The Orsini Brides. Sandra Marton
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of all men, not only those born as kings and princes.”
His words moved her. He was right—she did believe in those things.
And though it shamed her to admit it, even to herself, it warmed her heart to hear of his paternal pride in her.
Maybe that was why she brought her hands together in slow, insulting applause.
“Quite a performance, Father,” she said as she rose and started for the door. “You want to give up crime, you might consider a career on—”
“Anna.”
“Dear Lord,” she said wearily, “what is it now?”
“I have not been the father you wanted or the one you deserved, but I have always loved you. Is there not some part of you that still loves me?”
Such simple words, but they had changed everything. The shameful truth was that he was right. Somewhere deep in her heart she was still a sweet, innocent fourteen-year-old who loved the father she had once believed him to be.
So she’d gone back to his desk. Sat across from him. Listened while he told her that he had been fighting to claim the land. He had sent Prince Valenti letters that the prince had ignored. He had contacted lawyers, in Sicily where the disputed land lay and in Rome, where the prince lived. None would touch the problem.
“We cannot permit a man like Valenti to ride roughshod over us simply because he believes our blood is not the equal of his,” Cesare said. “Surely you must see that, Anna.”
She did. Absolutely, she did. The haves and the have-nots had always been at war, and there was always fierce joy in showing the haves that they could not always win.
“Do not do this for me,” Cesare had said. “Do it because it is right. And for your mother.”
Now, hurtling through the skies at 600 miles an hour, Anna asked herself for what was surely the tenth time if she’d been had.
She sighed.
The thing was, she knew the answer.
Her father was right about her. She hated to see the rich and powerful walk over the poor and powerless. Okay, her father was hardly poor or powerless, but her mother’s family had surely been both when the House of Valenti stole the land.
Besides, she’d given her word that she’d meet with this Italian prince, and she would.
Too bad she wasn’t the slightest bit prepared for the meeting, but her father was right—she was a good lawyer, an excellent negotiator. She could handle this even if she didn’t know all the details and facts.
What did any of that matter? This was the privileged prince against the poor peasant and, okay, her father wasn’t poor or a peasant, but the principle was the same.
This prince, this Draco Marcellus Valenti, was an anachronism. He lived in an elegant past with no idea the rest of the world was living in the twenty-first century.
Like that guy in the VIP lounge who thought he owned the world, owned people …
And any woman he wanted.
He probably could.
Women, idiots that they were for good looks, undoubtedly fawned all over him.
But not her.
Not her, no matter how his mouth felt on hers, how his arms felt around her, how alive that one kiss had made her feel …
Ridiculous.
He’d kissed her for a purpose. To show her that he was male, and powerful, and sexy.
But did that impress her? Ha, Anna thought, and she put her head back and closed her eyes.
What was sexy about a man with a low, deep voice? With darkly lashed eyes that were neither brown nor gold, and a face that might have been carved by an ancient Roman sculptor? With a body so leanly muscular she’d felt fragile in his arms, and that was saying a lot for a woman who stood five foot eight in her bare feet.
What could possibly be sexy about being kissed like that, as if an absolute stranger had the power to possess her? To put his mark on her, as if she were his woman?
Anna shifted in her seat.
What if instead of slugging him, she’d wound her arms around his neck? Opened her mouth to his? What would he have done?
Would he have said to her, Forget that plane. That flight. Come with me. We’ll go somewhere dark and private, somewhere where I can undress you, whisper things to you. Do things to you …
A tiny sound vibrated in her throat.
She could almost feel it happening. The kisses. The caresses. And then, finally, he’d take her. She’d been with men. Sex was as much a woman’s pleasure as a man’s, but this would be—it would be different.
He would make her moan, make her writhe, make her cry out …
“Signorina?”
Make her cry out …
“Signorina. Forgive me for disturbing your sleep.”
Anna’s eyes flew open.
It was him. The man from the lounge. The man who had kissed her.
The man whose kiss she could still feel on her lips.
He was standing in the aisle, looking down at her. And the little smile on his beautiful mouth stole her breath away.
DRACO watched as the woman’s eyes flew open.
Blue, just as he recalled, but to say only that was like saying that the seas that surrounded Sicily were blue.
Not so.
The colors of the Ionian Sea, the Tyrrhenian Sea, the Mediterranean were more than blue. And so were her eyes.
Not pale. Not dark. The shade reminded him of forget-me-nots blooming under the kiss of the noon sun along the Sicilian cliffs where he was reconstructing a place that he was sure had once been as magnificent as the view those cliffs commanded.
His gaze fell to her mouth. Her lips were parted in surprise. It was a very nice mouth. Pink. Soft. Enticing.
Draco frowned.
So what? The color of her mouth, of her eyes, was unimportant. She could look like the witch in Hansel and Gretel, for all it mattered to him.
He’d made his decision based on what was right and what was wrong, not on anything else.
A man who could not see past his own ego was not a man deserving of life’s riches. That had been another lesson of his childhood, learned by watching how men with power, with wealth, with overinflated ideas of their own importance thought nothing of trampling on others.
At the announcement that it was now permissible to use electronic devices, he’d put aside his glass of more-than-acceptable burgundy, thanked the flight attendant for handing him the dinner menu, plugged in his computer …
And thought, suddenly and unexpectedly, of the woman.
Yes, she had infuriated him, that arrogant, the-world-is-mine-if-only-you’d-get-out-of-my-way attitude …
But was his any better?
Half an hour or so of soul-searching—remarkable, really, when you considered that many of those who knew him would have insisted Draco Valenti had no soul to search—and he’d decided he might have overreacted.
After all, first-class flying was comfortable. Not as comfortable as his own jet would have been but still, it was acceptable. Yes, his legs were long, his shoulders broad but still, the seat accommodated him.
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