The Orsini Brides: The Ice Prince / The Real Rio D'Aquila

“The Orsini attorney.”

Draco had always heard that hope died hard. Now he discovered that it didn’t simply die—it crashed to earth in flames.

“Small world,” he said drily.

She nodded. “Small, indeed.” All at once the look of shock vanished. “Wait a minute,” she said slowly, letting go of the jamb, straightening to her full height. Her eyes narrowed. “It was all deliberate!”

“I beg your pardon?”

Color suffused her face. “I cannot believe anyone would resort to such a thing.”

“Perhaps you’d like to enlighten me, Miss—Miss—”

She stalked toward him menacingly, a cat approaching its prey.

“You set me up!”

“What?”

“You—you sneaky, slimy—”

“Watch what you say to me,” Draco said sharply.

“You played me for a patsy!”

What did that mean? This woman was playing havoc in his head.

“You tried to take advantage of me!”

Draco gave a mirthless laugh.

“Are we back to that?” Slowly he let his gaze travel over her, from head to toe and back again. “Believe me, if I could erase that momentary behavioral aberration, I would.”

A momentary behavioral aberration? Was that what he called what had happened—what had almost happened? And that chill in his eyes. In his voice. How could he speak so—so clinically of what had taken place on the plane?

Anna narrowed her eyes until they were slits.

“That behavioral aberration,” she said, somehow making the words sound as if they consisted of four letters each, “was a clever ploy. At least, that’s what you intended it to be. But it didn’t work, did it? It didn’t work because I’m not one of your—your women.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. Looked over his shoulder. Stared into the corners of the elegant room.

“My women?” he purred.

She tossed her head.

“You know damned well what I mean. A man like you thinks he can snap his fingers and the entire female population of the planet will fall at his feet!”

“An interesting abuse of the laws of physics,” he said coldly. “And what has it to do with you and me and that airplane?”

“You thought you could compromise my position.”

“Was that the position you took when your leg was draped over mine?” Draco said with chilling politeness.

Her face turned an angry shade of crimson.

“You’re despicable!”

“And you are wasting my time.”

“You knew who I was all the time, Valenti!”

“You will address me as ‘prince’ or ‘sir,’” Draco heard himself say, and tried not to wince at the idiocy of it, but what better way to deal with the representative of a smarmy Sicilian gangster than to play on the ancient, if ridiculous, elements of class distinction?

“That’s why you invited me to sit with you.”

“I hope you know what you’re talking about, madam, because I most assuredly do not!”

She strode forward, came to a stop inches from him. The scent of her rose to him, something as feminine, delicate and sexy as her stiletto heels.

He recalled the scent from those moments she’d lain in his arms on the plane.

He recalled more than that.

The feel of her, pressed against him. The softness of her breasts against his chest. The heat of her body. The swift race of her heart against his, the sigh of her breath …

Draco frowned.

His body was remembering, too. Damnit, that was the wrong thing to have happen right now.

“You offered me that seat for a reason!”

“I offered it out of the goodness of my heart and the graciousness of my soul.”

“Ha!”

She tossed her head again. A couple of golden curls slipped free of whatever it was women called those silly things they used to catch their hair and keep it from falling free, as nature had intended.

“How pathetic! That you’d stoop to such measures.”

Her mouth was curled with contempt. Yes, he thought, but he could uncurl it in a heartbeat, kiss that mouth until it softened and sweetened under his.

“You—knew—who—I—was,” she said hotly, punctuating the words by jabbing her index finger into the center of his chest. “And don’t bother trying to deny it!”

Had he missed something? Had he been so busy remembering the taste of her, the feel of her, that he’d lost track of the conversation?

The realization made him even angrier.

“Deny what?” he demanded. “And stop doing that,” he growled, clasping her hand and folding his fingers around hers.

“What happened on the plane. What you did.”

“Excuse me?”

“Kissing me. It was all for a purpose.”

He laughed. He couldn’t help it. What man wouldn’t laugh at such an accusation?

Her eyes flashed with anger. “You think this is amusing?”

