Free Dreams of Desire by Cheryl Holt Page A

her, so she had to be lying or else Charles had . . . had . . .
    “What do you want from me?” he inquired.
    “I want to stay with you for a while.”
    “Why?”
    “I’ve missed you.”
    “No, you haven’t. Tell me the real reason.”
    “I don’t have another one. Should I invent something?”
    “Do you need money? Is that it? How much will it take to make you go away?”
    “No, I don’t need any money. How awful of you to suggest it.”
    He studied her, a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue, and he hated that he was so curious.
    She’d traveled to Italy with a lover, a dashing young army captain with no funds and no prospects. After she’d vanished, a lawyer had contacted Charles about sending her an allowance, and his answer had been to immediately file for divorce.
    Over the intervening years, there had been occasional tales of her wretched condition, of her surviving in dire poverty and begging for scraps in various European cities, but now, he had to doubt what he’d been told. She was hale and beautiful and well-fed and . . . and . . . quite magnificent.
    There! He’d admitted it. She was stunning.
    “I want you out of here by morning,” he advised her.
    “Don’t be silly.”
    “I can’t have you annoying Esther and causing a ruckus.”
    “Who cares about Esther?”
    “I do.”
    “You didn’t when you were a baby. She used to visit all the time, and you’d burst into tears whenever she entered the room.”
    She’d flustered him again, with her talk of his childhood. It was too alarming to be in her presence.
    “I want you to go,” he declared.
    “I won’t.” He glared, unaccustomed to blatant insubordination, and at his scowl, she laughed. “What if I refuse to leave? Will you toss me out on the road?”
    “I might.”
    “No, you won’t. You were such a sweet boy, and I hear that you still are. A tad stuffy and cold, but you have a good heart.”
    “I have no heart. Not where you’re concerned.”
    “You’re being a bully. The behavior doesn’t suit you.”
    “You don’t deserve a shred of kindness from me.”
    “While I’m here,” she said, ignoring his cruel comment, “we’ll work to bring you ’round to my way of thinking. Before you know it, you’ll forget you were ever Charles’s son.”
    Her calm assurance infuriated him. It seemed they were playing cards, that she had all the aces. He wasn’t a brute. He wouldn’t throw a woman out on the road, no matter how much he loathed her, and she’d gambled that he wouldn’t. Apparently, she’d won.
    “All right, you can stay,” he grumbled. “But only for a week, and you’ll retire to the west wing, so the family doesn’t have to be constantly bumping into you.”
    “I’m already settled in the countess’s suite. I don’t wish to move.”
    It was where Esther would expect to sleep. She would have a fit.
    A muscle ticked in his cheek. “No, you’ll move. I’m afraid I have to insist.”
    “And I’m afraid I have to insist.”
    She stood and came ’round the desk, and she laid a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, shocked that she would touch him. With her standing and him sitting, he felt very young, out of his element. Her striking green eyes were expressive and troubled.
    “Let me stay longer than a week,” she begged. “Please?”
    “Why should I?”
    “I don’t have anywhere to go.”
    “It never bothered you before.”
    “My dearest, Giorgio, died last winter,” she informed him.
    “So?” He wouldn’t ask who Giorgio had been, why he was dear , why she was grieving.
    “I need to be surrounded by people who love me, and I’m so lonely.”
    He fumed and fretted, then was enormously astounded to hear himself say, “Two weeks, and that’s it. During that time, I’ll make arrangements for you.”
    “Thank you.”
    “You’ll keep to yourself, and you’ll instigate no discord. You’ll avoid Esther, and you’ll refrain from insulting or offending her.”
    “If I can’t