Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | The Amalfi Bride

The Amalfi Bride
Ann Major
The beauty of Italy's Amalfi Coast made Regina Tomei throw caution to the wind–and spend the night in the arms of a gorgeous stranger.Except Nico Romano is actually a prince–heir to a monarchy, destined to marry a woman of royal blood. Regina has no illusions that a working-class American like herself could fit into his world of power, palazzos and paparazzi.Their passionate affair must end when her vacation does. But Regina leaves Italy with more than just memories–she's carrying Nico's baby!



The Amalfi Bride
Ann Major


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to Lady Jane Liddington,
a dear childhood friend, now living in London,
for suggesting we meet in Ravello.
I also dedicate this book to the marvelous staff of the
Palazzo Sasso Hotel in Ravello, who taught me that
paradise does exist on earth.
And to the Italian people, who were all so wonderful to
me and my husband when we were in their country.
And last of all to the beautiful young woman from
Australia and her Italian lover, whom I met in Rome at
lunch, who shared their story and inspired me.

CONTENTS
Chapter One (#ubfb38b51-2185-5ab4-89cc-5732c938f777)
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Coming Next Month

One
Amalfi, Italy
Her last few days in paradise…so many sights, so little time left to see them. So, what was she doing here…in a bar…wasting her valuable time…lacking the will to hike or to tour one more cathedral or villa? Flirting with a dangerous stranger?
Oh, my God! I’m not flirting with him.
It was late July and warm in the open-air bar, although not nearly as warm as it would be back in Texas. Regina Tomei grabbed her glass of chardonnay and sipped too much, too hastily, spilling a few drops on her chin and neck. Quickly she dabbed at the dribbles with her napkin.
Her lengthy list of cathedrals and the notes she’d written about the Greek ruins fell to the floor. She didn’t bother to pick them up. Instead, she stole another quick glance at the tall, dark stranger leaning against the bar across the room.
Who had said, “I can resist anything but temptation?”
The man instantly stopped talking to his short, plump friend and lifted his bottle of beer in a mock salute to her.
Oh, my God! Not again!
He took a slow, long pull from the bottle. Then his gaze touched her throat and lips. She gasped. Involuntarily, her hand with the napkin went to her mouth and then to the hollow of her throat, where her pulse was racing.
The heat of her own fingertips made her imagine his big hands and his lips upon her flesh. She began to perspire, so she fanned herself with the damp napkin.
Then, realizing what she was doing, Regina seized the ornate golden cross around her neck and held on for dear life. She’d bought the necklace from Illusions, an opulent shop she’d discovered tucked away in an alley of charming Ravello near her hotel.
Sightseeing and shopping were her hobbies; not barhopping, not flirting with strange men in foreign lands.
Run!
The man took another pull on his bottle and then stared at the gardenia in her hair. Before she could stop herself, she grazed the velvet petals with a stray fingertip.
Do not touch, signorina, or the petals will turn brown.
Regina picked up her camera and set it on her little table. Agitated, her hands flew to her lap, where she clasped them and her napkin, but not for long.
She looked up again, straight at her Adonis. Was it only her imagination, or did his blue eyes blaze with the same intensity as the sapphire Gulf of Salerno behind him? Was she the cause of all that fire?
Heat washed over her and, at her blush, he smiled.
Mortified and yet thrilled, too, she picked up her camera and pretended she found her light meter fascinating.
His friend observed all with a raffish grin and then, as if bored, hugged Adonis goodbye.
Oh, my God! The short guy was leaving! He would have to pass by her table!
She buried her face in her hands to avoid conversation, and he chuckled as he passed.
Somehow, the friend’s departure seemed significant.
Not wanting to think about that, she concentrated on the glittering rings of condensation on the ceramic table from her wineglass.
Rule number one: smart women traveling alone in foreign countries do not pick up strange men, no matter how handsome or friendly or desirable they seem. In particular, women don’t pick them up in a bar, even one with whitewashed walls, cascading bougainvillea and lots of sunshine and tourists.
She told herself to grab her camera, get up and walk away! No! Run! She should run like she had last night. She had no idea what sort of person he was.
What if he was a gigolo or, worse, a serial killer?
Her mind returned to the G-word.
A gigolo? Was the blond fellow a pimp? Did gigolos even have pimps? She could write a brief on what she didn’t know about gigolos and their business plans.
Regina frowned as she remembered the older woman with the platinum hair, loud makeup and trailing orange veils with whom she’d seen him yesterday in the red Maserati convertible. The woman had caught Regina’s attention because she’d spotted the car in front of Illusions earlier.
The driver had been the same elderly shopkeeper who’d sold her the cross, the sentimental little painting of the black-haired boy playing in the sand, the scandalous pink-and-black lace underwear she was wearing now, her skimpy new dress and, of course, the darling white sandals to match.
Yesterday afternoon, when the older lady had dropped him off at the beach near the mooring of the immense white yacht called Simonetta, Regina hadn’t thought much about her kissing his dark cheeks so many times. Nor had she wondered why the older lady had been so reluctant to let him go. When the woman had spotted Regina watching them, she’d recognized her and had waved, beaming. When he’d looked at Regina, he’d acted startled and had broken off the embrace.
Suddenly, the little scene took on a darker, more lurid meaning. A gigolo?
And what about that diamond the size of an ice cube on the finger of the regal, middle-aged woman in the black Ferrari with him today? She, too, had driven him to the same beach and had kissed his cheeks almost as ardently as the other, older woman. Only the second woman had had a more commanding air, summoning him back to the Ferrari twice.
Now, the stranger’s eyes on Regina’s bare skin felt like fire. She wished she’d put on something that was more her.
Regina’s usual attire back in Austin, Texas, tended to be dull, predictable suits that covered her up, which were appropriate when a young woman was an attorney and made her living in courtrooms.
How ironic that his elderly mistress or client, or whoever the woman was, had sold Regina her revealing white sundress. The same woman had talked her into taking the clips out of her hair, too.
“You very lovely, signorina. With wavy hair down. You need flower in your hair. Special flower from magic bush. Then you get boyfriend for sure. Come. I show you.”
Was it so obvious Regina had no lover? No boyfriend?
With orange veils trailing behind a body that was still voluptuous and hidden bells jingling, the woman had led Regina out of the shop down a cobblestone path to a courtyard with a marble statue of Cupid and a thick bush ablaze with gardenias.
“This bush blooms all year. Pick one every day you are here, if you like. And I promise, a miracle will happen. Prometto.” Her dark blue eyes had twinkled like a fairy godmother’s.
Delighted, Regina had picked one yesterday. Then, this morning, she had gone back for another.
The gulf had a mirror finish; the sinking sun was turning to apricot the villas and hotels that perched precariously on the cliffs. Soon the coast would be magically suffused by the soft, slow twilight she’d come to love.
For as long as she could remember, Regina had wanted to visit the Amalfi Coast. Leaning down, she picked up her list of sights and notes. She should be admiring the mountains trembling steeply above the sea instead of devouring a man who could be a sexual professional.
You probably couldn’t even afford him.
Oh, my God!
If he was a gigolo, he obviously thought she could afford him. Why else was he eating her up with his dark blue eyes?
Her throat went so dry that she gulped more chardonnay.
