Mail-Order Prince In Her Bed (Silhouette Desire)

by Kathryn Jensen

  Suddenly, the path she’d taken opened out into a beautiful little piazza. Stalls had been erected to show off hand-painted pottery, woven tapestries and rugs, plastic ware and brilliant copper pots. Swaths of rainbow-hued cloth had been spread across the paving stones, then piled high with succulent oranges and huge lemons, brown almonds, field-ripe artichokes, olives, potatoes and greens.

  The sight took her breath away.

  Michael squealed with delight as she wheeled past a booth piled with fragrant breads, some twisted and sprinkled with sugar and fragrant anise.

  “Time for your treat?” Maria asked him.

  He bounced impatiently in his seat.

  She pointed to the sugary pastries, and his eyes grew round. She purchased a small sack of the goodies and gave one to her shopping partner. He leaned back in his seat to suck and gnaw contentedly on the pastry twist.

  She munched on one, too, and decided Michael had excellent taste.

  They wheeled up and down the street, checking out seconds of American linens marked down to bargain prices she couldn’t believe. Ceramic plates and bowls of reds and blues caught her eye. The atmosphere was carnival-like. And it only added to the adventure that she could understand just a few words of Italian.

  She loved every minute of their adventure.

  After purchasing several types of fruit then a pretty shawl to mail to Sarah, she turned around to head back down to the masseria but discovered a side street with several additional stalls. She stopped at the first, which offered European-sized leather sandals, and held up a pair alongside her right foot for comparison.

  “You like, signorina?”

  “They’re very pretty,” she said in Italian. “Is this about my size?”

  The young, dark-eyed man observed her foot. “One smaller, I think, signorina. Marco, trentasette!” He held up the sandal for the other man to see the style.

  A sullen-looking fellow, who might have been the vendor’s brother from the similarity of their features, mumbled, “Si, Frederico!” and disappeared behind stacks of boxes.

  A moment later he reappeared, holding up the shoes. He wore a long-sleeved green shirt and a black cap pushed back on his head, neither looking very clean.

  “Grazie,” she murmured politely, taking them from him. She slipped one on her right foot, aware that he was hovering close by. When she looked up he was staring at Michael.

  “Che bel bambino!” he said, his eyes bright specks of interest.

  The little boy looked up but didn’t smile at the stranger. He busily attacked his pastry.

  Marco, she thought belatedly. Wasn’t that the name of the young man from the escort service whose place Antonio had taken? But then, it was a very common name.

  “This is little Michael, no?” Marco asked. “So big he grows now. You work for la famiglia Boniface?”

  “In a way. You know them?” she asked.

  “Si, very well. Everyone in town knows Il Principe. His is a very rich family, no?”

  “Basta, Marco!” Frederico snapped, then added in English. “I will take care of the pretty lady.”

  But Marco stood his ground. He reached out and stroked Michael’s soft head. Maria automatically moved closer, as if to protect the child.

  Marco smiled at her. “Such a sweet child. La Signora Boniface is blessed indeed. Is she not, brother?”

  “Si, most blessed,” the vendor said with little enthusiasm. “Now go back to sorting those shoes.”

  “And Il Principe, he is back from his travels now?” Marco asked, ignoring his brother.

  “Yes, he’s back,” she answered then turned to the other man. “Quanto costa?” she asked, holding up the sandals.

  The vendor quoted her a sum in Euros. She offered the vendor a quarter less than his asking price.

  “They are yours,” Frederico said immediately, making her think she still had paid too dearly for the shoes.

  But she was anxious to return to the security of the estate.

  “La Signora—she is well these days?” Marco asked as she handed her money to his brother.

  “Yes, fine,” she said automatically, unwilling to give out family information to strangers.

  “And the bambino, she still cares for him in her own villa?”

  “I’m really in a hurry,” she said, taking her change. “Thank you, we have to be going.”

  “We will very much look forward to seeing you again soon,” Marco called after her cheerfully. “Very soon, signorina.”

