One Night with her Italian Boss by Trish Morey
10
It had been a productive week. Dante put the finishing touches to some notes he was preparing to email to his PA back in Melbourne, and hit send. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms up high behind his head. It was Friday evening; Mackenzi was out shopping with Christine, finally having conceded that her inadequate wardrobe wasn’t up to the task. The redesigned Quinn development was passing all kinds of tests—architectural, financial and otherwise—with the preliminary advice from the department responsible for zoning looking amenable to the development. But, if the days had been good, the nights had been better.
He was amazed that someone he’d selected as his “deal or no deal” mistress could be so business-savvy. He was more amazed that his mistress, chosen on a whim after one insufficient night, had proved so bedroom-savvy.
He’d always loved the cut and thrust of business: the chase, the hunt, the satisfaction of achieving his goals. Women had always been ancillary to all of that—the answer to a need, the means to an end—and then they were gone.
But no longer. Now, after hours of sitting around in boardrooms and offices, he couldn’t wait to get Mackenzi back to their suite. Once he’d no sooner closed the door to their suite before he’d taken her up against it. Then there was the time he hadn’t even waited that long, taking her in the lift the second the doors had slid closed.
But the best had been the slow times, like when they’d shared a bubble-filled spa and Mackenzi had been all slippery limbs, satiny skin and deliciously slick, inside and out. He’d slowly washed her all over, and she’d returned the compliment, her oiled hands working magic on his skin, turning mere flesh to steel. Finally, when they hadn’t been able to take it any more, he’d lowered her down onto his lap until her hot, honeyed flesh had enveloped him, a languid start had become a frantic dash to the finish, and they’d both come in a heated rush that left them both gasping.
Just thinking about it made him hard again.
An email lobbed into his inbox and he glanced down at the screen, half-wishing he’d already closed down. He frowned when he saw it was from Adrian, his frown deepening when he registered the subject line: Ashton House Closure Date.’ He clicked it open, marvelling how just the mention of that place could send his blood-pressure soaring and his mind to dark deeds.
Ashton House reservations had been approached, Adrian wrote, by a tour company that wanted to book tours, including Ashton House, in their itinerary for three successive years; they were awaiting advice whether they should accept.
Dante hadn’t given a thought to Ashton House for days, but right now he stared at the email, feeling the familiar resentment build, the familiar clamp around his gut. It was always there, it seemed, simmering just below the surface, rancid and foul, waiting for an opportunity to boil over into his life. Right now he greeted the feeling like an old friend.
It was probably time he made some kind of decision. What was the point of putting it off? He’d made a deal with Mackenzi to think about it, and at least she couldn’t accuse him of not holding up his part of the bargain.
He hit reply and typed three succinct words—‘Tell them no’—sending the message and closing down his computer before anything else he might need to respond to arrived.
He stood and strolled over to the windows, looking out over the impressive Auckland city-skyline under a cloud-filled sky, looking for a distraction. The police car tearing along the street below, its lights flashing, didn’t do it for long. He looked at his watch, wondering how long it would be until Mackenzi made it back from her shopping expedition with Christine; Christine had been only too happy to take Mackenzi under her wing and show her the places to shop in Auckland. They’d been gone for hours. Which meant she had to be back soon.
Dante smiled as he headed for the bathroom, grateful to have a plan. Mackenzi would be tired after all that shopping. What better way to unwind than another nice relaxing spa?
Mackenzi studiedthe steady rise and fall of his chest while he slept, which for once seemed to coincide with it being dark outside. Dante was a hard task-master, his energy boundless, his drive phenomenal, and when finally he slept it was like he’d entered the sleep of the dead.
Weariness dragged at her too. It had been a frantic ten days, working alongside him, and she felt like she’d been involved in a property-investment masterclass.
But the deal was looking more and more solid, the new plans featuring a state-of-the-art boat-building facility, a marina, a shopping plaza and restaurant precinct, as well as accommodation looking out over it all to the glorious harbour beyond. It was a thrill to know she was part of making it happen.
Just like it was a thrill to find herself in Dante’s bed every night.
She rolled onto her back and stared up at the darkened ceiling, remembering how good he’d made her feel tonight. He’d whisked her into his arms barely a moment after she’d entered their suite, ignoring the scatter of shopping bags and boxes, and already working his way under her clothes before they’d made it to the bedroom.
His passion had blown her away, from their first impossibly quick encounter on the bed tonight to the slow second act in the spa. The danger of it was that he was seducing her mind in a way she’d never imagined. Oh, she’d known from that very first night that he was capable of a form of seduction she’d never experienced before, but she’d never realised how such a seduction could weaken one’s own defences.
She felt a twinge low down in her belly and smiled with relief. Any day now. She’d been right not to bother Dante with her concerns about forgetting to take those pills, although it had been blind fear as to his reaction that had motivated her. But knowing it would have cast a cloud over the last few days—and nights—and they’d both brought enough baggage into this relationship already. Besides which, there was no point both of them worrying.
But, as much as she found herself enjoying the love-making aspect of being Dante’s mistress much more than she’d expected, she knew she couldn’t let this bedroom bargain drag on forever. A week or two, he’d estimated their affair would last. It was already more than that and still there were no signs of him wearying of her. Surely that meant something? Surely after all they’d shared together, after all the passionate highs and more they’d shared, Dante must feel something for her? She wanted to believe it, even if what he felt for her was just a little respect. That would be enough. Surely he would listen to her now?
So maybe it was time. She hadn’t mentioned Ashton House since that day out on the boat. Maybe it was time to test the waters and raise the subject again.
It didn’t happen that quickly. The next few days passed in a blur. Instead of a quiet weekend in Auckland like she’d been expecting after their hectic week, Dante announced early the next morning that they were flying down to Wellington to check out several properties he’d listed to inspect. So they spent the weekend in the company of property agents, touring shopping complexes thronging with shoppers, and visiting office-towers strangely hushed and empty. Once, when they had a couple of hours to themselves and they’d walked down to the harbour, Dante stopped to buy ice creams. They strolled hand-in-hand along the shore of Oriental Bay, surrounded by joggers and families out cycling and other couples holding hands, while the fresh breeze whipped around them, tugging at their hair and jackets.
He was so warm, so unusually conversational, talking with her about the distinctive architecture of the properties lining the bay, about their colour and character. He’d never looked more approachable and Mackenzi almost raised the subject of Ashton House then. Until he told her she had chocolate on her lip, and he held back the hand that was on its way to wipe it, dipping his head down to kiss it off, the touch of his tongue against her lip electric; something tiny, tender and fragile had burst into life inside her.
They could have been any other couple walking the bay that day, and anyone else would have believed they were just a normal couple in love. The moment was so tender and sweet, and the risks that she would spoil this fragile sense of camaraderie between them too great, that she chose to say nothing.
The nights were too precious, their love-making so passionate, exquisite and explosive, never failing to rock her world and deliver her, fully sated, into the arms of sleep.
Before she knew it they were back in Auckland and he’d whisked her off on a launch to visit Waiheke Island and inspect more property. This time it was residential, although the properties he showed her looked more like palaces than every-day houses, with their sprawling, tropical gardens complete with tennis courts and swimming pools, and the all-too-necessary helipad for the daily commute to the city.
Then it was back to the endless round of meetings and dinners with architects, financiers and lawyers and there was no time to think of anything but the matters at hand.
Until it occurred to her. The twinges and cramps that had started out so promisingly had faded away to nothing.
She was four days late.