Gigolos were losers who preyed on older, lonely women; definitely not part of her life plan. She should be shocked to the core by her train of thought.
Afford him? She should indict him!
In Austin, she had a reputation for being prim and proper and…and well, bossy. Not that she was. Nobody, not even her family, understood how strongly she had to focus to accomplish her goals.
“You’re a control freak and frigid!” Bobby had accused after she’d stunned them both, herself and him, by rejecting his marriage proposal.
“Please, let’s don’t get ugly,” she’d said.
“Give me my ring!” He’d bruised her finger when he’d tried to pull it off. “Even though you chased me for a whole damn year, you probably did me a helluva favor.”
“I chased you? I gave you my card at a party because I wanted to work for your father’s firm.”
“Just my luck! He hired you! You may be a good lawyer, but you’re one lousy lay.” He shoved his chair back and slammed out of the door of their favorite sushi restaurant, leaving her alone with a huge wooden serving dish filled with eels and shrimp and caviar, zero appetite, and the bill.
A lousy lay? Okay, so, yes, she had faked an orgasm or two. But only to make him happy.
What if a talented gigolo was able to teach a motivated student a few naughty tricks and make her sexier in bed?
Susana, her flaky, younger sister had tried to console her. “You’re going after the wrong type. I never liked Bobby anyway. Who wouldn’t have to fake orgasms with a man who never thought about anything but billable hours? Just a word though, maybe you should try being more intuitive. And maybe you shouldn’t boss guys around so much.”
Susana, a housewife, who’d stolen Joe, the one man Regina had loved, had had the gall to give her advice. How had Susana, a college dropout, become the successful sister?
Hello! Susana had given their folks three darling grandchildren.
“I’m not that bossy.”
“Well, don’t let your boyfriends see all those lists you make.”
“I just like to get things done,” Regina grumbled aloud to the voices in her head as she crumpled another napkin and wiped the condensation rings on her table.
Intuitive?
She was sitting as far as she possibly could from the sexual professional, if that was indeed what he was. Too aware of his satiny black hair and flirty eyes, she tidied up her table, slipping a fresh napkin under her wineglass. Still, just knowing he was over there, alone now, had her pulse beating like a war drum.
Most of her girlfriends had shocked her by sleeping with strangers at least once, and then describing their sexual misadventures in vivid detail over long lunches. But that lifestyle hadn’t been for Regina. She’d always known she’d wanted to love and marry a respectable professional man, and she’d accepted dates only from men who met her criteria. She had a long list of criteria.
But the instant she’d seen this stranger, who should be unappealing to her, her world had shifted. It was as if the real Regina had gone into hibernation, as if Austin were a remote planet on the other side of a galaxy far, far away.
Intuitive. Dangerous word.
If ever a man was the antithesis of the ambitious, Type-A individuals the real Regina always chased, this G-word guy was it.
Obviously, Adonis was all looks and no substance. Still, his broad-shouldered body seemed made of sculpted teak, with muscles that rivaled Michelangelo’s David. What well-educated girl didn’t appreciate a masterpiece? But could he read without moving his beautiful, carved lips?
Like all Italians, he wore clothes that fit perfectly. Hello! Why didn’t she care whether or not he had a brain? A soul?
She was too entranced by the shallow stuff to dwell on deeper matters. His white shirt was open to his waist, revealing a lean, washboard abdomen. Some fierce mating instinct made her want to tear off his shirt and his ripped, faded jeans, to lick his warm, sun-caressed skin and have him do the same to her. Yes!
Despite the balmy July sea air, she thought of him naked. The idea of tasting him had her so hot she lifted her icy glass of chardonnay to her lips. Rethinking the more-alcohol move, she brought the cool glass to her warm cheek and then placed it against her forehead.
Would his babies be as gorgeous as he was?
Babies? The thought broadsided her. For a long moment she stared into her wineglass. Suddenly, dazzling golden images of a beautiful little boy and a darling little girl materialized, both with thick heads of shiny, black-satin hair, splashing in a backyard pool.
She swirled the wine in her glass so violently a few drops splashed her wrist. When he smiled, she blushed again.
A baby. His baby? No way!
What about E-321, which she’d learned about thanks to her friend Lucy? The sperm from a donor whose profile was so perfect Regina had bought the last eight vials of it from the sperm bank?
Hello, is the real Regina alive and well? The Regina who knows one doesn’t buy sperm and then sleep around?
Okay, so she hadn’t shown up on the day of her appointment for insemination.
But after Bobby, she had had a life-changing epiphany.
Baby first. Finding Mr. Right, second.
Time was running out for her to meet Mr. Right, date him, plan a wedding and get pregnant—in the proper order.
So, why not reverse the order of things?
Why not become a single mother of choice first and find her soul mate later?
So, how did one find the perfect father? Her best friend Lucy, who was now pregnant by sperm donor E-321, had been full of advice. After lots of research, Regina had decided E-321 was the right donor for her, too. Lucy and Regina’s children would be half-siblings. Regina had told her family that she and Lucy and their babies would almost be a real family.
“You’ve got a real family!” her father had thundered. “This is your fault, Sabrina!” It was his habit to blame everything, good and bad, on Regina’s mother. “You shouldn’t have let her read all the time! Or run around with liberals like Lucy. I don’t want to even think about those college loans I’m still paying off.”
Although his temper hadn’t won the day, he’d slumped into a scowling sulk and had remained glued to the television set whenever he was home over the next few days, refusing to speak to anybody, even his adored Sabrina.
Desperate, her mother had called an hour before Regina’s insemination appointment.
“You’re making Constantin unhappy. He’s never gone quiet on me like this. Not in thirty years. It’s summer. Take a vacation. When was the last time you took a vacation? Go to Italy. See your Nana before you do this crazy thing, eh, Cara.”
Her mama always called her Cara, which was short for Carina, Regina’s middle name.
“You can’t control everything, Cara. In Italy, people let life happen. Susana fell in love. You will, too.”
Yes, with Joe. I was in love with him! Susana stole him right out from under me. Why doesn’t anybody, especially you, Mama, ever remember that Joe was mine first?
Regina covered her eyes for a long moment. Then she opened them to a line of ceramic pots overflowing and ablaze with geraniums, to terraces and umbrellas drenched in coppery light, and to him.
Two girls beside him were batting their lashes at him and looking winsome, but he had eyes only for Regina.
He looked at her with such longing, Regina felt a physical ache to simply get up and go to him, to press herself against him, to run her fingers through his hair, to touch him everywhere. To get to it. To do it somewhere nearby, any private place.
She wanted to lie under his lean, hard body on a soft mattress with sea breezes whispering over their glued-together, sweaty bodies. She wanted everything, all things, unnamable things, unimagined things from him.
I don’t know his name. He hasn’t even spoken to me and I want to make love to him like an animal.
Still, she knew his voice was low and deep and thick with amusement, because she’d heard him talking to the girls at the table next to his earlier.
In her real life across the Atlantic Ocean, she would have wanted to know where Adonis had gone to school, what were his life plans, who was his family. But this half-naked girl with the gardenia in her hair felt more than thought.
She was beginning to become a little scared. It was as if vital pieces of her being were rushing toward him and he was claiming all as his due. The hunger to be in his arms, to kiss him, to taste him, to know passion, real passion, maybe for the first time in her life, kept intensifying.