  She walked quickly, sensing he was watching her. Warning prickles danced up her spine. She touched the top of Michael’s head nervously, as if to reassure herself that he was all right. She couldn’t have said why she’d been so unnerved by the two men. Two more blocks down the road, she stopped to buy oranges from a woman who sat on the curb.

  “The men selling shoes up the street,” Maria asked in what she hoped was understandable Italian after her purchase was complete. “Do you know them?”

  “Si,” the woman said, “i fratelli Serilo. Marco e Frederico.”

  Yes! She remembered now. Serilo had been the name Antonio had mentioned. Marco Serilo. He’d been Antonio’s valet, the one he’d fired then flown to New York to stop from using his name.

  There had been something vaguely unsettling about the man’s interest in the family. Even the brother had seemed unnerved by his pressing for information.

  Maria rushed down the hill and didn’t stop to catch her breath until she was inside the masseria’s formidable gate.

  “What is it, Maria?” Antonio asked.

  As soon as she returned to the house she’d asked one of the servants to call Antonio at the factory, but somehow the message had gotten mixed up. Instead of just coming to the phone, he’d rushed back to the villa.

  “Is something wrong with Michael? My mother?”

  “They’re both fine,” she reassured him.

  Michael had decided she was worthy of his attention since she’d taken him for a spin that morning. He was cuddled up beside her on the couch in her suite by the time Antonio rushed in. “Maybe I’m just imagining trouble where there is none. But I thought you ought to know that I ran into Marco Serilo at the market.”

  “Marco? What was he doing there?”

  “Working for his brother, apparently. They were selling shoes.”

  “The family has had stalls in Carovigno, San Vito, and Ostuni for many years. But Marco would have nothing to do with them while he worked for me. He felt hawking footwear was beneath him.”

  “He certainly didn’t look very happy today.”

  Antonio let out a dry laugh. “I shouldn’t be surprised.” He frowned and studied her expression. “Something frightened you?”

  “I’m not sure frightened is the word. More like concerned me. He was asking a lot of questions about you, your mother, the family in general. It just seemed odd.”

  “Maybe he was curious to see if anything had changed since he left. He wasn’t a bad valet. Very conscientious in many ways, but he had slippery fingers. Stole from everyone in the house, even though it was small amounts.”

  “You don’t think he might try to get back at you for firing him? Or for spoiling the good thing he had going in America?”

  Antonio thought for a moment. “I grew up with the Serilo boys, and many others in this town. Our parents all grew up in Carovigno. If one of us boys stepped out of line, there was always an adult to pinch an ear and drag us home. There may be jealousies and hard feelings at times, as in any family, but I expect the Serilos are harmless. If Marco means to make trouble, it will be of the mischievous variety.” He touched Maria’s arm reassuringly.

  She rested her cheek against the little boy’s head and rocked him. Something still didn’t feel right to her. “I suppose you’re right,” she murmured. “You know them.”

  He held out his hands to his son, but Michael crawled into Maria’s lap and turned his rosy cheek against Maria’s chest. His preference, for the moment,
was clear.

  Antonio laughed at him. “I don’t blame you a bit, little man. If she let me nuzzle her breasts like that, nothing in the world would make me move.”

  Maria felt her cheeks go hot.

  Antonio laughed again then, his eyes softening as he watched woman and child, he said, “All right. Perhaps caution is in order. It won’t hurt to keep an eye on the boys. I’ll have a couple of my men watch Marco and Frederico. If they’re up to anything, we’ll soon know. Does that make you feel better?”

  “Much.” Maria looked down at Michael, his breathing had slowed and his eyes were shut. “I think he’s asleep.”

  “If we put him down in his bed in the nursery, he’ll probably sleep for an hour or two. We’ll have enough time for lunch.”

  “All right,” she agreed. “But it will be a working lunch. I have a few ideas about your ad campaign to run past you.”

