The Ice Prince

by Sandra Marton

  “Yeah. Well, remember that section on, ah, on sexual fantasies?”

  “Anna,” Isabella said carefully, “what’s going on?”

  “Wasn’t there something about, ah, about fantasizing sex with a stranger?”

  “A dark, dangerous stranger.”

  Anna put her fingers to her forehead, gave her temple a little rub.

  “Right. And—and wasn’t there something else about sex in public places? Where there was a risk of being caught?”

  “Anna,” Izzy said firmly, “what’s going on?”

  “Nothing. Nothing, I swear. I just—I just wanted to clarify something, is all.”

  “About risk? About sex with dangerous strangers? In public places? Hey, big sister, this is me, remember? What have you done?”

  “I told you, nothing. I, ah, I read a magazine article on the plane. It was about sex. Risky sex. Hey, it’s jet lag, you know? Makes you think strange things.”

  “Think them,” Izzy said firmly. “Don’t do them. I mean, you’re not contemplating sex in a public place with a dangerous stranger, are you?”

  Isabella lightened her question with a laugh. After a second, Anna laughed, too.

  “Not even I would do something so crazy,” she said, and then she said she had to run, that she’d phone when she had more time, kiss-kiss, talk to you soon …

  And ended the call.

  Silly to have called Isabella. The truth was, she’d intended to ask her if she’d ever wanted hot, fast sex with a stranger, and what would sweet Izzy know about sex, hot or otherwise?

  Anna sighed. Undressed. Headed into the ancient bathroom, stepped into a rust-stained tub, tried not to bang her skull on the showerhead and turned a squeaking handle that wheezed out a thin stream of lukewarm water.

  Forget the plane. The unintelligible files. Most of all, forget the man and what had happened. Correction. What had almost happened, because, thank goodness, she’d come to her senses in time.

  What she had to concentrate on was the forthcoming meeting. The farcical concept of a prince in this, the twenty-first century. On making it crystal clear that no one, not even a doddering old stooge with a pretend crown on his balding pate and, for all she knew, a roomful of lawyers, could steal her mother’s land and get away with it.

  It was a good plan.

  An excellent one.

  It might have taken Anna far had she not, seventy-five minutes later, rushed through the doors of an elegant building just off the Via Condotti and paused at a reception desk only long enough to tell a receptionist elegant enough to grace the elegant building that she had an appointment with Prince Draco Valenti.

  “And you are …?” the receptionist said, peering at Anna down her—what else could it have been?—Roman nose.

  “I,” Anna said, knowing it was time to marshal her resources, “I am counsel for Signore Cesare Orsini.”

  The receptionist nodded and reached for a telephone.

  “Fourth floor, take a right, end of the corridor.”

  The elevator was elegant, too.

  So was the man waiting for her. One man, not the legal team she’d anticipated. One man, standing at a window overlooking the street, his back to her.

  Even so, he gave an immediate impression of … what?

  Power, she thought. Power and strength, masculinity and youth. The tall, leanly muscled body evident within the stylish gray Armani suit; the broad shoulders; the long legs. He stood with those legs slightly apart; she could tell his arms were folded. His posture signaled irritation and arrogance.

  Strange. There was something familiar about him …

  Anna’s heart leaped into her throat. No, she thought, no!

  She made a sound, something between a choked gasp and a low moan. The man heard it.

  “I do not appreciate being kept waiting,” he said coldly as he swung toward her …

  “You,” Draco Valenti, il Principe Draco Marcellus Valenti of Rome and Sicily said, and the only good thing about this awful, terrible moment was that Anna knew the surprise and shock on his cold, classically beautiful face had to mirror hers.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  DRACO stared at the figure in the doorway.

  No. No! It was not possible!

  Lots of women had golden hair. Eyes the color of the Tyrrhenian Sea. A soft-looking, tender-pink mouth …

  Dio, who was he trying to fool?

  It was she. It was her. And what the hell did the intricacies of English grammar matter right now? He hadn’t worried about his command of English in years, not since he’d taken the small financial company he’d started on equal parts bluff, brains and balls and turned it into an empire.

  That a woman—that this woman—should turn his life so upside down proved that his brain was scrambled …

  And, yes, impossible or not, it was the same woman. No question, no doubt. The unforgettable face, the curvaceous body demurely hidden within a dressed-for-success suit, the long legs set off by nothing-demure-about-them stiletto heels …

  This was the woman he’d almost initiated into the Mile High club. Although initiated might be the wrong word. The way she’d come awake in his arms, the way she’d responded to his kisses …

  For all he knew, she was a charter member.

  Or wasn’t.

  She’d gone from hot to cold in the blink of an eye, and—

  And who cared about that?

  What was she doing here? She could be in Rome, yes. But she most assuredly could not be Cesare Orsini’s rep resentative.

  Had she come looking for him? Maybe she hadn’t been able to forget what had happened and now she wanted to finish that long, exciting slide into sexual oblivion …

  Forget that.

  His receptionist had buzzed him. Cesare Orsini’s representative is here, sir, she’d said. And his receptionist had been with him a long time. No one could get past her without proper ID. So this had to be—it had to be—

  The woman stopped in the doorway, face white.

  “Ohmygod,” she said. “Ohmygod!”

  Draco’s last, faint hope that this was a mistake vanished.

  “You?” The woman reached for the doorjamb, curved her hand around it as if that might keep her from fainting. Her voice rose an octave. “You’re Draco Valenti?”

  Draco took a deep breath. “And you are …?”

  She laughed, but it was not a real laugh. It was the kind of sound someone might make when what was really called for was an anguished wail of despair.

  “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.”