So, if he were a G-word guy, did that mean he could be hers…for a night? If she was willing to meet his price? Or did he just service a privileged few?
Blood rushed from her head.
But what about those eight precious vials of E-321’s you-know-what stored at the sperm bank? What about E-321’s picture and profile taped to her fridge? What about Lucy—brilliant, well-meaning Lucy—and their plan to raise their children together as siblings?
A sexy stranger was not for a health nut and control freak like Regina, either! She might catch something.
No. Something told her she wouldn’t.
Maybe she’d gone without sex for too long. Maybe it was the voluptuous, naked statues dotting the landscape and decorating the palazzos all over Italy that had her hormones hot to conceive the old-fashioned way.
Regina believed sex was for committed relationships and marriage. Period.
What about for procreation? whispered the hormones. You’re thirty-three and single and nearly too old.
You should be married, whispered another voice. All her life, Regina had been known for her brains, her old-fashioned morals, her perfectionism, her goal-setting abilities, and her quick decisions. What if she let herself go just this once?
Her lips parted. She nudged her skirt above her knee and waited for life to happen. How exactly did one go about hiring a gigolo anyway—if he was a gigolo?
Was there some secret signal? Should she lift her skirt even higher? Or maybe lower her lashes and wink seductively? Or should she walk over to the bar, open her purse and show him the money? Or should she just sit here and wait for him to make the move, whatever that was?
Last night he’d followed her into this same bar. Only, when he’d started to flirt, she’d run out and hidden behind some chestnut trees. He’d rushed outside and looked for her while she’d held her breath, frantic he’d find her. Finally, he’d given up and kayaked out to Simonetta, the mega yacht moored some distance from shore, where he must have spent the night.
With a woman? A client? The older lady in veils? Her thoughts made Regina feel slightly nauseated.
One moment, the object of her affections was leaning back against the bar, sipping his beer while studying the magnificent white yacht with a rather keen interest. The next, his gaze swept the room and fastened on her again.
She met his eyes. With a fingertip, she teased her skirt higher. Her lips parted. Spellbound, dry-throated, she did not look away.
His gold necklace flashed with the last of the sun’s rays. A gift from a client? From the woman in the Ferrari? Or the one on the yacht? How many women were there? She had a prejudice against guys who wore gold necklaces.
Did one tip a gigolo? Would he tell her the rules? As an attorney, she had a natural interest in all contracts.
When he kept staring at her, the two girls giggled at the little table near his and then glanced at her, too knowingly. Doubtless, they were locals and knew his profession and read her intentions.
Was she that obvious?
When the girls frowned, Regina felt her cheeks heat and her pulse race.
Maybe she should rethink this. When she tried to stand up to leave, her legs felt too weak to hold her. She sagged against her table. Then her waiter scurried over with an icy flute of sparkling champagne. He said something in rapid, nasal Italian, which was beyond her minimal knowledge of the language and pointed to her admirer at the bar. When she looked over, Adonis shifted his weight onto his right leg and beamed.
Her heart sped up even faster, and her lacy pink panties trimmed in black lace began to feel damp. She should run out to the taxi stand and hire somebody to take her up to the palazzo where she was staying. She would take a cold shower or a long swim in the pool and then a sleeping pill. She needed to think this through, form a plan.
Instead, she touched the stem of the flute he’d sent over with a manicured fingertip. When she threw back her head, her long brown hair flowing down her back, and began to sip, his mouth curved again. She smiled back just as boldly.
Instantly, he uncoiled his long body and strode across the bar, causing a ripple of conversation, as well as bursts of giggles from the girls near the bar. When he pulled out a plastic chair at Regina’s table, Regina gulped the last of her champagne.
“Do you mind if I sit down?” His voice was deep and dark, faintly accented, surprisingly cultured. It was as perfect as the rest of him.
A well-educated gigolo?
“I—I should say yes. I should go…really….”
“Probably you are right.” He smiled. “But you’re following a dangerous impulse.” He paused. “Just as I am.”
Her heart thundered.
Up close, his dense lashes seemed even longer and darker.
Why did God give guys eyelashes like those? It wasn’t fair. But then, life wasn’t fair, was it? Or she would be married and have children, and her father would still love her best.
Adonis’s gorgeous, broad-shouldered body towered over Regina, making her feel even more vulnerable.
If you were to have a daughter by him, the lucky child would surely be movie-star beautiful, whispered her sex-starved hormones.
“I will go, if you want me to,” he said.
When he turned, a savage pain tore her heart. “No.”
Her throat went even drier. Her acute need threw her off balance. She licked her lips but could say no more.
He sank down beside her and signaled the waiter. Without asking, he ordered more champagne.
Did he expect her to pay? Was that part of the contract?
When the champagne came, she gulped it again, which seemed to amuse him. “Do I scare you?”
“I scare me. I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“Good. That’s reassuring.” He laughed. “You’re perfectly safe,” he said. “I promise, we won’t do anything you don’t want to do.”
Far too many needs and emotions were on fire inside her for such a comment to reassure her.
He held up his hand to order another drink, but she put her fingers over his. And instantly, at that light touch of fingertip to fingertip, a surge of syrupy heat flooded her. When the waiter looked over, she shook her head wildly.
Her admirer turned her fingers over and brushed the back of her hand with a callused fingertip. His touch was gentle; lighting hot sparks along every nerve in her body.
She felt weak, sexual, sizzling. All he’d done was caress her hand. When he fingered the cross at her throat, she pulled back, afraid he’d sense the rapid pulse that pounded beneath it.
She’d never experimented with drugs, because addiction hadn’t been part of her plan for success. But now she suddenly understood the concept of mindless addiction at a profound level.
He was lethal.
No. He was just a professional. He knew what he was doing. That was all. He was good at his job. This was what he got paid for. Everything was under control. He wouldn’t do anything unless she decided to hire him. He was after money. Billable hours. Like Bobby. That she understood. Too well.
It wasn’t as if he felt what she felt. She was in no danger. She was in control.
She felt hot, and the cool breezes gusting up from the sparkling gulf did little to cool her.
“I’m Nico. Nico Romano,” he whispered against her ear, stroking her hand with that seductive fingertip.
The way he said his name warmed her blood almost as much as his touch.
But was it his real name? Did gigolos have stage names as actors did or pseudonyms as writers did?
“But then you probably know who I am…or at least what I am,” he said, his expression almost apologetic.
So she was right—he was a gigolo.
She blushed, liking his discretion about avoiding the G-word.
“Yes.” She glanced away.
“There’s no reason to let it bother you. I’m a man, just an ordinary man.”
“If you say so.” She felt shy, unsure, out of her depth.
“And you are?” he continued.
“Carina,” she said in a rush, choosing her middle name for protection, to put distance between them. “My mother calls me Cara. Everybody else calls me—” She stopped, realizing she was about to start babbling, something she did when she was nervous.
“Cara,” he breathed. “In our country your name means beloved. It suits you.”
The air between them seemed to grow even hotter, if that were possible. Or maybe it was only she who was ablaze.
He was good. But how much did someone of his caliber cost? Not in the mood to ask and discover his price excessive, she put the all-important question off.
“Are you hungry?” he murmured. “Or would you prefer to go straight to your hotel?”
