There had to be a way around the Orsini problem.
Valenti Investments could not, must not, go under. He could live through the financial loss—hell, life was, at best, an uphill battle—but to tarnish the Valenti name …
He could not bear the thought of that happening again.
He turned from the window.
There was a solution, and he would find it, but not by concentrating on it. He would, instead, do what he always did at moments of stress. He would think about anything but the problem at hand. He would think logically. Rid his thoughts of emotion.
Draco rang the intercom. His PA answered.
“I have some letters to dictate,” he said.
But, damnit, Anna Orsini would not stay in the mental file drawer in which he’d placed her. She kept appearing in his mind, front and center.
Ridiculous, because she was not really the problem. Her father was.
Then why did he keep seeing her face, that sleepy, sexy look in her eyes when she’d lain in his arms last night?
Why did he keep remembering the way she dressed, the conservative suit, the do-me stilettos?
What did she have on under that suit? Was it the equivalent of banker’s gray? Or was it silk and lace, as sexy as the shoes?
“Sir?” his PA said.
Draco blinked.
“Sorry,” he said briskly. “Uh, where was I?”
“The Tolland merger,” his PA said, and Draco nodded and picked up where he’d left off in his dictation.
Five minutes later, he gave up.
“That’s all for now, Sylvana,” he said.
His PA left the room. Draco rose to his feet, grabbed his suit coat and went to lunch. He followed that with a long, hard workout at his gym.
He still had not come up with a way to handle the Orsini situation.
Worse, Anna Orsini was still in his head.
At five, he called for his car.
“Where to, sir?” his driver said.
Draco thought of the various answers he could give.
He could go out to dinner. He had no reservations anywhere, but that would not matter. There was not a ristorante in Rome that would not give him its best table if he showed up at the door.
He could take out his BlackBerry, phone one of a dozen beautiful women. There wasn’t one in Rome who would deny him anything he might ask of her, even at the last minute.
That made him think of his mistress, waiting for him in Hawaii.
Cristo, he had not thought of her once the entire day.
“Take me home,” he told his driver, and while the big car made its way through the crushing end-of-day traffic, Draco put through a call to her.
“Hello?” she said in a sleepy voice.
What time was it in Hawaii, anyway? No way was he going to ask.
“It’s me,” he said. “How are you?”
“Draco,” she said. He could picture the look on her face. Sultry, sexy, pouty. “I thought you’d forgotten me.”
Draco rubbed his temple with his free hand.
“How did you spend your day?” he said, because he knew he had to say something.
She laughed.
“I spent it shopping, darling. Well, window-shopping. I have a whole bunch of gorgeous things picked out for you to buy me when you get back.”
Draco closed his eyes and imagined the hours she’d expect him to spend in a dozen different boutiques.
“When will you be back, Draco?” Her voice turned husky. “I miss you.”
The truth was she missed the status that came of being seen with him. The knowledge that he would buy her whatever she’d shopped for today. She missed his title, his status, his money.
And, yes, his looks, and his expertise in bed.
It would be foolish to deny that women liked both.
“Darling? When will you be back?”
He wouldn’t be.
The realization was sudden, and so was its full meaning.
Draco cleared his throat.
“Something’s come up,” he said. “So, ah, so here’s what I suggest. Stay on a few more days. Do some shopping—tell the shops to phone my office and they’ll okay the charges. Take your time. Enjoy yourself. When we’re both back on the coast, I’ll give you a call.”
Silence. Then she said, “And when, exactly, will that be?”
Her tone was cool. She was not a stupid woman, not when it came to men and the ways of the world. Their two-month relationship was over; Draco had not even realized it until this minute.
“I don’t know,” he said with brutal honesty. “But I do know that I wish you only the best.”
He disconnected, put his BlackBerry in his pocket as the car pulled through the gates that led to his villa.
He had not planned on ending things just now. Soon, yes. But why now?
An image flashed into his mind.
Anna Orsini.
Naked this time, her golden hair loose on his pillows, her arms raised to him …
“Signore?”
The car had stopped at the foot of the steps to the villa. His driver stood beside the open rear door. Draco climbed out, told him he was free for the rest of the evening, went into the house and told his housekeeper the same thing.
She had left a salad for him. He ate it, had a cold beer and went to his rooms, where he undressed and stepped into the big steam shower.
Maybe the hot water would work the tension from his shoulders and neck.
Maybe it would wash away the image of Anna, naked, hot and silken under the stroke of his hand.
Draco cursed, stepped from the shower, wrapped a towel around his hips.
She had accused him of playing her, but he was the one being played!
An entire day wasted. And for what? He had money. Power. He could take on the entire Orsini famiglia and break it.
Why had he been so civilized when she showed up at his office? He should have told her to get the hell out. Of his office, of his life, of Rome.
And that exit she’d made. Gloating. Egotistical. As if she were the royal and he was the commoner—and wasn’t it pathetic she had him thinking such crap?
Anna Orsini needed to be put in her place. Reminded that she was a woman, not consigliere to a gangster.
