Mail-Order Prince In Her Bed (Silhouette Desire)

by Kathryn Jensen

  For a time.

  Perhaps they could continue to pleasure each other in this way without robbing her of her dream.

  He felt her lean into his hand, rub against the hardness of his knuckle. As if she intuitively knew what to do next, she began to stroke him, running her soft fingers up and down his full length.

  He shuddered with each stroke. Moaned.

  Glorious…glorious! he thought. Close. So very close.

  Shutting his eyes, he buried his face in the soft hollow at the base of her throat. Harder. Faster.

  Maria let out a sharp, shudderingly sweet moan of ultimate satisfaction. Only then did he allow himself his own urgently sought release.

  His body seized, muscles straining along the backs of his thighs, the flat of his stomach, his shoulders and arms. Every nerve raging, afire. His insides pulsing with ecstasy beyond anything he’d ever experienced before.

  Seven

  “Im sorry.”

  The first words from his lips stunned, then stung her. Like twin lightning strikes, shattering the veils of warm bliss that had settled over her following Antonio’s expert caresses.

  “What?” Maria whispered dazedly, still pinned between his body and the office wall.

  Antonio drew back from her and looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he stated grimly.

  Maria scowled at him. There she had been drifting in a lovely, sparkly haze of sexual fulfillment…and the man was telling her it had all been a big mistake?

  She slid from between the hard of his body and hard of the wall, and stared at him. “You shouldn’t have kissed me? Shouldn’t have touched me, or asked me to make you—”

  “Any of it. None of it,” he muttered turning to walk away from her. “I never meant to force you to have sex with me.”

  “Well,” she cleared her throat and propped the heels of her hands on her hips, “you could have fooled me.”

  “Maria—”

  “No, you’re right,” she snapped, drawing a deep breath, buttoning the front of her blouse. “It wasn’t a seduction. I knew that I could ask you to stop. I didn’t want you to stop. That’s all there was to it.”

  “You’re angry.”

  Damn straight I’m angry! she thought. Didn’t she have every right?

  She shrugged with too much emphasis. “So?”

  He was shaking his head, mumbling to himself, busy tucking himself back into his pants. Despite her annoyance with him, she watched. Fascinated by the intricate male process of repositioning articles that females never had to bother with.

  “I took advantage of you,” he stated.

  She wasn’t going to let him feel sorry for her, if that’s what he wanted. She had liked what they did—thrilled at touching him and being touched in ways she’d never imagined. She wouldn’t play the victim and refused to allow his sudden attack of conscience take that away from her.

  “You thought you took advantage of me,” she corrected him stiffly. “Maybe having a fling is the real reason I came here. Maybe I’ve been using you. Had you thought about that?”

  He winced. “I can’t imagine, actually. Besides, you don’t understand how close I came to—”

  “Making love to me? Going all the way?” she taunted.

  “Yes. That.” He rolled his eyes, turned back to fully face her and gripped her arms with both hands. “It had been too long. I told you that. Warned you. Do you realize what that does to a man? He shuts down. Stops feeling.”

  She shook her head, not wanting to feel sympathy for him now, while she was hurting. “It must have been painful,” she allowed.

  “It has been. But when I’m with you, when we are in the middle of our battle of wills, gripped by this compulsion…the pain goes away. All I think about is you, Maria. I feel whole again.”

  She felt her heart stop. Five seconds later, it started up again, and she found she could breathe.

  He could have hit her with a hundred excuses for messing with her heart, her newly discovered sexual awareness, her womanhood…but this one worked. Without even trying, she had become the one woman he obsessed about. And the one who, at least in this way, made him happy.

  “I like that,” she whispered, telling herself even as she said the words that she shouldn’t be so weak, shouldn’t let him inside her soul like this.

  He studied her expression. “That you have so much power over me?”

  “No. That I can heal you.” She smiled at him, brushed fingertips along his jaw, then pressed her hand over his heart. “I’m glad you can feel again, Antonio. No one should go through life without experiencing the joys life has to offer.” Even if achieving that means trampling all over my life, she added silently.

  “Learning to feel again has its disadvantages,” he said with a wry grimace. “No matter how exciting it is to be with you, to show you ways to find pleasure with a man, I can’t help wanting more of you.”

  “I don’t know what to do about that,” she murmured, dropping her hand to her side.

  “You don’t? I thought you were very sure.”

  “I am…or I was…I just don’t know any more.” She sighed. “It’s a worthy dream, isn’t it?”

  “To marry and have children?” He nodded. “Very worthy, Maria. Very precious.” He searched her eyes intently, and she could tell he was searching his own soul as well. “But you can’t blame me for wanting to possess you, if only for a few weeks or months. If I had my way, I’d keep you here for as long as you’d stay, Maria.”

  She stared up at him, terrified yet excited. He was saying that he wanted her as his mistress. He wanted her to be with him, exclusively, to live with him almost as if they were married. Almost isn’t the same thing, she thought.

  “What?”

  She snapped her head up to meet his eyes and realized she must have spoken out loud. “I have to think about all this,” she told him. “I didn’t realize it would be so difficult to choose between now and the future.”

