Unless, of course, there was a woman in his bed.
Wake-up sex was one of life’s absolute pleasures.
But there was no woman in his bed today, no Central Park just across the street. What he woke to were thoughts of a woman and, dammit, those thoughts had kept him awake half the night.
Who was Alessia Antoninni? Maybe the better question was, what was she? A princess—hell, an Ice Princess. And why should it matter? He didn’t like her, he resented the class system to which she belonged and there was no doubt that she felt exactly the same way about him. Heaven knew he didn’t have to love a woman to want her—if such a thing as love even existed—but he sure as hell had to like her.
The situation didn’t make sense—and as dawn painted the sky with streaks of crimson and pink, Nick gave up all pretence at sleep, flung back the covers, tugged on an old corps T-shirt, shorts and sneakers, made his way down the balcony steps and took off on a run he badly needed.
Five miles. Seven. Eight. He had no idea how far he went, only that he couldn’t find a way to get all his questions about the Ice Princess out of his head even as sweat blurred his vision and his lungs began to labor.
The sun was climbing the sky by the time he returned to the villa. He ran inside, up the staircase and to his suite, went straight to the bathroom, turned on the water in the sink and scooped some into his hands.
The good news was that the water was wet. The bad was that it was warm. What he wanted was a long, cool drink. Surely there’d be bottled water in the kitchen.
It was definitely worth a try.
Nick blotted his face and shoulders with a towel, draped it around his neck, shoved his dark hair back from his forehead, then opened the door that led to the hall.
The place was still quiet.
Okay, then.
He went down the stairs and headed toward the rear of the house, where he guessed the kitchen would be.
Excellent.
There wasn’t anyone in sight, not a cook or a maid or the butler. The big room was empty….
Except, it wasn’t.
Alessia was there, standing in front of the open refrigerator, head tilted back as she drank from a bottle of water.
The sight startled him. He came to a fast stop and the sole of one sneaker caught on the tile floor. The resultant squeak was as shrill as the cry of a nighthawk.
She spun toward him. The bottle slipped in her hand; she caught it but not before some of the water had splashed down her chin, her throat and onto her cotton tank top. Nick watched the water darken the fabric over one breast.
His belly knotted. Stupid, he thought, to react to the sight of a wet tank top.
“What are you doing here?”
She sounded as if she’d discovered him with his hands buried in a wall safe. Obviously, she hadn’t expected him to walk in on her, or to see yesterday’s cool, if rumpled, business-woman replaced by a woman in shorts, tank and sneakers, blond hair pulled into a ponytail, face and body damp with sweat.
And one breast—one high, rounded breast—tantalizingly darkened by that splash of water.
Without warning, he remembered how she had looked last night in the garden, her hair loose on her shoulders, her nightgown filmy and feminine in the moon’s soft glow—and thought, too, of how he had kissed her, how she had kissed him back….
Nick raised his gaze to her face. Her color was high; he could see her pulse beating fast in the hollow of her throat. Was she thinking about that kiss, too? “Signore. What are you doing here?”
So much for remembering last night. Nick flashed a tight smile. “Stealing the family silver.”
“I didn’t mean…” Her color deepened. “You startled me, that’s all.”
“Yeah. Sorry.” He shrugged. “I was out running. I came back and wanted something cold to drink.” His eyes swept over her again. “You were running, too.”
Alessia swallowed hard. It was a statement, not a question, and it made no sense that it should bother her. So what if Nicolo Orsini knew she’d been out running? She ran every morning no matter where she was; she had discovered the freedom of it years ago, even before she’d left here forever, the sense that if you ran fast enough, hard enough, you could leave your old self behind.
You couldn’t, of course. She knew that now. Still, she ran. She loved the burn of muscle, the rise of sweat. Her father thought it was unladylike and perhaps that was part of what made it so appealing….
Why was Nicolo Orsini looking at her that way? His dark eyes moved over her like a slow caress, lingering on her mouth, her throat.
Her body.
He made her feel as if too much of her was exposed. Not physically; she wore less than this at the beach. It was something more complicated, a realization that he was seeing a side of her that was not his business to see.
It made her recall last night. How he had kissed her, how she had kissed him back.
To her horror, she felt her nipple pebble under her water-stained tank top, her flesh lift as if in anticipation of his touch. Instinct told her to turn and run. Logic told her running would be the most dangerous thing she could do.
Instead, she lifted her chin.
“This is my home,” she said coolly. “If I wish to run here, I am free to do so.”
Dio, how stupid she sounded! Why did her words, her thoughts, get all twisted when she spoke to this man?
His eyes narrowed. He folded his arms over his chest. It was an impressive chest, tanned and muscled as were his arms.
“Sure.” His voice was toneless. “I should have asked permission.”
“No,” she said quickly, “no, of course not. I only meant…” She had no idea what she’d meant, she thought unhappily. She was talking at the speed of a runaway train and making about as much sense. Quickly, she turned toward the fridge, took out a bottle of water and held it toward him. “You must be thirsty.”
That won her a small smile. “Thanks.”
Their fingers brushed as he took the bottle from her. A tiny electric jolt went through her. She gave a nervous laugh.
