Nicolo: The Powerful Sicilian

by Sandra Marton

  Besides, he wasn’t a male chauvinist. He was all in favor of women having the same rights as men, in sex and in everything else.

  Except, suppose she was on the pill because she already had a lover. Then what? Was he sharing her with a man who had the right to touch her as intimately as he had, to explore her body’s dark, sweet secrets?

  Last night, she’d cried out his name.

  Was there some other name she had cried out last week—and would cry out again, once he was gone?

  He couldn’t imagine that. She was not a woman who would go from one man to another. And despite her responsiveness, despite her being sophisticated enough to keep herself protected against an unplanned pregnancy, her reactions to what happened between them in bed were, for lack of a better word, innocent.

  Her sighs. Her moans. They spoke not of knowledge but of wonder.

  The first time he’d put his mouth between her thighs, she’d been shocked. No, she’d said, no! Not in fear. In stunned amazement that he would do such a thing. But he’d gone on kissing her, tasting her, and her shock had given way to ecstasy and she’d sobbed his name, come apart as he licked her….

  Hell.

  If he kept this up, he was going to turn her toward him, strip off her clothes, make love to her right here, on this hilltop….

  “Nicolo?”

  Nick cleared his throat. “Yes, sweetheart?”

  “Would it be terrible of me to ask you…to ask you to take me back to the villa?”

  His heart leaped. “If that’s what you want—”

  “What I want,” she said in a low voice, “what I want, Nicolo, is you.”

  Her honesty made her blush. That, coupled with what he saw in her eyes, was almost his undoing. He rose, brought her up beside him, took her in his arms and kissed her. Then he took her back to the villa, to the bed, their bed, and as she sighed his name and welcomed him into her warmth, all his doubts vanished.

  She belonged to him.

  Only to him.

  She fell asleep in his arms.

  Nick lay holding her, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. The sun was sinking behind the hills, casting long shadows over the room. The day was ending and, damn, he hated to see it happen. Soon, it would be time to leave here and return to the Antoninni villa. To reality.

  Alessia stirred, sighed in her sleep and cuddled closer. His arms tightened around her. When she awoke, he’d tell her he’d made some decisions.

  He would lend her father the money to restore the winery and the vineyard to their glory days, free of restrictions. He would not demand control of it. He’d said that in anger that was long gone.

  And he wouldn’t remain here for two weeks. It was an impossibility. He’d really known it when he’d said it but, again, anger had overrun common sense. He had commitments in New York. Meetings. Clients. There was no way to ignore any of it.

  So, no, he wouldn’t stay….

  But he’d come back.

  He’d make that very clear to her. Not next weekend—now that he thought about it, he had a trip to Chicago scheduled. And not the weekend after. There was something in his calendar about an appointment in Beijing. But he’d come back….

  The muscle in his jaw knotted.

  Planning ahead put a different spin on things. It made things complicated. Made them more serious.

  And as much as he—as he liked Alessia, this wasn’t serious. Intense, sure. But serious…?

  Nick frowned. Why think about that now? He was here and so was she, lying warm and soft against him. Her hair smelled of sunshine, her skin of a perfume all her own.

  His body hardened.

  He wanted her again.

  He drew her nearer, brushed his mouth lightly over hers, and she stirred.

  “Mmm,” she sighed.

  “Mmm, indeed,” he whispered and when she opened her eyes and smiled, he gave up thinking altogether and lost himself in her arms again.

  Hours went by.

  They slept. Showered. Had espresso on a broad terrace overlooking the olive groves and by then, it was too late to go back to the Antoninni winery.

  And, really, what was the rush?

  Nick had figured on flying back to New York tomorrow morning, but he could just as easily leave in the afternoon. No way was he going to risk spending hours stuck at an airport this time and since the Orsini plane was in use by one of his brothers—he’d phoned and checked—he’d be using a chartered flight. One of the advantages of renting a private plane was that it flew at your convenience, not that of others.

