The Ice Prince. Sandra Marton

double the pleasure of screaming kids trying their best to drive everyone within earshot to infanticide?

      One of the flight attendants had taken pity on her and switched her to a vacant seat. To the only vacant seat.

      Unfortunately, it was right near the lavatories.

      By the time the plane touched down, Anna had smelled like whatever it was they piped into those coffin-sized closets.

      Or maybe worse.

      In essence, flying coach was like life. It wasn’t always pretty, but you did what you had to do.

      And what she had to do right now, Anna told herself briskly, was find a way to review her notes in whatever time her cranky old laptop would give her.

      At last. The door to the plane was just ahead. She stepped through and somehow managed not to snarl when a flight attendant greeted her with a smiling “Buona notte.”

      It wasn’t the girl’s fault she looked as if she’d just stepped out of a magazine ad. Anna, on the other hand, knew she looked as if she had not slept or fixed her hair or her makeup in days.

      Come to think of it, she hadn’t.

      Her father had dumped his problem on her twenty-four hours ago and she had not slowed her pace since then. A long-scheduled speech to a class of would-be lawyers at Columbia University, her alma mater. Two endless meetings. A court appearance, a desperate juggling of her schedule followed by a taxi ride to the airport through rush-hour Manhattan traffic, only to learn that her flight was delayed and that no, she could not upgrade her seat even though she’d realized during the taxi ride that she had to do so if she wasn’t going to walk into the meeting in Rome without a useful idea in her head.

      And on top of everything, that—that inane confrontation with that man …

      There he was.

      The plane was an older one, which meant the peasants had to shuffle through first and business class to get to coach. It gave her the wonderful opportunity to see him in seat 5A—all, what, six foot two, six foot three of him sitting in 5A, arms folded, long legs outstretched, with 5B conspicuously, infuriatingly empty.

      Her jaw knotted.

      She wanted to say something to him. Something that would show him what she thought of him, of men like him who thought they owned the world, thought women were meant to fall at their feet along with everybody else, but she’d already tried that and look where it had gotten her.

      And, almost as if he’d heard her thoughts, he turned his head and looked right at her.

      His eyes darkened. The thick lashes fell. Rose. His eyes got even darker. Darker, and focused on her face.

      On her mouth.

      His lips curved in a slow, knowing smile. Remember me? that smile said. Remember that kiss?

      Anna felt her cheeks turn hot.

      His smile tilted, became an arrogant, blatantly male grin.

      She wanted to wipe it from his face.

      But she wouldn’t.

      She wouldn’t.

      She wouldn’t, she told herself, and she tore her gaze from his and marched past him, through first class, through business class, into the confines of coach where the queue ground to a halt as people ahead searched for space in the crowded overhead bins and stepped on toes as they shoehorned themselves into their designated seats.

      “Excuse me,” Anna said, “sorry, coming through, if I could just get past you, sir …”

      At last she found her row and found, too, with no great surprise, that there was no room in the overhead bin for her carry-on. Which was worse? That she had to go four more seats to the rear before she found a place where she could jam it into a bin, or that she had to fight her way back like a salmon swimming upstream?

      Or that the guy in the window seat bore a scary resemblance to Hannibal the cannibal, and the woman on the aisle was humming. No discernible melody. Just a steady, low humming. Like a bee.

      Anna took a deep breath.

      “Excuse me,” she said brightly, and she squeezed past the hummer’s knees, tried not to notice that part of Hannibal’s thigh was going to be sharing her space, shoved her bulging briefcase under the seat in front of her and folded her hands in her lap.

      It was going to be a very long night.

      At 30,000 feet, after the usual announcement that it was okay to use electronic devices, she hoisted the briefcase into her lap, opened it, took out her laptop, put down the foldout tray, plunked the machine on it and tapped the power button.

      The computer hummed.

      Or maybe it was the woman on the aisle. It was hard to tell.

      The computer booted. The screen came alive. Wasting no time, Anna searched for and found the file she needed. Clicked on it and, hallelujah, there it was, the most recent document, a letter from Prince Draco Marcellus Valenti to her father.

      The name made her snort.

      So did the letter.

      It was as stiffly formal as that ridiculous name and title, wreathed in the kind of hyperbole that would have made a seventeenth-century scribe proud.

      One reading, and she knew what the prince would be like.

      Old. Not just old. Ancient. White hair growing from a pink scalp. Probably growing out of his ears, too. She could almost envision his liver-spotted hands clutching an elaborate cane. No, not a cane. He’d never call it that. A walking stick.

      In other words, a man out of touch with life, with reality, with the modern world.

      Anna smiled. This might turn out to be interesting. Anna Versus the Aristocrat. Heck, it sounded like a movie—

       Blip.

      Her computer screen went dark.

      “No,” she whispered, “no …”

      “Yup,” Hannibal said cheerfully. “You’re outta juice, little lady.”

      Hell. Little lady? Anna glared at him. What she was, was out of patience with the male of the species … but Hannibal was only stating the obvious.

      Why dump her anger on him?

      Sure, she was ticked off by what had happened in the lounge, but her mood had been sour even before that.

      It had all started on Sunday, after dinner at the Orsini mansion in Little Italy. Anna’s mother had phoned the previous week to invite her.

      “I can’t come, Mom,” Anna had said. “I have an appointment.”

      “You have not been here in weeks.” Sofia’s tone of reprimand had taken Anna straight back to childhood. “Always, you have an excuse.”

      It was true. So Anna had sighed and agreed to show up. After the meal her father had insisted on walking her to the front door, but when they were about to pass his study, he’d stopped, jerked his head to indicate that Freddo, his capo and ever-present shadow, should step aside.

      “A word with you alone, mia figlia,” he’d said to Anna.

      Reluctantly she’d let Cesare lead her into the study. He’d sat down behind his massive oak desk, motioned her to take a seat, looked at her for a long moment and then cleared his throat.

      “I need a favor of you, Anna.”

      “What kind of favor?” she’d said warily.

      “A very important one.”

      Anna had stared at him. A favor? For the father she pretended to respect for the sake of her mother but, in reality, despised? He was a crime boss. Don of the feared East Coast famiglia.

      Cesare