The Italian's Pregnant Mistress
Angelo Falcone lay sprawled on the massive bed. Hectic, prolonged love-making had left the sheets half trailing to the floor and the rich burgundy damask quilt lay in inelegant disarray at the bottom of the bed. They had not bothered to shut the curtains and moonlight flooded the room, streaking across the heavy furniture in the room and lovingly illuminating the highly polished patina of wood.
He had properties in New York and Paris, but this apartment in Venice was by far his favourite. In every way it soothed his senses, with its unashamedly decadent opulence. It was the very opposite of the soulless minimalism that New York did so well.
And, of course, this was where he usually met her. Francesca Hayley.
Right now she was squinting down at the floor, trying to identify something she could put on amid the tangle of discarded linen and clothing that had been tossed in a pile in their mutual haste to touch one another.
He smiled at her thwarted efforts. 'You do this every time, Francesca,' he said with amusement in his voice.
'Do what?' She looked briefly at him and her whole body went hot under the lazy caress of his gaze. Crazy. She had met him ... read full excerpt from: The Italian's Pregnant Mistress ebook