Did having dinner with him cost more? And what would the staff of her palazzo think when they saw her with him in the restaurant? Did he go there often?
“I ate a late lunch,” she said.
“So did I,” he murmured.
He leaned closer. He slid one hand around her waist. His other hand lifted her fingertips to his sensually curved mouth, and he kissed each long nail and fingertip, lingering a little on the tips of her nails. Then he stared into her eyes. Everything he did was infinitely gentle. Somehow, nothing he did seemed faked or practiced, and long after he’d let her fingers go, the pit of her stomach felt hollow.
When she lowered her hand to the ceramic table again, she sighed. Good. She wasn’t ready for the serious kissing to start. Not in public, anyway.
He leaned closer and traced her mouth with his fingertip, flooding her with more erotic heat. His eyes followed the path of his finger. He swallowed hard. So did she. The girls, who were watching, giggled again.
“Che bella,” he whispered, scooting his chair back a little.
He wasn’t subtle. But what had she expected? He was a gigolo. Not to mention Italian. This was a business relationship. She should applaud his talent and his professionalism. Instead, she was so caught up in what he was doing it was hard to remember this wasn’t real.
He held up his hand for the check. Before she could rummage in her purse, he threw a wad of euros on the table, cupped her elbow and escorted her out of the bar. She was acutely aware that, when he’d stood up, everybody stopped talking. Even the music stopped. When he turned at the door to wave to the bartender, a final burst of girlish giggles saluted them.
He’d paid, no doubt, for appearances’ sake.
He was one classy gigolo.
Remembering the Maserati, and the Ferrari and the yacht, Simonetta, where he’d spent the night, she began to wonder if she had enough cash in her purse.
If she didn’t, would he take a credit card or at least escort her to the nearest ATM if they finished at a late hour?
Then she remembered he was one classy gigolo.
Of course, he would!

Two
Regina stepped out of the shower, dried herself with a warm towel and put on the hotel’s thick, white fluffy robe as Nico had suggested. Her damp hair felt heavy and soft about her shoulders as she left the bathroom. Picking up her cell phone, she padded through the bedroom and then out onto her private belvedere to wait for Nico, who had left her suite to take a phone call.
Nico. She gulped in a breath of warm humid air. Trying not to think about him and what they were about to do, she looked down at the quaint town and its lush gardens. Nevertheless, her hands were shaking as she punched in her friend Lucy’s number back in Austin.
Surely, heaven couldn’t best Ravello. The jewel-like, medieval village seemed to hang suspended from its mountainside over the Amalfi Coast. The views from Regina’s hotel, formerly a fourteenth-century palazzo with crumbling, vine-covered walls and Moorish arches, were breathtaking even now when the shadows were lengthening.
Flowers perfumed the balmy sea breezes. The bees were gone, and the church bells were ringing. Cliffs and villas alike seemed to tumble to a dark, turquoise sea.
Not that she was all that interested in the white yachts or Simonetta or the sparkling water or even the palazzos. She was too consumed with excitement and fear.
“Pick up, Lucy,” she whispered, tapping a bare foot with impatience on the sun-warmed stones. She could hardly stand feeling so alone and uncertain.
“Pick up!”
Pacing while she waited, she spotted Nico four floors beneath her. He was also striding back and forth on a terrace near the aqua pool, looking just as impatient and upset as she felt.
Did he want to be with her, or did he hate his work and dread the time he’d be spending with her? Or was it his conversation that had him on edge?
She wished his phone hadn’t rung. She wished he’d look up and wave reassuringly, but his dark head was bent over the phone, and he seemed so absorbed she wondered if he’d forgotten her existence.
His cell phone had buzzed just after he’d ordered champagne, strawberries and an assortment of cheeses, and had suggested they get into the hotel’s white, fluffy bathrobes and enjoy a drink on her balcony. When he’d recognized the caller’s name in the little blue window on his phone, he’d frowned. Then he’d cupped Regina’s chin, kissed her on the forehead, and apologized because the call was too important to ignore. He’d answered the phone with a smile and endearments in Italian and had excused himself, which had made Regina curious about the caller’s identity, and a little jealous.
Was it a woman? A client? Whoever it was, the call was very important to him.
Just as Regina was worrying that her attraction to Nico might be heading toward an obsession—something she’d never experienced before in her orderly, controlled life—Lucy finally answered, her voice breathless.
“Hi!”
Lucy was pregnant by the sperm donor who she and her partner Beth had agreed was a perfect fit for them. They had pictures of him and his children, future half siblings to their own much-wanted child, posted all over their apartment.
“You’ll never believe where I am,” Regina began.
She went to the closet, pulled out the painting of the little boy playing in the sand, then returned with it to her balcony.
“Italy!” Lucy answered.
“I mean—” Regina stared down at Nico again “—where in Italy? And you’ll never guess what I’m doing….”
The little boy’s painted hair shone like black satin, exactly as Nico’s did.
“You probably just got through jogging and are about to treat yourself to some tomatoes and fat-free mozzarella while you make long lists of must-see tourist attractions for tomorrow.”
“Ravello! Which is the best place ever. I don’t think anybody has ever heard of fat-free cheese over here, either. Are you familiar with Maxfield Parrish’s paintings?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Ravello is like those paintings.” Regina lowered her voice. “I’ve met a man.”
“Those are the four most dangerous words any other woman could say…especially if he’s an Italian. But then you’re you, so he’s probably smart, ambitious…”
“He’s not! But don’t worry, this isn’t serious. He’s absolutely gorgeous, the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. But…”
“But what? With you, when it comes to your men, there always has to be a but.”
For a long moment, Regina hesitated. She almost regretted calling Lucy.
“But? I’m waiting!”
“I—I think he might be a gigolo.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Regina remained silent.
“That is such a cliché. And not a good one. Not for you! You’ve got to come home now! You’ve definitely been over there too long. You were supposed to relax, enjoy good food, art, pretty scenery, visit your grandmother in Tuscany….”
“I think the art may be part of the problem. The sculptures here are so erotic.”
“Pay him and then drive straight to the airport,” Lucy ordered.
“But he’s so hot. I feel like I’m burning up.”
“Did he slip something in your drink?”
“No!”
“Don’t do it! This is all because Bobby said you were uptight and frigid and because you were pushing yourself at work way too hard. You don’t have to prove you’re a hottie in disguise. You don’t! Now you know you called me because you wanted to hear the voice of reason.”
No, Regina had called Lucy because she’d wanted to share something that felt important.
“I think I’ve been having doubts about E-321. I think Italy has made insemination just seem way too impersonal. I’m not you, you know. I can…be with a man.”
“We talked about this, girlfriend. E-321 has gone through numerous screenings…. Use a condom with this Italian fellow if you don’t come to your senses! What do you know about him except he’s hot and that he charges gullible women like you a bundle for the pleasure of his body? I would think there would be plenty of free, horny Italians over there.”
“Not like him.”
Even three stories below her, Nico’s tall, dark figure in jeans and a white shirt radiated power, assurance and masculinity. And something more.
When he looked up and smiled warmly, her breath caught in her throat.
She waved, as thrilled as a high-school girl with her first crush.
“I—I feel this weird, totally powerful connection to him.”
“And you haven’t even had your first orgasm! Not good. Run for your life! This is not a good thing.”
“But it feels like a good thing.”
