Valenti's One-Month Mistress. Sabrina Philips

the enormous wardrobes along one side of the room. She sighed. She had not packed with any kind of dining in mind, let alone dining at one of Dante’s exclusive restaurants. Eating out was, ironically, a rare thing for her these days. Though she occasionally went out for a drink with some of the girls from the restaurant when she could, it had been a long time since she had been out on this scale—and longer since she had agreed to a date. Not that this was a date, she reflected, pushing something like regret to the back of her mind.

      She held up the only dress she had brought with her. It was a high-street fern-green wrap-over number that was rather too short, but she had brought it knowing the temperature here in September could still be stifling during the day. It was her only option. So what if he wouldn’t consider it appropriate? He could hardly have expected her to have planned for tonight. She had spent the last of her savings on her suit for the meeting, stupidly thinking she could fool him into believing that the restaurant just needed a little extra cash to expand its already adequate profits. But now she knew he was only too aware of their dire financial situation there was no point pretending.

      Faye looked in the mirror and unclipped her hair, fanning its honey-coloured length over her shoulders. In two and a half hours’ time he would be downstairs, waiting for her. A frisson of anticipation shot through her. Stupid girl, her reflection seemed to mock. So her body still wanted him? So much was different. So much of what she had believed to be real back then was not. But she had never been wrong about the level of desire he evoked within her. She had thought it was the rose-tinted glasses of nostalgia that made her remember how her body had gone into meltdown the moment he touched her, how she had longed for his hands upon her whenever he was near, but today proved that nostalgia had nothing to do with it. Even when his touch had been simply to restrain her, rather than designed to ignite her sexually, she had not wanted it to end. Or maybe that had been precisely its purpose? she speculated as she collected fresh underwear and headed for the luxurious bathroom. She’d only had to see the way Julietta eyed him so coyly to know that he had the same effect on all women. And Dante was not the sort of man who was unaware of his own appeal. It would be exactly his style to torment her with the way he made her feel for his own ends. But it was just sexual attraction, she reasoned. Though her body might be weak, she most definitely was not. Once she had naively fallen for his charms, gladly surrendered her virginity and then slipped out of his life compliantly. But she wasn’t eighteen anymore. She was older, and wiser, and had absolutely no intention of surrendering anything.

      Eight-twenty. He saw her the moment she entered the room. So he would not have to go up to the suite and drag her down here. Pity. To his annoyance, several other men at the bar turned on their stools and gave her the once, then twice over. No wonder, in a dress that damned short; she always had had the most fantastic pair of legs he had ever seen. He fought the urge to walk straight up to her, wrap his hands in that golden mane of hair hanging loose over her shoulders and claim her as his own with all the force of his kiss. All in good time, he thought.

      He finished the remainder of his wine and stood up before she reached him. ‘I trust you had no trouble finding your way here?’ he mocked, eyeing the watch at her wrist and looking upwards, as if through to the floors above.

      Faye did not answer him. She had had no intention of arriving on time, even if she had been ready since seven forty-five.

      ‘Our table is ready—do not let us refrain from the pleasure any longer.’ Dante motioned for Faye to walk ahead of him.

      ‘I agree. Let’s get this over with.’ She felt him place one hand lightly at the small of her back and begin to guide her through the bar into the restaurant. His touch was electric. The heat of his hand spread throughout her body. She swallowed, wanting to yell at him to back off, but she was aware that eyes were upon them. No doubt wondering what the hell the head of Valenti Enterprises was doing in one of his restaurants with her, and not one of the usual supermodels he did more than dine with, if the tabloids were anything to go by.

      Like the rest of the hotel, the Tuscan restaurant had been simply and elegantly updated, Faye acknowledged as he led her to their table, and she didn’t need to be in the restaurant business to know it remained one of Italy’s most celebrated.

      ‘Please, sit.’ He held out her chair for her. ‘Welcome back to Perfezione.’

      Faye raised her eyebrows. Perfection; she had forgotten. Along with the rest of the staff she had known the restaurant affectionately as Fez during her month here. How had the egoism of the name never struck her back then, even if he did have a point?

      ‘I have explained to the staff that we have important matters of business to discuss this evening. They have assured me that their disturbance will be minimal.’

      Faye was not sure that was necessarily a good thing. They were seated in a fairly isolated corner. The tables cleverly concealed by vines that were the restaurant’s trademark. If it was possible Dante looked even more forbidding than earlier, in a dark lounge suit and a maroon shirt open at the neck that revealed a potently masculine sprinkle of dark hair.

      ‘I trust your room is satisfactory?’ His politeness was utterly unnerving.

      ‘Perfezione, naturalmente.’ Two could play at the butter-wouldn’t-melt game.

      ‘I should hope so. You approve of the changes?’

      ‘It is beautiful,’ she answered genuinely, thinking how contradictory it was that in her desperation to see Matteson’s tables filled with people enjoying themselves once more she had forgotten to allow herself the pleasure of eating out for what must have been months—too many to count.

      Dante nodded and turned his attention to the menu. Faye watched him, unable to focus on her own. She wondered if he had any involvement in deciding what was served these days. She was not sure he would have time for the kind of attention to detail that had once so impressed her now he was based in a separate office, with restaurants all over Europe. He seemed to be looking critically, his thick, black eyelashes, outrageously long for a man, shrouding his eyes. She remembered how they had felt against her cheek, and subconsciously raised her hand to touch her face.

      ‘I recommend the seafood.’ He looked up at her, mistaking her gesture for puzzlement. ‘I took the liberty of ordering an accompanying wine at the bar, but if you would prefer something else I will order another.’

      ‘The seafood will be fine, thank you.’ Faye shut her menu. ‘But I will pass on the wine.’

      ‘A mistake, you realize?’

      ‘Perhaps.’ Faye did not trust herself to keep her head on anything more than mineral water.

      ‘And the seafood will be better than fine.’

      ‘I don’t doubt it.’ Faye forgot herself for a moment, her nerves making her garrulous. ‘My father used to say, “To eat well, look to the plate of your host.”’ The memory conjured up a childhood image of her father serving up his favourite glazed chicken and rosemary dish as the whole family waited expectantly. She remembered announcing loudly at the very same moment that she wanted to do her Brownie hostess badge.

      ‘A wise man,’ Dante agreed, his voice unusually soft. ‘I was sorry to hear that he is no longer with us.’

      Faye was taken aback. She had not expected Dante even to know of her father’s death, let alone offer his sympathy. She could bear anything but that. Much, much easier to remember that the reason he knew was because he was waiting for Matteson’s to fail in the aftermath. She nodded swiftly.

      ‘So tell me,’ she said, changing the subject, ‘what offer is it that you are going to make that you think I can’t refuse?’

      ‘Patience, Faye. My grandfather used to say to me, “Do not chew over an idea until you have digested your food.”’

      Great, thought Faye, as Dante swiftly made their order with the waiter. He intends to keep me dangling.

      ‘So, tell me, what you have been up to since…we last saw each other?’ he asked, his hands together in front of him, his eyes upon her, their