  He made a quick call to the Realtor and arranged to keep the villa for another night.

  The cook produced a meal as good as any in a five-star restaurant. Soup. Salad. Pasta. Fish. A chocolate gelato that made Alessia lick her lips in a way that meant Nick just had to taste the rich ice cream, but on her tongue, not his. The butler produced a bottle of red wine; apparently, the guy recognized la principessa as a representative of the famous Antoninni Vineyards and solemnly handed her the cork. Equally solemnly, she sniffed it, then sniffed the scant inch of wine he poured, tasted it, savored it, thought about it…

  And burst out laughing at the look on Nick’s face, which changed her from wine snob into gorgeous woman in a heartbeat, and made him lean across the candlelit table to steal a wine-flavored kiss and to hell with the butler watching.

  “Tell me about New York,” she said, over espresso.

  “Haven’t you ever been there?”

  “Oh, yes. Many times.” She looked at him and smiled. “I want you to tell me about your New York. The places that are special to you.”

  Nick obliged.

  He told her about a museum called the Cloisters, in upper Manhattan. The narrow streets of Soho, at the other end of the island. The saloon he and his brothers had bought there, years back, to keep it from being turned into a cocktail lounge.

  That had made her laugh. “You said ‘cocktail lounge’ as if it were a curse.”

  “Turning an honest-to-God bar into a place where people order drinks you have to make with a blender is a curse,” he said, and this time it was Alessia who leaned across the table and stole a kiss.

  “I would love to see the New York you have described.”

  Nick didn’t have to think about it. He reached for her hand, ran his thumb lightly over her fingers. “I want you to see it.”

  She smiled. “I would like that, Nicolo.”

  He would like it, too—and here they were, back at the same logistics problem he’d been thinking about a couple of hours ago. Okay. He’d have to work something out. Make plans, fairly long-range plans, to keep the relationship going…

  Hell. Was that what it was? A relationship?

  Well, no.

  It was an affair. And yeah, there was a difference…

  “…a big family.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “This morning, you said two sisters. And now you talk of your brothers. A big family. That is nice.”

  Amazing. He’d told her more personal stuff in a handful of hours than he’d ever told another woman no matter how long they’d been involved.

  Nick swallowed hard. Involved?

  “How many brothers do you have?”

  “Three.” Her look of astonishment lightened the mood. He laughed, touched his index finger to the tip of her nose. “Hey, we’re Siciliano. What can I say?”

  Her smile wavered. “Of course.”

  Nick cocked his head. “Meaning?”

  “Nothing.” She looked down at her glass, as if her interest had suddenly been captured by the wine. “It is only that—that I had almost forgotten who—who—”

  “Who I am,” he said with cool belligerence. So much for personal stuff. “Right. Not just a Sicilian. A Sicilian named Orsini.”

  Alessia shook her head. She raised her eyes to his and he saw that she was blinking back tears. So, what? All that had happened between them meant nothing when you got down to basics. It was the princess
and the peasant again, right where they’d started.

  “No,” she said in an unsteady whisper. “Nicolo, you cannot be—you cannot possibly be—”

  A crook. A thug. A member of la famiglia. Right. He was none of those things. Now was the time to tell her what a less pigheaded man would have told her from the beginning. That he was an investor. A financial analyst. That he was as legitimate as Mother Teresa—okay, maybe not quite as legitimate as that, but he could surely tell her he was an honest guy who’d worked hard for what he had, that he’d turned his back on his father and everything he represented before he’d been old enough to vote…

  Instead, some terrible streak of Sicilian perversity drove him on.

  “What if I can be?” he said tonelessly. “What if told you that I am exactly the man you think I am? What would you do then?”

  Alessia stared at him for an endless moment. He waited and wondered why he should be waiting, and then the tears she’d tried to stem spilled down her cheeks.