  “I know,” he agreed then kissed her softly on the lips. “I know, cara.”

  Under the golden Italian sun, Maria blossomed along with the olive trees. Her days were long and sun-filled and productive, but at the same time so much more tranquil than they’d ever been in Washington.

  She wore loose canvas pants rolled up at the ankles, a white cotton shirt that fell comfortably over her hips, sandals and let her hair fall free, blown dry by the wind after shampooing. She’d never felt as perfectly free in her life.

  It seemed strange that by risking all she’d ever imagined for herself she felt more alive than ever.

  Risky.

  That was the word she pulled out of the air to describe her situation. She accepted it. Although whether or not she was with Antonio, she longed for his touch with feverish intensity, longed to let him take her and make love to her without restraint—she wasn’t foolish enough to believe she could have a real future with him.

  One special man. One romance upon which to build a lifetime of trust and companionship. That was what she’d wanted for herself. One man who would make her his wife and give her children to love and nurture.

  If she gave all of herself—body, heart and soul—to Il Principe, she might still marry someone else, someday. But it wouldn’t be the same.

  Her husband might well accept that there had been another man in her life. But she would know.

  It wouldn’t be right. Would never be right. She would honor her marital vows when the time came. In body and spirit she would be faithful to her husband. But the memory of Antonio would haunt any other relationship she might ever have. It would be his eyes she’d see when she made love, his mouth kissing her, his hands roaming her body.

  Never could she forget the things they’d done together. Above all, it was this knowledge that troubled her deeply.

  “Signorina Maria!” a shout came from behind her.

  She spun around to see Genevra’s maid, Angela, running after her thro
ugh the tall grass bordering the grove. “Mi aspetti, per favore!”

  She stopped and turned to meet the obviously upset young woman. “What’s wrong, Angela?”

  “La Signora,” Angela gasped out, switching to English, “she is in very much discomfort.”

  Two weeks had passed since Genevra’s last migraine. During that time, she’d gone to great lengths to avoid Maria.

  “Does she want me to watch Michael for her?” Maria asked.

  The maid looked uncertain. “She would keep him with her if she could. But he is wanting to run and play loudly. He is just a little boy,” she added, apologetically.

  “She can’t rest with him there, and you have work to do. I understand.”

  Maria also understood that Genevra didn’t want her spending time with her grandson.

  She had tried to ignore the woman’s sharp tongue and darting looks when their paths infrequently crossed in the courtyard or the main house. Nothing Maria had been able to do pleased her. But that didn’t change the fact that Antonio’s son needed proper care.

  “I’ll take Michael and see if we can find his father. Tell your mistress that you’re taking him to Antonio. She might not object then.”

  Angela smiled, looking relieved. “Si, grazie. Grazie mille, Signorina Maria.”

  “I’ll be along in a moment. There are a few things I need to do first.”

  As Angela ran back through the groves, Maria finished noting her most recent thoughts for the Boniface campaign on the palm-sized electronic notebook she always carried with her. Ten minutes later, she clicked the tiny computer closed, slipped it into the hip pocket of her pants and turned back toward the main house.

  Striding along the pavement, she thought more about the Boniface American launch. Half her mind focused on possible strategies, appealing themes, trendy hooks. The other remained on the road, bordered on either side by low stone walls that wound like drunken serpents across the hilly landscape.

  Something to do with the terrain, she mused. Something to do with tradition. Like this road that had stood the test of time and still carried people from village to village, and finally to the sea and from there to Greece, Egypt, the world beyond. Something to do with family and the love and tradition of fine food.

  But nothing jelled in her mind. Not yet. With a shrug she let it go just as a sleek, road-hugging black car was weaving down the hillside between the walls toward her. The Ferrari slowed as it neared her.

  “Ciao!” Antonio called out the open window as he pulled up alongside her. “Heading back to the house now?”

  “Angela caught up with me a few minutes ago. Your mother is having another bad spell.”

  Antonio’s dark brows rose. “She sent Angela to fetch you? That’s a good sign, no?”

  “Not exactly. I think the women of the household took it upon themselves to send for me. Angela’s telling your mother that they’re bringing Michael to you.”

  He frowned. “She’ll be furious when she finds out they’ve lied to her.”

  Maria leaned the heels of her hands against the side of the car and stretched out her calves. “They’re not lying. I’m bringing your son to you…eventually. You need to spend more time with him anyway,” she stated firmly.

  Antonio stared at her in astonishment. “You’re ordering me to spend time with my son?”

  “No. I’m suggesting. I know you are busy, Antonio, but if I keep him with me for a couple of hours while you take care of business, then you can have lunch with him. By that time your mother should be feeling better.”

  “All right,” he agreed, an amused smile teasing up the corners of his full lips. “Perhaps I should make a habit of doing lunch with my son.”

  “You’ll both enjoy it,” she predicted.

  “Via! Get in. I’ll drive you the rest of the way back to the house.”

  Maria ran around the car and slipped down into the body-hugging passenger seat. The door closed with a solid, resonant clack. She marveled that this finely tuned machine and her own third-hand compact back home could possibly share the same name: automobile.

