At Her Latin Lover's Command. Susan Stephens

was being shaken. Crying in fright, she fought her assailant and this time, this time, instead of being unable to move a muscle, she found her fists connecting with flesh.

      This, too, had happened before, she thought. And sickness rose in her throat adding to the terror.

      ‘Get off me! Get off me!’ she screamed instinctively, utterly disorientated.

      A hand clapped over her mouth—again. Please, sweet heaven, not again!

      Normally her eyes stayed stubbornly shut during her nightmares, but now they snapped open. The light was on in her adjoining sitting room, allowing her to see Dante bending over her, his robe hanging loose to show his bare torso above pale gold pyjama bottoms.

      ‘Keep the noise down!’ he hissed.

      She cringed. Was this what had happened on that fateful evening? Dante assaulting her, she fighting him off…

      Groggy from sleep, not fully alert, she lashed out, her arms and legs pummelling him unmercifully. But he resisted, taking the blows with a wince and leaning unnervingly close.

      ‘Santo cielo! How often must I say that I have no intention of raping you.’ he grated in her ear. ‘You shouted out in your sleep. Began to scream. You’ve had a nightmare, Miranda. Now calm down. I don’t want Carlo disturbed. I know you have a sitting room between here and my bedroom but you were yelling fit to wake the dead!’

      Her enormous sapphire eyes stared up at his icily angry face as she came to full consciousness. Yes. It had been that awful recurring dream again. Her tense body went limp and he removed his hand.

      In misery, she squeezed her eyes tight shut. Would she never be free of her nightmare? It came relentlessly night after night and she almost feared going to sleep, knowing that some time she would wake as she had now, bathed in sweat and shaking with a terror of something unknown.

      ‘Cover yourself up,’ he said curtly and in the dim light she saw to her embarrassment that one sleepy-nippled breast had escaped from her low-cut black satin nightdress.

      As she scrambled to draw the covers up to her chin, she shivered, the perspiration cooling on her heated skin.

      ‘I’m so cold!’

      The grim-faced Dante turned away and strode to the door. ‘I’ll get you a brandy.’

      ‘Don’t leave me!’ she cried desperately before she could stop herself.

      He stopped dead, his back still to her, fists clenched at his sides. Spoke in a low and husky tone.

      ‘What is it, Miranda? You never used to have dreams like this.’ He jerked his head around to look at her. ‘Have you been involved in something dark and unpleasant—or with someone who’s taken you to depths you wish you’d never known?’

      ‘No! Nothing like that!’ she whispered, still in shock from the experience.

      ‘Something must have caused this! You were frantic. Hysterical.’ His eyes went cold and hard and his voice shook with fury. ‘This is what comes of living dangerously! Inviting God knows who back to our home—’

      ‘No—!’

      ‘Drinking, taking drugs—’

      ‘No—!’

      ‘And not knowing what the hell happened next!’ he grated, his mouth twisted in disgust. ‘How could you put our son at risk—?’

      ‘I didn’t! I didn’t!’ she cried piteously. ‘I wouldn’t, honestly, not in a million years—!’

      ‘You’ve no idea what you did!’ he fumed. ‘And I don’t know how many times it had happened before. I can’t believe you could be so stupid, so irresponsible—’

      ‘I wasn’t!’ she moaned, her hands covering her face.

      His accusations were making her feel worse. She fought to control the waves of nausea as they rolled through her gut and rose to her throat. But she couldn’t defend herself any more because she was unable to speak or to stop the violent shaking. Her teeth chattered and the lines of his mouth flattened out with irritation.

      ‘Maledizione!’ he muttered.

      And in a moment she was being encircled by warm, comforting arms. Held to a naked chest in which a heart beat with such force that it sounded like a rapid drumbeat. The faint rasp of stubble on Dante’s jaw settled firmly against her cheek and he was murmuring soothing words in Italian as if she were a frightened child.

      She gave in to her needs. Put her arms around his neck and crushed him hard against her.

      ‘Please,’ she whispered helplessly. ‘Stay with me!’

      Dante groaned. She took his face in her hands to plead with him and found her mouth opening invitingly, her eyes lowering drowsily as she contemplated the incredibly sensual arch of his lips.

      ‘I don’t think so,’ he said, seething with barely controlled anger. With almost indecent haste he pulled away. ‘I won’t go far. I’ll get you some water instead,’ he snapped curtly, standing up and striding to the bathroom. ‘And a towel to wipe your face. You’ll feel better then.’

      He continued to talk even when she couldn’t see him, his tones losing their rasping quality and becoming more matter-of-fact as if she were a fractious child to be soothed.

      ‘…and then we can both get some sleep,’ he was saying in a nannying tone when he re-emerged. ‘Here.’

      He thrust a hand towel at her and she obediently used it to wipe the beads of perspiration that had broken out all over her face and throat. But her hand shook too much to hold the glass of water. Dante held it to her lips and frowned as she took small, nervous sips.

      ‘Are you coming off drugs? Is that the reason for the bad dreams, your loss of weight and this uncontrollable trembling?’ he demanded with a sudden harsh suspicion.

      ‘How can you think that?’ she cried in horror.

      ‘You show all the classic signs. I warn you, Miranda,’ he snarled, his face close to hers, ‘if you ever let any illegal substances get within snorting distance of this house, you’ll be on the next flight to England before you know it. Carlo will never see you again—nor will he ever want to! You’ll be wiped from our lives as if you never existed!’

      ‘I’ve never taken any drugs! Never would in a million years!’ she choked out. ‘I had a nightmare, that’s all. But it was horrible!’ she muttered, shuddering. Her eyes grew enormous, and thinking of it, she began to breathe fast with fear, hating the feeling of helplessness in her dream. ‘So horrible that I daren’t sleep!’ she blurted out. ‘It’ll come back again if I do, I know it.’

      Dante frowned. ‘This is not like you to be so negative and defeatist.’

      ‘I know! But this isn’t any ordinary nightmare, Dante! I live every vile, terrifying second. Someone is assaulting me and I can’t raise a finger to stop it even though every sense is intensified. I smell bad breath. I taste something foul. I feel…’

      She clammed up. Would not tell him of those rough, hurting hands. And the frightening blank in her mind that came next. That was even worse and it fed her imagination in ways she didn’t want to know. But he had seen in her face the extent of her horror because he said gruffly,

      ‘Take it easy. Maybe you’ve learnt your lesson and it’s over—’

      ‘That’s the trouble!’ she jerked in despair. ‘It isn’t. It returns to haunt me even in the daytime. And comes back night after night.’

      A little more of the dream unfolded each time. One day maybe the whole horrific event would reveal itself—and she dreaded that more than anything.

      His expression was bleak. ‘Relax,’ he advised tautly. ‘Don’t try to relive it. You have to forget it.’