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Di CESARE PREGNANT MISTRESS - Chapter 29
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‘No!’ She gave a sharp cry when he snatched up the postcard she had written to James and ripped it in two. ‘How dare you? You had no right to do that. This is ridiculous,’ she grated, temper giving her the necessary impetus to scramble off the sofa and drag her tee shirt over her head. ‘I’ll write to who I damn well like. Either that or I’ll leave the Villa, terminate my contract and go home. You can’t make me stay here.’ She said, faint desperation edging into her voice when Alexander stood, towering over her, his dark eyes mocking her.
‘Oh, but I can, bella,’ he murmured silkily. ‘You will remain here until your work on the Villa is complete, and after that I’ll decide what I’m going to do with you. But you won’t be visiting Ditton Hall any time soon,’ he promised in a hard voice.
And after awarding her a look of blistering disgust he strode from the room, leaving Stephanie shaking with rage and misery that yet again she had fallen into his arms, only for him to humiliate her.
A storm was brewing. The night air was hot and heavy and although the air conditioning was working flat out Alexander felt stifled inside the Villa.
He couldn’t sleep—but what was new about that? he thought bitterly as he strode through the dark garden down to the pool. If he’d learned anything over the past few weeks it was that sexual frustration was not conducive to a restful night.
He had driven back to Florence at the beginning of the week—only hours after he had arrived at the Villa—not trusting himself to remain under the same roof as Stephanie without wringing her neck or giving in to the hunger clawing in his gut and carrying her off to his bed. Common sense told him to forget her, get on with his life and, if necessary, sleep with as many women as it took to eject her permanently from his mind.
But to his disgust his common sense seemed to be in short supply—along with his customary needle-sharp business brain and the ruthless ambition that had earned him the respect of his company board memebers and the fear of his enemies. It had been a hellish week, and his secretary had been unable to disguise her relief when he had sent her home at six o’clock, telling her that he would be spending the weekend at the Villa Rosala should she need to contact him.
Muttering a profanity, he dived into the pool. The water was blessedly cool on his hot skin, and he swam until his muscles ached but were no longer knotting with tension. How could his cool, logical brain accept his initial suspicions about Stephanie and yet his body still crave hers with a carnal, shaming hunger? And how could it be that, despite knowing her for what she was, he missed her company? During their discussions about her designs for the Villa he had found her to be intelligent and interesting, and every week he had secretly found himself looking forward to the weekends so that he could spend time with her.
So Stephanie was different from his usual diet of airhead socialites, he conceded, flipping over to float on his back while he stared up at the starless night sky. But she was no different from every other grasping, eye-on-the-main-chance woman who like his father’s second wife.
Monica had seen his father coming, he thought bitterly. She’d understood the vulnerability of a grieving widower and ruthlessly exploited his father’s loneliness—and he had been flattered by the interest of a beautiful woman so many years his junior, and fallen for her so hard that he’d been blinded to the glaring fact that she was only in love with his bank balance.
Every instinct Alexander possessed Warned him that Stephanie was another Monica. But he would not be another Stefano, he vowed. Tension gripped him once more and he began to slice through the water, completing lap after lap as he fought to exorcise her from his mind.
It was hot, stiflingly hot, and Stephanie felt as though she was in a furnace. She could feel the pain building until it seemed to rip through her, tearing at the fragile threads of life within her. With an agonised cry she fought against the sheet that imprisoned her body like a shroud and sat bolt upright, her chest heaving as she opened her eyes and realised that she was in her bedroom at the Villa Rosala.
She had been dreaming. The old, familiar dream that even after all this time was still shockingly real. The human mind was an amazing thing, her GP had explained gently when she’d visited him, convinced that she was going mad. The stomach cramps and the terrible dragging sensations low in her pelvis were as real as they had been when she’d miscarried her baby, but now that she was awake they were fading whereas on that day the pain had been unendurable.
She didn’t want to think about it. Her body had long since healed, but the pain in her heart was still raw, and she certainly couldn’t risk lying down and going back to sleep knowing that she would return to the dream, where she was running along endless hospital corridors looking for her baby. Her room felt like an oven, and she felt a sudden desperate need for fresh air. When she crept through the dark, silent house and stepped into the garden the air prickled with static electricity that warned a storm was coming closer. A low rumble of thunder from the distant hills confirmed it, but she couldn’t face going back inside.
For the second week in a row, sleep had eluded her for most hours of each night. Even when exhaustion did finally claim her, towards dawn, she was tormented by images of Alexander’s hands caressing her, his lips brushing softly against her skin, until she awoke burning up with desperate, shaming, sexual frustration and an overwhelming desire to burst into tears.