Valenti's One-Month Mistress. Sabrina Philips

other diners made her hesitate. He second-guessed her.

      ‘Go right ahead,’ he challenged, as her eyes darted around the room. ‘You think it will hurt my reputation? You’re the one who will be working here. I, on the other hand, am used to the childish behaviour of clients unable to control themselves when they do not get their own way.’

      ‘And what about when you don’t get your own way, Dante? You blackmail your clients until they do?’ Faye rose, placing her serviette on the table.

      ‘Blackmail?’ He made it sound as if she’d just accused him of murder. ‘I think you’ll find I’ve offered you a lifeline.’

      She’d hate to see him offer the opposite.

      ‘Sit, Faye.’ Could he be any more patronising? ‘If you walk away, my offer is withdrawn, and the day you go under I will be there—waiting. I will offer you even less than the site is worth, and you will be forced to accept. Now, sit down.’

      His tone was low and silky, and the effect it had upon the muscles in her legs would have made the decision for her even if the cold truth of his words had not. Slowly she resumed her seat, her face stony. She could not bring herself to look up at the expression of self-satisfied triumph he undoubtedly wore.

      ‘Dessert.’ She was grateful for the interruption as the waiter positioned large plates in front of them.

      ‘Torta di Ricotta,’ Dante announced.

      Faye did not answer him. She could be eating ambrosia, the food of the gods, and it would still taste bitter to her.

      ‘You imagine that Matteson’s will be able to cope without me?’

      ‘Presumably someone has been running it the last couple of days.’

      Technically, Faye’s mother was in charge of the restaurant in her absence, but whilst Josie Matteson was desperate to see Matteson’s restored to its former glory, she had always played a supportive role. In reality the workload would be spread between the head waitress and the chef. She trusted them both, but it was far from ideal.

      ‘Do not tell me that you, who are so critical of my ego, consider yourself indispensable, Faye? I can assure you, you are not.’

      No, she doubted any woman was indispensable to Dante Valenti. How long had it been after he had walked away from her bed before he had taken another lover. Hours? Days?

      ‘Impetuous change may be part and parcel of your hectic lifestyle, Dante, but I can assure you it is a rare thing for us lesser mortals.’

      ‘Ah, but when there is opportunity you are only too eager?’

      ‘Not on this occasion.’

      ‘And how coincidental that your reluctance comes when it means not getting your cash at the click of your fingers.’

      ‘I can assure you that my reluctance has nothing to do with your money and everything to do with you.’

      ‘And yet you used to be so keen for both?’ His voice was husky now, and Faye almost dropped the first spoonful of dessert that she had taken. ‘Or has it slipped your mind that you once begged me to make love to you?’

      So he was not going to let her forget it. Though she had been trying to prevent herself reliving that fateful afternoon since the moment she had arrived, he had every intention of using it against her. She sank back in her chair, feeling defeated.

      It had been the first of August. Saturday. She would never forget the date. The evening before they had worked ceaselessly to meet a deadline, with Faye sketching idea after idea for the new hotel brochure. Production meetings had run late into the night. Not that Faye had noticed the unsociable working hours. She had been too exhilarated that she was a part of all this.

      In fact, even during her time off she’d caught herself wishing she were back at the office, with that feeling of awareness zipping around her veins at a double-quick pace just at knowing he was close by, which quadrupled when he looked at her. And there had been many times in the course of the last four weeks, unbelievable though it was, when she had caught him doing just that. And not in the way that an employer usually looked at his employee. More in the way an art lover might examine the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. But he would always look away the moment she noticed, his brows furrowed, as if he had really been contemplating some complex business problem and had just alighted upon the answer. Which had left Faye caught between believing she was too young and too awkward for him to see her as anything other than the teenage girl she was, and sensing something else within him that he seemed reluctant to acknowledge.

      ‘Faye?’ He had spoken her name as if coaxing a child from sleep. She’d finished off the section of the cover design she was working on and attempted to steady the pounding of her heart before looking up to see him standing before her desk.

      ‘I’m almost done.’

      ‘It’s late.’ He looked at his watch and raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s the weekend, and I’ve been working you like a Trojan. Go and get some rest.’

      Faye’s eyelids did indeed feel heavy. ‘OK. I’ll pop back tomorrow morning—get this finished before Monday.’

      ‘No, you won’t,’ he said, his voice insistent. ‘You deserve a break. Go out—soak up Rome at the weekend.’

      Faye nodded hesitantly. She had taken herself out on a sightseeing bus tour the weekend after she had arrived, but magnificent though the sights were, seeing them by herself, without anyone to share her amazement, had somehow diminished their appeal.

      ‘Perhaps.’

      It was then that Dante looked around the room thoughtfully, at the rest of his team slowly packing up and making their ways home.

      ‘I suppose there isn’t really anyone else here your age.’ His expression was guilty. ‘I’m sorry.’

      Faye knew it was true, although it was not something that had bothered her. Until he had pointed out how young she was again. She didn’t feel young.

      And then he said it.

      ‘I could always show you the sights tomorrow, if you like.’

      And those words changed everything.

      For the Dante who was waiting for her in the lobby the next morning—a Dante without the immaculately pressed suits he wore to work—was everything she had hoped for and more besides. It felt as if somehow they were equal, like any other couple getting lost amongst the crowds. For not only did he make the sights come alive—from the wonder of Vatican City to the Baroque fountains hidden amongst the lesser-known ancient sights—he also had insisted she experience the intimate trattorie, the sensational boutiques in Piazza di Spagna.

      She marvelled at their windows, not daring to go in. Until he called her over to one particularly exclusive display and she saw the most exquisite red evening gown she could ever have imagined. The kind most women never got to wear, let alone own.

      ‘Go in,’ he commanded, sensing her appreciation. ‘Try it on.’

      ‘Oh, Dante—don’t be ridiculous. Why would I try on a dress like that? The assistants will only have to take one look at me to know that I don’t have the money to even buy the hanger, let alone an occasion to wear the dress.’

      ‘Nonsense,’ he said, as if she had just suggested the earth was flat.

      And the sudden understanding of just how powerful and how rich Dante really was began to seep in as she was ushered to a fitting room that was so large it could have given the entire upstairs in her parents’ house a run for its money.

      The dress fit like a glove, but it was with some trepidation that she stepped out, feeling like a peasant masquerading as a princess. Slowly he turned around, and then did a double-take, as if to check it was really her. She hadn’t anticipated that it would be the way he looked at her rather than the dress itself that would make her feel as if her whole body