The Ice Prince

by Sandra Marton

  “I’m serious.”

  She was. He could see it in her eyes.

  “Because?”

  “Because I’m not into arrogant, ‘me Tarzan, you Jane’ guys.”

  “Me? Arrogant?”

  “You, Prince Valenti. Impossibly, egotistically arrogant.” Her voice fell to a husky whisper. “And overdressed.”

  “Over …?” Draco laughed. She was right. She lay naked beneath him, but he was still wearing all his clothes. “You’re right. But that’s an easy problem to solve.”

  He rose to his feet, toed off his mocs, stripped off his clothes, watched her eyes darken when she saw that he was hard and erect again.

  “Better now?” he said as he came down to her and gathered her in his arms.

  “Much better. Much, much …”

  He stopped her with a kiss. And then another kiss. He kissed his way down her throat, to her breasts, heard her breath catch as he sucked her nipples.

  “Draco,” she whispered, and he wrapped his fingers lightly around her wrists, lifted her hands to the bed’s headboard, to its pale oak latticework.

  “Hold on to that,” he said gruffly, and he grasped her thighs and spread them wide. He looked at her for long seconds and then he gave a soft groan. “Such a perfect flower,” he whispered, and he put his mouth to her and kissed her.

  Anna cried out and jerked against the kiss, against the stroke of his tongue, and he slipped his hands beneath her, lifted her to him, sucked the sweet pink bud until she moaned with pleasure.

  Yes, he thought. Yes. This was why he had come here tonight …

  For her. For what she was, a woman with the heart and passion of a tigress.

  For what she was, not who she was.

  For her.

  “Anna,” he said, rising above her. “Anna,” he demanded, “look at me.”

  Her eyes, dark and filled with a woman’s mysteries, met his. When they did, he entered her. One long, hard thrust and he was deep inside her.

  Together they set a rhythm as urgent as their need. Anna, sobbing, moved with him, moaning, her arms and legs wrapped around him.

  “Draco,” she said, “Draco …”

  She felt her muscles begin to contract and she arched upward as she cried out.

  His groan of release seemed to come from the depths of his soul.

  She was weeping when he collapsed on top of her, tears of joy that he kissed away before rolling onto his back, taking her with him and holding her tightly against his heart.

  Anna slept.

  At least she thought she’d slept, because she opened her eyes and saw that the room was dark.

  Someone had shut off the light. Drawn up the duvet that had been left, folded, at the foot of the bed.

  No. Not “someone.” Draco. She was in his arms, draped over him, skin to skin, her face against his throat, her hand splayed over his chest.

  She could feel his heart beating slowly, steadily against hers.

  Amazing, that she had fallen asleep in his arms. Amazing, that she had fallen asleep at all. She never slept after sex.

  Well, yes. Of course she did, but never in a lover’s arms.

  After sex she liked to lie quietly with her lover for a while. They might talk or cuddle, and then she’d say that it was getting late and she had a busy day tomorrow, or whatever it took to remind the man it was time to leave her bed.

  At least she’d stayed true to form for that. This was a hotel bed, but it was hers for tonight. And when a relationship reached the point where having sex was part of it, she wanted it to be in her own bed.

  Not the man’s.

  It wasn’t a rule or anything—it was just the way it was.

  You brought a man into your bed, you remained in charge. You could tell him when it was time to go; you didn’t have to suffer the ignominy of walking past a doorman, of getting into a taxi at eight in the morning wearing what you’d worn the night before.

  And you avoided the kind of situation that might lead to a lover thinking you wanted the forevermore thing.

  Anna had seen the forevermore thing, close up. Her father dominating her mother’s very existence. Her mother living the life of a second-class citizen.

  Start to finish, you were the one in control when the bed you slept in belonged to you.

  Men had an intuitive understanding of that basic fact.

  She’d once overheard her brothers talking as they lazed around in the conservatory of the Orsini mansion, drinking beer and BS-ing with an eye on the clock after some family occasion none of them had wanted to attend.

