'Why are you here?'
But still, she didn't speak. If he hadn't caught the obscenities she'd screeched when she'd exploded out of the bathroom, he could believe she was mute.
If she hadn't broken into his property, he would feel bad for her obvious fright.
'You know this is private property? Sì?' he tried again, speaking slowly. Dante's English was fluent but his accent was thick. 'This cottage is empty but it belongs to me.'
The strange yet beautiful eyes suddenly narrowed and in that slight movement, he realized fear wasn't the primary emotion being thrown at him, it was loathing.
'My backside does it belong to you.' She straightened. Her strong accent registered in his brain as Irish. 'This cottage is part of your father's estate and should be shared with your sister.'
Anger swelled in him.
So that was what this was all about? Another charlatan pretends to be Salvatore Moncada's secret love-child in the hope of grabbing a portion of Dante's inheritance. What did this make? Eight or nine fraudsters since his father's death three months ago? Or was this someone Dante's lawyer had already sent packing but thought they would change their luck one more time and try and convince Salvatore's legitimate child herself?
As a means of getting his attention, this woman had played a master stroke.
What a shame for her that it would end in her arrest and deportation.
'If I had a secret sister I'm sure I would be open to sharing a portion of my father's estate with her, but—'
'There's no if about it,' she interrupted. 'You do have a sister and I have the proof with me.'
Something in her tone cut the retort from his tongue.
Dante stared even harder at the beautiful face before him as his veins slowly turned to ice.
Did this truculently sexy woman believe she was his...sister?
* * *
So this was Dante?
Aislin had seen many pictures of the cruel Sicilian intent on denying her sister what was morally hers but nothing could have prepared her for the sculptured reality that stood before her.
In the flesh he was much taller than she'd expected, his hair thicker and darker. He had a lean, wiry muscularity she
hadn't expected it either. Nor had the pictures done justice to the rest of him. His thick, dark beard couldn't hide the chiseled jawline or downplay the firm, sensuous lips resting below a straight nose that could have been carved by a professional sculptor. Thick black brows rested above green eyes that could only be described as beautiful, and those eyes were staring at her with a combination of disgust and disbelief.
It hadn't escaped her attention that Dante was a good-looking man but she had not been prepared in the slightest for the raw sexiness that oozed from him.
His black shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and, while she kept her gaze fixed on his eyes, she'd glimpsed the dark hair poking through at the base of his throat.
Dante Moncada was the sexiest, most handsome man she had ever set eyes on, and is thrilled with the same intensity that it repelled.
Despite the warmth she'd managed to inject into the walls from the log fire, a shiver ran up her spine, and she drew her toweling robe more tightly around her, wishing she could glue it to her body. It fell to her ankles but, with that green stare on her, she might as well have forgone it. She felt naked.
Beneath it she was naked.
It had been two days since she'd broken into this cottage. For two days she'd been living here, waiting for her presence to be noted and for the certain confrontation with this man to take place. But, seriously, did it have to occur the minute she stepped out of the shower?
So much for the cool, calm, no-nonsense first impression, she'd hoped to make. In her head, she'd created a scene where he stormed into the cottage and found her sitting serenely at the table studying, preferably wearing her reading glasses. Whenever Aislin wore those glasses, men tended to speak to her as if she had more than a single brain cell floating in her head.
Hearing the creak of the floorboards as Dante and his two goons climbed the stairs terrified her. She'd been instantly aware of the vulnerability of her position, thrown her still-wet body into the robe, and wrenched the showerhead off as her only means of defense.
Dante must think he was dealing with a wailing banshee, an impression it was essential she correct immediately.
He took a step back, his left brow rising up and down. 'You believe you are my sister?'
She jutted her chin out to hide her discomfort at her nakedness beneath the robe. 'If you will be good enough to let me get dressed, I will explain everything. The kitchen is stocked with coffee.'
He grunted surprised laughed. 'You break into my home and want me to make you a drink?'
'I'm asking you to give me some privacy so I can make myself decent before we start arguing about the inheritance you are trying to keep for your greedy self. I'm simply pointing out that there is coffee if you wish to have one while you wait, and that I take mine with milk and one sugar.'
The green eyes flickered over her, taking in every inch of her body, before he blinked, gave the slightest of shudders, and took another step back.
'I will leave you to dress,' he said curtly.
He closed the door behind him.
Aislin took a moment to force huge lungfuls of oxygen down her throat but Dante's departure seemed to have taken all the air with him. All that was left were the remnants of his cologne that even her non-perfumer self could tell with one sniff was expensive. Expensive and...sexy, just like the man it adhered to.
Knowing she needed to calm her thoughts or Dante would eat her alive, she pulled a pair of jeans, a silver jumper, and underwear out of the wardrobe and hurried into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She dressed quickly, ran her fingers through her damp hair then took one last fortifying breath before leaving the room to find Dante.
This confrontation was one she had prepared for. In theory, she had prepared for all eventualities, even if those eventualities had been cobbled together in a rush when they had learned Dante had sold a hundred acres in Florence and pocketed the proceeds into his already bulging bank account.
All she had to do was hold her nerve against this physically imposing man. His looks and scent did not count for jack. This man, a billionaire in his own right, had ridden roughshod over her sister's efforts to claim a share of their father's estate.
The stairs led into the cozy open-plan living area, where she found him sitting on one of the sagging sofas, flicking through one of her university books. Two steaming mugs of coffee were laid on the table before him. His Goliath-proportioned sidekicks were nowhere to be seen.
His eyes narrowed at her approach and he waited in silence until she had sat in the farthest spot from him she could find.
He jabbed a finger onto the opened page of the textbook, the place where she had marked her name, as she had done since her school days. 'Tell me about yourself, Aislin O'Reilly.'
He pronounced her name 'Ass-lin', which under normal circumstances would have made her laugh.
She shook her head. For some reason, her tongue struggled to work around this man.
He slammed the book on the table, making her jump. 'You claim to be my sister, so tell me about yourself. Show me your proof.'
She crossed her legs and met the intense green stare head-on. 'I'm not your sister. My sister, Orla, is your sister. I'm here as her representative.'
His brow furrowed. She could see him trying to work out what made them about each other.
'Orla and I have the same mother,' she supplied. 'You and Orla have the same father.'
Dante's lungs loosened at the confirmation that this intruder was not of his blood. The mere sway of her hips as she walked down the stairs had sent his senses springing to life. Dante was not particularly fussy when it came to women. He liked them in all shapes and sizes but to think he could find someone who was possibly his sister desirable would have been enough to drive him straight to the nearest therapist.
'Where is the proof of this, Aislin?'
The lighting in the cottage against the darkly painted walls left much to be desired but now she sat close enough for him to see that the color of the eyes ringing their loathing at him was grey. The black outer rim of the eyeballs contrasted starkly, making the grey appear translucent. Along with the angled tilt of her eyes, it gave the most extraordinary effect.