The Sicilian Marriage. Sandra Marton
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swung toward him. “Whatever I’m doing,” he said pleasantly, “it’s none of your business.” The guy’s face turned a sickly grey. Okay. Maybe he didn’t say it pleasantly. “The lady and I have things to discuss.”
He looked at Briana. Her face was as pink as the guy’s was grey. He could see the pulse beating in her throat. Was she afraid of him? She ought to be. He’d had about all he was going to take.
“You’re crazy. We have nothing to—”
She gasped as he slid his hand to her wrist and encircled it.
“Don’t give me a hard time.”
“You son of a bitch,” she said, her voice trembling, but it was there again, swift as the beat of a hummingbird’s wing, that flash of heat flaring in her eyes.
Gianni stepped closer.
“Your choice, princess. Are you coming with me, or do I pick you up and carry you?”
“Bree?” the guy said, and Gianni grudgingly gave him credit for having more balls than brains.
She hissed a word he hadn’t thought she’d know, then slicked the tip of her tongue across her bottom lip. He felt his body tighten in response. When she tore her hand from his, he let her do it. He knew it was the small victory she needed so she could spin on one of those wicked stiletto heels and head for the front door.
He was no more than a step behind her.
Did somebody call his name? He didn’t know, didn’t care, didn’t think about anything but the swing of her buttocks, the way her short lemon-yellow skirt flared around her thighs as she strode from the apartment.
The elevator was just outside, waiting for them as if he’d planned it. She stepped into the car and jabbed a button. He stepped inside and she tried to shoot past him just as the door began to close. His vision clouded; he grabbed her arm and spun her toward him as the doors slid shut.
“Let go of me!” She jerked under his hands, eyes hot, breasts rising and falling with each quick breath. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?”
“What I should have done the day we met,” he said, and he hauled her against him and kissed her.
She cried out, but the sound was lost against his plundering mouth. She beat her fists against his shoulders and tried to twist her face away from his but he tunneled his hands into her hair, angled her face to his, and kissed her again.
“Bastard,” she panted, “you no good bas—”
And then she wound her arms around his neck and opened her mouth to his.
The first taste of her and he was lost. She fell back against the wall of the car, her body arching against his, breasts soft against his chest, hips lifting to the thrust of his.
“Oh God,” she whispered. “Oh please…”
Gianni groaned, cupped her backside and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around him, pressed herself against his erection and he felt a rush of desire so primitive it was almost his undoing.
“Tell me,” he said. “Say it. Say you want me. That you want this.”
“Yes. Yes!”
He slid his hand under her skirt. Only a scrap of lace lay between his questing fingers and her flesh. She was hot and wet and when he felt her against his palm, he had to fight for control all over again.
He stroked her, then slid a finger inside the damp fabric that kept him from her, and she cried out, dug her fingers into his hair, kissed him with the same urgency he felt, the same blind need.
And the car rocked to a stop.
The doors opened. They must have, because the next thing he knew, he heard a startled gasp, a laugh, saw Briana’s eyes open, heard her horrified cry.
Gianni didn’t turn around. He reached out blindly to the control panel and hit a button. The doors shut. The elevator began to descend again.
“Briana,” he said, “Bree…”
She twisted against him with the desperation of a wild creature caught in a trap and struck out with her fist. He grunted when one blow connected with his jaw.
“Damn it,” he said, grabbing her hands as she slid down his body, “will you listen to me?”
The elevator reached the lobby. She shot from the car as if the demons of hell were at her heels. The surprised doorman yanked the front door wide with only seconds to spare, then stared at Gianni.
“Sir? Is everything all right?”
Gianni drew a ragged breath as he stepped from the car.
“Everything’s fine,” he said, and knew it was the biggest lie he’d ever told in his life.
CHAPTER THREE
AUGUST in New York always was hot, humid and altogether unbearable. The last thing any sane human being would do in such weather was stand over an ironing board, especially when the AC was gasping its death throes, but that was what Bree was doing early on the first Monday of the month.
Ironing was mindless. You could listen to the radio, hum along with an Elton John oldie and let your thoughts drift on the calm seas of boredom. That was what Bree was doing.
For instance, right now, she was thinking about whether or not to go to her brother’s beach house on Nantucket Island. Cullen and Marissa had invited her up for the weekend.
“The weather’s gorgeous,” Marissa said when she called, “and we’re going to have a barbecue. Nothing fancy. We’ll just invite in some interesting neighbors.”
Bree sighed as she spread a silk blouse over the ironing board. “Some interesting neighbors,” in female-speak, was sure to mean “some interesting men.” Her sisters and sisters-in-law, still basking in the glow of their own happiness, kept trying to fix her up with the right man. She’d already met a handsome vintner, thanks to Cassie; a suave hotelier, courtesy of Savannah; a sexy sheikh, compliments of Megan, a hotshot CEO, pointed in her direction by Fallon, and now Marissa wanted to introduce her to a Nantucket something-or-other.
One thing was certain. The O’Connell women all had impeccable taste. The men they’d set in her path were handsome, charming and, she was sure, great catches.
It wasn’t their fault that not a one was as gorgeous, as sexy, as altogether spectacular as Gianni Firelli…and, she was certain, not a one of them was the same kind of rotten SOB.
Bree brought the iron down with enough force to smooth out a wrinkle in a sheet of steel.
She’d tried to forget about him. Forget that elevator ride. Forget that she hated herself for not having dealt with him properly. Now, here he was, back in her head.
It was the heat. The damned heat. Bad enough it was a million degrees outside and almost that in her apartment. Was this a day to sweat over a hot iron in her tiny kitchen?
It was, if you were going on a job interview.
Too much heat and humidity could turn your brain to mush. She couldn’t afford that. She had a job interview in less than an hour. Why waste time thinking about something that was history?
Yes, she’d behaved like an idiot. Yes, the memory still made her cringe. Yes, she wished she’d slapped Gianni Firelli’s face but—
But, she hadn’t.
The interview. She’d think about the interview. About how difficult it was to get the miserable wrinkles out of this miserable blouse because the iron was too hot and the ironing board table didn’t stand straight on the worn linoleum floor. The stupid legs wobbled…
Her legs had wobbled, when Gianni kissed her.
The faint scent of scorched silk rose from