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‘At you. You look unbelievable. Like a Madonna. A Madonna in skinny jeans.’
‘Will you stop it?’ She could feel her cheeks getting hotter by the second. ‘I’m busy feeding your son.’
‘And you do it so well.’
‘It’s a biological function, Dante,’ she said drily. ‘Every woman does it.’
But every woman did not do it. Dante knew that. And once again Justina had surprised him. Hadn’t he thought that she would be itching to wean Nico and leave him in the care of a nanny, so that she could concentrate on her songwriting? But she hadn’t. She had embraced motherhood with an enthusiasm he could never have envisaged. And wasn’t that what made this whole scenario seem almost miraculous? Justina sitting in a rocking chair at the D’Arezzo palazzo, feeding their baby. She looked light years away from the black-eyed temptress who had once strutted the stage to the appreciative roars of thousands of fans.
He continued to watch as she settled Nico down, but he sensed a certain restraint about her as she moved away from the cot—as if she’d also moved away from her comfort zone. And he didn’t want her uptight. He wanted her soft and giving—the way he’d been fantasising about for too long now.
‘The bathroom’s through there,’ he said. ‘You might want to go and freshen up.’
Glad to escape from his unsettling scrutiny, Justina went into the bathroom, where she stripped off and stood beneath the warm torrents of water and tried to put Dante out of her mind—easier said than done when desire kept straying into her mind with dark and dangerous thoughts. And she couldn’t hide in the shower all day.
She wandered back into the bedroom, clad only in a towel and found Dante standing there, his expression unfathomable as he watched her walk in. She supposed she should say something on the lines of I didn’t know you’d be here—except that would have been a lie. Where else would he be when they were supposed to be sharing a bedroom?
‘Is Nico okay?’ she questioned awkwardly.
For a moment he didn’t move, and when eventually he nodded Justina could see that his powerful body looked as tense as she felt.
‘Fast asleep. Want to see?’
Nodding, she followed him into the adjoining bedroom, where their son lay sleeping in the antique cot, the wood very dark against the pristine whiteness of the bedclothes. For a moment she just stood and watched the steady rise and fall of his little chest, marvelling at the thought of the tiny heart which beat within it and the fact that she and Dante had created this living miracle between them. Out of one reckless act of passion this beautiful little child had been born.
And what of Nico’s life? she wondered suddenly. Would he suffer as she had suffered because a man and a woman had come together as she and Dante had done? Not thinking about the consequences of their actions, thinking of nothing but the heat of the moment and the overwhelming lure of desire? Growing up, she had hated her own illegitimacy, and yet now she had bequeathed that same pain to her child.
With a strangled little sound she turned and walked back into the bedroom, scarcely aware that Dante was close behind her. At least not until his hand had reached out to her bare shoulder and was turning her round.
‘Justina? What’s wrong?’
She shook her head. How could she admit to the great cauldron of insecurity which was bubbling away inside her when all she could think about was the burn of his fingers on her bare flesh?
‘This is wrong—this whole farce of us coming here with our baby and being put in this room together as if we’re all some kind of happy family,’ she said desperately, shaking his hand away. ‘We’re wrong!’
‘No!’
His voice was fierce as he pulled her into his arms, his voice unsteady as he pressed his face close to hers. So close that she could feel the heat of his breath fanning over her skin.
‘We have never been wrong. How can it possibly be wrong when it feels like this whenever I touch you?’
‘Dante—’
‘Kiss me,’ he growled. ‘And then tell me again that we’re wrong. Do that and I’ll never lay another finger on you.’
She opened her mouth to say that was cheating. That she didn’t want to kiss him. But that would have been a lie. Because hadn’t she wanted this all along? Deep down hadn’t she been yearning for this—the hard pressure of his kiss and her own urgent response to it? Hungrily, her lips sought his, and he tugged at the towel and let it slither to the floor, so that she was completely naked.
For a moment he pulled away
so that he could look at her, sucking in a breath as his gaze burned over her, and she was so lost in the moment and the way he was making her feel that she did nothing. She could feel her nipples springing to life beneath his hungry scrutiny, and the melting desire which was pooling insistently at the fork of her thighs.
‘Dante,’ she breathed. ‘This is...’
‘Inevitable,’ he bit out, as he began to tug at his belt. ‘It’s been inevitable for a long time now. Because you are beautiful. The most beautiful woman I have ever seen. And I am aching for you. I am crazy for you, tesoro.’
No, this was crazy, she thought. Dante was talking with an emotion she hadn’t heard in a long time and stripping off his clothes with ruthless efficiency, while she just stood there and watched him! She bit her lip as she saw his erection springing free, and a rush of desire flooded over her as he splayed his hands over her bare hips and pulled her down onto the bed.
‘Dante,’ she whispered, ‘we can’t do this.’
