Bought With The Italian's Ring. Tara Pammi

before her bottom kissed the black-and-white marble floor. His muscular forearms brushed the undersides of her breasts, pushing them up. A burst of heat filled her lower belly.

      Pia clung to him, her breath in disarray. It was too much sensation, too raw.

      Slowly, gently, as if she were a newborn calf, he turned her around. In a movement that was as fluid as it was economic, he knelt in front of her.

      Her heart pounded.

      A pin could have dropped in the ballroom and it would have been an explosion.

      His trousers stretched tight over his thighs, his austere face raised to her, he cradled her foot in a tender clasp. A lock of his thick black hair fell forward on his forehead. Those dark eyes moved over her face, down her throat, where her pulse pounded violently, to the sight of the upper curves of her meager breasts plumped into fullness by the bodice.

      A tightness emerged in his face.

      Tilting his head down, he placed her right foot on his left thigh. The tips of her fingers rested on his shoulders and she felt the muscles there shift and clench.

      With uncharacteristic malice, she hoped the pointed heel would bruise his rock-hard flesh.

      His fingers unbuckled the small belt of her sandal with a nimble touch. He plucked the heel off her foot, and fingers wrapped around her bare flesh.

      Pia flinched as pain and awareness mingled, spreading up from her ankle.

      His nostrils flared, his mouth pinching into a stiff line. Long fingers rubbed the small ridge the strap had dug into her skin. Back and forth, softly, slowly, until a soft moan—a raw, unrestrained sound—fell from her mouth.

      Holding her gaze, he touched her more boldly, more purposefully.

      A strange, forbidden craving released in her lower belly, warmth pooling there. Her heart beat in rhythm to those fingers. When he moved one finger upward, almost reaching her knee, Pia jerked her foot back.

      And then, because of the uneven balance, toppled onto him.

      With a curse, he caught her. But he was still so tall that when she fell, his face was buried scandalously against her belly. The warmth of his breath against her soft muscles set off such a deep clench in her sex that Pia whimpered.

      His hands on her waist, he gave her a gentle nudge. Her entire body was a shivering, needy pulse. Pia looked down at his hands. “Let me go.”

      He shrugged those broad shoulders, an innocent look in his eyes. “You will fall if I let you go.”

      This man was dangerous. What he so easily made her feel—this hitch of her breath, this nervous knot in her belly, the warmth unspooling in every muscle—every forbidden sensation was dangerous.

      This time, instead of putting her foot on his thigh, she put her hand on his shoulder, balanced herself and shed her other sandal. Then she picked them up with her left hand, muttered a rushed thanks at his shoulder and straightened.

      She moved no more than a couple of steps when he stood in front of her again. “It is not the stroke of midnight yet, so surely it is not time for you to disappear, is it?”

      Pia faced him, still shuddering after that intimate slide against him. Hard and lean and unforgiving, his body had left an imprint on hers. “You’re no prince. More like the devil.”

      A white smile flashed in his dark face.

      Pia sighed. The man’s will was unbending. Her feet hurt, her head was throbbing, she really was tired. But of course, her grandfather’s godson had come to the ball with an agenda.

      He turned her around with his hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her to the center of the dance floor. One arrogant nod of his head and the orchestra began playing a classical waltz.

      One large hand spanned her waist while the other clasped her fingers. Her body stretched tight and stiff to resist gliding against his. For a few minutes, they moved around the floor seamlessly, yet she couldn’t relax, couldn’t muster a single calm breath. His scent weaved around her. He was hard and lean everywhere she touched him.

      “My ego would suffer if I didn’t already know that you are just as stiff and awkward with other men,” he whispered against her ear while his arm rested around her waist.

      Pia found herself sinking into the depths of those black eyes. She was plain and awkward, yes, but no coward. “I’m sure I could hardly dent that humongous ego.”

      His laughter, a deep, husky sound startled the life out of her.

      Of course, graceful dancer that he was, he didn’t let his own steps falter.

      Long fingers fluttered near the underside of her breast making Pia aware of every inch of her skin. “Tell me about yourself.” For all her supposed resistance, he had somehow pulled her closer. On a side step, her hip rubbed against his thigh. Pia shivered. “About your dreams and aspirations,” he continued, as if he felt nothing of the torture he put her through. As if he felt nothing period. “Maybe your favorite ice cream or your favorite Italian designer. Or what you’re planning to ask Gio to give you for your birthday present.”

      “Birthday present?”

      “You know, to make up for all the years he missed. A yacht? Are you fond of sailing? A condo in Venice?”

      “I’ve no idea—”

      Another turn around the hall, but this time with the sensation of his palm covering her upper back. She couldn’t take much more of this heightened awareness. “How old are you?”

      “Twenty-three.”

      “Quite an accomplishment for one so young.”

      Her body was so aware of him that her mind couldn’t grapple with the intent in his words. “Please, stop. Just stop. I’m not...good at this.”

      His thumb traced the veins over the back of her hand almost absently. “What is the this that you’re not good at?”

      “Dealing with men like you. Playing ridiculous games. I’m not like other women you probably know. I’m nothing like the women I know.”

      His gaze swept over the tiara in her hair, the diamonds at her throat. “I would say you’re doing just fine. From everything I see, you have Giovanni wrapped around your finger.”

      “I don’t know how to decipher your words. I don’t understand why you’re determined to make a spectacle of me in this crowd. I don’t know why you’re—”

      Her attraction to Gio’s godson was the last thing she needed. Especially when, clearly, he bore no goodwill toward her.

      A finger under her chin, he tilted her face up to look at him. The stark beauty of him hit her hard again. “Why I’m what?”

      “Why you’re even touching me like this... I don’t know why I’m reacting to you like this. Why my heart is beating so hard I feel like it might rip out of my chest. Why there’s this...” His eyes flared and Pia caught the words that were bent on pouring out of her mouth. “And why you’re so intent on proving that you affect me like that even as your eyes are full of contempt.”

      His mouth lost that cynical curve; his eyes became searching, intent. It seemed she had finally shocked him.

      His hold gentled and Pia slipped away. The marble floor was cold against her bare feet reminding her she had left her heels behind.

      But she was no more Cinderella than Raphael Mastrantino was a prince.

      * * *

      Raphael ran a finger along his collar, his body humming with awareness, with unspent energy as if he were a randy youth.

      His attraction to Pia—instant and all consuming—defied logic. She was not beautiful, not in the conventional sense, not sophisticated for all her dress and jewelry—and yet there was something irresistibly alluring about her.