“Let me be sure I understand this. You’re accusing me of kissing you on purpose?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, that’s a relief. I mean, I’d hate to have you accuse me of kissing you without any purpose.”

Anna blinked. How could he do this? Twist her words so they came out wrong. Take her accusations and turn them into jokes.

Most of all, how could he be so damnably arrogant and officious and clever and still be so incredibly easy on the eyes? How could the feel of his fingers wrapped around her wrist make her remember the feel of his body against hers? The feel of his mouth? The taste of his kisses?

“Don’t play dumb,” she said. “You thought if you seduced me it would be impossible for me to represent Cesare Orsini’s interests.”

He gave her a long, steady look. Then, curse the man, he laughed. Again.

“Dio, am I clever!”

“What you are is a bast—”

“I hate to rewrite your script, madam, but you’ve got it all wrong. I had no idea who you were. The only thing I knew about you was that you had one hell of a quick temper.”

“What I have, oh your worshipful highness, is no tolerance for bull.”

“A quick temper. A sharp tongue.” Suddenly his voice turned low and rough. “And you fell asleep in my arms and came awake wanting me as much as I wanted you.”

Anna’s heart banged against her ribs.

“I was half-asleep. You took advantage. You wanted to compromise me.”

He gave a soft, sexy laugh.

“Compromise is not the word to describe what I wanted of you.” His arms went around her. “What we wanted of each other.”

“Let go,” Anna said.

“That’s what you said on the plane.”

“Exactly. And I’m saying it again. Let—”

“You said it only after the lights came on.” His arms tightened around her; she could feel every inch of him against her. “Until then, you were as turned on as I was.”

“That isn’t true! I wasn’t—”

His gaze dropped to her lips. She could almost feel the warmth of his mouth on hers, taste those remembered kisses.

“The hell you weren’t.”

His voice was husky. Hot with masculine warning. He was aroused. The hard ridge of his erection was against her belly.

Desire, urgent and primitive, shot through her blood. He was the enemy. He was everything she despised, a damnable aristocrat, a man who obviously thought he could treat a woman as if he owned her. He was her father’s and her mother’s enemy, for heaven’s sake …

But what did that matter when her body throbbed with need?

They could finish what had started hours ago.

Alone. Here, with no prying eyes to see them, no one to interrupt a joining of eager bodies.

Anna shuddered. A whisper of sound sighed from her mouth. Her lashes fell, veiled her eyes as she rose toward him …

His arms opened, dropped to his sides.

She blinked. Looked up. Saw that his face was stony, his mouth cruel.

“Now,” he said calmly as he took a step back, “now, signorina, you have been compromised.”

Her hand balled into a fist at her side. She wanted to hit him. Hard. Leave an imprint on that smug, cold, handsome face.

“You did that once,” he said coldly. “I would advise you not to do it again.”

Anna took a steadying breath. And laughed, though it took everything she possessed to choke out the sound.

“You’re so easy, Your Highness. Oh, sorry. Does the news come as a shock? Do you honestly believe one look from you turns my knees to water?”

Draco narrowed his gaze.

What he believed was that she was lying. To him. To herself. If he wanted her, he could have her. Now. Here. But he didn’t. Damnit, he didn’t. What he wanted was to get everything to do with Cesare Orsini out of his life.

“Enough of these games,” he growled. “What is your name? And what do you want?”

“I want you to face facts.” Anna’s voice was steady. Amazing, because her pulse was ragged. “No matter what you claim, I can make an excellent case for you knowing my identity all along.” She smiled brightly. “So if you want to talk about compromising one’s legal position …”

“An excellent speech. Unfortunately, it’s also meaningless. I didn’t know your name on that plane. I still don’t.”

Anna gave a negligent shrug. “He said, she said. Stuff like that is bread and butter in courts of law.”

“Which brings me to the second reason your little speech is meaningless.” He smiled. “This would never get adjudicated in a court of law.”

“I’m an attorney.”

Another quick smile, this one pure venom. “Not in Italy.”

