Hell, he thought coldly, why not live down to her expectations?
“Such a generous offer,” he said softly.
“Yes. It is.” She shot a look at the Ferrari’s bumper. “I see some simple damage. Send us the bill.”
“Shall I send it at the same time I send you a list of…how did you put it? The expenses I’ve incurred?”
“As you prefer. And now, signore…”
“And now, you assume, arrivederci.”
“Assume?” she said, her tone one of elegant disdain.
But she didn’t look elegant. Nick’s gaze made a slow circuit again, from the shoes that seemed to make her wobble to the wrinkled silk suit to the drawn-back hair. Wispy strands the color of winter sunlight fell around her oval face.
There was a bedraggled look about her.
And maybe bedraggled was the right word.
She looked as if she’d just tumbled out of a man’s bed. His bed, he thought, and felt the immediate response of his body to the image of what it would be like to strip the arrogant princess of her clothes and do whatever it took to turn all that frosty hauteur to hot passion.
He did a mental double take. Why would he even think of something like that? Alessia Antoninni was beautiful in the way statues were beautiful. There was nothing soft or warm or welcoming about her. She wasn’t a challenge, she was a turnoff. That he’d even imagined bedding her—hell, that he’d actually kissed her—made him furious.
Dammit, he thought, and he took his anger and put it where it rightly belonged.
“You were right,” he said brusquely, “my trip was lengthy. Eight hours flying to Rome from New York, then a three-hour delay at the airport added up to lots of time to kill.”
“And you expect compensation for that time immediately.”
She said it as if it were a given. Nick watched as she opened her purse, rummaged through it and finally extracted a checkbook. “If you can provide me with a figure—”
She gasped as his hand closed around her wrist. His fingers were biting into her flesh. He was probably going to mark that tender, upper-class skin. Not only didn’t he give a damn, but he was also grimly pleased to do it.
“Are you always so sure of yourself, princess? Or is it only with me?”
Her eyes flashed.
“Let go of me, Mr. Orsini.”
Nick smiled tightly. “What happened to signore? Don’t I even rate that much now that I’m about to call your bluff?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. And if you don’t unhand me—”
“Another threat, principessa?” His smile twisted. “Maybe you need to listen before you make threats.”
“Listen to what?” She looked as if she wanted to kill him. Fine, he thought grimly. The more certain she was of herself, the more he’d enjoy the sight of her taking a metaphoric tumble right on her icy ass. His grasp on her tightened until they were a breath apart. “I repeat, I had lots of time on my hands. I spent it going through the material your father sent about your precious vineyard. It was detailed. Very detailed…but there was lots missing.”
“I have no knowledge of what material you saw and it is of no interest to me. You are—”
“Dismissed? A while ago, I was excused. Now I’m dismissed.” Nick’s smile was as frigid as his tone. “Antoninni Vineyards is on the verge of ruin.”
“That is not your concern.”
“Four years of bad weather damaged the grapes. Your old man chose new plantings that turned out to be a mistake. He made lousy marketing decisions. I don’t know a damned thing about viniculture—”
“How nice to hear you admit it.”
“But I do know about investments. I added up some figures, added them up again and figured out, real fast, that what your father neglected to list in that report is at least as meaningful as what he did.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, but Nick could hear the lie in the words.
“I think you do. Papa Prince took more cash out of those vineyards than he put in. Where did it go, sugar? The horses? The casinos? Women?”
Alessia yanked furiously on her imprisoned hand. “This conversation is over!”
“Without money—and we both know it’s going to require more than the five million euros Daddy requested—without it, your family’s business will be a thing of the past.”
“You are a fine one to talk about family businesses,” she said, her face filling with color.
It was a nicely placed jibe. Dead wrong, but she had no way of knowing that and Nick had no interest in pointing it out. She thought he was a famiglia heavy? Let her think it. Hell, he wanted her to think it. There was a sweet pleasure in a woman like this believing she was on the receiving end of help from the man she believed him to be.
“The bottom line,” he said, “is that you need my money. I’d bet my last dollar your father will be more than happy to remind you of that.”
“I need nothing from a man such as you!”
“Five hundred years of royal living, gone in the blink of an eye?”
“Do you think that matters to me?”
“I think it matters enough so that you were willing to show up today to greet a commoner.”
“You’re wrong, Mr. Orsini. I only, as you put it, showed up today because—because—”
She blinked. Nick could almost see her processing what was happening. She’d been sent to greet him. She was the prince’s reception committee. She was an Antoninni, unaccustomed to dealing with the peasants, but she didn’t have the power to get rid of him.
No wonder she was staring at him as if she’d just remembered something she’d all but forgotten.
He was sure he knew what that “something” was.
The princess had been flexing muscle she didn’t have. She had no power. To all intents, she might as well have been a chauffeur, sent to meet the plane of the visiting banker.
“What’s the problem?” Nick smiled thinly. “Thinking twice about telling me to leave?” When she didn’t answer, he took his cell phone from his pocket and offered it to her. “Here. Call Daddy. See what he says about sending me home.”
