The manicurist arrived late morning and redid Belle’s nails in a dark blue that she liked much better than pastel pink. Her nails would match the long dress she had selected from her new wardrobe and she promised herself that this time she wouldn’t pick at the gel finish and peel it off because she was willing to admit her hands looked much prettier. She would wear the fancy pendant and earrings he had bought and do her very best to look as though she belonged in a formal setting, even though she would be feeling incredibly nervous. She recoiled from the fear of letting Dante down in public. After all, this was what he had hired her to do: act as if they were a couple. No matter how she felt inside herself, she had to behave like his lover without being off-puttingly clingy.

  Fully dressed, she went downstairs and from the top step she saw Dante pacing the big entrance hall, tailored dinner jacket shaping wide shoulders, narrow black trousers delineating long powerful legs, with the white of his dress shirt in stark contrast to the vibrant glow of his bronzed skin. Drop-dead gorgeous from head to toe but she wasn’t allowed to think like that any more or look at him like that, she reminded herself doggedly.

  Dante swung round to watch her descent, and something expanded inside his chest because her beauty had never been more obvious than in that stylish simple dress, her glorious hair tumbling round her shoulders just the way he liked it, a sleek split in the skirt momentarily showing a slice of pale perfect leg. And then she looked at him and her eyes didn’t shine any more. He didn’t remember noticing that inner glow she had had when she’d studied him but, on some level, he must have noticed because now it was definitely gone. Just as he had forecast, just as he had wished, she was moving on from him, shaking off those silly feelings she was too naïve to understand. He told himself that he was relieved, but his lean hands clenched into fists because he hadn’t expected her to get over the notion of him quite so fast, and for some reason that only made his mood edgier and darker.

  ‘Steve and Sancha are saving a table for us. At least with them present, you’ll have friends around you,’ Dante remarked as if he could sense her insecurities about attending an event patronised only by the wealthy.

  Belle lifted her chin, tempted to say that Steve and Sancha had never been her friends, only VIP customers she had served at the restaurant. Friendly, pleasant people, but not people she had mixed with in any social way. She said nothing, however, because she didn’t want to draw attention to her nerves.

  It was a social gathering way beyond Belle’s experience. The benefit was being held in the splendid ballroom of a public building. Wonderful frescoes decorated the domed ceiling, the whole illuminated by giant crystal chandeliers. And everywhere there were people: dinner-jacketed men standing in cliques, superbly groomed women in fabulous designer gowns and jewellery that flashed under the lights.

  Dante closed his hand over hers, startling her, and began to trace a path through the crush. Steve Cranbrook stood up and waved from a table at the edge of the floor, his Spanish wife beaming at them both.

  ‘Do they know we’re faking it?’ Belle whispered, stretching up to Dante’s ear.

  ‘Yes, but they’re the only ones who know,’ he confirmed.

  Belle relaxed a little more then, knowing she didn’t have to keep up an act with their companions. Sancha chattered as though her tongue had wheels, telling Belle about the international charity and the famine-relief fund. Belle asked the curvy brunette about her children, an adorable mop-headed blonde quartet she had often seen playing on the lake beach with their mother. The crowds thinned as the guests found their seats to listen to the speeches. Belle looked round the room, spotting Dante’s mother, the princess, who would never let anyone forget that she was a princess, seated beside a man with greying hair, who had the same classic profile as Dante and was presumably his father.

  Her attention roamed to the tables nearest theirs and then her eyes widened, something akin to a jolt lancing through her chest as she stared in astonishment at the man sitting alone at a table and staring right back at her. It was... No, it couldn’t be... Could it be her father? Nine years, it had been nine years since she had seen Alastair Stevenson. The red hair she had inherited from him had distinguished wings of grey now, but the eyes were no less keen, his face barely lined. He would be in his late forties now, much younger than her mother and time had laid only a light hand on him.

