Sandra Marton - The Orsini Brides

“Liar,” she whispered.

She was blaming everything on him when the truth was, whatever he had done, she had encouraged.

“How could you?” she whispered. “My God, Anna, how could you?”

The question was pointless. She didn’t have an answer. And she was not a child.

You opened your mouth to a man’s kisses, you moaned under his touch, you draped your leg over him … What could you call all that, if not encouragement?

The stranger hadn’t done anything she hadn’t wanted him to do.

Anna closed her eyes.

And, oh my, he had done it magnificently.

That wonderful, knowing mouth. That hard, long body. Those big hands on her breasts …

“Enough,” she said briskly, and got to her feet.

She had things to do before the meeting. And, thankfully, miraculously, an hour in which to do them. Her father’s capo had called on her cell. The prince had delayed the meeting by an hour.

Excellent news.

Not that she’d let the prince know it, Anna thought as she dumped the contents of her carry-on on the bed. On the contrary. She’d tell him that his change of plans—his unilaterally made change of plans—was an inconvenience. She would tell him of her flight, of how she had spent the entire time in the air diligently bent over her computer, studying the documents that proved, irrefutably, her mother’s ownership of the land in—in whatever the name of that town in Sicily was. Torminia. Tarminia. Taormina, and she had less than an hour to at least get that much into her weary brain.

A shower. A change of clothes. A quick look at the file that had, thus far, proven useless.

Yes, but she’d gone into court with less information before and come out the winner.

She was one hell of a fine attorney.

The prince’s attorney would probably be top grade, but so what? She could handle that. And she could definitely handle a fawned-upon, effeminate blue blood of a prince.

She was an American, after all.

Quickly she laid out fresh clothes. Another suit. Charcoal- gray, this time. Another blouse. Ivory silk, of course. A change of shoes. Stilettos. Black and glossy, with—for kicks—peep toes. Underwear. Silk. Sexy.

People could see the stilettos. The undies were just for her. She liked knowing that under the uniform she was all female.

The stranger would probably have liked it, too.

He was the kind of man who’d know how to strip a woman of a sexy half bra, a sexy thong. There were times she’d thought, fleetingly, that what she’d worn under her clothes had been wasted on a lover.

It would not be wasted on him.

His hands would be sure and exciting as he took off her bra, his fingers just brushing across her nipples. They’d be steady as he hooked his thumbs into the edges of her thong and slid it down her hips, his eyes never leaving hers even as her breathing quickened, as she felt herself getting wet and hot and … and …

“Damnit!” she said. What was with her today?

She liked men. Liked sex. But this, wanting a man whose name she didn’t even know, a man she’d never see again, not only wanting him but going into his arms in a place where anyone could have seen them …

Anna yanked her cell phone from her purse, hit a speed-dial digit. Her sister answered on the first ring.

“Anna?”

Oh, the wonders of caller ID.

“Izzy. I have something to ask you.”

“Anna, where are you? I called your office and your secretary said—”

“Isabella,” Anna said briskly, “how many times must I remind you? There are no more secretaries. She’s a PA. A personal assistant. Got it?”

“Got it—but where are you? Your sec—your PA said you were in Italy, and I said that wasn’t possible because you never told me that—”

“I’m in Italy, Iz. I never told you because I never had the chance. The old man cornered me Sunday—which, by the way, he could not have done if you’d shown up for dinner the way you were supposed to.”

“I wasn’t. I mean, nobody asked me to show up. And what’s that got to do with you being in—”

“Later,” Anna said impatiently. “Right now, just answer a question, okay?”

“What’s the question?”

“It’s … it’s …” Anna cleared her throat. “You took psych, right?”

“Huh?”

“Izzy, I said—”

“I heard you. Sure. I took psych 101. So did you.”

“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.