“This is very, very bad.”
Regina’s cell phone began to beep. She saw Susana’s name. Her flaky baby sister, who didn’t have a digital gene in her body, never called her.
The name Susana flashed in bold blue.
“Oh, my God! Today’s the day the twins are being christened. Susana’s calling me! She’s actually calling me—in Italy! I’ve gotta go! I totally forgot to call Susana!”
“One word! Airplane!”
“I’ll call you right back.”
“That sounds like a plan!”
Regina punched a button and took Susana’s call. There was a loud wail on Susana’s end, which meant either Regina’s niece, Gina, who’d been named after her, or one of her twin nephews was unhappy.
“Hi, there,” Regina said, feeling guilty. “How was the christening?”
“It’s you! It’s really you! Gina, she answered! I can’t believe I really got you…on my fourth try even! All the way to Italy. Not that you know where that is, Gina, sweetie!”
“How’s the christening going?”
“Everybody’s here…except you.”
Regina’s guilt deepened.
“We’re all out in the backyard. It’s so hot. But you know Daddy. He had to grill. Mama’s hovering to make sure he doesn’t burn the steaks like he did last time. She keeps saying maybe you’ll meet a man in Italy. She’s still upset that you dumped Bobby. She hasn’t given up on you meeting an Italian even though we all know that’s not why you went. Don’t tell her I told you, but she made me call you. She even dialed. She wants to know if the love bug has bitten.”
Regina stared down at the extraordinarily good-looking man on the terrace and then swallowed. “Right.”
“It has?”
“No!”
“She’ll be so disappointed. She was sure Italy would do the trick.”
Regina swallowed, her throat feeling extremely dry all of a sudden.
“Gosh, I miss you,” Susana said. “Gina asks about you every single day. When are you coming home?”
“Three days.”
“Gina’s crying her head off. She wants you here. We all do. Especially since Daddy just said the most awful thing to her.”
“What did he say?”
“I don’t know what gets into him. I quote, ‘Now that we’ve got two new cute baby boys, we don’t need you anymore.’”
Oh! “He didn’t! Not again!”
“Again?”
“Nothing.”
Nothing…only…
Time whirled backward. Instantly, Regina was transported to the day when a darling, bald Susana had been brought home from the hospital in a flurry of parental excitement. Flushed with pride at being a big sister at last, three-year-old Regina had run to the baby carrier.
Her father had knelt, and she’d climbed into his lap and had thrown her arms around him.
They say you don’t remember things when you’re three, but they’re wrong. His words had been like poisoned darts wounding her soul.
Now that I’ve got a new, cute daughter, I don’t need you anymore.
Regina had backed away from him, and he’d picked up Susana.
“Why don’t we sing ‘Rock-a-bye Baby’?”
Regina had raced to her own room and had hidden in her closet. Ever since, she’d been jealous of her sister and had doubted her father’s love. Instead of abating with maturity, her dark feelings had grown more intense since Susana had married Joe and had given birth to her precious trio.
Her father didn’t care about any of Regina’s accomplishments. All he could talk about was Susana and the grandchildren. Not that Regina wasn’t smitten by the children herself. Not that she didn’t hate herself sometimes for feeling the way she did.
The green monster, especially when it involved a sister, had to be one of the most hatefully twisted feelings ever.
“Put Gina on,” Regina whispered, biting her lips.
Gina’s racking sobs got so loud Regina had to hold the phone away from her ear.
The poor, poor darling.
“Gina. It’s Aunt Reggie. Listen to me, sweetheart. Papaw loves you. He was just teasing.”
“I hate the baby brothers!”
Regina remembered all the times she’d felt as though she’d hated Susana just for being cute and petite and blond and adored, when Regina had been beanpole skinny in middle school. Not to mention flat-chested and too tall for all the boys.
“No, you’re a good big sister. You love your little brothers. Dino and David need a good big sister. Papaw is being a bad Papaw! He does that sometimes. Everybody has a weak moment once in a while.”
“Bad Papaw!”
“You’re beautiful and adorable! Everybody loves you, darling. Especially me.”
“And Pawpa?”
“And Pawpa,” Regina said, even though she’d always secretly believed that once Susana had been born, he hadn’t really needed his oldest daughter anymore.
“I love you, Aunt Reggie! Chocolate cake! Bye!”
“They’re about to cut the cake,” Susana said. “She’s just like you when it comes to chocolate. Just like you in so many ways.”
“You know I’m her biggest fan.”
“I’m just glad I caught you.”
“Me, too. Kiss all your darling children for me. I’ve missed them so much. I’ve bought two suitcases full of clothes and toys for them.”
“Joe says hi.”
Joe. Regina chewed on her bottom lip. What if Joe had married her? And she’d had children?
Susana hung up.
Her eyes misting, Regina couldn’t stop thinking about her father and the hole he’d carved in her heart.
Now that I’ve got a new, cute daughter, I don’t need you anymore.
For a long time, she stared at the dark gulf and the huge white yacht in the harbor.
Before Susana, her father had adored her. Regina had worked hard in an attempt to regain her number-one position in paradise. Always, always, she’d had to be a high-achiever, hoping against hope. But it hadn’t worked.
Susana had been charming and flaky, intuitive as she put it, and so adorable that nobody minded her bad grades or lateness. They hadn’t cared when she’d dropped out of college to marry Joe Hunt. Or even noticed that she’d stolen Joe from Regina, and Regina had been brokenhearted.
He’d been gifted, too. Law Review. Killer work ethic. He’d been her beloved boyfriend, but the moment he’d set eyes on Susana, the numerous things he’d had in common with Regina hadn’t mattered anymore.
Too bad for Regina that Joe had been the only man she’d ever really loved.
Everybody in the family thought she was over him.
And she’d told herself constantly that she was. Just as she’d told herself that all her orgasms with Bobby had been real, too.
She didn’t want to think about the fact that Nico was tall and dark and looked a little like Joe.

“Did you call Viola?”
Nico frowned. His mother, Principessa Donna Gloriana Lucia Romano—to mention only a few of her illustrious names and only one of her numerous titles—whose close friends called her Glory, was speaking Italian to him over his cell phone and quite rapidly, of course. Not that she liked Italian.
She’d been educated in Paris because her mother, Nico’s grandmother, with whom Princess Gloriana was bitterly estranged, had had a French mother and had preferred all things French.
Both Nico’s grandmother and mother loved the French language more than any other, but he preferred Italian or English, so his mother was humoring him. Because, as always, unlike Grand-mère, who wanted only his happiness, his ambitious mother wanted something from him.
“Not yet,” he said.
“Nico, tesorino, why do you keep putting this off?”
“Maybe it’s my gypsy blood.”
She ignored his comment. She never liked being reminded that their original ancestor had been a gypsy king.
“You did promise to call the Principessa Donna Viola Eugenia di Frezano today when we lunched,” she said. “You did say that you’d court her and that you’d ask for her hand in marriage as soon as possible.”
“I did. And I will. You have instructed me as to my duty for my entire life. Have I ever failed in my duty?”
The silence between them was suddenly filled with tension.
“You know that the two families have already talked, that the marriage is practically arranged.”
Of course, he knew. It would have already happened if he hadn’t been dragging his feet—grieving. His heart was in the grave, as the saying went.
