Читать книгу The Orsini Brides - Сандра Мартон, Sandra Marton - Страница 11

DRACO exited Fiumicino Airport, his cell phone at his ear.

“Just tell your boss that I am not, repeat, not going to meet his representative an hour from now. Two hours from now. That’s the best I’ll do. You don’t know if you can get in touch with his rep?” Draco took the phone from his ear and glared at it. “That 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 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 sides the last couple of hours of the flight. Her shoulders from hunching them. Her butt from pretty much doing the same kind of thing to keep her thighs and hips from coming into contact with Hannibal and the Hummer.

Her head hurt, too. A baby a couple of rows back had decided to scream in protest at the unfairness of life. Anna couldn’t blame the kid; she’d have screamed, too, if it would have done any good.

But it wouldn’t.

She had done something awful, and being packed into the middle seat would never be sufficient to expiate her total, complete, hideous feelings of embarrassment.

Anna groaned.

Embarrassment didn’t even come close. Humiliation was an improvement, but horror was better. Much better. She was totally, completely, mind-numbingly horrified at what she’d done. What she’d almost done.

Okay, what she had done and what she had been on the way to doing …

His fault. The stranger’s. All of it, his fault.

First, driving her temper into the stratosphere, then confusing her, then charming her.

An overstatement.

He had not charmed her. He could never be the charming type. He’d simply lulled her into thinking he was human. And maybe just a little bit interesting.

Pleasant conversation. A couple of smiles. His looks had been part of it, too. She had to admit, he was nice-looking.

A hunk, was more like it.

And then to wake up and find him all over her …

Anna sprang to her feet. Unzipped her carry-on.

“The bastard,” she hissed as she tore through the contents in search of toothpaste, toothbrush, cosmetics.

Who gave a damn about his looks? He’d pawed her. Attacked her.

She groaned again and sank onto the edge of the bed.

“Liar,” she whispered.

She was blaming everything on him when the truth was, whatever he had done, she had encouraged.

“How could you?” she whispered. “My God, Anna, how could you?”

The question was pointless. She didn’t have an answer. And she was not a child.

You opened your mouth to a man’s kisses, you moaned under his touch, you draped your leg over him … What could you call all that, if not encouragement?

The stranger hadn’t done anything she hadn’t wanted him to do.

Anna closed her eyes.

And, oh my, he had done it magnificently.

That wonderful, knowing mouth. That hard, long body. Those big hands on her breasts …

“Enough,” she said briskly, and got to her feet.

She had things to do before the meeting. And, thankfully, miraculously, an hour in which to do them. Her father’s capo had called on her cell. The prince had delayed the meeting by an hour.

Excellent news.

Not that she’d let the prince know it, Anna thought as she dumped the contents of her carry-on on the bed. On the contrary. She’d tell him that his change of plans—his unilaterally made change of plans—was an inconvenience. She would tell him of her flight, of how she had spent the entire time in the air diligently bent over her computer, studying the documents that proved, irrefutably, her mother’s ownership of the land in—in whatever the name of that town in Sicily was. Torminia. Tarminia. Taormina, and she had less than an hour to at least get that much into her weary brain.

A shower. A change of clothes. A quick look at the file that had, thus far, proven useless.

Yes, but she’d gone into court with less information before and come out the winner.

She was one hell of a fine attorney.

The prince’s attorney would probably be top grade, but so what? She could handle that. And she could definitely handle a fawned-upon, effeminate blue blood of a prince.

She was an American, after all.

Quickly she laid out fresh clothes. Another suit. Charcoal- gray, this time. Another blouse. Ivory silk, of course. A change of shoes. Stilettos. Black and glossy, with—for kicks—peep toes. Underwear. Silk. Sexy.

People could see the stilettos. The undies were just for her. She liked knowing that under the uniform she was all female.

The stranger would probably have liked it, too.

He was the kind of man who’d know how to strip a woman of a sexy half bra, a sexy thong. There were times she’d thought, fleetingly, that what she’d worn under her clothes had been wasted on a lover.

It would not be wasted on him.

His hands would be sure and exciting as he took off her bra, his fingers just brushing across her nipples. They’d be steady as he hooked his thumbs into the edges of her thong and slid it down her hips, his eyes never leaving hers even as her breathing quickened, as she felt herself getting wet and hot and … and …

“Damnit!” she said. What was with her today?

She liked men. Liked sex. But this, wanting a man whose name she didn’t even know, a man she’d never see again, not only wanting him but going into his arms in a place where anyone could have seen them …

Anna yanked her cell phone from her purse, hit a speed-dial digit. Her sister answered on the first ring.

