringly still, she lifted her gaze to the man who was watching her so intently. A spark of electricity leapt across the distance between them. The impact of seeing him was just the same as the first day she’d met him: a deep, visceral belonging, a sense of a shared destiny and warm, overwhelming joy.

  Except, she sighed, those feelings had always been one-sided. He’d never loved her. And of course now she understood what lay behind his autocratic bearing and the air of perfect grooming, the perfectly tailored silk suit in a discreet honey colour, the made-to-measure casual cream shirt, and those expensive leather shoes.

  Money. Buckets of it. And breeding.

  She’d been ignorant of all this. When they’d lived in London their lifestyle had been comfortable but not excessively so. Now she knew that he and his family were in a different league altogether, that of the mega-rich.

  She gulped, intimidated by this because he had become a stranger, just by stepping into the higher echelons of Italian society.

  The chauffeur hurried up the steps to meet Dante and was gesticulating and talking rapidly. Probably, Miranda thought uncomfortably, complaining about Lizzie’s high-decibel shrieks and embarrassing remarks. Dante’s eyes narrowed in a suspicious stare and her composure wilted like her body in the blazing sun as she blushed with shame.

  ‘You’d think Carlo would be waiting for you,’ Lizzie complained. ‘Unless Dante’s teaching you a lesson and we’ve come on a wild-goose chase.’

  Fear rooted Miranda to the ground. Had she been dragged here for revenge? To be given hope, only to be told that she could whistle for her son?

  ‘He’ll…be asleep,’ she said, not very convincingly.

  Carlo…where? When? she thought desperately, trying to contain herself. In panic, she listened for the sounds of a child but heard nothing, only a tension-filled silence.

  Feeling chilled to the core despite the hot sun, she waited for Dante to come to her because she couldn’t move an inch. Eventually he dismissed the chauffeur and his long, impeccably clad legs slowly began to descend the steps.

  With infuriating nonchalance, Dante paused on the bottom step, reaching out casually to fiddle with a cascade of geraniums in an antique copper urn.

  Drat him, he must know what she was going through! She’d wring his neck if he continued to play with her feelings!

  ‘Miranda.’ He gave her a mocking bow. No kiss. No handshake. No touching. So she just nodded back, managing to seem cool and contained. ‘Greetings, Elizabeth,’ he murmured to his star-struck sister-in-law. ‘Perhaps you would enjoy touring the house. Make yourself at home, and help yourself to champagne and pastries in the salon.’

  ‘Cool! You bet!’ Eyes sparkling and with her mobile still clamped to her ear, Lizzie leapt up the steps, blissfully unaware that Dante had skilfully got her out of the way.

  His mocking dark eyes followed her sister and his lips curved in a faintly contemptuous smile, the sensual, cresting wave of his mouth sending shivers of remembrance down Miranda’s back.

  She closed her eyes briefly as her body felt the cascade of kisses he used to shower on her. All carefully calculated, she thought bitterly, to keep her sweet until his uncle died! Cured of her stupid mooning, she snapped open her eyes again.

  With a total lack of urgency, Dante turned to Miranda. His gaze slid up her taut body in an arrogant assessment of her graceful figure in the classically cut silk dress and jacket. In Dante’s favourite cornflower-blue, it matched her eyes. Into which, she’d thought with a pang of anguish when she’d selected it, he’d gazed with such devastating results.

  ‘You are thinner,’ he announced, his frown registering his disapproval.

  She bridled immediately. Once she’d loved his intrinsically Italian interest in her body and clothes. Now his interest was insulting and intrusive. She lifted her shoulders in an eloquent uninterest.

  ‘My appearance is none of your business. Naturally I’ve been busy. Rushing here, dashing there…’

  And from feeling sick at the sight of food. With agonising cramps in her stomach. Damn you, Dante! she inwardly seethed. Where is my son?

  He corrected the frown which had drawn his brows together.

  ‘You’re right. Your appalling lifestyle in England is no concern of mine any longer, I am glad to say. Tea has been brought to my study,’ he said icily. ‘Follow me.’ When he began to climb the steps again she made no reply but stomped along behind him in silence, trying not to rise to his insult. ‘Nothing to say to me?’ he shot back at her.

  ‘No.’ She’d bide her time. See what he had to say—

  ‘I thought as much,’ he scorned as she caught him up. ‘You’ve just proved something to me.’

  ‘Oh? What might that be?’

  ‘That when I was around you only pretended that you loved Carlo.’

  ‘How on earth do you arrive at that conclusion?’ she demanded indignantly.

  ‘You’ve been separated from him for two weeks. But you haven’t bothered to ask where he is,’ he said with bitter contempt.


  So much for his intuition, she thought, intensely irritated. Didn’t he know her whole mind was screaming for information?

  ‘I saw no point in wasting my breath. I imagined,’ she retorted drily, proud that there was hardly a tremor in her voice at all, ‘that you would tell me when you’re good and ready and not before.’

  He gave a grunt of acknowledgement. ‘How well you know me, Miranda!’ he muttered, indicating that they should enter the building.

  Know him? On the contrary. How could you know a devious, deceitful snake? She would never trust him again. Suddenly, doubts as to his motive for bringing her here filled her head and she came to a halt.

  ‘Just tell me one thing,’ she said evenly, ‘otherwise I see no reason to go any further. Am I going to see my son soon?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Dante’s eyes flickered. ‘I give you my guarantee that the two of you will be reunited. Please enter. We will talk inside.’

  Her breath shuddered out. It seemed that her fears were groundless and all she needed to do was keep her dignity until Dante relented and let her take Carlo into her arms. Only then would she risk giving way to joy. And tears. She could hardly believe it. The nightmare was almost over.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SUDDENLY she felt unbelievably tired. It was as though all her mental and physical energies had carried her through to this moment. Now she and Carlo were about to be reunited, she could begin to let go.

  Exhaustion washed over her as she followed his tall figure through the huge carved doors. If anything, he seemed better-looking than ever. Her resentful eyes noted the perfect curve that his neat black hair made on the rich, dark skin of his neck. The breadth of his shoulders in the crisp Milanese jacket.

  And in her mind’s eye she could see his sensational back as if he were naked: the firmness of its triangular shape, the slender hips and tight, neat buttocks. The smooth flesh golden and inviting her touch, muscles moving beneath the well-fitted clothes, the thick cords on either side of his spine proclaiming his athleticism and physical power.