  They ate on the stone patio overlooking the gardens while one of the maids kept an eye on Michael as he slept. La Signora still hadn’t left her villa, so it was just the two of them.

  They lunched on artichokes stuffed with creamy goat cheese and herbs, thick slices of ripe tomatoes drizzled in fragrant first-press olive oil with a delicate flavor then sprinkled with fresh basil, and still-warm bread baked that day in the outdoor stone oven in the courtyard. Antonio selected a local white wine.

  Maria felt sure she had been transported directly to heaven. Only a few months earlier, she never would have guessed she’d be living in Italy, in a palatial villa above the Adriatic, consuming Mediterranean delicacies.

  Life, she thought, sure does dish up surprises.

  Antonio looked up at the sky when the first drop of rain fell on the back of his hand. “We’d better move inside.”

  She studied the fluffy clouds above them. “Maybe it’s just a freak drop or two. It’s a shame to go in when it’s such a lovely day. The food tastes so much better out here in the open air.”

  He knew how quickly storms came up over the Adriatic, but smiled indulgently at her. “As you wish.”

  Minutes later, the sky opened up. With a squeal, Maria grabbed her plate and wineglass, dashed through a rear doorway into the main house. Antonio ducked inside after her, and they stood laughing and gasping for breath in his private office, their clothing already soaked through. She glared at the sheets of gray water washing the landscape.

  “You did warn me,” she admitted. “I should have listened.”

  “You should have. I have a very good reputation for knowing what’s best.”

  “When it comes to the weather,” she added.

  “Often other things as well.”

  “Really?” She lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “Like what?”

  She’d given him such a tempting opening. “Like when the olives will reach their peak ripeness, what color tie to wear with a suit, and whether or not you should sleep with me.” He reached behind the door for a towel and started drying her shoulders and hair.

  When he dared steal a peek at her expression, she was no longer smiling. “I was only joking,” he said quickly.

  She wasn’t having any of it. Her voice was clipped. “I thought we’d settled this.”

  He shrugged. There was little use in trying to cover up now. “I’ve changed my mind. I believe your education should be extended.”

  “Maybe I don’t need a doctorate to function as a wife. Maybe my little bachelor’s degree will do.” She looked up at him through long, dark lashes, and he wanted to grab her there and then.

  “One can never be too well-prepared,” he countered, smoothing the damp towel down her throat to her chest. He patted the front of her sweater.

  She stared up at him, her mouth pursed thoughtfully. Her eyes calculating possibilities.

  “Look,” he said, “I stand by my promise not to force myself on you. And I truly do respect your plan to wait for marriage to lose your virginity. Technically, that is.”

  “You’re playing with semantics,” she whispered, “as well as with my heart.”

  He stiffened. “Hearts have nothing to do with this, Maria. We’re two healthy adults who have every right to enjoy ourselves and each other. The fact that we’re not in love and don’t intend to marry shouldn’t stop us from sharing a little pleasure.”

  She shook her head but her hand lifted to touch his cheek. Her smile was shaky. “More than a little pleasure, if I remember correctly.” Drawing her hand away quickly, she snapped the towel out of his grasp. “But I don’t see how we can pretend that what we did or what you propose to do isn’t making love.”

  “It’s sex,” he said. “Nothing more or less.”

  Her gaze dropped away from his. “Maybe for a man. But a woman can’t help bonding emotionally with her partner. At least, that’s what I’ve read.”

  “You read too much.”

  He took the towel from her, tossed it aside, wrapped an arm around her waist and hauled her to him.

  Antonio’s lips crushed down over hers before she could draw a breath. The muscles in her legs weakened, wobbled. A fiery sensation crept up from her chest to her throat and face. As the world careened and whirled out of focus, his kiss deepened.

  At last she pulled back, their lips parting. “I do read too much,” she whispered breathlessly.

  “But you have a point,” he admitted, the desire still there, still struggling to take control and push him over the edge. “Maybe this attraction between us is more complex than—” He groaned in frustration. “I just don’t know.”

