The Prodigal Prince's Seduction / The Heir's Scandalous Affair: The Prodigal Prince's Seduction. Jennifer Lewis
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did, he would have all of her.
Gabrielle felt all animation drain from her system.
The moment her bid had burst from her incontinent mouth, she’d launched into feverish calculations to determine how she could part with that much cash in one lump sum in her current situation. Then that ten-million-dollar sledgehammer had fallen, pulverizing both worry and hope.
So that was it. She’d bid and lost. And he was no longer looking at her. Ten million dollars would distract even him.
So what was that tightening behind her ribs? Disappointment?
How stupid was that? This scheme wouldn’t have worked anyway. She didn’t know how she or King Benedetto could have thought it might. All her moronic endeavor would achieve was to give the scandal sheets fuel for the coming decade. She had to leave before the paparazzi he’d banned from the event got wind of this and ambushed her. Leave. Now. And don’t look back.
She managed that, but still felt as if she were wading through quicksand. His gaze had latched on to her again, robbed her of dominion over her own body. Desperation to get away kicked in.
In minutes she was in the parking lot, running to her car.
She remote-opened her door, was reaching for its handle when a boom cracked the silence of the night.
“Stay.”
She dropped her keys. Her purse. Probably a few months’ to a couple of years’ life expectancy, too.
She slumped against the warm metal and glass as if pressed there by the presence closing in on her. She heard nothing but the blood thundering in her head. The presence expanded at her back, pinning her to her support, squeezing her heart.
She fumbled for the door handle. She’d managed to open the door when that voice hit her again, a quiet rumble this time.
“Stay.”
She clenched her eyes shut, pitched forward, her nerveless weight closing the door with a muffled thud. That one word.
An invocation. Deeper and darker than the moonless night.
She turned around, leaning on the car. And there he was.
The good news was that he kept a dozen feet between them. The bad news was that it made no difference. And why should it? He’d been dozens of feet away in that ballroom and had still overwhelmed her.
“Stay?” Where was her voice? She’d addressed him before in a breathless whisper. This time it was a husky rasp. Both were nothing like her usual crisp tones. “What am I? Your poodle? What’s next? Roll over? Beg…?” She winced, stopped. Where were her brakes?
“How about ‘stop,’” he drawled. “Before you inflame my already-raging imagination beyond control.”
His voice wasn’t the same as what had flowed from the sound system earlier. It was so much more layered and modulated and hard-hitting, the prominent r’s of his accent far more intoxicating. Hearing it without distortion delayed her comprehension of his words. Then it hit her and she almost went up in a puff of mortification.
She couldn’t believe she’d said something so provocative, just begging for misinterpretation. He’d never believe she hadn’t meant anything beyond sarcasm.
But wonder of wonders, his eyes weren’t stained with that knowing derision she was used to from men. His emitted only pure excitement. “Would ‘stop’ be less open to unfavorable interpretation? How about ‘don’t leave’?”
His voice sluiced another rush of heat over her. She quivered. “Still orders, both of them.”
He tilted his head. Light ignited the azure depths of his eyes and carved dimples in his sculpted cheeks. “At least they don’t have canine connotations, if my idiomatic English serves.”
And she did something she’d thought was beyond her, now and forever. She giggled. Giggled.
His eyes widened as if she’d electrified him. He retaliated with something far more debilitating than electricity. He chuckled.
She struggled not to melt into the ground. “You’re pleading less-than-perfect English skills to explain the inappropriateness of barking ‘stay’ at me across the parking lot like that?”
“Barking? Still going with the dog motif, eh?”
“You did bark,” she mumbled in embarrassment. “You frightened me out of my skin. I think it’s still pooled on the ground.”
His eyes swept down her body, until she felt it was her dress that lay at her feet. “From where I’m standing, your skin is still enveloping you like a glove and, propriety notwithstanding, you can see what the sight does to me.”
More heat splashed through her as she fixed her gaze on his so it wouldn’t stray to “see” anything. “See? Perfect English skills.”
“I’m sure my English tutor would love to hear that the ulcer he swore I gave him has ultimately been validated.”
“You gave your teacher hell? You’re pulling my leg.”
“Again, do watch what you say to me, or I might succumb and tell you exactly how and where I want to pull both your legs.”
Images slammed into her. Vivid, tangible. Those large, perfectly formed hands dragging her by the thighs, opening her around his bulk as he bore down on her…
“I’ve changed my verdict,” she choked. “Your English skills are not perfect. They’re horrible. Evil. Sietto un uomo cattivo.”
Suddenly the sounds of the night were amplified in the stillness that echoed between them. Whoever had said one could drown in another’s eyes must have been describing Prince Durante’s endless azure seas and the submersion of their focus.
Just as she felt her lungs using up the last tendril of oxygen, he exhaled. “Mia bella misteriosa…parlate italiano?”
She realized she’d said he was a wicked man in Italian. It had once come to her as unconsciously as English did. She used to talk and think in an inextricable mix, a habit that had faded since she’d returned to the States. This was the first time in many years that she’d reverted to the second-nature practice. It felt as if a missing part of her had clicked back into place.
Then more registered. He’d called her his mysterious beauty, asked if she spoke Italian.
“I lived in Sardinia and Italy from age five until I returned to the States to enter college at seventeen.”
These revelations were way beyond the simple yes his question warranted. But he made her want to do unknown things. Flirt, tease. Confide. It had to be the premium royal testosterone overexposure.
After a long moment when he looked at her as if at a gem with a thousand facets, he breathed, “Dio Santo, what are you?”
“What…? Uh, yeah, I haven’t exactly introduced myself yet.”
“No, you haven’t. Exactly or otherwise.”
“Umm…yeah, there’s sort of a reason I haven’t. You see, I’m—”
“You are mia bella misteriosa, who’s done what no woman has ever done—offered money to spend time with me.”
“Now that I find impossible to believe. I bet women offer anything and everything for time with you. I bet most wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t even one-on-one.”
“You think so? Because of who I am?” Her gaze wavered with uncertainty. He elaborated. “Rich and royal?”
Her laugh morphed into a snort that would have made a sailor proud. “Are you kidding? Or are you fishing? Women would throw themselves at you if you were a penniless nobody.”
His eyes flared. “Coming from anybody else,