The Mistress That Tamed De Santis

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_1d6b2d60-9b1a-5c66-9b20-742149c6764e)

CROWN PRINCE ANTONIO DE SANTIS strolled along the dark street, savouring the stolen moment of freedom as he walked off the burn from the last eighty minutes in the palace gym.

Silence. Solitude. Darkness. Peace.

He checked the hood of his sweatshirt still hid most of his face. He’d soon have to turn back. In less than an hour this road would be crawling with workers frantically finishing preparations and testing the barricades they’d installed over the last day. The crowds would gather early too. San Felipe’s car rally was prestigious, hotly contested and the starting gun for the annual carnival, which meant Antonio’s next couple of weeks were even more packed than usual. State balls, trade meetings, society events, the carnival celebrations required a round-the-clock royal presence as the world’s wealthy and glamorous came to indulge and experience his country’s beauty. And with his younger brother away, Crown Prince Antonio was the only royalty on offer.

He’d do it all anyway; he always did.

He approached an intersection. The road to the left headed into the heart of the city and was the entertainment ‘strip’—lined with restaurants and bars that would soon be packed for race action. He glanced up at the ornate exterior of the former firehouse on the corner—the latest building to have been reclaimed and refurbished into a hot night spot. But after only a week of business, the city’s residents were debating the merits of this particular establishment more than any other.

BURN.

The four bronze letters bolted to the wall screamed both defiance and demand. He read it as a blatant statement of intent—she was here, she didn’t care, and she didn’t intend to hide.

Antonio frowned. Suddenly the window just ahead was flung wide open. The shutter banged on the wall right beside him. If he’d been one pace on, he’d have been knocked out cold on the pavement.

He halted. Even with the relaxed rules in carnival season, the club ought to be closed at this hour. He glanced into the open window, expecting to see a few intoxicated patrons still partying, but no noise streamed out. No endless thud, thud, thud of drum and bass. No high-pitched giggles, loud laughs or low murmurs. It seemed there was no one in the vast room—until something white silently flashed in the deep recesses. He looked closer, tracking the fast-moving creature as the white flashed again. The woman wore a loose white top and...nothing else? The most basic instinct had him locking on her legs—unbelievably long legs that right now were moving unbelievably fast.

Pyjamas. Short pyjamas.

His suddenly slushy brain slowly reached a conclusion. She opened another window down the side of the room and turned again. She wore ballet flats on her feet, not for fashion, but for function, dancing across the floor—spinning so quickly her auburn hair swirled in a curling ribbon behind her. She leapt and landed near the window on the opposite side of the room and opened that one with another dramatic, effervescent gesture before turning yet again. That was when he saw her face properly for the first time.

She was smiling. Not one of the usual sorts of smiles Antonio received—not awed or nervous or curious or come-hitherish... This smile was so full of raw joy it made him feel he should step back into the darkness, but he couldn’t find the will to turn away.

Heat kicked hard in his gut.

Anger. Not lust. Never lust.

He’d have to have spent the last six months living under a rock not to know she’d moved to San Felipe. Given he ruled the island principality, he knew exactly who she was and why she was here. And he didn’t give a damn that she was even more stunning in real life than in any of the pictures saturating the Internet. Bella Sanchez was here to cause trouble. And Antonio didn’t want trouble in San Felipe.

Nor did he want Bella Sanchez.

He didn’t want anyone.

Yet here he was with his feet glued to the pavement, watching her whirl her way round the room with glorious abandon, from one window to the next in flying leaps until she’d opened them all.

She executed another series of dizzying spins across the floor, and suddenly stopped—positioned smack bang in the centre of the window frame he was looking through.

‘Enjoying the view?’ Her smile had vanished and her voice dripped with sarcasm.

When he didn’t move, she glided closer, her feline green eyes like lasers. She wasn’t even breathless as she stared him down like a Fury about to wreak revenge on a miscreant.

Antonio’s reflexes snapped. She thought she could shame him into scuttling away? Another hit of heat made him clench his muscles. He pushed back the hood of his sweatshirt and coolly gazed back up at her, grimly anticipating her recognition of him.

Her eyes widened instantly but she quickly schooled the shock from her face—her expression smoothing until she became inscrutable. Somehow she stood taller. She had the straightest back of anyone he’d ever seen.

‘Your Highness,’ she said crisply. ‘May I help you with something?’

Unfortunately he couldn’t reply; his tongue was cleaved to the roof of his mouth. How could she look this radiant so early in the morning? She had to have had an extremely late night and yet here she was without a scrap of make-up on, looking intolerably beautiful.

Antonio actively avoided being alone with women—especially models, actresses and socialites—but, given his single status and Crown Prince title, they littered his path and made their play nonetheless. Over the past few years he’d met hundreds, if not thousands, of stunning, willing women. He’d refused every single one.

But none had ever looked as gorgeous as Bella Sanchez did right now. And none had looked as haughty.

At his continued silence, she stepped closer. ‘You were spying on me?’

His anger sharpened. He’d avoided meeting her most of all and now she made him sound like a peeping Tom. No matter that in part he felt like one.

‘It is past closing hours,’ he said stiffly.

‘You’re policing me?’ As she stared down at him that haughty barrier locked fully into place, leaching the last of the vitality in her eyes. ‘The club is closed.’

Her English accent was muddied. He figured it was from the years she’d spent abroad and the mix of people in her life.

‘I’m merely ventilating the rooms,’ she explained.

‘Getting rid of suspicious smells?’ He’d heard the rumours and he wasn’t going to ignore them.

A small smile emerged, nothing like the earlier one. ‘This is a non-smoking venue, not some den of iniquity.’

‘There are other vices,’ he replied with calm consideration. ‘Salvatore Accardi warned me this operation was going to bring San Felipe nothing but trouble.’

‘He would know all about trouble.’

She didn’t so much as blink as she snapped back her answer.

He’d wanted to see her reaction to his reference to Accardi—but he’d got almost none.

Salvatore Accardi, former Italian politician, had taken up permanent residence in his San Felipe holiday home. And Salvatore Accardi was reputedly Bella Sanchez’s father.

Twenty-odd years ago she’d been born of scandal, supposedly the love child of the married Salvatore and his sex-symbol mistress. Their affair had been splashed across all the newspapers of the day. But Salvatore had never acknowledged Bella as his baby. He’d refused to undergo paternity testing. He’d stayed with his long-suffering wife, pregnant at the time, and raised their daughter, who’d been born a mere three months before Bella.

Bella had been raised in the public eye, eventually dancing professionally before becoming chatelaine of this party house in the heart of Antonio’s principality. And according to Salvatore Accardi now, her presence would attract nothing but sleaze to San Felipe.

‘Is it so terrible to provide a place for people to have fun?’ Bella asked, shrugging one of her delicate shoulders. She looked slender, but strong.

Antonio frowned at the direction—distraction—of his thoughts.

‘This isn’t about that,’ he said coldly. ‘This is revenge. This is setting up so you’re right in Accardi’s face.’

‘Is that what he told you?’ Her poise cracked briefly as anger flashed. ‘Do you honestly think you can believe everything—or anything—he says?’

At a gut level Antonio had never much liked Salvatore Accardi, but nothing had ever been proven. All those rumours of corporate and political corruption had remained only rumours. And if the man had the personal morals of an alley cat, that was his own business. He’d owned property in San Felipe for too long for Antonio to find reason to require him to leave.

Just as there’d been no reason to refuse a work permit and residency to Bella Sanchez.