At Her Latin Lover's Command. Susan Stephens

her trust and love to the four winds.

      Love! Her lip quivered. He had become her enemy. A heartless brute who’d told her in an e-mail that she’d seen the last of him and Carlo. And that she wouldn’t get a penny from him—but could support herself by whoring! Whatever had brought that on? He’d also accused her of being drunk. Was he trying to make out a case for divorce?

      There was a silence. She could hear his regular breathing. He was deliberately toying with her. He must know how frantic she’d be!

      Gritting her teeth, she fought to hold back her fury. In the huge, ornate mirror she unexpectedly caught sight of herself. She stared at the woman who bore no resemblance to how she felt inside.

      To all appearances she was an ice-cool ash-blonde, immaculately groomed despite just returning from the tedious trawl to Dante’s offices in France, Spain and Milan, the chignon still smooth, the understated cream suit the epitome of classy designer elegance.

      Except that she could see—despite the impeccable make-up—there were tell-tale signs of bruised, tired eyes beneath, and that her pale gold skin no longer glowed or reflected the light but seemed as dead as she felt, deep in her heart.

      All her inner turmoil, she vowed, would be kept from Dante. He’d never know how badly he’d hurt her. Play the victim, she’d decided, and she’d become the victim.

      Besides, Carlo needed her to be strong. Tough. On the ball. For you, my darling son, she thought, I’d bite my tongue till it bleeds.

      ‘Dante,’ she said, injecting a faint element of boredom into her voice, ‘I have a call to make. Get on with it.’

      His breath hissed in with sharp displeasure. She’d chosen the blunt words deliberately. Dante loathed ugly speech.

      ‘I do apologise if I am ringing you at an inconvenient time,’ he drawled, heavily lacing his words with sarcasm. ‘I am aware that you don’t give a damn about my son. I also know that looking after him interfered with your own selfish needs. However, I did think you might ask how he is, perhaps out of social politeness…’

      She shut out his scathing tones as he continued to berate her in that vein. Of course her only thought was for her child! Her impulse was to yell at the top of her voice, to demand if Carlo was missing her. To plead to be told where Dante had taken their son…

      But she held back. Dante would love her to beg and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Not in a million years.

      She’d worked for him as his UK secretary before they’d married four years ago. Even then she’d known that beneath his smooth charm lay a shrewd obstinacy and ruthless drive that ensured he always achieved his goals.

      Unbeknown to her, he’d needed a wife urgently to secure a fabulous inheritance—and she’d been there, sitting on a plate, ready to be gobbled up. She blushed to think of her joyous acceptance of his proposal.

      With his uncle’s recent death he had acquired the power to buy whatever he wanted—including, should there be a battle, the custody of their child. She trembled, scared of the might ranged against her.

      From his penthouse in Milan, Dante’s bachelor uncle had ruled the Severini silk empire. The family silk mills in northern Italy supplied the great fashion houses of the world. She’d never realised that Dante had been poised in the wings to take over the reins. He’d never told her. But then she’d never figured in his future plans, so why should he?

      It was a nightmare situation. Her husband would want his son to inherit. That meant she’d effectively lost Carlo—unless she played her trump card: her threat to dishonour the Severinis.

      On the flight back to England after her fruitless quest to discover Dante’s whereabouts, she’d decided to publicly expose him for what he was: a ruthless, selfish manipulator who cared nothing for people’s feelings. Whose naked ambition and obsessive pride had caused him to rip a three-year-old from his mother’s loving care.

      Oh, God! she thought with a lurch of sickening misery. Carlo would be so bewildered! How dared Dante use her as a brood mare and rip her son away?

      Fiercely she tried to shut out the poignant vision of the dark-eyed angel who had illuminated her life. His sweet face with its ready smile had haunted her since his disappearance. It had been the hardest thing in the world not to break down and indulge in an orgy of weeping. And she was at the end of her tether now.

      ‘Dante,’ she interrupted wearily, breaking in on his vitriolic assassination of her character, ‘is this why you’ve called? To vent your spleen? To kid yourself that I’m to blame for your actions? If so, I am hanging up now—’

      ‘No!’

      She felt a small stab of satisfaction at that hastily rapped ‘no’. He needed something. Hopefully her—to take Carlo back. Maybe he’d decided he could return Carlo to her, and make babies—correction—descendants, with some other woman, now that he’d safely inherited his uncle’s fortune.

      She felt sick at that thought. A small part of her still loved Dante. Sighing, she acknowledged that you couldn’t switch off a grand passion like a light.

      But at least her gamble—of appearing to be indifferent to his cruelty—had paid off. He’d been thrown off balance. Her reaction to his call had not been what he’d expected. That was how you handled bullies. It disconcerted them.

      Trying not to raise her hopes, she pressed a hand hard against her thudding heart, crushing the rich silk jacket beneath her long fingers. And, keeping her breathing as light as possible, she enquired merely,

      ‘Well?’

      ‘Che Dio mi aiuti! You are a cold, unfeeling monster of a woman!’ he spat.

      Miranda almost sobbed out loud. He had turned her into an ice queen. It had been her only defence against his growing indifference over the past year.

      She managed to hold herself together. ‘I assume you’ll get to the point eventually.’

      Mentally urging him on with an almost hysterical panic, she sank to her knees, which seemed dangerously liquid. She saw Lizzie staring at her, a frozen expression on her face, and was touched that her sister felt so agitated on her behalf.

      Dante cleared his throat. ‘You must come to Italy. It is imperative that you do.’ It sounded as if a herd of wild elephants were dragging the words from him. His normally satiny voice was harsh and begrudging. ‘I’ve sent a ticket by courier. The flight is tomorrow. My chauffeur will meet you. I’m at my late uncle’s estate.’

      Oh, thank you, thank you! she cried in silent passion. He’d relented! No, she corrected. That seemed unlikely. He’d rather cut off his right hand.

      More probably, she thought rapidly, he’d discovered that looking after Carlo in strange surroundings was harder than he’d imagined. Heavens, she thought with a rare flash of waspishness, he must have been desperate to swallow his pride!

      But Carlo would be hers. The separation was to end. Her hand flew to her mouth to stop herself from groaning with heartfelt relief. She’d have him back, safe in her arms. Tomorrow!

      All of a sudden, she couldn’t contain herself any longer. And without even responding to her husband’s imperious demand, she put the phone down with a crash.

      Then burst into floods of tears. And, embarrassed, she ran up to her room to give vent to her relief in private.

      Lizzie gaped. She’d never seen her sister cry. Not even seven years ago, on the day their mother had died when she was twelve and Miranda eighteen. And since their father had left them all before their mother’s death, Miranda had then become the breadwinner and substitute mother.

      Dante had been the first person to get under Miranda’s skin, the first man to make her blossom and go starry-eyed. But then he was gorgeous, even Lizzie had to admit, more charismatic than his handsome younger brother, Guido, who managed the London office.

      Guiltily