Alessia looked at the sleek bit of plastic as if it might bite her. Then she looked at the man holding it toward her. Bastardo insolente!
He knew damned well she wasn’t about to make that call. He just didn’t know why.
Mama, she thought, Mama, how could I have forgotten you?
For a few moments, anger at this horrible man had blinded her to reality. Now, it was back. She’d made a bargain with the devil. If she wanted her mother to remain in the sanatorio, she could not get rid of Nicolo Orsini. She had to deal with him, no matter what.
He was vile.
His macho arrogance. His brutal occupation, if you could call being a hoodlum an occupation. And that kiss, the assumption that he was irresistible, that the male domination of his world extended to hers…
Vile was not a strong enough word.
It didn’t matter.
She was stuck with him. He was her problem, and she knew how to handle that. Problems were her specialty. Let her father think that the public relations business was nothing but an excuse for protecting people with too much money and ego. Perhaps that was a reflection of what he knew of Rome and Romans.
That was not her world.
Alessia had put endless days, weeks and months into learning how to deal with the people her firm represented.
Having a royal title helped, though she loathed the idea that titles should exist at all in today’s complex world. The rest? Damned hard work.
Preventing clients from making asses of themselves was part of what she did. Cleaning up after they’d done so anyway was another part, as was making sure they did what they were supposed to do without veering from an accepted plan.
Some clients were pleasant, talented people. Some were not. And still some, admittedly a small percentage, thought that money and power and, often,
good looks made them gods.
There was no question as to which category Nicolo Orsini belonged, nor was there any question that she could handle him. The truth was, given the circumstances, she had no choice.
“A problem, princess? Have you forgotten Daddy’s phone number?”
She blinked, looked up at him. Barbarian though he was, gangster that he was, Nicolo Orsini was also—there was no other word for it—magnificent. The epitome of masculinity. Alessia met a lot of very good-looking men in her work. Actors, industrialists, men whose money bought them the clothes, the cars that could turn a nice-looking man into a good-looking one.
The American’s clothes were obviously expensive, his haircut as well. But he was also—could you call a man gorgeous? Because that was what he was. Gorgeous, and it was not what he wore or how he was groomed.
It was him.
The thick, espresso-brown hair. The eyes the color of night, the strong, straight nose set above a firm mouth and chiseled jaw. Even that little depression between nose and mouth, what was it called? A philtrum. That was it. How could something with such a foolish name be sexy?
The truth was, all of him was sexy. The long, leanly muscled body. The hard face. The sculpted lips. Perfect in design, in texture. She knew that. Knew the warmth of that mouth, the feel of it against hers. If she’d parted her own lips a little when he’d kissed her, she’d even know his taste…
“Take a good look, princess. Let me know if you like what you see.”
Alessia’s gaze flew to his. His tone was as insulting as the heat in his eyes.
She felt her face redden.
That she could find him physically attractive was shocking. She didn’t understand it. A man’s looks meant nothing; she had never been taken in by such superficial things. No matter. Living with her father, dealing with his careless verbal and emotional cruelty, had taught her the benefits of a quick recovery.
“I was thinking,” she said coolly, “that you do not look like a savage, Signore Orsini, but that only proves that looks can be deceiving.”
He hesitated. Then, he shrugged.
“Your father is what he is, as is mine, principessa. As for me—I am precisely what you see.”
Alessia’s eyebrows rose. It was, at first, a disconcerting answer. Then she realized he was simply saying that she was right. He was the son of a don, a man from his father’s world, venerated in some dark corners of old Sicily but despised by decent Italians everywhere.
And yes, she would have to deal with him.
So. A tour of the vineyard tomorrow. The formal dinner tomorrow night. He’d be gone the following day, out of her life, forever.
She could manage that.
As for what her father had intended, that she act as Orsini’s driver, that he stay at the villa… Out of the question. He’d made it easy. He’d already told her he preferred to be on his own. The Ferrari, which would be a rental, was proof of it. Good. Excellent. As for his being a guest at the villa—she would suggest a hotel, if he hadn’t already arranged for one, and pick him up there in the morning.
Easier and easier, she thought, but before she could say anything, Orsini punched a button on his cell phone and began speaking in English. There was no mistaking the conversation. He was talking with the agency from which he’d rented the Ferrari, telling a clerk in brisk tones of command that they could pick up the car here, at the curb. There was some minor damage; they could contact his insurance company. No, the car was fine except for that. It was simply that he would not need a car, after all.
“But of course you’ll need it,” Alessia blurted. “To drive to your hotel. You did make hotel reservations, didn’t you?”
He smiled tightly. Eyes still locked to hers, he hit another button on his phone. She listened as he canceled a reservation at the Grand. Then he flipped the phone closed.
“Your father intended that I stay at your villa and that you be my tour guide. Isn’t that right, princess?”
“Don’t call me that!”
“It’s what you are, isn’t it? The princess who commands the peasants?”