“You know that today marks…”
“I know,” she said, trying to sound sympathetic. “But it’s been two years.”
His family and the family of his intended, Viola, were modern aristocrats with lineages dating back nearly a thousand years. Both families valued influence, power and money above all. Next, they counted culture, pedigree and tradition, not to mention titles—the grander and more illustrious, the better.
Nico’s parents, who’d left much of his upbringing in the hands of countless nannies, tutors and chauffeurs, had taken the time to teach him and his sister that what really mattered was money, power and luxury, in that order. Personal wishes were to be sacrificed to strengthen the family.
A young man’s dalliances with different types of women, even actresses, were regarded as necessary, perhaps even a healthy diversion. Even after marriage, such playing around was tolerated, although not advisable.
But one did not marry just anyone.
“You’re thirty-five,” his mother reminded him again, just as she had this morning when they’d driven along the narrow roads high above the coastline. “It’s time you settled down…again.”
“I did settle down.”
“She’s dead. You’re alive.”
Was he? Every time the paparazzi caught him with another beautiful actress, the tabloids referred to him as the merry widower. But they didn’t know about the guilt that tore at him over his treatment of Simonetta. How could they, when he’d been blind to what was in his heart until a month before Simonetta had died? At her death, love had overflowed inside him until he’d felt as though he were drowning.
“The principessa is very beautiful,” his mother said.
“Like a jewel with icy fire.”
“Without power and money, Nico, titles are meaningless. She has much to recommend her.”
“So you’ve told me—countless times.”
“You are a prince.”
“A lamentable fact that overly complicates my life.”
“With great privilege comes responsibility. You must marry well and behave responsibly to remain a prince. You must think of your children, of future generations. Our position has never been more fragile than it is in these modern times. Love, if one is lucky, comes after marriage. You loved Simonetta, didn’t you?”
“I was lucky. Lightning will not strike twice in the same place.” Annoyed by his mother, he drew a long breath. Somehow, he resisted the impulse to snap the phone shut. “Please, let’s not talk about Simonetta.”
“My poor tesorino.”
His mother believed grief and all emotions were luxuries for people like them. After World War II, the Romanos had lost ten castles and nearly a million acres to the Russians. The family had prospered since the war by marrying well and diversifying their business interests. They had vast holdings in the Americas, many of which Nico managed.
Still, Viola’s family had fared better in the past century and was much richer than his. His mother had begun courting Viola’s parents at Simonetta’s funeral.
“I understand that the match with Viola would be an exceedingly advantageous one for the family,” he said. “But does everything really have to be about money?”
“Of course not, tesorino. But Viola is very beautiful, is she not? She is not an ogre. You will fall in love with her.”
Nico frowned. As always, his mother had the worst possible timing. Because of Cara, he wished now he’d been more evasive on the subject of Viola when they’d lunched today at the family’s summer palazzo.
He had no taste for marriage. It was too soon. Two hellish years ago he’d lost not only Simonetta but their unborn son, as well, when the brakes of her car had failed, and she and her chauffeur had plunged off the side of a cliff on the French Riviera.
His and Simonetta’s marriage had been arranged, also, and because Nico had resented having to marry her, he hadn’t realized he’d come to love her in the last months of her life.
Because of his willful stubbornness, their happiness had been too brief.
This time of year filled him with memories and regrets. He’d made her unhappy far longer than he’d made her happy. If only he could go back and make it up to her. But it was too late. His mother was right, in a way. Somehow, he had to find a way to move on.
Inadvertently, his gaze shot to the tall brunette standing high above him on her belvedere.
Guarda, che bella!
She was nothing like his shy, innocent Simonetta. Still, Cara was incredibly exciting. When Grand-mère, naughty Grand-mère, had dropped him off at the beach yesterday afternoon so he could take the tender out to his yacht, Simonetta, to brood, she’d pointed out the girl reading on the bench under the lemon trees. The instant Nico had seen Cara in that short sundress, she’d made him forget his grief. He’d changed his mind about going straight to his yacht.
Simonetta had been small and blond. Cara was tall, dark, more mature and self-assured. Or, at least, he’d thought so at first when she’d set down her book and taken off her glasses to study him.
He’d liked the way Cara’s rich brown hair fell in glossy waves down her slim back. He’d liked the way her coffee-colored eyes burned him, even at a distance. The gardenia in her dark hair was more beautiful than a jewel.
She’d looked excited, as if she were mesmerized by him, too. Simonetta had been so shy in the beginning, so virginal in his bed that he’d found her sometimes childlike. Never had she looked at him with desire as blatant as Cara had shown, even in that first moment. Something told him he wouldn’t have to waste time wooing this woman, that she was already his.
He’d imagined Cara had found out he was staying aboard Simonetta and had been waiting for him. He was used to being chased by celebrity hounds and aggressive fortune hunters, who were after his title and money and a few seconds of fame. Usually he avoided such women.
But Cara had made him forget, so he’d made an exception and had followed her into the bar when she’d run. He’d known he was right about her because she’d left her book on the bench for him to find and return, which he’d done. Then, much to his surprise, after smiling at him and blushing and taking her book, she’d run and vanished into thin air.
Now that he’d found her again, he was in no mood to dwell on his family responsibilities regarding Viola. He wanted to forget Simonetta and Viola. At least for tonight.
“Mother, I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, aware that his voice lacked warmth.
“You won’t forget to call Viola?”
“Ciao,” he whispered, refusing to promise. He told her he loved her and hung up, even though he knew she would not be satisfied with that response.
Before she could call him back, he turned off his cell phone, slid it into his pocket and looked up at Cara again.
Her bright eyes touched his, lingering, her visual caress making him grow hot and hard. Even in her bulky robe, she looked full bosomed and slender hipped. Her dark hair swirled about her face. He’d always preferred blondes, but her rosy cheeks and the ripe lushness of her youthful, dark beauty made her look both innocent and as alluring to him as a siren singing from the fabled rocks.
Was she his siren? After all, this part of the coast was where Homer had placed the sirens whose songs lured men and made them forget their reason.
Was Cara naked underneath the robe? He guessed that she probably was. He looked at her and then looked some more. It was time to strip her of that bulky, unflattering garment and find out.
As he loped toward the elevator, Nico felt a wild stirring of desire. It alarmed him only a little that he was more powerfully attracted to her than he’d ever been to any other woman.
He was a prince. The blood of warriors who’d conquered lands, seizing anything and anyone they wanted, especially women, flowed in his veins. His ancestors had a history of discarding such prizes when they tired of them.
He wanted her. He would use her to forget the past and its sorrows, to forget the future, as well.
Tomorrow he would call his mother and promise to woo and wed the beautiful Viola.
Tonight belonged to Cara.

Three
Nico had a key, but he knocked before letting himself in. “Cara?”
His deep voice echoed in the tall-ceilinged bedroom. Then she ran in from the belvedere.
“Sorry about the call,” he said, smiling because she was so lovely.
Cara hung back in the doorway. She was holding a rectangular frame, a painting, it appeared, which she set down on a chest. Flushing, she lashed the tie around her waist so that the robe fit more snugly.
“It’s fine,” she said. “I had a couple of calls to make, too.” She pushed a long strand of brown hair behind her ear.
Oh, how adorable she was.
