The Orsini Brides. Sandra Marton
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own a magnificent palazzo on the Tiber?
It was an amazingly honest assessment. Draco told himself the man was right. Why not rebuild the Valenti palace? Once, a long time ago, he had promised himself that he would. His ancestors, his father, even his mother had stripped it of almost everything that could bring in cash and then neglected it to a state of near collapse, but he had the money to change all that.
So he had done it. Restored the palazzo to medieval grandeur. Everyone had pronounced it exquisite. Draco’s choice of adjectives was far less flattering, though he kept his thoughts to himself.
You could breathe new life into a building, but you could not rewrite the memories it held.
He had gone back to the realtor who’d shown him the villa. He bought it that same day, restored it and moved in. There was an honesty to its rooms and gardens. Best of all, its ghosts wore togas.
The memories the villa held had nothing to do with him.
The Maserati came to a purring stop at the top of the driveway. The driver sprang from behind the wheel, but Draco was already out of the car and striding up the curved marble steps that led to the villa’s massive wooden doors, which opened before he could touch them.
“Buon giorno, signore,” his smiling housekeeper said, welcoming him home. Did he want something to eat? Breakfast? Some fruit and cheese, perhaps?
Coffee, Draco said. Not morning coffee. Espresso. A large pot, per favore, and he would have it in the sitting room in the master suite.
His rooms were warm; he suspected the windows had not been opened since he’d left for his San Francisco office three weeks ago. Now he flung them open, toed off his mocs, stripped off shirt, jeans, all his clothes, left them as part of a long trail that led to his bathroom.
He could hardly wait to shower away the endless hours of travel.
One of the first things he’d seen to when he’d arranged for the restoration of the villa was the master bath. He wanted a deep marble Jacuzzi, marble vanities and the room’s centerpiece: a huge, glass-enclosed steam shower with multiple sprays.
His architect had raised an eyebrow. Draco had grinned. Life in America, he’d said, with all those oversize bathrooms, had spoiled him.
Perhaps it had.
His California duplex had a huge bathroom with a shower stall the size of a small bedroom. There were times, at the end of a long day, that he stood inside that stall and could almost feel the downpouring water easing the tension from him.
Now, standing in the shower at Villa Appia, Draco waited for that to happen.
Instead, an image suddenly filled his mind.
The blonde, here with him. Her hair undone, streaming like sunlight over her creamy shoulders, over her breasts, the pale apricot nipples uptilted, awaiting him.
He imagined his lips closed on those silken pearls, drawing them deep into his mouth.
His hand between her thighs.
Her hand on his erection.
Draco groaned.
He would back her against the glass, lift her in his arms, take her mouth as he brought her down, down, down on his hard, eager length ….
Another groan, more guttural than the first, burst from his throat. His body shuddered, did what it had not done since he’d had his first woman at the age of seventeen.
Her fault, he thought in sudden fury. The blonde. She had made a fool of him yet another time.
He wished he could see her again, and make her pay.
Draco shut his eyes. Raised his face to the spray. Let the water wash everything from his body and his mind. He had to be alert for the meeting that loomed ahead.
The land in Sicily was his. He’d been in Palermo on business, gone for a drive to relax and passed through the town of Taormina, where something had drawn him to a narrow road, a hairpin curve, a heart-quickening view of the sea …
And a stretch of land that seemed unaccountably familiar.
He had taken the necessary steps to ensure his possession of it, brought in an architect … And suddenly received a letter from a man he’d never heard of, Cesare Orsini, who had made claims that were not only nonsense, they were lies.
The land was his. And it would remain his, despite the best efforts of a thug to claim it.
Draco had learned a very long time ago never to give in to bullies.
It was a lesson that had changed his life, one he would never, ever forget.
Anna’s hotel was old.
Under some circumstances, that would have been fine. After all, Rome was old. And magnificent.
The same could not be said about her hotel.
She’d made the reservation herself, online at something called BidCheap.com. Bidding cheap was where it was at; if only she’d had the common sense to demand her father hand over a credit card …
Never mind.
She’d traveled on the cheap before, after university and during spring breaks in law school. How bad could a place be?
Bad, she thought as she followed a shriveled bellman into a room the size of a postage stamp.
Water stains on the ceiling, heaven only knew what kinds of stains on the carpet, a sagging club chair in front of a window with a rousing view of …
An airshaft.
All the way to Rome so she could overlook an airshaft.
Well, so what?
She wouldn’t be here long enough for it to matter. Besides, right now she felt as if she were walking in her sleep. She’d done that a couple of times, when she was little. Once she’d awakened in the kitchen, standing in front of the open fridge.
The next time, she’d been halfway out the conservatory door into the garden when she’d walked into one of her brothers. Falco, or maybe Rafe. Whichever, he’d startled her into wakefulness; she’d shocked him into a muffled oath.
“What are you—” they’d both said, and then they’d shushed each other and laughed, and agreed to keep quiet about the whole thing, because he’d obviously been sneaking back into the sleeping house and she’d just as obviously been sneaking out of it.
Anyway, she still remembered the feeling when her eyes had blinked open. She’d been awake, but not really. Her feet had seemed to be inches off the floor, her eyes had felt gritty, her body had felt … the only word that described it was floaty.
That was exactly how she felt now as she waited patiently for the bellman to finish showing her how to adjust the thermostat, how to open and close the drapes, how to use the minibar.
She yawned. Maybe he’d take the hint.
No way.
Now he was at the desk, opening drawers, snapping them shut, moving to the TV, turning it on and off, and, oh my God, now he was showing her how to set the clock radio …
Anna gave herself a mental slap on the forehead. Duh. He was waiting for a tip.
She opened her purse, dug inside, took out a couple of euros and, less than graciously, shoved them at him.
“Thank you,” she said. “Grazie. You’ve been very helpful.”
Her form would probably have earned demerits from Sister Margaret, who’d taught tenth grade deportment, but it satisfied the bellman, who smiled broadly, wished her a good day and exited, stage left.
“Thank God,” Anna said, and fell facedown on the bed.
Everything ached.
Her arms from keeping her elbows tucked to her