  They were guys, and not married back then, so the conversation eventually got around to women.

  Anna, hidden in the depths of an oversize wing chair, had started to stand up and tell them they might want to curtail the chatter until she was out of earshot, but before she could, Rafe had said he’d been thinking.

  “Thinking,” Dante had said. “You?”

  “About, you know, what would be the perfect woman,” Rafe had said, ignoring the dig. “Like, if she stayed the night, she wouldn’t help herself to my razor to shave her legs.”

  There’d been murmurs of agreement all around.

  “Right,” Nick had said, “and she’d carry her own toothbrush in her purse.”

  “And she wouldn’t want conversation in the morning,” Dante had added.

  That had elicited a grunt from Falco, Anna remembered wryly.

  “What you guys mean is that the perfect woman would appear in your bed when you needed her, and disappear like Tinker Bell when you didn’t.”

  The others had laughed like loons, which was the only reason Anna had risen from her chair.

  “Whoa,” Nick had said, and Anna had said that whoa was exactly right, that what men really wanted were real-life versions of those vinyl blow-up dolls.

  All her brothers had turned beet-red, and after she’d had a good laugh at the sight, she’d told them that she had a big surprise for them.

  “Women want the same thing,” she’d said. “A guy who’d show up in bed when you needed him and then vanish.”

  If there was a shade that went past beet-red, her brothers had achieved it.

  “You’re just trying to embarrass us,” the usually non-embarrassable Falco had sputtered.

  Well, no.

  She hadn’t been trying to do that—she’d simply been speaking honestly.

  Women liked sex, too. At least, most of them did.

  It was just that women were brought up to think that good girls never admitted it or, at the very least, good girls wrapped sex with pink ribbons.

  Not her.

  She didn’t believe in sleeping around—talk about misnomers!—but that didn’t mean you couldn’t be honest about what you wanted. And what you didn’t want.

  And what Anna didn’t want, ever, was one man, one woman, that whole foolish thing called forevermore …

  Which brought her back to basics.

  It was time to wake Draco, tell him this had been wonderful but it was late, she had a full day ahead of her tomorrow and it was time he went home.

  Of course, that wouldn’t be news to him. The full-day-tomorrow part. He knew it, because he was going to be part of that day.

  Great sex or not, they hadn’t settled anything. He still owned land she’d come here to claim.

  Anna nearly groaned.

  How could she have forgotten that? Since when did she let emotion get in the way of logic?

  What she’d told Draco was true. She’d been attracted to him from the start, even though she’d denied it until tonight. Seeing him at her door had forced her to face the truth, that even while she’d said she despised him, she’d wanted to go to bed with him.

  Okay. Desire was one thing, but violating her ethical role in this situation was very much another issue.

  She was an attorney, and attorneys didn’t get involved with the respondents in their cases. Assuming there would be a case to be involved in.

&n
bsp; Okay. She’d made a mistake, a big one, but there was no sense in dwelling on it. What mattered was that it would not happen again.

  The sex had been good, but she’d had good sex before …

  “Hey.”

  Startled, Anna raised her head and looked at Draco, who gave her a slow, sexy smile.

  “You’re up,” she said brightly. “Good. I mean, I was just going to wake you.”

  He shifted his weight, rolled her onto her back and framed her face with his hands.

  “And just how were you planning on doing that?”

  The sound of his voice sent a tremor dancing along her spine.

  “Draco,” she said, “listen to me.”

  “This was a mistake.”

  “Yes. Yes, it was. I’m glad you understand—”

  He kissed her, his lips moving against hers with slow, heart-stopping deliberation. She wanted to return the kiss, wrap herself in his heat, but she knew better than to give in.

  “Please listen, Draco. I’m trying to tell you that—”

  “We’re on opposite sides of what might become a lawsuit.”

  “Exactly. And—”

  “That makes us enemies.”

