The Ice Prince

by Sandra Marton

  Only an idiot would refuse gaining access to a spot where she could plug in her computer … and, okay, incidentally combine that with a seat that lacked the psycho bookends.

  “I am waiting,” he growled, that accent of his growing more pronounced by the minute.

  Anna swallowed. Hard. The first bite of crow did not go down easily.

  “I—I accept your apology.”

  He laughed. Laughed, damn him! So did someone else. Anna looked around, felt her face blaze when she realized their little drama was proving more interesting than books or magazines to what looked like this entire section of the plane.

  “I did not apologize. I will not apologize.”

  She drew closer. He was inches away. Once again she had to tilt her head to look up at him, the same as she’d had to in the lounge an eternity ago. It was just as disconcerting now as it had been then, and suddenly she thought, He’s going to kiss me again, and if he does—if he does …

  “What I did was offer you the empty seat beside mine.” His mouth twisted. “The one you groveled for a little while ago.”

  “I did not grovel. I would never grovel. I—I—”

  Anna fell silent. She didn’t know where to look. There was nowhere that was safe, given the choice between his dark, hard eyes and the attentive faces of their audience.

  “Jeez, lady, are you nuts? You tell him you’ll take the seat or I will,” a male voice said, and somebody snickered. “Yes or no, lady? Last chance.”

  Anna glared. It was a toss-up who she despised more—her father for putting her in this untenable position or this … this arrogant idiot for putting her in this situation.

  “You are,” she said, her voice shaking, “a horrible, hideous man.”

  His eyelids flickered. “I take it that’s a yes,” he said, and he swung away from her and headed briskly up the aisle.

  Anna did the only thing that made sense.

  She fell in behind him and followed him to the front of the plane.

  An hour later Anna turned off her computer, closed it and put it away.

  So much for going through the document file.

  She’d read and read, switched screens and made notes, and she still didn’t have a true grasp of what was happening.

  No.

  She had a grasp, all right.

  She was about to step into a pile of doggy-doo, two centuries old and a mile high.

  There was a piece of land somewhere in Sicily that either belonged to her mother or belonged to a prince. None of the papers Anna had seen proved ownership; none even hinted at it.

  Unless the papers written in Italian said something different, the documents Cesare had given her proved nothing beside the fact that her father had sent several letters to the prince.

  The prince had sent only one that really mattered.

  It was a note written by one of his lackeys on a sheet of vellum that weighed almost much as her computer, and it took half a dozen paragraphs to say, basically, “Go away.”

  The one certainty was her father’s insistence that the royal House of Valenti had stolen the land in question. And how could that be possible? Anna asked herself tiredly. She didn’t know much about what her father called the old country, but she knew enough to be certain that peasants didn’t argue with princes.

  For all she’d learned, she might as well still be back in coach, without access to her computer.

  And without access to the man seated on the aisle seat beside her.

  Anna gave him a covert glance.

  Access was the wrong word to use. He had not looked at her or spoken to her since they’d sat down. He had a computer on his lap, too, and it was the only thing that claimed his attention.

  That was fine.

  The hell it was.

  Calmer now, she could look at him and admit that he was a beautiful sight. That chiseled, masculine face. That hard body. Those strong-looking hands, one lightly wrapped around his computer, the other working its touch pad …

  She knew what his hands felt like.

  Back in the lounge, he’d grasped her shoulder. Here, he’d put his palm lightly on the small of her back, guiding her into the window seat. His touch had been impersonal then.

  What if he touched her differently?

  Not that automatic, you-first thing men did, but a stroke of those long, tanned fingers. A caress of that powerful hand.

  Anna frowned, shifted in her seat.

  Such nonsense!

  He wasn’t her type and she wasn’t his. He’d like girlie women. Pliable in nature, eager to please, the kind who’d do whatever it took to make a man happy.

  She was none of that.

  “Prickly,” a guy she’d dated a couple of times had called her.

  “Difficult,” another had claimed.

  “Tough as nails,” her brothers said, with pride.

  Yes, she was.

  How else did a woman get to make it in a world dominated by men, or endure growing up in a household where your mother walked two paces behind your father? Metaphorically, of course, but still …

  Back to peasants and princes. And the man next to her. And the simple fact that in this situation he was the prince. Not because of their different seating arrangements but because he’d done something gracious and she …

  She had not.

  Would a simple thank you have killed her?

  No. It would not have.

  Was it too late to say the words now? It’s never too late to say something nice, she could almost hear her sister, Izzy, saying. Okay. She wasn’t sweet like Iz—she never would be—but she could try.