Damnit, he was quick, and he was right. She had no legal standing here. She’d tried telling that to her father. You want a lawyer, find one who’s Italian, she’d said, but Cesare had been adamant. This was a family matter. A personal matter. He didn’t need a stranger to speak for him, for Sofia. He needed her.

“So,” the Prince of All He Surveyed said, “we have a—what would you call it? A situation. I am the rightful owner of land your client would like to claim is his.”

“The land in question belongs to my client’s wife. She is the rightful owner.”

Draco shrugged, walked to his impressive desk, hitched a hip onto its edge.

“I agreed to meet with Cesare Orsini’s representative as a courtesy.”

“You agreed,” Anna said coolly, “because you know you have a problem on your hands.”

She wasn’t wrong. There were those in the judiciary who would be more than happy to see a Valenti prince trapped in endless legal wrangling over a mess like this. The land was indisputably his, but thanks to the way things worked in Sicily, it could take years to put the case to rest.

Assuming there was a case, and there wouldn’t be.

He knew enough about Cesare Orsini and men like him to understand they had only two methods of settling debts.

One involved blood.

The other …

Draco sighed. His plane was back in service; his pilot was already en route to Rome so he could fly him back to Hawaii, the sea, the sun and the warm bed of his mistress—a woman who would not play hot then cold, as this one did.

“Very well.” He went behind the desk, sat down in a chair, pulled open a drawer, took out a gold pen and a leather checkbook. “How much?”

“I beg your pardon? How much what?”

“Didn’t you hear what I said? I’m tired of playing games. How much does Orsini want?”

“To buy his land?”

A muscle knotted in Draco’s jaw. “The land is not his to sell.”

The woman gave him a smile that would have sent a diabetic to the hospital. She was going to drive him crazy!

“I am not offering to buy it, I am offering—”

“A payoff?”

“Compensation. What does your client want to end this insane charade?”

Anna tossed her briefcase on a chair and strolled to the enormous desk. It was probably very old, and obviously hand carved. Mythological griffins dove on falcons, falcons dove on rabbits, wolves sank their fangs into the hindquarters of stags and brought them to their knees.

The history of the landed gentry, she thought coldly. She knew a lot about that history. She’d made a point of studying it when she’d first realized her father’s true profession, hoping against hope that understanding the old Sicilian antagonisms would help her understand him.

What she’d ended up understanding was that the world could be a brutally unfair place, but the world of her father was more than brutal.

Right now, though, what she was seeing firsthand went a long way toward validating her opinion of princes who thought they could take whatever they wanted from mere mortals, and get away with it.

“Well?”

She looked up. The prince, gold pen poised, was watching her much as the wolves carved into his desk had surely watched the creatures they hunted. He looked intent. Determined. Coldly analytical, and certain of how the chase would end.

Not so fast, big boy, she thought, and she took a long breath.

“Well, what?”

“You’re pushing your luck,” Draco said softly.

“And you’re making foolish assumptions if you think you can buy your way out of this.” Anna jerked her chin toward the checkbook. “You can put that thing away.”

Draco said nothing for a long minute. A muscle knotted and unknotted in his jaw. Then he dropped the pen and checkbook back into the drawer and slammed it shut with enough force to send the sound bouncing around the room.

“Let’s get down to basics,” he snapped. “If you don’t want money, what do you want?”

“You know what I want. The land, of course.”

“That’s impossible. The land is mine. I have the deed to it. No court in Sicily will—”

“Perhaps not.”

“Then, how—”

Anna gave him her best look of wide-eyed innocence.

“Roman Aristocrat Steals Land from Helpless Grandmother,” she said sweetly, and batted her lashes. “Maybe they can work the words puppies and kittens into that headline, too.”

“You left something out. Sicilian Citizen Protects Land from Theft by American Hoodlum.” Draco flashed a smug smile. “Or don’t you like that wording?”

“You’re no more Sicilian than I am!”

“My ancestors settled in Sicily five hundred years ago.”

“You mean they invaded it five hundred years ago. The Orsinis were already there.”

“I asked you a question. What do you want?”