  Belle dropped her eyes, suddenly feeling sick and clammy. The father who had bluntly rejected her, who had said he wanted nothing whatsoever to do with ‘Tracy’s daughter’ as if she were not also his daughter. The cruel bite of that rebuff had gone deep, and she had no doubt that he had been staring because he could barely credit that his unacknowledged, unwanted daughter could be present at a high-society charity benefit where he, of all people, had to know she did not belong. It was just one of those truly horrible coincidences, she reflected wretchedly, draining her soft drink, and what was more, after nine years, she should be mature enough to handle an accidental glimpse of the man without getting emotional.

  The music started up again and as some couples took to the dance floor, Steve grabbed his wife’s hand and pulled her, laughing, out of her seat.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Belle said tightly and rose from her chair.

  ‘What’s wrong? Where are you going?’ Dante demanded, reacting disturbingly like a man who would prefer to keep her chained down beside him.

  Belle lifted a questioning brow. ‘Cloakroom...?’

  The fingers closing to her wrist dropped away and he politely sprang upright, but the intense hold of the dark golden eyes below his frowning black brows continued. ‘Are you all right?’ he pressed, because he had never before seen her so pale that every freckle stood out in sharp relief.

  ‘Of course, I am,’ she told him through numb lips as she hurriedly walked away.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  FRESHENING UP AND doing a little deep breathing to put the dizziness to flight helped to return Belle to normal.

  It had been shock that made her feel ill like that, the sheer shock value of seeing her father after so many years, she reasoned ruefully as she walked back through the entrance hall to thread her passage through the knots of chattering people. And then she stopped dead, in disbelief, seeing the man she had hoped to avoid standing directly ahead of her. Dropping her head, she sidestepped in haste and then froze as a hand fell on her arm.

  ‘Belle?’ that almost forgotten deep voice prompted.

  Her eyes flashed up into eyes identical to her own and she froze like a woman in front of a steep drop, fearing a fall. ‘Er...Mr Stevenson?’ she said stiffly.

  ‘Do you know how many years I’ve been trying to track you down?’ the older man asked in a pained undertone. ‘How long I’ve been searching for you? And with the first words out of your mouth, you crucify me with guilt. And I deserve it. Yes, I fully deserve it, but I am here to ask you for a few minutes of your time. Will you give me that much?’

  Belle was stunned that Alastair Stevenson had approached her, stunned by his claim to have searched for her and even more stunned by the emotional charge he was emanating, for the man she remembered had been cold and bitter and hostile.

  ‘Please...’ he added with emphasis as the silence between them stretched and stretched.

  Dante was restless because Belle had been away longer than he had expected and there was something wrong. He knew in his gut that there was something wrong. Was she ill? Or had something upset her? Steve and Sancha reappeared and Steve bent down and said, ‘When did Belle get friendly with Alastair Stevenson?’

  That vaguely familiar name rang into Dante’s inner computer chip of contacts and spat out a designation: high-flying hedge-fund manager, well known in the UK. ‘Alastair Stevenson? What are you talking about?’

  And Steve angled his head in the direction of the dance floor and Dante was dumbfounded to see Belle with the older man. Neither could be said to be actually dancing. They were swaying opposite each other, heads leaning forward as they tried to talk over the noise of the music, and even as Dante watched the couple with frank incredulity Alastair Stevenson reached for Belle’s hand, said something in her ear and walked her off the floor.

  Dante swore long and low and inventively in Italian.

  ‘I mean, obviously she knows him well,’ Steve pointed out helpfully. ‘I’ve never seen him hand in hand with any woman other than his wife. Maybe he’s her godfather or some relative or something.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Dante had difficulty vocalising the words in English, but he was trying to get a grip on the rage licking at him and stay in control. ‘She would’ve mentioned someone like that.’

  ‘They’re going outside,’ Steve told him helpfully.

  ‘They’re... What?’ Dante exclaimed, leaping upright, just in time to catch a glimpse of Belle vanishing through the French windows standing open onto the terrace to allow a flow of cooler night air.

  ‘Does she smoke?’