“Anna?”

Oh, the wonders of caller ID.

“Izzy. I have something to ask you.”

“Anna, where are you? I called your office and your secretary said—”

“Isabella,” Anna said briskly, “how many times must I remind you? There are no more secretaries. She’s a PA. A personal assistant. Got it?”

“Got it—but where are you? Your sec—your PA said you were in Italy, and I said that wasn’t possible because you never told me that—”

“I’m in Italy, Iz. I never told you because I never had the chance. The old man cornered me Sunday—which, by the way, he could not have done if you’d shown up for dinner the way you were supposed to.”

“I wasn’t. I mean, nobody asked me to show up. And what’s that got to do with you being in—”

“Later,” Anna said impatiently. “Right now, just answer a question, okay?”

“What’s the question?”

“It’s … it’s …” Anna cleared her throat. “You took psych, right?”

“Huh?”

“Izzy, I said—”

“I heard you. Sure. I took psych 101. So did you.”

“Yeah. Well, remember that section on, ah, on sexual fantasies?”

“Anna,” Isabella said carefully, “what’s going on?”

“Wasn’t there something about, ah, about fantasizing sex with a stranger?”

“A dark, dangerous stranger.”

Anna put her fingers to her forehead, gave her temple a little rub.

“Right. And—and wasn’t there something else about sex in public places? Where there was a risk of being caught?”

“Anna,” Izzy said firmly, “what’s going on?”

“Nothing. Nothing, I swear. I just—I just wanted to clarify something, is all.”

“About risk? About sex with dangerous strangers? In public places? Hey, big sister, this is me, remember? What have you done?”

“I told you, nothing. I, ah, I read a magazine article on the plane. It was about sex. Risky sex. Hey, it’s jet lag, you know? Makes you think strange things.”

“Think them,” Izzy said firmly. “Don’t do them. I mean, you’re not contemplating sex in a public place with a dangerous stranger, are you?”

Isabella lightened her question with a laugh. After a second, Anna laughed, too.

“Not even I would do something so crazy,” she said, and then she said she had to run, that she’d phone when she had more time, kiss-kiss, talk to you soon …

And ended the call.

Silly to have called Isabella. The truth was, she’d intended to ask her if she’d ever wanted hot, fast sex with a stranger, and what would sweet Izzy know about sex, hot or otherwise?

Anna sighed. Undressed. Headed into the ancient bathroom, stepped into a rust-stained tub, tried not to bang her skull on the showerhead and turned a squeaking handle that wheezed out a thin stream of lukewarm water.

Forget the plane. The unintelligible files. Most of all, forget the man and what had happened. Correction. What had almost happened, because, thank goodness, she’d come to her senses in time.

What she had to concentrate on was the forthcoming meeting. The farcical concept of a prince in this, the twenty-first century. On making it crystal clear that no one, not even a doddering old stooge with a pretend crown on his balding pate and, for all she knew, a roomful of lawyers, could steal her mother’s land and get away with it.

It was a good plan.

An excellent one.

It might have taken Anna far had she not, seventy-five minutes later, rushed through the doors of an elegant building just off the Via Condotti and paused at a reception desk only long enough to tell a receptionist elegant enough to grace the elegant building that she had an appointment with Prince Draco Valenti.

“And you are …?” the receptionist said, peering at Anna down her—what else could it have been?—Roman nose.

“I,” Anna said, knowing it was time to marshal her resources, “I am counsel for Signore Cesare Orsini.”

The receptionist nodded and reached for a telephone.

“Fourth floor, take a right, end of the corridor.”

The elevator was elegant, too.

So was the man waiting for her. One man, not the legal team she’d anticipated. One man, standing at a window overlooking the street, his back to her.

Even so, he gave an immediate impression of … what?

Power, she thought. Power and strength, masculinity and youth. The tall, leanly muscled body evident within the stylish gray Armani suit; the broad shoulders; the long legs. He stood with those legs slightly apart; she could tell his arms were folded. His posture signaled irritation and arrogance.

Strange. There was something familiar about him …

Anna’s heart leaped into her throat. No, she thought, no!

She made a sound, something between a choked gasp and a low moan. The man heard it.

“I do not appreciate being kept waiting,” he said coldly as he swung toward her …

“You,” Draco Valenti, il Principe Draco Marcellus Valenti of Rome and Sicily said, and the only good thing about this awful, terrible moment was that Anna knew the surprise and shock on his cold, classically beautiful face had to mirror hers.