“I was out sightseeing all day and couldn’t call my family earlier. I missed a christening.”
When he saw the painting, his grandmother’s painting, his painting, his brows shot together. Not for the first time, his grandmother had gone too far. With great effort he kept his face neutral.
“Christening?”
“My sister’s twin boys.”
He forced his attention from the painting. “So, how is Italy as a tourist destination?”
“Perfect.” She swallowed. “I took an entire smart card full of pictures.”
“Perfect. And soon to get better,” he murmured, sliding a finger against the light switch, dimming the lights. “Good thing you can’t take any more pictures.”
“Oh, I have another smart card.”
When she lingered by the French doors for a few more seconds, he regretted dimming the lights.
She was losing her nerve. He stepped soundlessly across the tile floor to her.
Her hesitation appealed to him. Aggressive women often annoyed him.
With the lights low, the room with its painted ceiling and gilt furniture was full of shadows. The last of the sunlight came from behind her, so he couldn’t see her face clearly.
He didn’t touch her at first, and neither of them spoke. But her dark eyes burned him and made him aware of the tension in his own body. He needed to take her to bed and make love to her as soon as possible.
Her eyes widened, and she scanned the room, as if seeking an avenue of escape. Afraid she might run, he gathered her into his arms.
“Mistake,” she whispered, struggling to pull away. “This could be a huge mistake.”
She was right. Especially for him.
What if she threatened to sell her story tomorrow about her night with the prince? He’d been blackmailed before. Not that the family hadn’t hired people to deal with such matters.
“There’s always a risk to everything, isn’t there?” he asked, holding her tightly.
“I suppose. I’m not usually one for risks…with men.”
“You miss a lot of good things, if you never take chances,” he said, lowering his mouth to her cheek. When his lips nuzzled her hairline, she jumped as if his kiss shocked her.
“That’s easy for you to say. The risk is mostly mine though. You do this all the time. With all kinds of women probably. It’s what you do.”
He tensed, not liking the reminder that she knew who he was and had had designs on him.
“You can’t believe everything you read,” he said, assuming she was referring to the tabloids. “My reputation has been wildly exaggerated.”
She went still against him, and he was very aware of how her hips fit his, how the tips of her breasts touched his chest.
“Then you advertise…like an ordinary businessman?”
“Advertise?”
She squeezed her eyes shut and her hands were shaking. “I’m babbling. I do that when I’m nervous.”
Clearly she was starstruck. He’d dealt with that before.
He needed to put her at ease. “I’m not really so different from you,” he said. That wasn’t entirely true, of course. A centuries-old lineage of privilege had a dulling effect on the human spirit. He was not allowed to surrender to his feelings all that often.
“But…”
He didn’t want to argue. “I’m just man, and you’re a woman. We find each other attractive.” He feathered a kiss that was meant to reassure against her brow.
She jumped again.
“What could be more basic or more elemental or honest than a man and a woman and a night like this?” He kissed the tip of her nose, and she gasped.
“You know it’s more complicated than that,” she whispered.
He really didn’t want to argue. Not when she was skittish and rigid in his arms.
He wanted to make love to her badly. She’d chased him and flirted with him for two evenings in a row. He’d thought about her last night for hours. He had to do something, so he kissed her full on the mouth.
She let out a sigh and then a harsh, uneven breath. Funny, how one taste of her was such a shock to his system.
When he deepened the kiss, she began to tremble, as if she were needy and ready, too. Good, she wasn’t immune.
Still, after a kiss or two, she put her fists against his shoulders, and for a moment, he was afraid she intended to push him away. His mouth nibbled hers persuasively and she finally melted against him.
Slowly, ever so slowly, she relaxed her fingers and raised her arms around his neck. He felt wild with relief, and desire filled him when her mouth opened wider.
His tongue explored inside, teasing the tip of hers with his. When she let out another little sigh, sounding like a purr, he shuddered.
His heart sped up. She tasted sweet, and her skin was hot and soft, so hot he was mad, mad to have her. Had he ever been this mad for a woman? Still, remembering how nervous she was, he forced himself to hold her gently and to kiss her softly, lingeringly.
Her fingertips brushed the hair at his neck. “I’ve never done anything like this. I really don’t know what’s come over me. You see, I’m a planner.”
“Me, too.”
“And quite traditional.”
“We have that in common, too,” he whispered.
She smiled. “Are…are most of your women…regulars?”
“Regulars?” He didn’t want to talk about other women.
“Women who are used to doing this sort of thing? Or are they like me? First-timers?”
“Why do you want to talk about other women?”
“Because I’m afraid,” she admitted.
Suddenly, she seemed almost as shy and uncertain as Simonetta.
“Don’t be.”
“Let me go,” she said suddenly.
He stroked her cheek, her throat, coaxing her with his lips and touch to stay in his arms. “As if I could—now. Cara…Cara…. Tesorina. Ciccina.”
Then he kissed her again, long and slowly, until she moaned.
Reluctantly, she pulled away. “So, do I get to be in charge? Do I get to tell you exactly what I want…if I decide to really do this?”
“What?”
What was going on here? One moment, she was as shy as a young doe. The next, she was the aggressor.
American women. They were taught to be so damned independent. Celebrity hound or not, he decided to humor her.
“I’m yours,” he said in a light, teasing tone. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
“For how long?”
“All night,” he said.
“What if I want you tomorrow, too?”
He thought about his mother and Viola. He could always say no to Cara tomorrow.
“That could be arranged.”
“And the next day, too?”
He nodded even though he felt a strange, new tension building between them that he didn’t understand.
“And the next? Both nights, too, of course?”
He was too hot for her to argue.
“I can pretty much clear my calendar. I might have to make a few phone calls though,” he said, thinking of his mother. “Business obligations.”
She blushed and grew thoughtful as her gaze raked him almost possessively. “I understand. Okay.” The word came out like a small sigh, as if she’d been holding her breath. “It’s a deal. And we’ll stay in here for the most part, so people won’t see us. I could see in the bar that you’re well-known locally.”
Not just locally, as surely she knew. “Whatever you want,” he agreed.
“Then I’ll do it. I can’t believe I’m saying this!” Her coffee-colored gaze was intense. “Three nights. And two days. Then I fly home. So, we’re settled on that?”
Again, he nodded, although he felt impatient with all this talk and ridiculous negotiating, not to mention a little concerned about how he would deal with his mother.
“And you’ll really move in here, with me?”
“As I said—whatever you want.”
“You’re being most agreeable. I appreciate that.”
“I try to please.”
“I’m sure you do. I’m beginning to think I should have done something like this for myself a long time ago. I mean, most men are thinking about how a woman can please them…instead of the other way around.”
Some painful emotion flickered in the depths of her dark eyes. She waited, as if she expected something more from him.
“How much?” she finally whispered.
He stared at her.
“I really would think you’d want to get that settled up front.”
“How much what?” he asked, puzzled.
“Don’t get me wrong. You are so sweet, so understanding about how difficult this is for me. And…and I like that. I like it a lot that you’re so discreet and polite and you aren’t pushy about the money. I mean, it’s really sweet of you, especially since I’m a first-timer, and it makes me feel special or like we’re almost friends or this is a real date or something sort of normal…instead of…what it really is. I mean, this is just one more thing about you that makes me feel so…so hot. In fact, I’ve never felt—” She stopped herself. “I’m sorry. I talk too much sometimes…when I’m nervous.”