“Static electricity,” she said.
“Electricity, for sure,” Nick said, his eyes on hers. Then he unscrewed the bottle top, tilted his head back and took a long, deep drink. A tiny trickle of water trailed over his bottom lip, traced a path down his long, tanned throat.
The water would taste salty there, right there, if she touched her tongue to it….
She made a little sound, turned it into a cough, but it didn’t help keep her knees from feeling weak.
Nicolo lowered the bottle of water, looked at her with one dark eyebrow lifted.
Say something, Alessia told herself fiercely, something clever.
She couldn’t. She was tongue-tied. She, who made her living chatting up clients, being the intermediary between often hostile groups, was at a complete loss for words.
But her brain was working overtime.
Dio, this man was beautiful! She didn’t like him, would never like him, but you didn’t have to like a man to admit he was, in a word, spectacular.
Such broad shoulders. Such well-defined muscles. His shirt was wet, stuck to his skin, delineating cut abs and a flat belly that led to narrow hips and long, muscular legs. And his face. The face of an angel. Or a devil. Strong. Masculine. A hard mouth that could take hers with dark passion or soft tenderness…
“…just you and me. Together.”
Alessia blinked. He was watching her, eyes narrowed to obsidian slits under thick, sooty lashes. She felt her face heat.
“Just you and me, what?”
Those dark eyebrows rose again.
“Run, of course. What else could I have possibly meant?”
“No. I don’t think so. I mean—I mean…” Dammit, what did she mean? She swung away from him, placed her empty water bottle on the countertop beside the sink. “We’d better get started,” she said briskly. “We meet with my father’s people in an hour.”
She s
wept past him, head high, spine straight, every inch the princess though he knew damned well that she’d been something else for a little while. He’d had women look at him that way before; he knew what it meant.
What he’d never before experienced was such a swift, gut-churning reaction.
That was the reason he’d deliberately lightened the atmosphere with a pathetic quip. If he hadn’t—hell, if he hadn’t, he’d have done what he wanted, what he damned well knew they both wanted, right here.
Grab her wrist. Swing her toward him. Capture her in his arms, cover her mouth with his. Breathe in the sweaty, earthy, real-woman scent that rose from her skin. Lift her onto the countertop, put his mouth to her throat, her nipples, suck them deep into his mouth right through her wet shirt while he put his hand between her thighs, slipped his fingers under the edge of her shorts, felt her heat, her wetness because she would be hot and wet and eager, eager for his possession…
Nick shuddered.
He watched Alessia walk down the hall, watched her until she vanished from sight. Then he drank the last of the water in one long swallow, went back to his rooms and took the longest, coldest shower of his life.
It didn’t help.
Ten minutes later, getting out of the shower, he was still thinking about her and what had happened—what had not happened—in the kitchen.
Thinking that way was, to put it bluntly, ridiculous.
So, okay. He wouldn’t think about her. Not anymore.
He toweled off, dressed in what he thought of as his investment banker uniform. Custom-made white broadcloth shirt. Deep red Hermès tie. Gold cuff links. Black wing tips. Dark gray Armani suit. Hey, one Armani deserved another, and she would surely wear her best today.
Well, so would he. The reflection that looked back at him from the mirrored dressing room wall was businesslike. Professional. The Ice Princess would still see him as a grownup punk, but—
But, he was back to square one, wasting time thinking about her.
Thinking about the effect she had on him.
Even if he could get past the I-Am-To-The-Manor-Born and You-Are-A-Peasant crap, the lady wasn’t his type. Attractive? Sure. But he couldn’t imagine her trying to please a man, ever. Not just him but any man. And yes, he liked an accommodating woman, and if it was sexist, who cared?
Nick frowned, stared in the mirror, shot his cuffs, smoothed down his tie.
The only way to explain his attraction to her, if you could call it that, would be if he were horny. He wasn’t. He had a healthy appetite for sex but he’d just been with a woman, what, the day before yesterday? And even if he hadn’t, he’d never been the kind of man who’d jump the bones of any female just because she was there.
Besides, Alessia wasn’t there, not in the real sense of the word. She’d made it clear he wasn’t her type any more than she was his.
His frown became a scowl.
Then, how come she’d responded when he’d kissed her? And, yes, she had responded. A woman didn’t moan into a man’s mouth, didn’t wind her arms around his neck, didn’t press her body against his unless she was feeling something.
Hell.
A hard-on was not the right accessory for an Armani suit.
Okay. This was nonsense.
Nick drew a long, deep breath.
He was a logical man but even he had to admit that were times logic just didn’t work, and this was one of those times. So, back to plan A. Yes, he’d invest in the vineyard, not for Cesare but for himself, if only because backing out of that decision now could be interpreted as weakness.
But two days was all he’d spend here. Forget what he’d told her yesterday, that he’d need two weeks.
Two days was, exactly as he’d originally intended, more than enough time to go over the vineyard’s financial records. Meet with the prince’s people. Eyeball the operation. Appoint an administrator to oversee things. Then he’d be on the first plane for New York—if it was quicker, he’d have the Orsini jet fly over to get him.
