Page 8 of Forgotten Mistress, Secret Love-Child
‘Ms Wells, sir.’ The butler ushered her into the sitting room.
She stood as if poised for flight, just inside the door. Once more that shock of connection smacked him square in the chest. He rocked back on his feet.
Jerkily she lifted a hand to smooth her hair, then dropped it as she caught his scrutiny.
Tension, palpable and vibrating, strung out between their locked gazes.
Carys Wells looked out of place in the opulence of Melbourne’s most exclusive hotel suite. Unless, of course, she was here to provide a personal service to the occupant. Delivering a message or bringing room service.
Alessandro’s thoughts jagged on the sort of personal service he’d like her to provide.
It didn’t matter that he knew any number of more beautiful women. Clever, high achievers who combined chic style, business savvy and an eagerness to share his bed.
Something about Carys set her apart.
Her curves would horrify the perpetually dieting women he knew in Milano. Her dark hair was severely styled, if you could call scraping it back into a bun a style. Her make-up was discreet, and she wore a sensible navy suit that no woman of his acquaintance would be seen dead in.
Yet the way her face had lit with emotion earlier hinted at a more subtle attractiveness. And those legs…The sight of her shapely calves and trim ankles in high heels and dark stockings tugged at his long-dormant libido.
Alessandro’s hands flexed. He wanted to explore further, to discover if her legs were as sexy all the way up.
Instinct—or was it memory?—told him her legs were superb. Just as he knew he’d found pleasure in her neatly curved figure and her deliciously full lips.
Belatedly he dragged his gaze from the woman who’d lured him halfway around the world.
The way she sidetracked him was unprecedented. One way or another he had to get her out of his system.
‘Grazie, Robson. That’s all for tonight.’
The butler inclined his head. ‘There are refreshments on the sideboard should you require them, sir, madam.’ Not by so much as a flicker did he indicate he knew the woman before him to be a co-worker. Then he moved silently away towards the kitchen and the staff entrance.
‘Please—’ Alessandro gestured to the nearby lounge ‘—take a seat.’
For a moment he thought she wasn’t going to accept. Finally she walked across the antique carpet to sit in a cavernous wing chair. The glow of lamps lit her face, revealing a tension around her pursed lips he hadn’t noticed before. She looked tired.
Alessandro flicked a look at his watch. It was very late. He’d become accustomed to working long into the night, fuelled by caffeine and his own formidable drive.
Conscience niggled. He should have left this till tomorrow. But he’d been unable to ignore the edgy frustration that drove him relentlessly. He was so close he couldn’t rest till he had answers from her.
He’d already been stymied once. Alessandro had confronted her at the ball only to find he’d been robbed of composure and even the power of speech by a shocking blast of recognition. He’d frozen, the one thought in his atrophying mind to hold her and not let her go.
The completeness of that instant of vulnerability had stunned and shamed him. Never had he felt at such a loss. Not in business. Definitely not in his dealings with women.
Now he was himself once more. It would not happen again.
Alessandro Mattani did not do vulnerable.
He thrust aside the momentary doubt at his tactics and strode across to the sideboard.
‘Tea, coffee?’ he offered. ‘Wine?’
‘I don’t want anything.’ She sat straighter, her chin hitched high in unspoken defiance. That spark of rebellion brought colour to her cheeks and made her eyes sparkle.
Alessandro paused, watching fascinated as she transformed from drab to intriguing in an instant. Then he turned, poured himself a small measure of cognac, and took a seat opposite her.
All the while she watched him with those luminous eyes that had captivated him the moment he saw her.
What did she see? Was she cataloguing the differences in him? It surprised him to discover how much he wanted to read her thoughts. Know what she felt. Did she too experience this gnawing tension, like an ache between the ribs?
‘I see you’ve noticed my scar.’
The wash of colour along her cheekbones intensified, but she didn’t look away. Nor did she respond.
Alessandro wasn’t vain enough to worry about his marred face. Besides, it was his wealth and position as much as his looks to which women responded. They might say they wanted a man of charm or kindness, but he knew how fickle they were. Neither marriage vows nor ties of blood between mother and child could hold them when they found someone who offered more wealth and prestige.