And he could have reminded her. In the most basic way possible. Gone after her, slapped his hand on the door to keep her from opening it. Locked the damned thing, then finished what had begun somewhere high over the Atlantic, because that was what this was all about, not land, not her father, not anything but a man and a woman and frustrated desire.
He could see her in his mind’s eye, stripped to her soft skin, that mass of golden hair unbound, drifting over her shoulders, over her breasts. He’d put his mouth to the pebbled tips, his hand between her thighs, his fingers searching out her hot, wet heat because she would be hot and wet, eager, Dio, hungry for him, only for him.
Draco’s instant erection pushed hard against the towel draped around his hips. He said a word that came straight from the schoolyard of his childhood, but the urgency that accompanied it was solely that of a man.
Basta! Enough.
He had met Anna Orsini only last night, but she had already turned his life upside down. He could think about nothing but her.
And he had let her do this to him. He had permitted it.
Quickly, he tossed the towel aside, pulled on boxers, a pair of age-softened jeans, a black T-shirt, a pair of mocs.
His wallet, with her business card in it, was on a small table near the front door, where he’d left it. He yanked the card out and looked at it. He had never heard of her hotel, but he knew the location.
It would take him half an hour to get there.
He could have phoned her, but that wouldn’t be half as satisfying as confronting her.
Do your worst, he’d say. Go to the media. Spread whatever story you like, write it across the sky.
He would withstand the ugly publicity. Hell, he’d turn it in his favor. A h
oodlum and his daughter, threatening Prince Draco Valenti?
Draco gave an ugly laugh.
He had money. Power. Far more of both than Cesare Orsini could ever hope to have. And he would use them both.
By the time he was done with the old man and his daughter, they would wish to God they’d never even heard of him.
There were three cars, and the keys to them, in his garage. The big Maserati limo, a red Lamborghini and a black Ferrari. He got behind the wheel of the Ferrari.
The car was fast and powerful and it suited the rage boiling within him.
He made the drive in fifteen minutes, his foot to the floor, cutting off whatever vehicle was in his way, ignoring the bleat of horns and raised fingers of the drivers he sped past.
The car’s tires squealed as he brought it to a stop in the hotel’s driveway. A uniformed doorman approached, hand raised, to tell him he couldn’t park there. Draco tossed him a hundred-euro note and moved quickly through the front door.
The desk clerk looked up at his approach.
“May I help you,” he started to say, but Draco cut him short.
“Anna Orsini. What room?”
“I am sorry, signore, but I cannot—”
Draco reached across the desk, grabbed the clerk by the tie and hauled him forward.
“What room?” he growled.
“Three—three fourteen,” the clerk sputtered.
Draco nodded, dropped another hundred-euro note on the counter.
There were two elevators, one in use, one with an out-of-order sign taped to its door. He waited a couple of seconds for the one that was supposedly operating and then he took the stairs instead.
Room 314 was at the end of a dark hall. He strode along a frayed carpet runner until he reached it and then he hit the door once, with his fist.
It opened instantly.
“Wow,” Anna said, “that’s the quickest room service I ever—”
“Anna.”
She was barefoot, swaddled in a voluminous white terry-cloth robe, her face bare of makeup and as beautiful as any ever sculpted by Michelangelo. Her hair was a damp tumble of golden curls; her eyes were wide with shock and as blue as the deepest part of the sea.
“Draco?” she whispered.
He stepped into the room. Shut the door behind him without once looking away from her.
“I am not room service,” he said in a low voice. “And I am not a man you can toy with.” He paused. He could feel the rage in him changing to something dark and hot and far more dangerous.
“Anna,” he said roughly, “goddamnit, Anna …”
“Goddamnit, Draco,” Anna said, “what took you so long?”
And then …
Then she was in his arms.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ANNA was on her toes, her body tight against Draco’s, her arms wound around his neck.
His mouth was on hers, open, demanding and merciless. His hands were under her robe, hard and hot on her skin, cupping her bottom and lifting her into him. His erection pressed urgently against her belly, the masculine power surging against his closed fly, sent hot shudders of excitement racing through her.
She had had lovers before. Anticipating the moment, the first electric shimmer of desire, was always thrilling.
But never like this.
She was trembling, breathless, almost dizzy with need.
Draco said something, the words rushed and urgent. She couldn’t understand them; he spoke in the kind of elegant, upper-class Italian that was nothing like the Sicilian dialect she’d heard as a child, but she didn’t have to make sense of the words to know their meaning.
Draco wanted her.
Right now. Right here.
It was what she wanted, too.
He untied her robe, shoved it back on her shoulders. His hands swept over her, down her spine, kneading her hips, then rising up her torso to cup her breasts.
His thumbs moved over her nipples and a cry broke from her throat. Anna caught his black T-shirt in her fists and tugged it free of his jeans. She put her palms flat against his naked chest, and he groaned.
She answered his groan with one of her own.
The feel of his body!
His skin was hot, hair-roughened. He was all muscle, and when she ran her hands down his belly, to the jeans he wore low on his hips, her fingers marveled over the ridged, perfect abs.
“Draco,” she whispered.