He’d never been so drawn to a woman, either. Why else was he being so patient with this endless, ridiculous, unfathomable conversation?
His lips barely moved. “Can’t we talk later? If you feel hot and I feel hot, shouldn’t we begin—”
“No. I really do have to know what you charge.”
“Charge?”
For a moment longer he remained baffled, completely so, and then before she said anything else, the true meaning of her words slammed into him.
His grip on her waist tightened. “You think I’m a gigolo,” he said softly.
“And, naturally, I want to know how much you charge for the sex?” Her whisper was raw, her face purple before she lowered her eyes.
She bit her lip savagely. “Do you charge by the hour?” She was fiddling with the sash of her thick robe like someone who was afraid she was in some sort of trouble. “Or do you charge for services? Do you take VISA or cash? I don’t have all that much cash, so maybe we could go to an ATM later.”
She was so embarrassed she couldn’t meet his eyes, but when he couldn’t think of any way to answer her, she continued fiddling with the sash. “I’m a lawyer, and I like to know what I’m getting into…I mean, when it comes to business.”
An ATM!
“So the hell do I.”
He let her go and then jerked away as if she’d slapped him. He strode to the minibar where he opened a little bottle and poured himself a Scotch and water. Studying the golden liquor in the lambent light, he opened a second bottle and splashed more Scotch into his glass. He didn’t bother with ice.
She was watching him, shaken, her dark eyes wide and frightened.
“I didn’t mean to insult you,” she whispered. “I thought you’d want to talk about this.”
“How exactly did you figure out…er…what I do for a living?”
“By watching you with those two older women. The ones who dropped you off. The way they kissed you.”
His mother? His grandmother? His glance flew to the painting his grandmother had done of him when he’d been a child, visiting her for the first time. It was on the tip of his tongue to explain who the women actually were and who he was, when she went on.
“The Ferrari. The Maserati. Really, they gave it away. Not to mention the blonde’s diamonds. I mean, her ring, it must be nine carats.”
Ten. It had been in the family three hundred years.
He swirled the Scotch in his glass.
“The way they kissed you…like they adored you.”
Did she know nothing about the Italian maternal instinct? He had always been his mother’s favorite. His older sister had been pretty sweet about accepting that, most of the time. After all, he was her favorite, too.
“Your ragged clothes compared to hers.”
He loved old, soft, worn clothes. They made him feel free, almost ordinary, not so burdened with who and what he was and all that was expected of him. Naturally, his mother wanted him in Armani.
“I see,” he said. The Scotch burned his throat and set his stomach on fire. “And do you do this often—travel alone and hire gigolos?”
His gaze must have hardened, because she looked away. “No. I told you. Never. Never before! And probably never again! That’s why I don’t really know how to do this.”
“Have you slept with other men in Italy? Men you met in your hotel or at restaurants?”
“No! I told you—you’re the first.”
The Scotch worked swiftly. He felt the beginnings of a much needed buzz. “So, you haven’t read about me? You don’t know who I…”
She studied him, her pretty face charmingly quizzical. “Maybe you do look a little familiar. Maybe I did see one of your ads or something, but magazines and papers are full of ads. I just look at the pictures in Italian magazines. Are you a really famous gigolo or something?”
He nearly choked on his Scotch. “You might be surprised at just how famous.” He couldn’t resist teasing her. “A gigolo to the stars.”
God help him for what he was about to do, but he couldn’t help himself.
“Then we definitely stay in my hotel.”
“I could wear a disguise. I’m quite good at them, you know.”
“I’m sure you have to be…in your line of work.” She laughed nervously.
He smiled. He didn’t want to play games, but this was obviously her fantasy and he wanted her more than ever. Maybe it was the Scotch, but her fantasy was beginning to turn him on, too. A gigolo? A professional who indulged a woman’s secret desires?
“How much?” she said.
His lips tightened. Sober, he wouldn’t have been able to endure this money talk or the fact that she thought he was a gigolo. But the liquor had mellowed him. Not to mention, he was hotter for her than ever.
“How much?”
“You are nothing if not persistent.”
“I’m a lawyer.”
He had a law degree and a business degree. “I know a thing or two about lawyers.” They were pushy and bossy, traits he had not desired in his women—until her.
“Since it’s so important to you, you decide,” he said.
“I keep forgetting. You’re the professional.”
“Right.” He eyed another little Scotch bottle and considered a third shot.
“Since you have all the experience, how could I possibly know what you’re worth?”
“For you,” he began, his voice deliberately husky as he stared into her eyes, “I’ll make a special, one-time deal. Just for you. Pay whatever you feel like. The amount doesn’t matter.”
“Now? Or later?”
“Later. How will you know what I’m worth before you’ve sampled the merchandise?”
“You really are the sweetest gigolo ever.”
“We are trained to please.”
“You went to gigolo school?”
“Stop!” He really did have to have another drink to continue this idiotic conversation.
This time he threw ice cubes into his glass. Then he opened a third little bottle, poured the shot and downed it in a single gulp.
“One more thing—”
Hell. “What now?”
“I’m sort of a health nut…”
“You want me to use a condom? No problem.”
“No…I…don’t know how to say this.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
“I…I was wondering about Italy’s health guidelines. I mean, for gigolos.”
Oh, God.
Afraid he’d give himself away, he glanced out the window. “You may be assured…er…that I am extremely discerning about my women…er…I mean, my clients. Extremely discerning. I always use a condom. The very best grade, naturally. Then I go to the doctor every sixty days for a thorough examination. Blood tests. The works. I would go more often, if I thought it was necessary. My client list is extremely exclusive.”
He set his glass down, determined to end this ridiculous conversation. “Do you need documents, or are you satisfied?”
“Not quite yet.” She lowered her lashes and tried not to look at the bed. “But I’m sure I will be soon, now that we have all these obnoxious little business details out of the way.”
“I’ve never had a complaint,” he murmured drily.
Finally. He set down his glass and pulled her into his arms again.
She closed her eyes.
Finally.

Four
Nico liked the way a faint tremor passed through Regina’s body when his arm circled her shoulders and he cradled her close. He liked the way her pulse began to beat madly when he slipped his hand beneath her hair and pressed his mouth to her throat.
“I could still say no, pay you and call this crazy thing off,” she whispered.
“But you don’t want to do that, do you?”
“Not at all.”
He lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them one by one as he’d done at the bar. As he gently sucked their tips, she shuddered.
He slid a fingertip inside her robe and very slowly pushed it aside a fraction of an inch. “What do you want?” he murmured against her earlobe.
His hand coaxed the thick terry off her shoulder, and she gasped.
“You mean, I get to tell you what I want?”
“You hired me, remember. That was our agreement. I mean…er…bargain. Do you like it straight…or kinky?”
“Kinky? I…I…I’m not sure I know or want to know what you mean by that.”
He laughed. “So what do you want?”
“I…I want you to undress me and then give me a massage and then maybe make love to me very, very slowly.”
“I can’t wait,” he whispered.
He heard her breath catch even before his hand found the terry-cloth tie at her waist and he unthreaded it all the way. He slid the robe off her shoulders, and it tumbled in a heap to the tile floor.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/ann-major/the-amalfi-bride/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.