  Antonio ached to ignore both his own and her inhibitions. To take her the way he wanted to take her. Brazenly. Completely. Sinking deep within her body. Her flesh perfectly, completely encasing him. He was ready. And it had been an eternity since he’d felt this way.

  Dio! He wanted her. But Maria had every right to deny him her body. He hadn’t passed the point of reason.

  Nevertheless, masculine hormones were driving hard within him and he felt compelled to try again. “I think it’s very possible for two people to become attached without being in love.”

  “Attached?” she repeated, looking at him as if he were newly discovered species. “That’s a pretty vague word for something that feels this passionate.”

  Passion?

  Yes, he supposed this was true passion. But passion wasn’t a synonym for love in his dictionary.

  Still, he had thought of nothing but her from the moment they’d met. He touched a finger to the tip of her nose, then to the center of her solemnly pursed lips.

  “Maria, you are an infuriating, lovely young woman. I can’t imagine why I haven’t backed you against that wall and made you beg for me.”

  She choked on a laugh. “Me, beg? Fat chance.”

  He growled at her playfully. “Is that my bluff I hear being called?”

  She shrugged and looked away, feigning indifference, although he could feel her trembling. “Take it as you like. But we’re not consummating this relationship of ours, whatever it might be.”

  “Very well then. Do you remember what I told you in your own country, about trying things and your ability to choose?”

  She slanted him a cautious look. “I remember.”

  “Good. Then how about this?”

  He swept both hands up the sides of her body from hips to shoulders, then brought them around in front of her and pressed his palms over her breasts. She backed up a step, then another, hit the wall.

  “Nowhere to go,” he whispered huskily. “Do I hear a stop yet?”

  She shook her head, seemed unable to speak. Her eyes were wide as she watched him unbutton her blouse. Slipping a hand inside her bra he gently cupped one breast, then began to tease the nipple with the field-roughened pad of his thumb. Her head dropped back against the wall and she shut her eyes.

  He watched her mouth, waiting for the refusal he expected. But when she parted her lips only a long breath came out.

  He felt mad with desire, still hated himself for seducin
g her. For there was no other word for what he was doing at this moment. He wanted her. He wanted her desperately and would have done nearly anything to coax her to toss away all her inhibitions and welcome him into her body.

  Touching her this way, the last of his reason left. He brought his head down to her breast and, moving his hand to lift it gently toward him, he opened his mouth over the pure white mound of flesh cradled in his palm and sucked softly. His tongue circled her nipple, flicking at the hardening nubbin, bringing it to an even tighter peak.

  He drew harder, suckling with a thirst that only left him wanting more. He moved to her other breast, treated it equally. He was aware of her body moving against his mouth, her hands sliding to the back of his head to press him harder against her. She shifted her hips against his thighs, hands to his butt…and held him there, against her body, keeping him from leaving even if he’d tried.

  “I’m not…begging,” she gasped.

  He nearly laughed. “Then I will. Take me in your hand. Please…now.” She started to comply, but wasn’t fast enough for him.

  He gripped her wrist, guided her down below his belt. Hastily, he undid the buckle, zipper and released himself. She cautiously laid her hand over his erection. Slowly she wrapped her fingers around him.

  That nearly finished him.

  The heat of her hand entrapping him brought him to the precipice. But he closed his eyes, concentrated, held back just a little longer.

  Antonio reached up beneath her skirt, found the slim elastic edge of her panties, moved his hand underneath.

  She tensed with anticipation.

  He held his breath and waited.

  She didn’t tell him to stop. Instead she murmured barely coherent syllables that sounded inviting, intoxicating, urging him on. He moved a knuckle, back and forth, over the delicate button of flesh that guarded her virginity.

  He would go no further unless she asked. This, he suspected, might be enough for her. She was climaxing even now, a continuous series of peaks that sent her writhing in his arms. If she would return the gift…perhaps that too would suffice.