At Her Latin Lover's Command. Susan Stephens

But for his sake, I must. Maybe I can wean him from you. I don’t know. But as sure as hell, you will never be alone with him!’

      So he’d make her play his game of happy families—and then get rid of her! No way.

      And yet he’d acted in good faith. He’d thought he was doing the right thing where Carlo was concerned. That did alter her opinion of him a little. And so she tried another tack, giving him a chance to salvage his pride and admit he’d been wrong to think he could bring up Carlo.

      ‘Dante. I realise this must be hard for you,’ she began more evenly.

      ‘Hard? That is an understatement,’ he muttered, his gaze fixed grimly on his glove-soft shoes.

      ‘For the moment, we can’t agree about what happened that evening,’ she went on, trying to stay level-headed. His suggestion was unworkable. He must see that. ‘But we can agree about one thing: Carlo’s best interests. You love him. And you know in your heart of hearts that he’ll be happier with me in England—’

      ‘Until you neglect him again and then he’ll be miserable!’ Dante exploded. ‘I can’t let you have him! I’d never sleep. I’d go out of my mind with worry!’

      His anguish was genuine. He really cared about Carlo and, because he believed she’d been selfish and promiscuous while he was on business trips, he was trying to protect his son. That was laudable—if misguided. Carlo didn’t need protecting from her.

      ‘I promise you—’ she began fervently.

      ‘No! I will not risk my son’s happiness on the promise of a woman I don’t trust and who has deceived me all down the line! That is my final word!’ Dante snapped.

      He was convinced that he was justified in his actions. Like her, he would die for their child. Dante would not waver in his determination, she knew him too well.

      They were going round in circles. Wearily she passed a hand over her aching head. Lack of sleep and food, the constant tension as she had hunted for Dante in his commercial outlets around Europe, had taken their toll. She was close to giving in. It would be easier than this constant fighting…

      ‘Let’s explore your suggestion. Supposing I agreed,’ she said, her voice shaking with exhaustion. ‘What is your intention? That I would live here, in a room of my own?’

      ‘Not exactly. You would have your own apartments but you would reach them from my suite of rooms to avert scandal and gossip. The young woman I have in mind for your personal maid is a distant cousin. She can be trusted not to divulge any secrets of our sleeping arrangements. You would, in effect, be alone. And let me say that if you are tempted to try your luck with me, you’ll find a padlock the size of a dinner plate on my side of the door,’ he added scathingly.

      She flushed. ‘I’m relieved to hear that. We can both stick to kissing cockroaches! One more thing. If I did come to stay, I would want to earn my own living,’ she stipulated. ‘As a secretary,’ she added, seeing where his vile mind was heading.

      He looked down his nose at her. ‘The wife of a count does not work.’

      ‘A count!’ she exclaimed. ‘My, my, we have come up in the world. I wouldn’t stand a chance if I took you to court, would I?’

      ‘Not a hope.’

      She stared at him, suddenly crushed by his loathing and the prospect of living a lie.

      ‘I couldn’t do it!’ she whispered.

      ‘Not for Carlo? Then do it for the life of luxury,’ he said coldly. ‘You will have a generous allowance and a credit card, the bills for which I will pay. I will make provision for you in my will, in the event of my death. On the condition that—’

      ‘I behave like a nun.’

      He bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘A woman of impeccable morality will do.’

      All of a sudden she wanted to be free of him. Of his overwhelming presence, his suffocating dominance. The occasional drifts of vanilla fragrance she recognised which clung discreetly to his body, and which she had once inhaled with joyous delight as her mouth had explored every inch of him. All this was clouding her senses, making her head whirl.

      ‘I’d be mad to agree! You would have a terrible hold over me,’ she muttered. ‘You could manipulate everything I did—’

      ‘Forget what’s gone between us. Think of our son. All I want is for him to feel secure and happy.’ He pushed his hands into his trouser pockets, looking worried. ‘If you love him, as you say you do, then surely you want that too? You see, Miranda, I will never let him go. He belongs here. This is his heritage, his right. A glorious future. Would you deny him that?’

      ‘He needs to be loved more than he needs material wealth—’ she began shakily.

      ‘He will be loved!’ Dante snapped.

      ‘In a coldly polite atmosphere that will surround his parents?’

      He folded his arms, his eyes blazing at the prospect of being thwarted.

      ‘If you come here, I am sure we would both do our utmost to put the past behind us and make the best of this mess. It’s the only way, Miranda, believe me. I’ve spent hours pacing up and down thinking of a solution. This is the only one I can live with.’

      She bit her lip, wavering. It sounded so simple, the way he put it. Cut and dried. And horribly emotionless. She’d never known him to be so cold and remote.

      ‘I don’t know… I need time. I want to be alone, to think this over.’

      His face darkened. ‘What is there to think about? Personally, I would give up everything for my son.’

      His criticism was plain. ‘Then let me have a small house here and bring him up—’ she began eagerly.

      ‘No!’ He looked shocked. ‘I couldn’t trust you to care for him properly. Besides, Carlo will inherit from me. The business. The silk mills, the outlets, the offices around the world. This estate. The flat in Milan, the villa on the Veneto and the house in Antigua. To say nothing of the fortune behind it all. He needs to know how to handle wealth. How to run the business—’

      ‘He’s only three!’ she wailed, stunned by the extent of Dante’s inheritance. Suddenly she felt out of her depth. Dante had the whip hand.

      ‘And if he grows up here, he will learn naturally how to deal with people. He will learn that power brings responsibility and carries with it a sense of duty,’ Dante snapped. ‘One day he will be Il Conte Severini. He must not shame the name and blunder about helplessly because he doesn’t know how to behave. Or do you want your son to be disinherited and for my brother, Guido, to take his place?’

      She shuddered at the mention of Guido’s name but didn’t know why. There was a foul taste in her mouth suddenly. All her instincts were railing against Guido inheriting Carlo’s birthright.

      ‘You’re asking a lot of me. Let me think,’ she said weakly. ‘Please! It’s such an important step. We’d be committed to living a lie for the rest of our lives!’

      It seemed a prison sentence. But she knew in her heart of hearts that she would do anything for her child…even this, if she could come up with no other solution.

      Her head ached. Frowning, she rubbed at her temple, knowing she needed privacy to work things out. To come to terms with her frightening future.

      Slowly she lifted her head and gazed at Dante with huge, tear-washed eyes, her mouth trembling with misery and fatigue.

      He seemed remote, the honeyed skin taut over his cheekbones, his lips no longer curved in a sensual arch but pressed into a hard, grim line. He would never relent, she thought in desperation, and felt like weeping at her defeat.

      ‘Please, Dante! Give me time!’ she whispered again.

      There was