His mouth hardened. ‘I don’t remember mentioning that I lived in Paris.’
Out of the corner of his eye he saw her shoulders slump a little.
‘I must have read that on the internet too. You can’t blame me,’ she said, her words leaving her mouth in a sudden rush.
‘No, I don’t blame you,’ he said. Just as he couldn’t blame her for the sudden sexual tension which seemed to have sprung up between them again, which was making it difficult for him to concentrate. Maybe that was inevitable. They were two people who’d been interrupted while making out, leaving them both aching and frustrated. And even though his head was telling him that was the best thing which could have happened, his body seemed to have other ideas.
Because right now all he could think about was how soft her skin had felt as he had skated his fingertips all the way up beneath that flouncy little dress she’d been wearing. He remembered the slenderness of her hips and breasts as she’d stood before him in her bra and panties—defiant yet innocent as she’d stripped off her bridesmaid dress and let it pool around her feet. He’d resisted her then, even though the scent of her arousal had called out to his hungry body on a primitive level which had made resistance almost unendurable. Was that what was happening now? Why he wanted to stop the car and take her somewhere—anywhere—so that he could be alone with her? Free to pull aside her clothes. To unzip her jeans and tease her until she was writhing in helpless appeal.
He wondered if he’d been out of his mind to say no. He could easily have introduced her to limitless pleasures in his arms—and what better initiation for a virgin than lovemaking with someone like him? But it wasn’t his technique which was in question, but his inbuilt emotional distance. He couldn’t connect. He didn’t know how.
‘So why Paris?’ she was asking.
Make her get the message, he thought. Make her realise that she’s had a lucky escape from a man like you.
‘It’s well placed for central Europe,’ he said. ‘I like the city and the food and the culture. And, of course, the women,’ he added deliberately. ‘French women are very easy to like.’
‘I can imagine they must be,’ she said, her voice sounding unnaturally bright.
The car was soon swallowed up by the heavier London traffic and he noticed she was staring fixedly out of the window.
‘We’re nearly here,’ he said, forcing himself to make some conversational remark. To try to draw a line under this as neatly as possible. ‘So...have you got any plans for the rest of the day?’
Willow gazed at the familiar wide streets close to her apartment and realised he was preparing to say goodbye to her. What she would like to do more than anything else was to rail against the unfairness of it all. Not only had he turned her down, but he’d deliberately started talking about other women—French women—as if to drive home just how forgettable she really was. And he had done it just as she’d been speculating about his fast, international lifestyle. Thinking that he didn’t seem like the sort of man who would ever embrace the role of husband and father...the sort of man who really would have been a perfect lover for a woman like her.
Well, she was just going to have to forget her stupid daydreams. Just tick it off and put it down to experience. She would get over it, as she had got over so much else. No way was she going to leave him with an enduring memory of her behaving like a victim. Remember how he moaned in your arms when he kissed you, she reminded herself fiercely as she slanted him a smile. Remember that you have some power here, too.
‘I’ll probably go for a walk in Regent’s Park,’ she said. ‘The flowers are gorgeous at this time of the year. And I might meet a friend later and catch a film. How about you?’
‘I’ll pick up my bag from you and then fly straight back to France.’ He stifled a yawn. ‘It’s been an eventful few days
.’
And that, thought Willow, was that.
She was glad of all the times when her mother had drummed in the importance of posture because it meant that she was able to walk into her apartment with her head held very proud and her shoulders as stiff as a ramrod, as Dante followed her inside.
She pulled out the leather case from the bottom of her wardrobe, her fingers closing around it just before she handed it to him.
‘I’d love to see the tiara,’ she said.
He shook his head. ‘Better not.’
‘Even though I inadvertently carried a priceless piece of jewellery through customs without declaring it?’
‘You shouldn’t have picked up the wrong bag.’
You shouldn’t have been distracting me. ‘And I could now be languishing in some jail somewhere,’ she continued.
He gave a slow smile. ‘I would have bailed you out.’
‘I only have your word for that,’ she said.
‘And you don’t trust my word?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know you well enough to answer that. Besides, oughtn’t you to check that the piece is intact? That I haven’t substituted something fake in its place—or stolen one of the stones. That this Lost Mistress is in a decent state to give to your grandfather and...’
But her words died away as he began to unlock the leather case and slowly drew out a jewelled tiara—a glittering coronet of white diamonds and almond-size emeralds as green as new leaves. Against Dante’s olive skin they sparked their bright fire and it was impossible for Willow to look anywhere else but at them.