  “Finished already?”

  She blinked. He was looking at her, a hint of a smile on his lips.

  Anna cleared her throat. “Yes.”

  “Didn’t find what you wanted on your computer?”

  She shook her head. “I only wish.”

  “Same here.” He closed the cover of his and put it away. “I’m going to a meeting that will almost surely be a complete waste of time.”

  “Sounds like my story.” She gave a little laugh. “Don’t you just hate that kind of thing?”

  “I despise it,” he said, nodding in agreement. “There’s nothing worse than having to sit across the table from a guy who can’t figure out he’s absolutely not going to accomplish anything.”

  “Exactly. It’s so useless.” Anna sighed. “Actually, what I’d like to do is walk into my meeting and say, ‘Okay, this is pointless. I’m going to turn around and go home and if you have half a brain, so will you.’”

  He chuckled. “Yes, but if the idiot really had half a brain, he wouldn’t be there, eating up your time in the first place.”

  Anna grinned. “Exactly.”

  “That’s life, isn’t it? Things don’t always work out as one expects.”

  “No, they don’t.” She hesitated. It was the perfect segue, and she took it. “Which brings me to offering my thanks for this seat. I should have said it sooner, but—”

  “Yes,” he said, “you should have.”

  “Now, wait a minute …”

  He laughed. “Just teasing. This was my fault, too. I overreacted when you first asked for the seat. How about we call it even? I’ll apologize if you will.”

  Anna laughed, too. “You’re not a lawyer, are you?”

  He gave a mock shudder. “Dio, no. Why do you ask?”

  “Because you have a way with words.”

  “It’s what I do,” he said, smiling. “I’m a negotiator.” What better way to describe fashioning deals that made him millions and millions of dollars and euros? “So, do we have a truce?”

  He held out his hand. Anna took it—and jerked back. An electric current seemed to flow from his fingers to hers.

  “Static electricity,” she said quickly. “Or something.”

  “Or something,” he said, and all at once his voice was low and husky.

  Their eyes met. His were dark, deep, fathomless. Anna felt he
r heartbeat stutter. I’m tired, she thought quickly. I must be terribly tired or everything wouldn’t seem so—so—

  “Would you like to see the wine list?”

  It was the flight attendant, her smile perfect, her voice bright and bubbly, though Anna had to give her credit for not having reacted to the sight of a refugee from coach slipping into the cabin an hour or so before.

  “Champagne,” said the man still holding her hand, his gaze never leaving hers. “Unless you’d rather have something else?”

  “No,” Anna said quickly. “No, champagne would be lovely.”

  “Lovely,” he said, and Anna wondered why she’d ever thought him cold or arrogant.

  They drank champagne. In flutes. Glass flutes, not plastic. Switched to red wine, also in glasses, when dinner was served—served on china, with real flatware and real linen napkins.

  Being in first class wasn’t bad.

  Neither was being with such a gorgeous stranger.

  He ordered for them both. Normally Anna would have bristled at a man assuming he could order for her, but tonight it seemed right.

  Everything seemed right, she thought as they ate and talked. Conversation flowed easily, not about anything important, just about the weather they’d left behind in New York, how it would compare to the weather they’d find in Rome, about where he lived—in San Francisco, overlooking the bay, he said. And where she lived—in Manhattan, on the lower east side.

  For all of that, they didn’t exchange names.

  That seemed right, too.

  There was something exciting about hurtling through the night at six hundred plus miles an hour, laughing and talking and having dinner with a man she didn’t know and would never see again.

  Anything was possible, Anna thought after their dishes had been whisked away and the cabin lights were dimmed. Absolutely anything, she thought, looking at him, and a faint tremor went through her.

  “Are you cold?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “I’m fine.”

  “Tired, then.”

  “No. Really …”

  “Of course you’re tired. I’m sure your day has been as long as mine. In fact, I’m going to put my seat back. You’ll do the same.”

  That tone of easy command made Anna laugh. “Do you ever ask a woman what she wants, or do you simply tell her?”

  Their eyes met. Her heart did a little stutter step.

  “There are times when there is no need to ask,” he said softly.

  Heat swept through her. Get up, she thought. Get up and go back to your own seat in the rear of the plane.

  But she didn’t.

  He reached out. Leaned across her. She caught her breath as he pressed the button that eased her seat all the way back.

  “Close your eyes, bellissima,” he whispered. “Get some sleep.”

  She nodded. Closing her eyes, pretending to sleep was probably a good plan. No reason to tell him that she never, ever was able to sleep on a plane ….

