Roman Spring. Sandra Marton

as coldly disdainful as any she’d ever seen.

      “Perhaps you did not understand me, signore,” her rescuer said, very softly. “Is there some difficulty here?”

      “No, no, there’s no difficulty at all,” the other man said in a voice that was just a shade too affable. “The little lady and I were just talkin’ about where to have dinner.” He looked at Caroline and grinned. “Isn’t that right, darlin’?”

      The blue eyes swept to hers; that cool, glittering stare held her transfixed.

      “Is that correct, signorina?”

      Caroline looked back at him and suddenly she thought of an old fable, the one in which a traveler had to choose which of two doors to open, knowing that behind one lay safety while behind the other crouched a tawny black-and-gold tiger.

      “Signorina?” The man’s mouth twisted. “If you are planning to spend the evening with this gentleman, you have only to say so.”

      “I already told you she was, pal.” The American became bolder, his hand sliding up Caroline’s arm. His fingers were sweaty, his touch proprietorial, and all at once she wrenched free and turned to the man who’d come to her assistance.

      “No,” she said quickly, “I’ve no wish to have dinner with this—this person.”

      “You will if you want to keep your job,” the American said sharply, all pretense at good humor gone from his voice. “We all know how this racket works and—”

      “Yes. We do.” The Italian’s blue eyes slipped to Caroline’s face again; for an instant, she saw something more deadly than disdain in their depths, and she thought again of the coiled black-and-gold power of the tiger. “Which is why the lady has already promised me the pleasure of her company tonight. Isn’t that so, signorina?”

      Her mouth dropped open. “I—I—”

      “There is no need to be shy, signorina,” he said coldly. “Business is business, after all. Surely this—gentleman—understands that a prior commitment must take precedence over his needs tonight.”

      Caroline flushed. He had ridden to her rescue like a knight on a white charger and now he was insulting her. Well, he could just take his insults and his offers of assistance and—

      “Caroline.” She spun around. Arturo Silvio, the modeling agency’s Milan chieftain, was bustling across the floor toward her. He was smiling, but there was no mistaking the harsh displeasure in his eyes. “I see you caught the attention of two of our most important guests. Mr. Jefferson—how are all those stores in Texas doing? And Prince Sabatini.” His smile became even more unctuous. “What a great honor to see you here tonight, sir. Is the Princess with you, perhaps?”

      The Prince smiled thinly. “Why else would I be here?”

      Silvio’s smile never wavered. “Of course. I see you’ve met one of our loveliest girls. Caroline, dear—”

      “Model.” Caroline had spoken without thinking. All three men turned toward her. Her eyes lifted to Nicolo Sabatini’s and, for a brief instant, she saw something beyond disdain shine in their deep blue depths. Amusement. Yes, she thought furiously, it was amusement! Her chin lifted in defiance. “I prefer to be referred to as a model, Signor Silvio.”

      “How delightful, Caroline,” the agency head said through his teeth. “Charm, beauty—and spirit, as well.”

      “What you ought to do is teach these girls some manners,” the American muttered crossly.

      This time, the Prince’s amusement was obvious. “Excellent advice,” he said pleasantly, “especially since it comes from such a paragon of good behavior.”

      “Listen here, Prince—”

      “Your Excellency, please—”

      Sabatini held up his hand. “I am certain you gentlemen can entertain each other. As for the lady—she had already made her choice. She and I were about to have a glass of champagne.” He looked at Caroline and gave her a smile that never reached his eyes. “Isn’t that right, signorina?”

      No, Caroline thought, of course it isn’t right. Why would she want to go with this man? His insults had been no less cutting than the American’s, they’d just been delivered with more urbanity.

      “Signorina?” Sabatini offered her his arm. “Some champagne?” His polite smile did nothing to diminish the flat ultimatum in his eyes. Come with me, he was telling her, or accept the consequences.

      And the consequences made her shudder. She had no wish to be left stranded with the horrible Mr. Jefferson nor with the oily Signor Silvio. As for Prince Nicolo Sabatini—his intentions were certainly not honorable. It wasn’t just the way he’d looked at her; it was more complex than that. Men, especially those with money and power, often saw women as either good or bad. There wasn’t much question into which category an Italian blue blood would place a long-legged American blonde living and working far from the protection of home and family.

      But what did that matter? Surely only the most decadent of aristocrats would make a play for another woman while his wife was in the same room. Sabatini was only setting things up for another time. He had, apparently, seen the Texan making an unwanted play for her and he’d come to her rescue so that he could put her in his debt for a future evening.

      He’d made a mistake in judgment, but that was his problem, not hers.

      “Caroline.” Silvio’s smile strained at his teeth. “His Excellency is waiting for you, my dear.”

      Caroline tossed back her head, curved her lips into the same sort of bright smile she wore on the catwalk, and took Sabatini’s outstretched arm.

      “Thank you, Your Excellency,” she said. “Champagne sounds lovely.”

      He smiled coolly, gave a nod in the general direction of the other two men, and set off across the ballroom with Caroline in tow. People glanced at them as they went by; the ugly little scene they’d played out had not gone un-noticed. A woman’s laughter rang out and Caroline flushed and tried to quicken her step, but the man beside her would not match it.

      “Slowly,” he said. “There’s no need to run.”

      “Everyone’s looking at us,” she hissed.

      “Indeed.” His voice was curt. “And what would you expect them to do, signorina? They have just witnessed a performance as good as the one you gave on the catwalk.”

      She gave him a quick, angry glance, just enough to see that his mouth was thinned with displeasure.

      “If you didn’t want to be part of my ‘performance,’” she said sharply, “you should have kept out of it.”

      “Perhaps I should have. But it is too late now for regrets, and so we will take our time.”

      “Doesn’t it bother you that people are staring?”

      He laughed. “Do I look as though I care, signorina?”

      Caroline glanced up at him again. No, damn him, he did not. He looked like a man with nothing more on his mind than reaching the bar on the far side of the room—and yet she could feel a tension in the muscle of his arm, see it in the set of his mouth.

      “Besides, it is you they look at, signorina.” He gave her a quick, chill smile. “But then, that is what you want them to do, isn’t it?”

      She flushed. “If you mean I want them to look at my gown, you’re correct.”

      “The gown, yes.” His mouth twisted with distaste. “And the body beneath, which you display to such obvious advantage.”

      They had reached the bar. Caroline took her hand carefully from his and looked at him.

      “Thank you for your help, Prince,”