“What conditions? The weather’s fine. The road’s smooth and straight. Traffic’s moving the way it should except for—”
“I am driving, Mr. Orsini. Not you.”
Mr. Orsini. She was even more angry than before; he’d already figured out that her mood dictated whether he was “mister” or “signore.”
“Yes. You are. But—”
A big truck flew past them, so close he could have reached out and touched it. Nick found himself trying to jam his right foot through the floor again.
“Listen, princess—”
“This is my car. My country. I know how fast I must go. And I would prefer it if you would not address me that way.”
“As princess?” Nick frowned at her. “It’s what you are, isn’t it?”
“Not really. The Italian monarchy ceased to exist in 1946 so, to be accurate, titles have no meaning here anymore. They are a relic, a remnant, a—”
Beeeep! Beep beep beeeep!
“Merda,” Nick shouted. “That car almost—”
“The driver is going too fast.”
“He is not going too fast!” Nick hunkered down in his seat and folded his arms over his chest. “I’d love to meet whoever taught you to drive,” he muttered.
Alessia glanced at him, then back at the road.
Perhaps that was the problem, she thought nervously.
No one had taught her to drive. Not the way he meant. Of course, she wasn’t going to tell him that. He was angry enough already, though why he should be was beyond her. She was driving carefully. Safely. It was how she always drove. Was it her fault that Italian drivers treated speed as a national pastime?
Besides, the truth about how she had learned to drive was too humiliating. No one need know she had only accomplished that feat a couple of years ago, that until then, her father’s wishes had ruled her life.
This tough American gangster could not possibly understand what it was like to grow up the child of a father more interested in his own pleasures than in his family.
At sixteen, when she had asked to take driving lessons, her father had said driving a car was inappropriate for her status. At eighteen, away at a demure college in Rome, there had been no reason to learn to drive, not when public transportation was readily available. Besides, it was easier not to argue.
At twenty, she received her useless degree and took the slip of paper with her on a visit to her mother at the sanatorio. Her mother was having one of her lucid days. She looked at the heavily engraved bit of nonsense, looked at Alessia and said, “Do something with your life, mia bambina. Do not let him crush the spirit within you.”
There was no question who that “him” was.
It was an epiphany. Alessia had returned home, packed, moved out. She took an apartment in Rome with three other girls. Her father was furious. How dare she disobey him?
He cut off her allowance.
She went to work as a waitress. It was all her expensive education had prepared her for, aside from marrying a rich man, which was, naturally, what her father had hoped she would do.
One morning, she awoke thinking that it was pitiful to be living on her own and still not know how to drive. So she convinced one of her flatmates who owned an ancient Fiat to take her outside the city and let her get behind the wheel.
It had been a harrowing day—her friend had babbled prayers throughout—but when it was over, Alessia could drive. More or less. She’d managed to pass her licensing exam but she’d never learned to enjoy driving or to feel comfortable in heavy traffic.
And having a stranger seated beside her didn’t help, especially when that stranger was Nicolo Orsini.
How could one man seem to fill the car with his presence, his irritation, his masculinity?
If only she had taken her father’s car and driver to the airport to meet Orsini. Her father had urged her to, which was precisely why she had not done it. It was her own fault that she was trapped in what had suddenly become a too-small vehicle on a too-busy road with a too-macho male breathing fire beside her…
“Figlio di puttana!”
Nicolo Orsini’s cry was almost as loud as the blast from the horn of a huge truck in the next lane. How had the Mercedes drifted so close to it? Alessia gave a shrill shriek; Nicolo leaned in, slapped his hands over hers and steered the car back into the proper lane. She knew the entire incident could not have taken more than a second to play out but in that second, she saw her life flash before her.
“That’s it,” the American roared. “Pull onto the shoulder.”
Yes, she thought, yes, pull over, pull over, pull—
Nick wrested full control of the Mercedes from her. They veered into the right-hand lane, then bounced onto the narrow shoulder, accompanied by a frenzied chorus of horns.
“The brake,” he yelled, and, thank God, she responded. The car shuddered to a stop and he shut off the engine.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then Nick let go of the steering wheel. Alessia’s hands dropped into her lap. Silence settled over the vehicle, broken only by the tick tick tick of the cooling engine.
Nick could feel his pulse tick-tick-ticking, too. He waited, fought for composure. Still, when he finally spoke, his voice was a hoarse croak.
“Get out of the car, Alessia.”
She looked at him. “I beg your—”
“Do as I say! Get out of the damned car!”
Do as he said? She bristled. “I do not take orders from anyone!”
Nick let fly with a string of Sicilian obscenities he hadn’t used or even thought of since he was a kid. He flung open his door, stalked around the automobile, yanked open her door, all but tore open her seat belt and physically lifted her from the car.
“What do you think you are doing?” Her voice rose; she wiggled like an eel, struck out at him with tightly balled fists. “Damn you, Nicolo Orsini! You have no right—”
“You almost got us killed.”
“I did nothing of the sort. That truck driver—”
“The truck driver is probably heading for a place where he can change his underwear.”
“You are not only rude, you are crude!”