  “I would say, it does not matter,” she said brokenly. “I might go straight to hell for it, Nicolo, but I would say, ‘It does not matter what you are.’ You are mio amante, you are my lover, and I want you, I want you, I want—”

  A heartbeat later, she was in Nick’s arms. And as he kissed her, he realized there was no way in the world he would fly back to New York tomorrow.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  WHEN she was a little girl, Alessia had been taught by a seemingly endless procession of tutors and nannies.

  At first, with a small child’s belief in the infallibility of adults, she’d believed that each of them knew everything there was to know about the world.

  A stern-faced woman named Signorina Felini taught her otherwise.

  Signorina Felini had been hired specifically for her supposed expertise in science. Almost from the start, things went badly.

  When she could not explain why the moon was sometimes full and sometimes barely a sliver, Alessia went to the villa’s huge library, found a book on astronomy and, with a little diligent research, found the answer. The signorina was not pleased, nor was she pleased when Alessia corrected her version of why there were different seasons in the year.

  The end came when Alessia asked what would it would be like if an astronaut fell into the sun.

  “Such a thing is impossible,” said Signorina Felini brusquely.

  “You mean, he’d burn up before he reached it?” Alessia asked.

  Her teacher frowned. “The sun is up there. All else is down here. That is why no one could possibly fall into it.”

  Alessia’s mother happened to overhear the conversation. Nella Antoninni knew little about the sun and the sky but she knew enough to put an end to the signorina’s employment. A new tutor with a provable degree in earth sciences took her place.

  One night, after Alessia and Nicolo had been together for almost two weeks, she awoke to his kisses on the nape of her neck, the sexy stroke of his fingers on her nipples. And just before she lost herself in passion she suddenly thought, This is how it would be to fall into the sun.

  Flame. Heat. Knowing that you were burning up and not caring, never caring because soon you would be reborn…

  Except, she thought the next day, as she put her foot into the palm of her lover’s hand and let him help her into the saddle of the mare she’d taken to riding, except she had already been reborn.

  She was Nicolo’s lover. And he was hers.

  Her lover. And—and her love.

  The realization swept through her, left her breathless. She clung to the mare’s reins, watching as Nicolo swung onto the back of a black stallion, her eyes, her very soul, taking in his beauty, his grace, his power, his air of command. He was sexy and gorgeous, a man any woman would want….

  But love wasn’t possible. That couldn’t be what she felt. Love didn’t come this quickly, not unless it happened in fairy tales and this was the real world, not a fairy tale. She couldn’t love him. She was confusing love with passion. With desire. And yes, she desired him all the time. His arms around her. His mouth on her. His hands exploring her. His body, possessing hers…

  “Alessia.” Nicolo’s voice was low. Rough. His eyes were hot as he watched her. “What are you thinking?”

  Her heart was a swollen balloon, about to burst. She was sure he knew precisely what she was thinking. All she had to do was whisper her answer.

  You, she would say, as she had so many times the past days, and he would get down from his horse, hold up his arms and she would go into them and he would take her to the villa and even before their bedroom door closed, they’d be undressing each other, touching each other and perhaps this time, this time as he entered her he would say, Alessia, my Alessia…

  “Principessa? Signore? Scusi, per favore…il principe—vostro padre—lui è qui!”

  The maid who’d come after them was breathless with excitement. It was, evidently, one thing to deal with a princess—but a prince, the Prince Antoninni…

  Alessia all but groaned. Her father was here. He would spoil her happiness. He would demand something, anything, and despite the fact that she was an adult, that she was here with her lover, she felt her heart start to plummet.

  “Sweetheart?” She blinked. Nicolo stood beside the mare, arms raised, not to carry her to bed but to a confrontation with her father.

  “Baby,” he said softly, “come to me.” And she all but tumbled into his outstretched arms.

  Her safe haven, she thought in wonder. Her safe, warm haven against the world.

  The visit didn’t last long.

  Nick wasn’t very surprised. Though he had never before met the prince, he’d formed an opinion of him and it wasn’t complimentary.