He growled her name, pushed her robe away and it fell to her feet. The air felt cool on her overheated flesh; he bent his head, kissed her throat, the slope of one breast, drew its beaded tip deep into his mouth.
Anna cried out; her head fell back and a curl of flame swept from low in her belly directly to where Draco’s mouth worked its magic.
He raised his head, kissed her deeply, thrust his fingers into her hair and took her mouth again and again.
Now his hands were on her. All over her. His caresses were not gentle, but gentle wasn’t what she wanted.
Not now.
What she wanted was this. Draco’s lips at her throat. His fingers on her nipples. His denim-clad knee between her thighs.
And then his hand. Oh, his hand, cupping her. His fingers parting her.
“Hot,” he said thickly. “So hot and wet …”
She sobbed his name, felt her body weeping with hunger against his palm.
“Oh God, hurry!” she said. “Oh, hurry!”
He made a sound deep in his throat as he unzipped his fly. Anna pushed his hand aside, reached for his straining flesh. Her heart pounded as his erection sprang free. Her breath hissed as she closed her fingers around the silk-over-steel power of his hardened flesh.
He was big. Incredibly big, and she gasped as she wrapped her hand around him.
“Anna,” he said, only that, but the single word was so filled with urgency that she rose on her toes and nipped at his bottom lip.
“Yes,” she said against his mouth, “please, please …”
It was the soft, desperate plea that was his final undoing.
Draco scooped her into his arms, swung around and pushed her back against the closed door. She wrapped her legs around his hips. He grunted and drove into her.
Her scream was everything a man could want, the cry of a woman swept away by passion.
He thrust into her again. And again. Harder and harder as she cried out in ecstasy.
“Draco,” she sobbed, “oh, sweet heaven, Draco …”
He shifted her weight, one powerful arm around her buttocks, one angled against her back, his hand in her hair so that his mouth could plunder hers.
He was relentless. Kissing her. Thrusting into her. She was panting, sobbing, riding him and riding him and he was going to come, Dio, he was going to come ….
Anna screamed.
And Draco exploded deep, deep inside her.
The world stood still.
After a very long time Anna drew a ragged breath. Her head fell forward onto Draco’s shoulder, and she buried her face against his throat.
Her heart felt as if it were trying to pound its way out of her chest, or was that racing beat his?
She sighed and closed her eyes.
He held her tight, and she all but purred.
“Wow,” she said in a shaky whisper. “That was—it was …”
Draco laughed softly. “Sì. It certainly was.” He hesitated. “It was not too quick?”
Anna lifted her head.
“You just want to hear me say ‘wow’ again.”
He grinned. “Perhaps. But I was too fast.”
“No. You weren’t. And if you keep apologizing, I won’t let you do this again.” Her lips curved in a wickedly sexy smile. “At least, I won’t let you do it more than another two or three dozen times.”
Laughter rumbled in his chest.
“Is that all?” he teased, and he swung her into his arms, carried her to the bed, tumbled onto it with her. “Sorry, Orsini. Twenty or thirty times isn’t
going to be enough.”
Anna looped her arms around his neck.
“You’re right,” she said softly. “It won’t be.”
Draco kissed her, his mouth moving slowly over hers. Then he drew back a little and looked at her.
Her hair, a beautiful tangle of gold, was spread over the pillow, just as he had imagined it. Her eyes were deep pools of violet-blue.
Her face glowed.
It pleased him to know that he, his lovemaking, was the reason for that glow.
“Bellissima,” he murmured, but she was more than beautiful. There was a wildness to her. She was exotic. Untamed. A feral cat that would purr only at the stroke of a special hand.
His hand.
“Draco. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that you are an amazing woman, Anna Orsini.” He gathered her into his arms, brushed his lips lightly over hers. “And I’m very glad I came here tonight.”
“So am I. Very glad you came here.” She hesitated. “Not that I realized it until I opened the door and found you standing outside it, glowering at me.”
He laughed softly.
“Glowering, huh?”
“Like a thundercloud.”
“Well, I came here because I was angry.”
“I know. I was, too.”
“But then you opened the door and I saw you.”
“All dressed up,” Anna said, fluttering her lashes. “That designer robe. My hair in my eyes. And you couldn’t resist me.”
Draco grinned. Then his smile faded.
“And I knew I’d been lying to myself. That I’d come because I wanted you. I was just too thickheaded to see it.”
“Too proud, you mean.”
“No,” he said quickly. Then he shrugged. “Maybe. Hell, not maybe. Yes. You’re right.” He kissed her, luxuriating in the sweetness of her mouth. “And you figured this out because …?”
“Because I can be the same sometimes. Proud. And a little arrogant.” She sighed. “Which adds up to sometimes refusing to admit the truth to myself. See, you were supposed to be a chicken sandwich and a pot of tea.”
“I am shocked, bellissima,” he said sternly, “shocked to learn that you were waiting for a chicken sandwich and not for me.”
Anna laughed. “You aren’t my type at all, you know.”
“Well, you aren’t mine. You’re too beautiful, too sexy, too—”
The Ice Prince Page 8
