The Orsini Brides: The Ice Prince / The Real Rio D'Aquila. Sandra Marton
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is not my problem—it is yours.”
One good thing about old-fashioned desk phones, he thought grimly as he ended the call. In moments like this, you could slam the thing down and get some satisfaction out of it.
“Il mio principe!”
Heads swiveled. Glowering, Draco eyeballed his Maserati and his driver and strode toward them.
The man beamed. “Buon giorno, il mio principe. Come è stato il vostro volo?”
“My flight was a nightmare,” Draco snarled, “and must you announce my title to the world?”
Merda. The driver’s face fell. The man had been with him only a couple of weeks; he was just trying to be pleasant.
Draco took a deep breath, forced a smile he hoped was not a grimace to his lips.
“Mi dispiace. I’m sorry. I’m just jet-lagged.”
“You must not apologize to me, sir! It is my fault, surely.”
The driver clapped his heels together, lifted Draco’s carry-on, and reached for the handle of the rear door just as Draco did the same. Their hands and arms collided.
Cristo! Could the man’s face get any longer?
“Scusi,” the driver said in tones of hushed horror, “Dio, signore, scusi …”
“Benno. That is your name, is it not?”
“Sì. It is, sir, and I offer my deepest—”
“No. No apologies.” Draco smiled again. At least, he pulled his lips back from his teeth. “Suppose we start over. You say ‘Hello, how was your flight?’ And I’ll say—”
“Scusi?”
“I’ll say,” Draco said quickly, “it was fine. How’s that?”
His driver looked bewildered. “As you wish, sir.”
“Excellent,” Draco replied, and he got into the backseat of the Maserati and sank into its leather embrace.
He was going to have to be careful.
He had put off the impending meeting with the Sicilian’s man. That would, at least, give him time to shower, change his clothes, make some small attempt at getting his head on straight, but he was tired, not just jet-lagged but jet-fatigued.
Only that could explain what had happened on the plane.
“Il mio principe? Do you wish to go to your office or to your home?”
“Home, per favore, as quickly as possible, sì?”
“Sì, il mio principe.”
Draco sat back as the Maserati eased from the curb.
How could jet fatigue possibly be the reason for the incident on the plane? And what a hell of a way to describe that thing with the woman. What was that all about?
Draco frowned.
Well, he knew what it was all about.
He’d made love to her. And she’d made love to him, until those cursed lights went on, though he couldn’t call what they’d been doing “making love.”
It had been sex.
Mind-blowing, incredible sex.
Those few moments had been as exciting as any he’d ever spent with a woman.
He’d forgotten everything. Their surroundings, the fact that there were other people only a few feet away. All he’d known was her. Her taste. Her scent. Her heat.
There was a logical explanation, of course. There always was. For everything. In this case, the rush had come from having sex with a beautiful stranger in a place where anyone might have stumbled across them.
She’d been as out of control as he.
And then the lights had come on and she’d tried to lay it all on him.
No way, Draco thought, folding his arms over his chest.
All he’d done was watch her fall asleep, then drawn the blanket over her. All right. It had been his blanket, not hers, but her blanket had been half-tucked under her.
It had been logical to use his.
How was he to know she would sigh and fling her arm across his chest? That she’d lay her head on his shoulder? He was a man, not a machine; she’d all but moved into his embrace. Was he supposed to push her away? And when she’d lifted her dark lashes and looked up at him, her eyes as blue as the sea, when she’d caressed his cheek …
Everything after that had been unplanned. Unstoppable. The kiss. The way she’d opened her mouth to his. The way she’d moaned when he cupped her breast, the way her heart had raced when he put his hand under her blouse …
Damnit, he was hard, just remembering.
Enough.
He’d made a mistake, and the sole value of a mistake was learning not to make it again.
No danger of that, he thought grimly. He would never see the woman again.
Besides, it was time to turn his mind elsewhere, to the meeting that would take place in just a couple of hours with the sleazy representative of a sleazy hoodlum. An hour wasted was what it would be, but at least he’d have the satisfaction of knowing he’d sent the Orsini stooge home to the States with his tail between his legs.
His phone rang.
Draco took it from his pocket. “Pronto,” he said brusquely. He listened, listened some more and then he snarled a word princes surely did not use and jammed the phone back into his pocket.
His attorney couldn’t make the meeting. “Forgive me, sir,” the man had said. “Reschedule it for whenever you like …”
Draco scowled.
The hell he would.
He had not flown all this distance to reschedule a meeting. It would go on as planned.
The day he couldn’t handle a Sicilian’s errand boy had not yet dawned.
His home was a villa in the parkland that surrounded the Via Appia Antica, ocher in color in keeping with its ancient Roman roots, set far back from the road and protected by massive iron gates.
He’d been drawn to the place the first time he saw it, though what the draw had been was anybody’s guess. The villa had been a disaster, part of it in total disrepair, the rest of it in desperate need of work.
Still, something about it had appealed to him. The history, he’d thought, the realization of what the house must have seen over the centuries.
Foolish, of course; a man with demanding responsibilities did not give in to sentimental drivel. He’d taken an acquaintance to see it. An architect. His report was not encouraging.
Draco, he’d said, you want to do this, we’ll do it. But the place is an ugly pile of rubble. Why spend millions on it when you already 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