Italy's Most Scandalous Virgin - Carol Marinelli Page 0,33

perfect English. It was more that she was so acutely aware of Dante. Like a black panther, he sleekly worked the room; his beauty was raw and exquisite and accentuated by his stunning attire and she was very aware that she knew the beauty of his body beneath.

But then came the hell of watching him dance with his date.

Mia had never been jealous in her life until Dante, but now she found that it felt like a corkscrew stabbed into her chest, twisting tighter and tighter, making it impossible to focus on what the Minister of Something said. ‘Of course we attend every year, but this is special indeed.’

‘Yes,’ Mia attempted. ‘Rafael would have loved it.’

‘Yet he didn’t attend last year?’

‘No,’ Mia agreed, though her eyes kept drifting to the dance floor as she tried to fathom how it might feel to be wrapped in those velvet arms. ‘Rafael wasn’t well.’

‘That’s obvious now! Although we weren’t privy to that information at the time...’ On and on he went, clearly affronted that he hadn’t been personally informed that Rafael was ill. ‘I’ve done a lot for the foundation...’ the minister continued, but it was all white noise to Mia as she watched Dante laugh at whatever his dance companion had said.

Dante laughed. Mia had never, ever seen Dante laugh before. The corkscrew twisted again and she gritted her jaw at the exact moment his eyes met hers—another woman in his arms, his narrowed eyes assessing her. She felt them scald her bare shoulders and it was as if his hands were at the back of her neck and freeing the tie, for her breasts felt prickly in the fabric of her gown...and then his gaze came back to her eyes and her cheeks stung as if she’d been slapped.

‘Don’t you agree?’ the minister said.

‘I’m sorry?’ Mia couldn’t even attempt to recall whatever he’d said, for not only hadn’t she been listening but Mia was suddenly, embarrassingly, near to tears. ‘If you’ll please excuse me for a moment,’ Mia said. She made her way out of the ballroom and to the powder room, which was as decadent as any she’d seen—not that she had the energy to really take in her surroundings. Instead she gripped a marble bench and looked into a large antique mirror at unfamiliar, made-up eyes that were glittering as brightly as the diamonds that hung from her ears.

‘You’re doing well, Signora,’ a middle-aged woman said. ‘It must be a difficult night for you.’

‘Thank you.’ Mia smiled, and after taking a moment to gather her breath she stepped out of the bathroom and walked almost straight into Dante.

‘Come with me,’ he said, and led her across the foyer. He took a sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘I am running the speech by you, in case we are seen stepping out.’

‘Yes.’

Finally, they had some privacy for he had led her to a delicious occasional garden. As the French doors closed on them, she dragged in a lungful of cool night air. It was Mia who spoke first. ‘Who is she?’

‘Who?’ Dante frowned, and then he saw that her neck was not just red but mottled and he could almost taste her jealousy. It was such an unexpected turn-on to see the cool and collected Mia anything but that he smiled as realisation hit.

‘That’s the minister’s daughter; she’s not my date.’

‘You’re flirting with her.’

‘God, no,’ Dante said.

‘You were laughing with her.’

‘I was trying to keep things light,’ Dante admitted. He laughed a false laugh, the one he must have used, and for some reason it made her giggle. ‘She always tries to flirt with me; it is the same every year, though usually I have a date. She is thoroughly over-excited tonight because I appear to be alone. But I am not alone,’ Dante said, and as he stepped closer to Mia her smile faded. ‘Am I?’

Mia swallowed, before answering. ‘No.’

‘Who am I here with tonight, Mia?’ he provoked in a low sexy drawl that demanded she answer.

‘Me.’

‘Pardon?’ he said.

Her voice was husky. ‘You’re here with me.’

‘Yes,’ Dante said, ‘and never forget it. I dance my duty dances, but the only one I want to dance with is you. Know this, Mia—every year that you come to the Romano ball, I will come alone.’

And with those words, Dante moved his own goalposts.

He had sworn only one more night, but the thought of meeting each year at this event was tempting indeed. It might be for only one night, once a