  ‘No, she bites her nails.’ And if he had to make a choice Dante knew he would still pick the nails for a bad habit because it was an oddly endearing and revealing weakness. Every time her fingers drifted towards her mouth, he knew she was nervous or afraid.

  Why would she go off to be alone with a married man? It didn’t make sense. She wasn’t that kind of woman, was she? At least he had thought she wasn’t that kind of woman...the type to spot an opportunity and pounce on a rich man for the sake of it. Strictly speaking, she was only obligated to him for another week, he reminded himself grudgingly. He had no official claim beyond that date. Virginity at twenty-two did not indicate sainthood or fidelity or anything else, did it? He was being naïve, he, who was never naïve about women and the evils they were capable of.

  * * *

  Belle and Alastair took a table on the well-lit terrace and he signalled the waiter to order drinks.

  ‘Just water for me, thanks,’ she said awkwardly. ‘So, this private investigation agency you hired to find me traced me through the newspaper photos that were published, but that was only yesterday.’

  ‘And I dropped everything and ran, lest you vanish again. Wrangled a ticket for tonight, praying that Lucarelli would be bringing you with him because I didn’t fancy trying to visit you at his place.’ Alastair grimaced. ‘I need more privacy than that to tell you what I have to tell you but I don’t want to offend you by being too honest about your mother and the dreadful relationship we’ve had since your birth.’

  ‘I haven’t seen Tracy since my grandfather was buried and you couldn’t offend me where she’s concerned.’

  ‘When Tracy fell pregnant I was young and naïve. I didn’t get a legal agreement drawn up with her because I didn’t want anyone to know about our fling. Instead I left myself open to paying every damn bill she sent me, and her financial demands were heavy. When I indicated that I wanted to rearrange the child support through a lawyer, she threatened to visit my wife, Emily, whom I met and married the year after I broke up with your mother. And I didn’t want Emily to find out about you. I didn’t want anyone to know about your existence because I felt like such a fool for letting Tracy take advantage of me,’ he admitted heavily.

  Belle’s brows pleated. ‘Why would her threatening to visit your wife worry you so much?’

  ‘Emily’s suffered from depression all her life and she’s fragile. Back then her biggest dream was to have a child, but she suffered several miscarriages and then we had a stillborn son,’ Alastair revealed sadly. ‘I should’ve told her about you before our marriage because afterwards I couldn’t face telling her that I already had a child.’

  Belle nodded slowly. ‘I can appreciate you wanting to protect your wife.’

  ‘But Emily knows about you now. Tracy can’t hold that threat over me any longer and once I’d told Emily, I was free to look for you. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find you. I had to bribe your mother even for the information of where and when she had last seen you,’ he told her in disgust. ‘By then I had had enquiries made and I had discovered that she had been lying to me and conning me with fake bills practically from the minute you were born. Until recently I didn’t even realise that it was your grandparents who had brought you up and that you’d attended a state school with absolutely no frills and left at sixteen.’

  Belle was frowning. ‘Fake bills?’

  ‘Salaries for nannies, tuition fees for exclusive boarding schools, riding lessons, ballet lessons, private medical treatment, holidays. Everything your mother could think up she billed me for with false documents and yet you received none of those benefits. But I was the idiot who paid and paid and paid even in the early days when I was less affluent and it was a struggle to pay,’ Alastair revealed. ‘I learned to hate Tracy while she bled me for every penny she could and that was the background to my first meeting with you. I took my bitterness out on you and it was wrong and cruel and unjust. You were only a kid hoping to meet your father.’

  ‘I got over it.’ Belle sighed, lifting her hand to squeeze his arm in consolation because she was seeing a complete picture now and it changed everything she had thought she knew about her birth father. Tracy had blackmailed him and lied to him, all to scam money out of him for her own selfish use. ‘Tracy is a bit of a money monster.’