  Antoninni’s daughter was virtually living with a stranger. Yes, she was old enough to make her own choices. Still, if a man’s daughter became involved with a stranger, wouldn’t he want to have a conversation with that stranger, face-to-face? Wouldn’t he be interested in getting a feel for his daughter’s lover?

  Logically, the answer was “no.” Nick couldn’t recall ever meeting any of his mistress’s fathers. Still, this was Italy. This was Tuscany. It was a place still caught in the cultural trappings of an earlier time.

  And then there was the fact that Antoninni had gone to an acknowledged crime boss for a loan. That, the same as Alessia, he probably assumed that Nicolo, by virtue of being Cesare’s son, was a thug, too.

  Add it all up and that changed things, didn’t it?

  The simple answer was that it didn’t.

  Nick had expected…what? At the very worst, a demand as to what his intentions were. He had no answer to that but the question would have been valid. A father had the right to ask such a thing. At the very least, he’d figured on a thinly veiled warning that he was to treat Alessia as she deserved or there would be consequences.

  Wrong on both counts, Nick thought as the prince’s chauffeured limousine drove off.

  The prince had greeted him with a handshake, Alessia with a cursory nod. He’d thanked Nick for the ten million euros that had been credited to his bank account, referring to it only obliquely, calling it “your investment.”

  Then he’d commented on a variety of things.

  The weather. “I hope it will remain dry and pleasant throughout your visit, Signore Orsini.”

  The red Ferrari parked outside. “An excellent choice in automobiles, I must say. Though you must someday try a Lamborghini.”

  The villa. “A magnificent place, Signore Orsini!”

  Done with small talk, he’d glanced at his watch, said he had another engagement and that he hoped to see Nick again before he left for New York. Another handshake, and Antoninni had turned to the door.

  Nick, who’d stood all through the visit with his arm possessively curved around Alessia’s waist, felt her stiffen.

  “Father,” she said. “How is Mother?”

  The prince didn’t bother looking back. “Your mother is fine,” h
e said coolly.

  Then he was gone.

  Nick had grown up in a home in which conversations often didn’t mean what they seemed to mean. Once they were alone, he turned Alessia toward him. The expression on her face damned near stopped his heart.

  “Sweetheart? What is it?”

  She shook her head.

  “Tell me.” Nick put his hand under her chin, gently raised her face so her eyes met his. “What did you mean when you asked him about your mother? Is she ill?”

  Alessia hesitated. Could she tell him the truth? That her mother had lived most of the last two decades in an institution? She never talked of it to anyone, not out of shame or embarrassment but because of the way people reacted. “Sweetheart?”

  But this was not “anyone.” This was Nicolo, and she took a deep, deep breath.

  “My mother is in a hospital. A—a place for those who are—who are mentally ill.”

  Yes, this was Nicolo. Still, she prepared herself for what she thought of as the “oh, how awful” reaction, the elevated eyebrows of shock, the tsk-tsk of pity. It always made her feel not just helpless but angry.

  It was the pity she could not stand.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” he said softly. “That must be rough.”

  Alessia looked at her lover. There was compassion in his face and in his words. Not pity. Not disgust. She felt her heart lift.

  “You must miss her terribly.”

  She nodded. “Sì. I do.”

  Nicolo drew her close in his arms. “What can I do to make things better, sweetheart? Would you like to visit her? I’ll take you to wherever she is. If you let me, if she’s up to it, I’d like to meet her.”

  That was the moment Alessia knew, without any doubt at all, that she had fallen in love, deeply in love, with the man whose arms enclosed her.

  It was a two-hour drive to the sanitarium.

  She couldn’t believe Nicolo had offered to do it or that she’d accepted, she knew only that for the first time since her mother had been placed in the institution, walking through the doors and into the brightly lit, overly cheerful reception area didn’t send tremors of anxiety through her. She never knew what to expect. Mama might be cheerful today; she might be despairing. She might not even acknowledge Alessia’s presence, but no matter.