So he focused on the now. This Eva. Twenty-seven years old and more beautiful than ever. All that gorgeous hair falling down around her face and caressing her bare shoulders. A tiny vest-top in a soft blush colour that threw her dense cleavage into stunning effect and a long dark pink skirt that reminded him of a gypsy. But Cristo, it was the bare feet that really snagged him. Perfect little toes painted pearly-white as if she walked on heavenly clouds. And there it was again. That hint of innocence he knew to be fake.
‘Are you entertaining in your bed?’ he asked, his voice so hard it almost cracked his skull. And, just to make sure there was no misunderstanding, he rephrased. ‘Are you sleeping with anyone at all?’
‘Did you really just say that?’
‘Yes.’ After all, it would ruin all his plans if she had a multitude of boyfriends all over the place. Was her rock star still on the scene? A man with a perpetual hangover. The perfect couple.
Dante ground his back teeth. ‘Just answer my question, Eva.’
His don’t-mess-with-me tone was met with an arch of her delicate blonde brows.
‘Good morning to you too,’ she said, hand braced on the door frame as if she was half-tempted to slam it in his face. ‘You’re in a lovely mood this morning.’
He smiled. It was an evil twist, he knew it. ‘I’ll be in an even better mood when you answer me.’
Firing darts of ire, her eyes drifted to the wall above the door frame, breasts rising and falling as she grappled for control. ‘No. I don’t... I haven’t...’ Chin down, she straightened to her full impressive height. ‘What exactly does my private life have to do with you, anyway?’
‘Plenty, considering the newspapers this morning,’ he said, striding past her, not entirely convinced by her claims to single status but willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. For now. ‘Haven’t you heard? We’re the new golden couple.’
She laughed—a hollow sound that serrated his spine. ‘There’s nothing golden about you. Anyway, I haven’t managed to get past the front page yet.’
‘Then I assure you, you’re in for a real treat.’
Dante heard the door click shut and her mocking remark, ‘Come in, why don’t you,’ as he strode down the narrow hallway and found himself in a...cosy lounge flooded with light.
Cream muslin hung in swathes at the wide windows, softening the stark glare of December and bleaching the dark oak floors. Huge, squashy gold sofas—the curling up with a book type—framed a large coffee table and took centre stage around a black Edwardian fireplace. Frames in every shape and size covered the hessian-covered walls—large gilt mirrors and reprints of times gone by—brides of every era and the accompanying fashions. There wasn’t a moneyed feel at all. It was tastefully eclectic with a subtle romantic ambience. But, maledizione, the clutter sent ants crawling across the back of his neck as if marching down a vine.
‘You are still messy,’ he said. It used to drive Finn insane. Between Eva and her mother, their family home had been a constant artistic chaos. It was a sure bet you’d be pricked by a sadistic pin or three from sitting on a perfectly innocent-looking chair.
‘So shoot me.’
Reluctantly his mouth curved at the petulance in her voice, until his eyes fell on a dressmaker’s dummy filling one corner of the room with a voluminous frothy tulle skirt tacked around the waist. Stepping closer, his breath snatched—the retail connoisseur in him enchanted by the sight of delicate pearls stitched into the weave.
‘By hand?’ he asked. Knowing it to be impossible because it would have taken her—
‘Yes, of course. Took me almost a week.’
Every day he was shown a multitude of beautiful clothing, but this... ‘It’s exquisite. I see you have inherited your mother’s eye for detail. Her unmistakable genius with fabric.’
Even as she stood behind him he could sense frank bewilderment that he’d complimented her work.
Having been subjected to his father’s particularly vicious brand of criticism since the day he’d been torn from his mother’s graveside, he had no problem with dishing it out. No longer did it make him angry to hear; it only made him strive to be harder, stronger, more powerful than ever before. But the beauty in Eva’s raw talent stopped him dead in his tracks for there was not one fault in any stitch or placement of pearl.
‘Why didn’t you tell me the extent of your success last night? Your boutique?’
She gave a little huff. ‘Oh, come off it, Dante. You had no interest in my life or anything I had to say.’
He didn’t mistake the touch of hurt in her voice and he was man enough to admit he deserved it. One desperate phone call from Finn, one look into those dazzling green eyes and he’d known trouble was coming. Deflecting it, however, hadn’t brought out the best in him and in the end it had been a pointless pursuit.
‘I had no idea about your work.’ Now he wished he hadn’t closed his ears to Finn’s animated renditions. Without them, he’d been left with one possible avenue.
So this morning he’d ignored every flammable headline and had his investigators expose her business interests. She’d built her small bridal couture company from nothing. Nothing. Laser gun time. Stunned would be an understatement. Where was her inheritance—her mother’s legacy? Blowing millions of pounds within a few years on the party scene must’ve been one hell of a joyride. He assumed that when the money had run out she’d had to make a trade of some kind.
At first glance he’d thought Finn would have provided capital but no, she’d done it all herself, through banking loans and hard work. And he felt something he’d never thought he’d feel for her. A measure of respect.
‘Now you do,’ she said. ‘Except do me a favour and lay off the congratulations regarding Prudence. She’s already left one message and I shouldn’t think the next royal wants an engagement-wrecker to bless her gown.’
The anguish in her voice sliced at his throat. He knew what it is was like to work night and day with recognition continuing to be far from reach. At twenty-three he’d fought for the chance to save the ailing Vitale empire. The battle had been endless until desperation had forced his father to hand him the reins. It had taken Dante almost six months of working 24/7 to operate back into the black. So he knew the determination, the frustration, the rage.
‘Won’t stop me trying to change her mind, though,’ Eva said with a dose of grit that made his mouth tilt. Ah, there it was. The fight.
‘So why are the shutters locked downstairs?’ he asked.
‘Luckily, I only open the last Sunday of every month. I wanted to contact some of my clients before facing the hounds.’
‘It is best you do not speak with them until we get our story straight,’ he said, hearing his autocratic tone ricochet off the walls.
A small frown creased her brow. ‘Our story? There is no story, Dante, only the truth. If that doesn’t set me free I’ll just have to wait until the furore dies down. There’ll always be other jobs.’ But she wanted this. Desperately. Oh, she tried to hide it, but the stiff smile she tried on for size visibly cracked her composure.
She wanted it, just as much as he wanted Hamptons. Neither could afford tittle-tattle. Yakatani not only preferred committed family men but he was inordinately disturbed by tabloid fodder. With plenty of multi-billionaires in the running, he had his pick of the auspicious crop.
Dante considered the tartan wingback chair, decided not to take the risk and walked over to the windows to inspect the street below. Decent enough area for a boutique, he supposed. Mayfair or Bond Street would be better.
Rolling his neck, he breathed deeply. Truth time. Explanations he wasn’t very good at because as a rule he answered to no one. ‘I had an arrangement