  ‘A bit? She left you high and dry after your grandfather died and took off with her ill-gotten gains! Not a surprise,’ her father pronounced cynically. ‘But let’s see if we can leave all that and her behind us where it belongs. I very much regret the way I treated you when I first met you. Can we move on from that? I would like to get to know you, and Emily feels the same way. All these years on, am I too late? Or is a relationship still a possibility?’

  A wash of stinging tears burned the backs of Belle’s eyes as her father reached uncertainly for her hand and squeezed it with a hopeful look on his face.

  ‘I think we could try it, see how it goes,’ Belle muttered chokily, tears shining in her eyes even as she gave him a huge smile of forgiveness. ‘I know I would like that very much.’

  * * *

  ‘You chose to bring home a slut,’ Princess Sofia whispered in a gloating tone in her son’s ear as she brushed past him out to the terrace, where Belle could be seen, apparently so rapt by Alastair Stevenson’s attention and their entwined hands that she was blind to Dante’s presence only ten feet away.

  Dante wanted to launch himself at the older man and beat him to a pulp with his fists. Steve was at his elbow, urging him to stay calm, seek an explanation rather than dealing out hasty words of anger and retribution. Steve was the voice of reason, but Dante was firing on pure animal instinct. Alastair Stevenson was touching Belle, and Dante was realising that he could not tolerate that. Being forced to witness that act of desecration was like having someone claw the flesh from his bones. And even worse, Belle was smiling at Stevenson, all soft and bright and trusting as she had never once smiled at Dante!

  Breaking free of Steve’s restraining hold, Dante strode forward, sufficient enraged heat in his condemnatory dark golden eyes to stoke a bonfire. ‘What the hell’s going on here?’

  Alastair frowned and then abruptly rammed back his chair to stand up. ‘Sorry, I’ve been rude keeping Belle all to myself, but I couldn’t resist the opportunity to speak to my daughter again. Alastair Stevenson,’ he said, stretching out a polite hand.

  Anxiously having risen, her hand releasing her father’s, Belle had clashed in consternation with Dante’s flashing furious gaze and her entire skin surface had broken out in goosebumps.

  ‘Belle just...disappeared.’ Dante formed the words through clenched teeth while that entirely baffling word daughter, bounced back and forth through his brain, cutting through the violence coursing through his bloodstream to unleash a wave of angry, confused disbelief. ‘I was concerned. Dante Lucarelli.’ After a perceptible hesitation he shook her father’s hand.

  ‘I was hoping that I could call and spend some time with Belle tomorrow morning before I head back to the airport,’ Alastair continued pleasantly.

  ‘Of course. You would be most welcome,’ Dante responded, smoothly concealing the tempestuous emotions still rattling around inside him, the uppermost being a fierce annoyance with Belle for knowing everything about him while carefully squirrelling away her own secrets.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Alastair told Belle with a warm smile.

  Dante closed his hand round Belle’s free one as she finally moved away from the older man. When her fingers flexed in his taut grip, he held on fast. Steve had melted tactfully away but his mother, to whom such diplomacy was unknown, still hovered.

  ‘Well, aren’t you a surprising little thing?’ Princess Sofia commented with a cold gleam of what might have been approval in her sharp appraisal, because Belle had been upgraded in her estimation with the unveiling of her hedge-fund father.

  ‘Sì...very surprising,’ Dante growled in Belle’s ear, his breath fanning the sensitive skin of her neck and making her flush.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting him to be here. I was shocked to see him,’ Belle framed.

  ‘Not half as shocked as I was to see you holding hands with him,’ Dante bit out in a harsh undertone. ‘You’ve been keeping secrets from me.’

  ‘Why would you have been interested?’ Belle said defensively.

  ‘Because knowing about a father is a little more important than knowing your favourite colour or your star sign,’ Dante retorted, a whip edge to that tone of dulcet derision.

  Annoyance was beginning to spark inside Belle. It had been a tough evening and her emotions were all over the place. She wasn’t prepared to be censured for spending twenty minutes with her father in a public place. ‘But it’s none of your business,’ she heard herself say.