“And I answered it. I want the land. If you think my client will run from a newspaper calling him a gangster …” Anna showed her teeth in a brilliant smile. “Trust me, Valenti. It won’t be the first time.”

“Do not address me that way,” Draco said, hating himself for sounding ridiculous, hating the woman for pushing him to it. “As for headlines …” He shrugged. “They come and go.”

She smiled. It was the kind of smile that made him want to shoot to his feet and toss her out of his office …

Or take her in his arms and remind her of just how easily he could change her cold contempt to hot desire.

“The thing is, oh powerful prince, we love that kind of stuff in the States. We give it all our attention. Page Six of the Post. People. US. The Star. All those juicy tabloids, the even juicier internet blogs. The cable news channels.”

“You’re pushing your luck again,” he said in a soft voice.

She knew she was, but it was too late to back down now.

“Even the real newspapers—the New York Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Washington Post—will love this.” Anna leaned closer. “See, one of the few things I had time to do was look you up on Google. I know you’re not just a prince, stealing money from the peasants—”

“A gangster’s legal mouthpiece calling me a thief?” Draco leaned back in his chair, folded his arms over his chest and laughed.

“You also control a huge financial empire.”

His laughter ended. A look of cold determination took its place as he rose to his feet

“If you have a point, get to it.”

“Oh, I do,” Anna said. She paused for effect, as if this were a grungy New York City courtroom instead of an elegant office. “How do you think a company like yours would stand up to such a scandal in today’s financial climate?”

His face darkened.

“How dare you threaten me? Who the hell are you?”

Anna dug into her pocket, took out a small leather case and extracted a business card. Nonchalantly she plucked a pen from his desk, scribbled the name of her hotel on the back, then flipped the card at him. He caught it, read the black engraving and looked at her through narrowed eyes.

“Anna Orsini,” he said softly. “Well, well, well.”

“That’s me,” Anna said cheerfully. “Anna Orsini. Cesare’s daughter.” Her voice became cold and flat. “In other words, a full-blooded member of the Orsini famiglia. I urge you to keep that in mind.”

It seemed the right line, the closing line, especially when your enemy looked as if he might spring across the desk and throttle you …

Especially when your own heart was banging so hard you were afraid it might leap from your chest.

Anna pivoted on her heel, picked up her briefcase and walked out.

CHAPTER SIX

DRACO watched Anna Orsini march to the door.

Head up, shoulders back, spine straight, her long-legged stride on those amazing stilettos clearly sending a to-hell-with-you message.

Almost.

The shoes changed her walk, ever so slightly. Balancing on them made her hips sway, changing what she surely meant to be a brisk march into something feminine and damned near feline.

Golden-haired seductress. Cold-blooded consigliere. Which was the real Anna Orsini?

For a dangerous couple of seconds Draco came close to demanding the answer.

He would go after her, swing her toward him, look down into those blue eyes and say, Hell, woman, how dare you threaten me! Are you fool enough to think I can be brought to heel by you and your hoodlum father?

Or he’d say nothing at all.

He’d pull her into his arms, lower his head to hers and kiss her hard and deep until she forgot about being her father’s mouthpiece and became the woman he’d known on the plane, the one who’d come within a heartbeat of giving herself up to him.

Instead, he stood his ground. He didn’t even breathe until she slammed the door hard enough to make it rattle.

He had to move carefully. No rash decisions. No letting the emotions within him overtake logic.

Draco went to his desk and sat in the massive chair behind it.

No question, he had a problem. Anna’s threat had teeth.

Teeth?

Hell, it had fangs, fangs that could sink into his throat and destroy him. There were some businesses that sought publicity, that thrived on it.

Not Valenti Investments.

Even being mentioned in the same breath as a crook like Cesare Orsini could mean the end of everything he had worked for. Not just money, although the amount he might lose, for himself and for his clients, was staggering.

But there was more at stake than money. If Anna forced a public confrontation, Draco would lose that which mattered most to him.

The honor of his name. The respect it once again carried.

A muscle jumped in his cheek.

To think he’d almost had sex with her. With Cesare Orsini’s consigliere.

