Nicolo: The Powerful Sicilian

“There’s been a change in plans, princess.”

“Let go of me!”

He did, but only to slip his hand around the nape of her neck. Tendrils of the softest gold tumbled over his fingers.

“I’m the potential investor,” he said softly, “not my old man.”

“That is not what my father told me!”

A muscle knotted in Nick’s jaw. She was staring at him through eyes so deep a blue they were almost violet. He’d stunned her, he could see that. Hell, he’d stunned himself.

He might be a peasant, but he was also a man. And she was a woman. A woman who needed to learn that this was the twenty-first century, not the sixteenth.

Nick’s gaze dropped to her lips, then rose so his eyes met hers.

“Trust me, princess,” he said in a voice as rough as sandpaper. “The only Orsini you’re going to deal with is me.”

Alessia Antoninni, the Princess Antoninni, shook her head. “No,” she said, and he silenced her the only way a man could silence a woman like this.

He thrust his hands into her hair, lifted her face to his and kissed her.

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