  Anna sighed with relief. “Yes. This was … it was nice, but—”

  “Nice?” he said, his voice a low growl.

  “More than nice. It was—”

  He kissed her again, deeper, more intensely. She felt him harden against her, felt that hot, electric jolt racing from her belly to her breasts.

  Oh no, she thought, no, this wasn’t just good sex, it was something much more. She’d never felt this way before, as if she were standing at the edge of forever.

  Draco slid into her. Her breath caught. Helpless, drowning in pleasure, she cried out as she rose toward him.

  “Tell me to stop,” he said thickly, “and I will.”

  She stared up into his dark eyes.

  “All you have to do is say the words, Anna.”

  “All right.” She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips. “I want—I want—”

  Anna moaned, tunneled her fingers into his hair and brought Draco’s mouth to hers.

  A long time later she stirred, rolled to her side and nestled back against him.

  “I meant to tell you,” she said drowsily, “you don’t have to worry. I’m on the pill.”

  “Bene.” He curved his arm around her, his hand cupping her breast. “Otherwise, I would have to leave you and go in search of a pharmacy.” He nipped the nape of her neck. “And that would be a pitiful sight, bellissima, a grown man crawling on his hands and knees through the nighttime streets of Rome.”

  Anna laughed.

  And tumbled into the dark cavern of sleep.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  REALITY came back in the blurred rush of gray morning light seeping through the sheer drapes, the soft patter of rain …

  And the pressure of a man’s muscular arm curved around Anna’s waist.

  Disoriented, she closed her eyes, concentrated ….

  And remembered everything.

  Draco. The thrill of opening her door and finding him there. The shimmering flash of excitement at what she saw in his face, the realization that she had wanted him all along, that half her anger at him was really anger at herself for wanting a man like him.

  The night had been … What word could possibly sum it up? Incredible. Fantastic. Electric with passion so powerful it had turned her brain to jelly.

  How else to explain why he was still in her bed?

  She could make sense of having fallen asleep in his arms that first time. Combine exhaustion with the out-of-body feeling she always got from jet lag, and anything was possible.

  She’d gone through that list of explanations hours ago.

  But she’d done it again. Gone to sleep in his arms so soundly that she couldn’t even recall it happening.

  Surprise number one, for sure.

  And added to that, surprise number two.

  Why had he stayed? He could have left any time during the night. From what she knew of men, given a choice, that was the way they preferred it.

  No man wanted the morning-after thing, that series of dance steps that could be far more complicated than the dance a man and woman had just performed in bed a couple of hours before.

  Stilted chitchat. The “after you, no, that’s fine, after you” shower routine. A guy’s unattractive early-morning stubble, a woman’s totally unappealing bed-head hairstyle.

  Hers was, for sure. Lots of curls, no sleek smoothness, just unruly locks that were wild and, without question, awful looking.

  The entire morning-after scenario was enough to ruin romance as a concept, for lack of a better phrase. The truth was, good sex didn’t have anything much to do with romance. It had to do with physical attraction. And hormones. A certain look in a man’s eyes, a certain way he touched you.

  If he was right and the time was right, that was all you needed. Given those basics, a woman was ready.

  Anna shifted her weight just a little.

  Draco felt so good spooned against her.

  And she’d been ready. Hell, ready and waiting even when she hadn’t known what she’d been ready and waiting for.

  Draco Valenti was one gorgeous hunk.

  And as it turned out, he was spectacular in bed. He knew what to touch and how to touch it; he knew when to whisper and when to keep silent; he knew when to take charge—yes, he certainly did—and when to let a woman take the lead.

  And she was turning herself on.

  Ridiculous, because one of the other reasons she didn’t like sleeping with a man all night was that men always wanted morning sex as part of The Morning Thing, and Anna had never been a morning-sex fan.

  Bottom line? Good sex was, well, it was good sex. Yes, she had to like a guy to have sex with him. Had to enjoy his company, but sex was sex. Women who didn’t understand that were in for trouble.