Alessia thought of responding, then thought better of it. Instead, she jerked her head toward her Mercedes, still just behind the Ferrari.
“Get in,” she said brusquely.
“Such a warm and hospitable invitation.”
She strode around the car, got behind the wheel, sat stiffly as he folded his long legs under the dashboard. Then she slammed the car into gear, backed up just enough to avoid hitting the Ferrari again and pulled into traffic.
“Two days,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Sorry?”
Dio, she hated him! The pleasant tone, the polite manner that was about as real as…as fairies at the bottom of the garden. Ahead, a green light turned red. She slowed the Mercedes, pulled to the light and stopped.
“I said, I can give you two days. That’s more than enough time for you to tour the vineyard, see the wine-making operation and meet with my father’s managerial staff.”
Nick found the control next to his seat, pushed it and eased the seat farther back. Two days had been exactly the amount of time he’d intended to be in Tuscany…but things had changed.
“Really,” he drawled. “Two days, hmm?”
“Two days,” Alessia repeated briskly. “As I said, that’s more than sufficient time to—”
“Two weeks,” he said. “I’ll need that much time to make a decision. And, of course, I’ll expect you to be available to me 24/7.”
She looked at him. The look of disbelief on her face made him want to laugh, especially considering that he’d just changed all the plans he’d so carefully made but, dammit, the woman needed to be taught a lesson in humility.
“Are you pazzo? There is no way in hell I am going to endure two weeks of—”
Nick leaned over. Put his mouth on hers. Kissed her, and when she tried to jerk away, he curved his hand around her jaw and went on kissing her until she made a little sound and when she did, he parted her lips with his, bit lightly into the exquisite softness of her bottom lip…
A horn honked impatiently behind them.
Nick let go of Alessia and sat back.
“Two weeks,” he said in a gruff voice. “If you want that money badly enough, that’s how long it’s going to take to get it.”
He folded his arms and stared straight ahead. He could feel her eyes on him. The horn behind them beeped again, this time joined by a growing chorus.
Alessia exploded, said the word that had horrified the nun at the airport but only made him laugh.
Then she stepped on the gas and the Mercedes all but flew down the highway.
CHAPTER FOUR
NICK was not a man who enjoyed letting someone else take the wheel of a car.
Life was all about control. It was a lesson all Cesare’s sons had learned.
You could count on a microphone or a camera being shoved in your face anytime your old man hit the news and the only way to deal with the idiots who thought it was okay to invade your privacy was to keep your mouth shut and maintain your self-control.
The simple practice had served him well, not just on the streets of Little Italy but in the war zones where he’d seen action as a marine and, more recently, in the plush boardrooms where he negotiated billion-dollar deals. He’d never thought much about how his reliance on self-control impacted other parts of his life but now, sitting beside Alessia Antoninni as she drove the Mercedes along a busy highway, he knew he was in trouble.
They’d been on the road for maybe twenty minutes. Twenty more, and Nick figured he was either going to put a hole through the floorboard from constantly trying to stamp on a brake pedal that didn’t exist or maybe he’d just pluck the princess from behind the steering wheel and take over.
She was, what, twenty-five? Twenty-six?
He looked at her, the stony profile, the set mouth, the fists gripping the steering wheel. It was too dark by now to see but he’d have
bet a bundle her knuckles were white.
Whatever her age, she had a long way to go before she’d qualify for all those jokes that began, “There’s this little old lady driving down a highway…”
Forget that. He had an aunt who was eighty-five. Even she didn’t drive like this. Besides, he was long past being amused. What he was rapidly working up to was being scared spitless.
Not a good thing for a man who had never come up against anything he truly feared.
Until now.
Until this.
Alessia had managed to push the speed to a dazzling twenty miles an hour when the other cars were whipping by at one hundred. Okay, so that was an exaggeration. Maybe the others were doing ninety and she was doing half that. The point was, she was a road hazard.
Either she didn’t know it or she didn’t give a damn.
Cars zoomed up behind them, horns blasting. Swerved by them, and because the princess favored staying in the center lane, there was lots of opportunity for drivers passing on the right to put down their windows and scream the necessary invectives, complete with accompanying hand gestures.
And yes, it seemed as if the same one-fingered salute that worked in Manhattan worked equally well in Tuscany.
Alessia, oblivious, drove on.
Okay, Nick thought grimly, okay, there had to be something he could say. Or do. Carefully, searching for the right words, he cleared his throat.
“Ah, is something wrong with the car?” He waited a beat. “I mean, if that’s the reason you’re going so slow—”
“I am at the proper speed.”
“Yeah, well, actually, I don’t think you are.”
“Actually,” she said coldly, “I do not care what you think.”
So much for subtlety. “Actually,” Nick said, emphasizing the word, “I’m certain that you don’t. What I’m trying to tell you, politely, is that it’s a mistake not to keep up with traffic.”
“The mistake is that of the traffic.”
“The mistake is that of the traffic?”
“That is what I said. This is the proper speed for the hour and the road conditions.”
Nicolo: The Powerful Sicilian Page 4