  Even as he drove, foot pressed to the accelerator, Antonio kept up a running dialogue, suggesting a handful of ideas for introducing his product to America.

  “They’re all good,” she remarked, nibbling the nail of her unoccupied hand, “but not quite right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If there wasn’t so much competition, I’d immediately try for an endorsement by a famous chef. Then we’d just concentrate on getting the oil in use, starting with highly visible American restaurants. There are several popular chains we might try first.”

  “That could work, don’t you think?” he asked, taking the last corner before the estate’s gate.

  “Not really. The market studies I’ve requested are already indicating that home cooks—your main target—already have their favorite brands. And they’re pretty loyal. Unless you can offer them something unique, something to make it worth their experimenting with a new product, you won’t win them over to yours.”

  He frowned, his eyes darkening dangerously. At first she thought he was angry with her for shooting down his concept, then she realized that his gaze was focused through the windshield, beyond the property’s gate.

  She lifted a hand to shade her eyes from the sun blazing through the glass, caught a glimpse of dark green, then a cap identical to every other man’s in the village. But she immediately thought of only one person.

  “You don’t suppose—”

  “I couldn’t tell who it was,” Antonio interrupted. “But there was definitely a man standing just off the side of the road. He stepped behind a tree when he saw us coming.”

  “It could have been Marco.”

  “Or a hundred other men,” he ground out, but looked worried nonetheless.

  “You don’t think he’s violent, do you?” she asked, scanning the brush, seeing nothing.

  “No. But I don’t know why he or anyone else would be standing out here, half a mile from town. Buses don’t stop to pick up passengers along this stretch of the road, and there are no other houses until you hit the edge of Carovigno.”

  “And if someone was innocently walking by, why would he hide?” she thought out loud.

  “Exactly.” Antonio’s blue eyes crackled with anger. “I’m going to have a look around. Stay in the car. Keep the doors locked.” He brought the car to a screeching stop, swung open the driver’s door. “Keys.” He pointed to them in the ignition as he smoothly bolted up from the seat. “Take off if there’s trouble. Call the carabinieri from the house.”

  Maria’s heart leapt at the urgency in his tone. She clenched her hands in her lap as she watched Antonio race around the front of the car then disappear behind a tall hedge.

  She looked around. Listened. Saw or heard nothing. Counted to ten…then to ten again. Still nothing.

  Finally, Antonio reappeared a hundred yards down the road. He jogged back to the car.

  She leaned across the driver’s seat to unlock the door for him. “Well?”

  He climbed in with an exasperated growl. “No sign of anyone. I’m almost certain it was Marco, though. Right height, coloring, posture.” He swore in Italian. “My men have some explaining to do.”

  Maria blinked, sensing he was right. If it had been someone innocently wandering by, why would he have hidden? She feared sinister intentions without knowing why. A shiver wracked her body, although the sun was warm and bright overhead.

  As soon as they reached the house, Antonio pulled the Ferrari to a dust-swirling stop and ran for the main house. Maria followed breathlessly.

  “I’ll go and get Michael,” she called to Antonio as he disappeared into his office.

  She heard him speaking almost immediately to his assistant. “Get Gino and Lucio on their cell phone.”

  Maria continued on through the house to the kitchen where she found Angela making tea for her mistress.

  Michael was sittin
g in his high chair, munching on a biscuit. “’ria, ’ria!” he squealed delightedly at the sight of her.

  “Hello, handsome,” she returned the greeting. “Having a snack, are you?”

  He presented a soggy fistful of crumbs to her. “Mangi…mangi…mangi!”

  “No thank you. Don’t want to spoil my lunch,” she responded cheerfully then turned to Angela. “I’ll take him now. Antonio is in his office, but it looks as if he’ll be pretty busy for a while.”

  She hesitated, wondering if now was an opportune time to fish for some much-needed information. “I rarely see Genevra in the main house or the courtyard. Am I wrong in assuming she’s avoiding me?”

  Angela’s timid gaze shifted away from her. She poured boiling water over tea leaves. “La Signora, she spend more time in the little villa these days. I think she very busy,” the maid answered diplomatically.

  “Busy doing what?”

  Angela tipped her head from side to side indecisively. “It’s just she worry a lot. And she sad, of course.”

  “About what?” Although Maria was sure she knew.

  “She miss Signora Anna. They very close. Like real mother and daughter. I think she would like another wife for her son, and to give her more grandbabies.”

  “But what does that have to do with me?”

  “You are very nice, I think, but not a princess, Signorina Maria.” Her tone was both diplomatic and an apology.

  Maria frowned, confused. “I’m not a princess?”

  “That is what La Signora say. Anna, she too was from the…” She stumbled over the word. “…aristo—?”

  “Aristocracy,” Maria supplied.

  “Si. She was all that before she married young Antonio. She was beautiful and kind and very good to La Signora. But now, her son brings another woman into their home. And she is an American, a working woman and…” Angela sighed.

  Maria accepted one of Michael’s less-soggy cookies and bit into the dry end. “And not a princess.”

  What was she to do to win this woman over? Buy herself a title? Ridiculous.