Cristo, he wanted to laugh!

Not that this was a laughing matter, Draco thought grimly as he took the gangster’s letters from his briefcase and stacked them on the desk in front of him. Nothing about the situation was even remotely amusing.

If only he’d known who she was last night, he’d never have let things go so far.

Actually, the more he thought about it, the less he understood why he had become involved with her at all.

Her name could be Jane Doe, and he wouldn’t want her.

She wasn’t his type. She was too tall, too blonde, too slender. His tastes ran to petite women. Brunettes, with voluptuous bodies.

And that attitude of hers, that feminist chip she carried on her shoulder …

What man in his right mind would be attracted to a woman who argued over everything?

Calmer now, he could see that it had been the situation, not the woman, that had turned him on. The hushed darkness. The isolation that came of being five miles above the earth. The added rush of knowing you were in a public setting.

Draco sat back in his chair.

Given all that, what man would not want to take things to their natural conclusion when he awoke with a woman draped over him like a blanket?

In a way, he owed Anna Orsini his thanks. Men thought with parts of their anatomy that had nothing to do with their brains. She had saved them both from making an embarrassing mistake.

Imagine if he’d actually had sex with the Orsini consigliere …

Draco did laugh this time.

There was a solution to the problem. There always was. And he would find it—something he could do to get the Orsinis, father and daughter, out of his life.

He was, above all else, a logical man. A pragmatist. And pragmatism, not emotion, would save the day. Control over your emotions was everything.

His father and those before him had never understood that.

They drank to excess. Gambled with money they didn’t have. They went from woman to woman, losing themselves in the kind of passion and intensity that could only lead to trouble.

The Valenti family history was a minefield of greed, infidelity, abandonment and divorce.

Absolutely, a man had to learn to curb his emotions. And Draco had learned early how to curb his.

His boyhood had been filled with scenes that still made him grimace. His mother had taken a string of lovers who helped themselves to what little remained of the family’s money. Still, she’d apparently found her life boring and abandoned her husband and Draco when he was a toddler.

His father might as well have done the same. He was too busy whoring and gambling to pay attention to his son. Draco’s early memories were of big, silent rooms, most of them stripped of what had once been elegant furnishings. The few servants who remained, overworked and underpaid, ignored him.

He had been a solitary and lonely child; it had never occurred to him other children might have had different existences from his.

One winter, his father stayed sober long enough to figure out that the last of what he’d still referred to as his staff had abandoned ship, leaving nine-year-old Draco to fend for himself.

The prince had given his young son orders to bathe and dress in his best clothes. Then he’d taken him to a school run by nuns.

The Mother Superior, who was also the principal, had eyed Draco and wrinkled her nose, as if he gave off a bad smell. She’d tested him in math. In science. In French and English.

Draco had known the answers to all her questions. He was a bright boy. An omnivorous reader. From age five he’d sought solace by immersing himself in the few remaining volumes in the once-proud Valenti library.

But he’d been struck speechless.

The nun’s voice had been sharp; he’d been able to see his own reflection in her eyeglasses, and that was somehow disorienting. Her coif had made her round face with its pointed nose look like an owl’s.

She had been, in his eyes, an alien creature, and he’d been terrified.

“Answer the Mother Superior,” his father had hissed.

Draco had opened his mouth, then shut it. The nun glared at his father, then at him.

“The boy is retarded,” she’d said. Her fingers had clamped hard on Draco’s shoulder. “Leave him with us, Prince Valenti. We will, if nothing else, teach him to fear his God.”

That was the theology he’d received at the hands of the sisters.

The other boys had taught him more earthly things to fear.

Beatings, on what was supposed to be the playground. Beatings at night, in the sour-smelling dormitory rooms. Humiliation after humiliation.

It had been the equivalent of tossing a puppy into a cage of hungry wolves.

Draco had been skinny and pale. His clothes were threadbare, but their style had marked him as a member of a despised upper class, as had the way in which he spoke. He was quiet, shy and bookish, with the formal manners of a boy who had never before dealt with other children.