And if that seemed like the cowardly way out, it wasn’t.
It was a businesslike approach, and business was what this was all about.
She was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs.
Yesterday’s ice maiden was back, this time unrumpled.
Neat chignon, or whatever women called that bun they made at the back of their heads. White silk blouse. Black pumps. Gray Armani suit. He almost laughed. They were almost identical, if you omitted the lush rise of her breasts and the long, long legs beneath her slender skirt.
Her eyes swept over him, her look an appraising one. Nick offered a thin smile.
“It’s the latest in gangster-wear in New York.”
If he’d thought to embarrass her, he’d failed.
“And so much more attractive than tattoos that say ‘Mother,’” she said sweetly.
“Why, princess. You’ve practically seen me naked. You know damned well I don’t have any tattoos.”
Color flooded her face.
“I have not seen you naked,” she said, her voice gone cold.
Nick shrugged. “Close enough.”
“And never any closer, I assure you.”
He took a step toward her. To his gratification, she took a step back.
“A challenge, princess?” he said, very softly.
“A statement of fact, Mister Orsini.”
He gave her a slow smile. There was something about her when she was like this, just the slightest bit off balance, that was very appealing.
“A challenge,” he said again.
And then, because it seemed the only thing to do, he bent his head and brushed his mouth lightly over hers.
Her lips were soft. Warm. Did they tremble just a little under the light pressure of his? There was only one way to find out. Nick cupped her face in one hand and kissed her again, a longer kiss this time, his lips slightly parted as they covered hers and, yes, her mouth was trembling, her breathing was quick, she was rising on her toes, leaning toward him and now her lips parted, too…
She made a sound, put her hands against his chest and her eyes flew open and fixed on his. He saw endless questions in their deep blue depths, questions he suspected were identical to his. For a heartbeat, he thought of answering them all, for her and for him, by taking her in his arms and kissing her until she begged him to finish this insane thing between them.
Maybe it wasn’t what was happening that was crazy.
Maybe it was him.
“Alessia.”
His voice was rough as sandpaper. He took her hands in his, sought desperately for something clever to say, but nothing came. Her eyes were blurred, her breathing uneven, and he knew his wasn’t any too steady.
“Nicolo,” she said in shaky whisper.
It was the second time she’d said his name. How come he was so aware of that, and aware, too, that it sounded different, in her mouth? What she said was “Neekello,” and how could a simple word sound like pure sex?
Nick let go of her while he still could and put a few inches of space between them. She swayed; he reached out, steadied her with a hand on her elbow. She drew a deep breath, sank her very white teeth into the rich curve of her bottom lip.
The simple action damned near undid him.
“This—this must stop,” she whispered. “This—this thing between us…”
Her words drifted to silence. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
He knew that any other woman in this kind of situation would have laid the blame strictly on the guy. It made him want to kiss her again but he wouldn’t. Dammit, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t so much as touch her again, and absolutely, positively he was saying, arrivederci, ASAP tomorrow.
“You’re right,” he said briskly. “It has to stop. In fact, it just did. Let’s go to that meeting you’ve set up, come back here and check out the vineyards, the winery, all of it, so I can be out of here tomorrow.”
“But you said—”
“I know what I s
aid.” God, he wanted to touch her. Just one quick brush of his hands over her body… “I’ve changed my mind. In fact, I’ll put a call in, arrange for the Orsini plane to fly over and get me. It’ll be quicker that way.”
“The Orsini plane.”
“Yes. We have our own—”
“Of course you do,” Alessia said, and all at once, her eyes were clear and cool. “For a moment, I almost forgot who you were, signore. Molte grazie for reminding me.”
The temperature dropped ten degrees. If she’d slapped him across the face, she couldn’t have made things any clearer.
The time was right to tell her who he was. What he was. That he and his old man had nothing but blood in common…And then he thought, to hell with that. To hell with explaining himself to Alessia Antoninni or anyone else. “I understand, principessa.” His tone was as frigid as hers. “Lust can get in the way of sanity.”
Her cheeks flamed. She called him something he couldn’t quite understand and he thought of returning the compliment but, dammit, no way was he going to let her turn him into the kind of man she believed him to be.
“Undoubtedly,” he said, his smile feral. Then he gestured toward the front door. “After you, baby.”
Back straight as an arrow, she spun on her heel and marched to the door. She didn’t wait for him to play the gentleman; she flung it open herself and marched down the marble steps, straight toward a black Bentley the size of a not-so-small boat. A liveried chauffeur shot from the driver’s seat, opened the rear door and bowed as she stepped past him into the car.
Nick followed after her. “Do not,” he growled to the chauffeur, “do not even think of bowing to me!”
Aside from that, he was more than willing to let somebody else do the driving.
Somebody whose head was on straight, he thought grimly, as the car started majestically down the long driveway.
CHAPTER SIX
ALESSIA had arranged for the meeting to be held in the offices her father kept in Florence.
The building itself had once been a palace and was very old, dating back to the 1400s and the Renaissance, when the Medici family ruled the city.
Nicolo: The Powerful Sicilian Page 6