At Her Latin Lover's Command. Susan Stephens

him and Dante together. The two males in her life. The two people she loved above everyone else. And she wanted their love more than anything else in the entire world.

      She had to really work hard to overcome her reticence if she was to win Dante’s heart. Biting her lip, she started up after them. So many obstacles, she thought soberly, lifting her skirts and taking two stairs at a time. A mountain to climb.

      ‘I won! I won!’

      Carlo’s ecstatic face swam into her vision. A huge kiss was deposited clumsily on her knee and then a small, trusting hand slid into hers.

      ‘You were very quick,’ she praised, her voice shaky with the depths that her love could reach.

      ‘Boats,’ he declared simply, drawing her into the bathroom, where Dante, with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, was checking the temperature of the water gushing from the tap.

      ‘Yes, we’ll get the boats in a minute,’ she answered.

      She knelt, like Dante, and made to help her son undress but was firmly pushed away.

      ‘I do it. I do it!’ he insisted.

      I love you so much, she thought, watching in fond amusement as he struggled with his clothes. She glanced at Dante and her heart stopped for a moment. There was such adoration in his eyes for Carlo that it brought her near to tears.

      Lightly she touched Dante’s arm to show that she felt the same. When he looked at her it seemed that his eyes softened and warmed like dark, swirling chocolate. Her heart raced. He wanted to love her, she felt sure. Wanted to forget the past and, like her, he longed to be sure that these golden moments with Carlo would continue.

      To encourage him she psyched herself up to slip her arm around his waist while she assessed the bath water with an expert eye.

      ‘Deep enough, do you think?’

      He kept staring at her. The way he had when they were lovers. Her brain seemed to be doing cartwheels.

      ‘Deeper than you know,’ he replied softly.

      Her head continued to spin. Could he mean…?

      ‘Up! Up!’ demanded Carlo, pushing his wiry, naked body between them, and Dante let out a hiss of breath then lifted their son into the bath.

      She wasn’t sure what was happening to her—or to Dante. But she did know that Carlo was having fun and she and Dante were trying to get soap onto the wriggling child enthusiastically propelling his plastic boats around the choppy bath water.

      There was a knock on the door and, just as she planted a kiss on Carlo’s merry mop of curls, Luca stepped into the bathroom.

      ‘Excuse me,’ he said politely. Then his eyes kindled at the sight of Carlo and Miranda, sinking each other’s boats. He grinned. ‘Er… The contessa’s sister called to say that some of your clothes will be arriving by special messenger.’

      ‘Oh, good. Thank you.’ Miranda smiled at him as she dropped a protective towel over her crushed-silk skirt. She was delighted that Luca had unbent towards her a little. The power of a child to move men’s hearts! she thought. ‘Hey!’ she protested, when Carlo took advantage of her inattention and craftily sat on her boat. ‘You rascal!’ she cried, pretending to be indignant and making her son collapse into a heap of giggles.

      ‘I a rascal!’ he declared in glee.

      ‘And I adore you!’

      Miranda kissed his neck enthusiastically and elicited squeals from Carlo with her fake nibbles of his shoulder.

      ‘’Dore me!’ Dore me!’ Carlo cried.

      Luca gave a polite little cough.

      ‘Sorry!’ Miranda flung him an apologetic grin. ‘I just love bath time.’

      ‘So do I, Contessa,’ Luca said softly, his eyes warm as he watched Carlo.

      ‘You have children?’ she asked eagerly.

      ‘Five. All boys.’

      His pride was evident and she beamed to see it.

      ‘All handsome, all a credit to their parents,’ Dante provided.

      Luca’s smile stretched from ear to ear. ‘Thank you, Conte. Allora, I had a further message from your sister, Contessa. She said that she would call you in a day or two to tell you of her purchases in Milan.’

      Miranda raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘I hope the shops weren’t cleaned out! Lizzie’s never been given her head before.’

      ‘She was very happy, Contessa,’ Luca murmured tactfully.

      ‘I’m sure she was! Well thank you for looking after her—’

      ‘Yes, Luca,’ interrupted Dante. ‘We’re grateful.’ And to Miranda’s surprise, he continued after a slight hesitation, ‘Like you, Lizzie lost her father when she was small, and her mother died when she was twelve. Miranda had her work cut out. But now we will all be Lizzie’s parents, yes?’

      The man’s intelligent eyes were thoughtful as they rested on Miranda and she felt he understood what she had endured as the elder child.

      ‘I understand,’ he said gently, his face wreathed in smiles. ‘Yes. We will watch over the young lady when she is here. Goodnight, Conte, Contessa.’

      When Luca had slipped quietly away, Miranda put a hand on Dante’s arm. ‘That was nice of you. I hadn’t realised you understood how tough it was for Lizzie.’

      ‘And for you. I’m not blind, Miranda,’ he answered, adding a little more warm water. He smiled at her. ‘You’ll have to live your childhood through Carlo, since you must have missed so much of your own.’

      Their gazes locked and her pulses skittered about crazily. He swallowed, scooped up some suds and blew them at Carlo, then did the same to her. In the ensuing uproar her mind was in turmoil like her blood, which was pumping erratically around her taut body. And Dante’s hands were shaking like hers.

      ‘Like old times, isn’t it?’ she whispered unfairly.

      ‘Uh.’

      Frowning, he pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen onto his forehead, leaving it wet and frothy from the bubbles. In a tender, wifely gesture, Miranda reached up and flicked the froth away, her face close to his.

      For a breathless moment she thought he might kiss her but then he sucked in a sharp rasp of air and busied himself with the soap and Carlo’s grubby knees again.

      To contain her urge to fling her arms around Dante and declare her love again, she picked up another bar of soap and attacked Carlo’s neck and back. With every stroke she was chanting feverishly to herself,

      ‘Dante loves me. He loves me not. Loves me, loves me not…’

      ‘’Ook, Mummy!’

      ‘I’m looking, darling!’ she whispered lovingly as Carlo intently soaped his father’s arm.

      Small, plump fingers then undid Dante’s dress shirt. Miranda watched in silence, absorbing her son’s touching concentration and Dante’s laughing surrender to Carlo’s solemn attentions.

      ‘I’m very wet!’ Dante protested to Carlo.

      ‘I wet too!’ he replied in glee.

      ‘Well, I think it’s time we both got dry again. I have a new story for you,’ Dante said, hastily mopping up the water that had dripped to his navel.

      Miranda tore her gaze away and lifted Carlo out, clean and sparkling. They both dried him, their eyes meeting over his sopping curls as he chattered happily.

      On impulse, Miranda hugged her damp son’s body to her, her eyes closing in silent thanks that she could see and touch and love him again. This was worth a million arguments,