Contracted as the Italian's Bride
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Julia James
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PROLOGUE
DANTE CAVELLI SAT on a bar stool in the cocktail lounge of one of London’s fanciest West End hotels, long fingers curved around the stem of his martini glass. He glanced at his watch—a slim, gold, ultra-expensive item—to check the time. She was running late.
He threw his glance out across the plush cocktail lounge. It was low-lit, with tables spaced out across its wide expanse, and in the corner was a white grand piano on which a female pianist was playing soft blues music. Dante’s gaze rested on her for a moment. Blonde, very attractive, long hair curled appealingly around one shoulder. His thoughts flickered, then became rueful. No—out of the question.
He moved his gaze on, towards the entrance to the lounge, arched brows frowning over dark, long-lashed eyes. Lifting his glass, he took a mouthful of his drink, then put it down, his gaze still focussed on the entrance, fingertips lightly drumming a staccato beat on the bar’s shiny surface.
Then they stilled. A woman was standing on the threshold, and if the blonde pianist had caught his passing interest a moment ago then the woman in his eyeline right now did so completely. The change in lighting from the bright hotel foyer beyond to the more dimly lit cocktail lounge gave her a chiaroscuro effect as she stood there, framed in the entrance.
And what an effect...
Dante felt every Y chromosome in his body come alive.
It was her figure first of all—tightly sheathed in a cocktail dress of dark peacock-blue-green that moulded every centimetre of her oh-so-lush body, knee-length, skimming her shapely legs, which her high-heeled shoes extended in an enticing fashion. The fingers of one hand were folded around a clutch bag that matched the colour of her dress, and her other hand was lifted to just above her full, exquisitely moulded breasts as if—Dante’s Y chromosomes gave another jolt—as if she was drawing breath. As if she was slightly nervous...
But what she had to be nervous about he had no notion. Not with a body like that.
As to her face...
Another slight frown formed between his brows. Poised as she was in the doorway, she was half in shadow, half not, which made it hard to see her features. He caught an impression of sculpted cheekbones, deep eyes, lush mouth. Her hair, glinting mahogany in the light, was swept into an updo that revealed her long, graceful neck, accentuated her delicate jawline. Quite enough to make him want to see more of her—all of her.
Then, just as he was mentally urging her to step forward, someone else entered the lounge, and perforce the woman had to move slightly to let him by. It allowed the full light from the overhead spot to fall on her, illuminating her clearly.
As it did, the breath froze in Dante’s lungs.
And total shock detonated through him...
It can’t be!
Because it couldn’t be. It was just...impossible.
Non credo...
The words echoed numbly in his disbelieving brain.