  They fell in love.

  They got married.

  And, surprise surprise, they ended up hurt.

  Anna, fortunately, was not, would never be, one of those women.

  She and Isabella had talked about it just a few months ago.

  They’d met for lunch at a place they both liked in midtown, poking at salads and drinking Diet Cokes, playing catch-up because they hadn’t seen each other in a couple of weeks. Izzy had asked about a guy Anna had been seeing, if maybe she was serious about him, and Anna had rolled her eyes and said what was there to be serious about?

  He was fun, he was interesting, he was good in bed.

  “End of story,” she’d told Iz. “Why would I want to spoil things?”

  Izzy had put down her fork and heaved one of her Izzy sighs, the kind you could imagine a fairy princess giving while she waited for her Prince Charming to appear.

  “That’s such a sad attitude, Anna. What about love?”

  “What about it?” Anna had replied, spearing a grape tomato and popping it into her mouth. “You have to stop reading all those women’s magazines stuffed with that June, moon, forever-after bull.”

  Izzy had sighed again. “Honestly, Anna, I don’t know what you’re trying to prove.”

  “Nothing. Women don’t need to prove anything. Well, maybe only that we’re women, not idiots. You don’t really think only men are entitled to be realistic about these things? About sex?”

  Iz had shaken her head and Anna had smiled benignly, and they’d gone on to safer ground—Anna’s defense of a woman who’d shoplifted a winter jacket for her little boy because she didn’t have the money to buy one, and Izzy’s plans for the garden she was designing for a friend.

  The thing was, Izzy’s lovely head was in the clouds.

  Anna’s was right here, squarely on her shoulders.

  She liked her space the same way men liked theirs, which brought her straight back to the fact that Draco was still in her bed and she was still in his arms and—

  “Buon giorno, bellissima
.”

  She tried to think of some clever reply, but she couldn’t come up with anything. “Good morning” was deliciously sexy in his husky Italian, but it was only “good morning” in American English.

  “How did you sleep?”

  Deeply. Soundly. Who wouldn’t sleep that way after what had happened that last time they’d made—that last time they’d had sex?

  All she remembered were Draco’s kisses, his caresses, his hard length deep, deep inside her and a rush of exquisite sensation, a breathless moment when the world spun out of control—and then the feel of him drawing her back into the warm, secure cradle of his body …

  “Anna.”

  Draco’s voice was low and rough. Just the sound of it made her skin tingle. And when he slid his hand up her side and cupped her breast …

  Physiology, she told herself, that was what it was. He was a wonderful lover. Any woman would react to his touch even when she knew it was time to put the night in perspective.

  “Anna,” he said again, and turned her toward him.

  Her heartbeat stuttered. He was gorgeous. Why had she ever thought early-morning stubble unattractive? It was perfect, the absolutely proper accent note to his square jaw, that magnificent Roman nose, the dark, dark eyes.

  He smiled.

  Anna almost flinched.

  Why wouldn’t he smile? She probably looked like a wild woman.

  “Beautiful Anna,” he said softly, and he threaded his fingers through her awful, scrunched-up hair and brought his mouth to hers.

  The kiss was long. And tender.

  It wasn’t at all what she expected.

  Her couple of experiences of The Morning Thing involved one kind of kiss.

  A kiss that was a prelude to morning sex.

  Which, as she had already established, was not her thing at all.

  But this kiss was.

  It was soft. Undemanding. A sweet meeting of lips, of tongues …

  “Stop analyzing,” Draco whispered.

  Anna jerked back.

  “What do you mean? I am not analy—”

  “Sì, Signorina Avocato. You are.” He drew her to him, his lips curved in a smile. “You’re being an attorney, trying to decide what to say. What to do. And you’re struggling for answers to questions. Why did we make love? Why did he spend the night? Why did I permit it?” He kissed her again. “This is not a courtroom, Anna.”