“At least I’m not a danger to every poor soul who gets within a hundred miles of me!”
Alessia wanted to weep. He was right. She was terrified, horrified, appalled by what had almost happened but why would she admit that to such a man as this?
“Let go of me,” she said sharply.
“Try that imperious tone on someone you haven’t tried to kill. Now, get into the passenger seat and behave yourself!”
“I do not take orders! I am not…Mr. Orsini! Signore!” Alessia’s voice climbed as Nick lifted her off her feet and slung her over his shoulder. Tears of rage rose in her eyes; she knotted her hands into fists and beat at his shoulders and back as he strode around the car. “You cannot do this!”
“Watch me,” he said grimly, depositing her on her feet and reaching for the door.
“Bastardo,” she hissed. “Siete come tutti i uomini! You are the same as all men! You think women are incapable of taking care of themselves, that they need men to think for them—”
Enough, Nick thought, and he hauled Alessia to her toes and kissed her.
She gasped. Struggled. Fought him.
He went on kissing her.
And wondered, with almost clinical interest, why he was doing it.
Kissing her made no sense. A man kissed a woman because he liked her. Wanted her. Desired her and, God knew, he didn’t like or want or desire the slippery-as-an-eel creature in his arms. Was he kissing her because he was angry? Hell, no. He had never kissed a woman out of anger. He didn’t understand why a man would. Kissing wasn’t about rage, it was about taste and texture….
And then Alessia stopped struggling and he stopped thinking and the kiss turned into something hot and raw and primitive, and she went up on her toes and thrust her hands into his hair and he groaned, slid his hands under her jac
ket, under her blouse, felt the silky warmth of her skin and she said something against his mouth and he slid the tip of his tongue between her lips and…
A horn bleated.
A male voice yelled something into the night. Nick didn’t understand the words, his Italian wasn’t good enough for that, but he didn’t have to be a linguist to figure it out.
His hands clasped her shoulders.
He lifted his head.
A shudder went through him.
He was standing by the side of a busy road holding a woman he didn’t know and didn’t like in his arms, maybe a heartbeat away from shoving her against the side of the car, pushing up her skirt, tearing off her panties and burying himself inside her.
Holy hell, he thought, and Alessia opened her eyes and stared at him, her expression blank.
“Easy,” he said, and knew as soon as he said it that the word was inadequate.
The blank look on her face gave way to shock and then horror. She said something under her breath. His Italian wasn’t good enough for him to understand that, either, but once again, he got the gist.
“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what—”
She slapped him. Hard. His head jerked back at the force of the blow.
“Okay,” he said, “if that made you feel bet—”
She slapped him again, or she would have, but he saw it coming and wrapped his hand around her wrist.
“That’s enough,” he said in a warning voice.
“You—you bastard! You pig! You—you brute!”
As obscenities went, he’d heard far worse. But that wasn’t the point. He’d initiated the kiss, yes, but she’d been into it, all the way.
“Calm down, princess.”
“Calm down? After what you did?”
Nick narrowed his eyes. “What I did,” he said coldly, “was save us from being turned into roadkill.”
“I am not talking about that. I am talking about that—that disgusting display of macho!” Eyes flashing, she jerked her hand free of his. “Who do you think you are?”
It was the most weary, clichéd line imaginable but it stung because he knew damned well what she meant by it. Nick moved closer, gratified to see her take a couple of quick steps back until she was pressed against the car.
“You know who I am, baby. I’m the man who’s gonna save your daddy’s royal ass, assuming you treat me right.”
She recoiled. Hell, who could blame her? What kind of drivel was he spewing? And had a woman ever made him this angry before? He wanted to grab her and shake her.
Or grab her and kiss her again and again and again until she forgot who she was and who she was convinced he was, until she dragged his face down to hers and kissed him and kissed him…
Nick thought twice, stepped back, cleared his throat.
“Get in the car.”
He could see her considering things. What in hell was there to consider? She couldn’t drive worth a damn.
“Did you hear me, princess? Get in the car.”
She stared up at him. What now? Her eyes were blurry with angry tears. As he’d already noted, her obviously expensive outfit was a mess. And somewhere along the way, maybe when he’d thrown her over his shoulder, she’d lost a shoe.
Still, she was beautiful.
Beautiful and vulnerable, and why he should notice or care was beyond him to comprehend.
He jerked his head toward the open passenger door. She lifted her chin in defiant acquiescence, in a way that made him want to laugh. He didn’t; he wasn’t that much of a fool. Instead, he slammed the door after her, went around the car—and yeah, there was her shoe, lying in the grass. He picked it up, tossed it in the backseat where it joined his carry-on bag and got behind the wheel.
Seconds later, they were on the highway, this time as part of the traffic flow.
They said nothing for the next hour. Then Alessia spoke.
“The sign for the vineyard is just ahead. You will turn to the right.”
The headlights picked out a small wooden plaque. It said Antoninni in gilt letters; below it was a coat of arms. A griffin or maybe a lion, a shield and a sword. Nick’s mouth twisted. What would the Orsini coat of arms be? A pistol, a dagger and a stack of money?