  When she woke, the cabin was almost completely dark.

  And she was cocooned in warmth.

  Male warmth.

  Somehow she was lying in the stranger’s arms, both of them covered by a soft blanket. Her head was on his shoulder, her face buried in the curve where his neck met his shoulder.

  He was asleep. She could tell by the deep, slow exhalations of his breath.

  Move, she told herself. Anna, for heaven’s sake, shift away from him.

  Instead, she shifted closer. Closer. Drew his scent—masculine, musky, clean—deep into her lungs.

  Her hand rose. By itself, surely. No way would she have deliberately lifted it, placed it against his jaw, rubbed her fingers lightly over the sexy stubble.

  The sound of his breathing changed. Quickened. Her heartbeat quickened, too.

  “Hello,” he whispered.

  Anna touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. “Hello,” she whispered back.

  His arms tightened around her. He turned his face, brought his lips against her palm in a soft kiss.

  She heard a sound. Low, urgent …

  The sound had come from her.

  “I dreamed I was holding you,” he said. His teeth fastened lightly in the tender flesh at the base of her thumb. “And then I awoke, and you were in my arms.”

  A tremor went through her. Or perhaps through him. She couldn’t tell. And it didn’t matter. The excitement growing within her was growing within him, too. His heartbeat had quickened. And when she shifted her weight, when she shifted her weight …

  Yes. Oh, yes.

  He was hard. Fully aroused. And she—dear God, she was, too. She could feel her breasts lift, her nipples bud. And she was wet. So wet …

  He kissed her mouth. Her lips parted against his. He groaned; his teeth fastened lightly in the tender flesh of her bottom lip, his tongue stroked across the tiny, exquisite wound and Anna gave a soft, pleading cry.

  He murmured something in Italian. She didn’t understand the words but she’d have had to be a fool not to understand their meaning.

  His fingers tangled in her hair. Drew her head back. She could barely see his face in the dim light, but what she could see thrilled her—those dark eyes, the bones etched hard and harsh beneath his skin.

  “You are playing with fire, cara,” he said thickly.

  Anna cupped her hand around the back of his head. “I like fire,” she whispered.

  “So do I.” His voice was low, rough, as hot as his skin.

  She brought his head down to hers, brushed her lips over his.

  “I wanted you long before this,” he said. “I wanted you hours ago, back in that lounge.”

  Anna trembled. Ran her fingers into his hair. It had been the same for her. That was why she’d argued with him. Fought with him. Because she had wanted him. Wanted this. His heat. His embrace. His strength …

  She cried out as his hand slipped under her suit jacket. Under her blouse. Found her breast, cupped it over her silky bra, and she would have cried out again but he captured her lips with his, shaped her lips with his, slipped his tongue inside her mouth and claimed her with a slow, deep, kiss.

  His thumb swept over her nipple.

  She gasped, arched against him, felt her nipple bead and press blindly against his hand.

  Please, Anna thought, please …

  Draco gave a low growl.

  He shifted the woman against him, raised her leg, brought it over his hip and pressed his aroused flesh against her.

  Now, he thought, now …

  The cabin lights winked on.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be serving breakfast in just a few minutes ….”

  The woman in his arms froze. Her eyes flew open, blurred with passion and then with shock.

  Cristo, he was having difficulty grasping the facts himself. What had happened—what had almost happened …

  Impossible.

  He’d had sex on planes before. That was one of the perks of owning a private jet, but sex, or the closest thing to it, in a plane filled with people?

  It was crazy.

  How could he have done such a thing? It was an unacceptable, inexplicable loss of control, and he was not a man given to losses of control or, for that matter, to doing things that were either inexplicable or unacceptable.

  “Let go of me,” the woman snapped.

  Draco looked at her. She was as white as paper, and trembling.

  “Easy,” he started to say, but she cut him short.

  “Are you deaf? Let go!”

  “Look, bella, I know you’re upset—”

  “Damnit, let go!”

  His mouth thinned. Was she going to try to label him the villain in this little drama?

  “With pleasure, once I’m convinced you’re in control of your senses.” He waited, watched her face. “Are you?”

  “You’d better believe I am.”

  There was no panic in her voice now, only razor-sharp warning. A muscle knotted in Draco’
s jaw. Then, with elaborate care, he took his hands from her.

  In a flash she tossed off the blanket, pushed the button that brought her seat upright, shot to her feet. He did the same, if a split second later.

  “Listen to me,” he said …

  Too late.

  She had already turned and fled.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  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?”