The turn opened onto a long, straight driveway, if you could call a half-mile-long road lined by poplars a driveway. Nick could see a shape on a rise ahead. It was a villa, big, imposing and graceful.
“You may park in front.”
“How nice of you to say so.”
Hell, he thought, what was that all about? She’d simply told him what he needed to know. Whose fault was it if the words sounded like a command?
He pulled in front of a set of wide marble steps. By the time he stepped from the car, Alessia was halfway up those steps, limping because she was wearing only the one shoe. Nick reached in back, collected his carry-on bag and the other shoe, then trotted up the stairs. Massive double doors opened, revealing bright light and a guy dressed like something out of a period movie.
“This is Joseph,” Alessia said coolly. “He will show you to your rooms.”
She tossed the words over her shoulder, the royal once again addressing the peasant. Nick smiled thinly.
“Princess?”
She turned and looked down her nose at him. Still smiling, he tossed her the shoe.
“You wouldn’t want to go around half-naked,” he said. “I mean, that was okay while you and I were alone, but—”
Her face filled with color. She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut, spun away from him and vanished down a long hallway. Joseph, to his credit, showed no change in expression.
“This way, please, signore,” he said, reaching for Nick’s bag.
“I’ll carry my own bag, thanks.”
A stupid, petty victory but a victory, nonetheless.
They climbed a long marble staircase to the second floor. The place was like a museum. High ceilings. Gilded cherubs. Paintings of shifty-eyed, long-faced ancestors peering from the walls.
Not a museum, Nick thought grimly. Museums had more warmth than this.
Joseph led him to a suite. Sitting room, bedroom, bathroom. Did the signore wish to have his bag unpacked? Nick said he didn’t. Did he want something to eat? Nick almost said he didn’t, strictly out of perversity, but then common sense took over and he said yes, a sandwich and some coffee would be fine.
Joseph bowed his way out. Nick closed the door, peeled off his suit jacket, his tie, undid a couple of buttons on his shirt, rolled up his sleeves and fell back on the bed, which was about half the size of a banquet hall. He folded his arms beneath his head and stared up at the ceiling, where it was vaguely possible a shepherd and shepherdess were about to do something they shouldn’t.
The villa was obviously very, very old. And very, very expensive. Was he supposed to be impressed? His triplex in New York was probably just as big and even if it wasn’t filled with antiques, even if it had been built within the last twenty or so years, it was probably equal the cost to this, given the price of Manhattan real estate.
Nick snorted.
What was the matter with him?
He didn’t give a damn about things like that.
He’d spent weekends at palatial estates in the Hamptons, others at one-room cabins in the Adirondacks, and he’d never thought of one as better than the other.
He sat up, unbuttoned his shirt, tossed it over the back of a chair and headed for the bathroom. What he needed was a long, hot shower, that sandwich and then a night’s sleep.
Wrong.
The shower felt great. The butler delivered a well-laden tray, not only a sandwich and coffee, but also a small salad, some cheese, fruit and crackers. The bed was comfortable. But at 2:00 a.m., Nick was still awake, standing outside on the small Juliet balcony despite the chill in the night air, staring out at a moonlit garden.
Something had awakened him….
There. A figure. A woman, wearing something long
and filmy, her hair a pale spill of gold down her back, walking slowly along one of the garden paths.
Alessia.
Nick didn’t think. He pulled on a pair of jeans. Shirtless, barefoot, he let himself out of his suite, went down the stairs, through the silent house to a back door and stepped out into the garden and the night. He reached her in seconds, cupped her shoulders and turned her toward him. She looked surprised but not afraid. If anything, she looked—she looked—
“Signore.”
“My name is Nick,” he said, his voice low.
God, she was beautiful. Exquisite. A fairy-tale princess come to life.
She hesitated. Say my name, he thought, as if it were a battle to be won. After a second’s hesitation, she took a deep breath.
“Nicolo. What are you doing out here?”
“I couldn’t sleep. Obviously, neither could you.”
“Sì. I—I keep thinking about what happened before. On the road.”
“Yeah. So do I.”
“È colpa mia,” she whispered. “It was my fault. I—I do not drive very well.”
Another time, he would have laughed. It was the understatement of the year.
“No. You don’t.” He reached out, tucked a strand of gold behind her ear. “But I wasn’t talking about your driving.” He cupped her face in his hands, lifted it to his. “I’m talking about that kiss.”
Even in the moonlight, he could see the delicate rise of color in her face.
“I do not wish to discuss it.”
No. Why would she? She didn’t like what he was. He didn’t like what she was. It was not an auspicious start for anything, not even a business deal.
And she was right. He didn’t want to discuss it, either. Instead, he drew her into his arms, kissed her more and more deeply until she was clinging to him.
Then he let go of her, turned his back and walked away.
CHAPTER FIVE
NICK was an early riser.
You had to be, in the Marine Corps, and the habit stuck even after he’d returned to civilian life, though by now it was more a preference than a habit. There was something restful about early morning silence, especially in Manhattan; a run through Central Park before it was flooded with tourists, before the surrounding streets were jammed with traffic…
Nicolo: The Powerful Sicilian Page 5
