The Ice Prince. Sandra Marton

be at the sight of him ….

      Maybe not.

      She was staring at him as if he were an apparition. If he’d given it any thought, and he hadn’t, he’d have known his sudden appearance would take her by surprise.

      Well, it had.

      But the look on her face, the shock and amazement, told him that she was a woman people rarely took by surprise.

      That he’d done so was a bonus.

      He could see her struggling for words. That was nice to see, too. She certainly hadn’t been at a loss for words earlier … except when he’d kissed her ….

      And that kiss had as little to do with this as the color of her eyes. This was a matter of human decency. Nothing more and nothing less.

      “Sorry to have awakened you,” he said politely.

      She sat up straight and tugged down her skirt, which had ridden halfway up her thighs.

      They were good thighs.

      Actually, they were great.

      Firm. Smooth. Lightly tanned to a sort of gilded bronze. Was she that color all over? Her hips. Her belly. Her breasts …

      Damnit, he thought, and when he spoke again his tone had gone from polite to brusque.

      “I said I’m sorry to have—”

      “I wasn’t asleep.”

      Probably not. Who could sleep, jammed between a woman who looked like a ticking time bomb’s worth of neuroses and a guy with a look about him that reminded Draco of some movie character he couldn’t place.

      “And what are you doing here?”

      Draco cleared his throat. This wasn’t going quite the way he’d anticipated.

      “I, ah, I’ve changed my mind.”

      “About what?”

      Dio, was she going to make this difficult?

      “About the seat. If you want it, it’s yours.”

      Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

      Her tone was flat. Sarcastic. Was she playing to their audience? The guy to her right and the woman to her left were both watching him with the intensity of people viewing an accident on a highway.

      So much for doing the right thing, Draco thought grimly, and met her slitted stare with one of his own.

      “Why?” he snapped. “Because, fool that I am, I thought you might still prefer a first-class seat to—to this!”

      “What’s wrong with this?” the woman next to her demanded, and Draco threw up his hands and started back up the aisle.

      “Wait!”

      The cry carried after him. It was her, the blonde with more attitude than any one person, male or female, could possibly need.

      A smart man would have kept walking, but Draco had already proved to himself that he wasn’t being terribly smart tonight, so he stopped, folded his arms, turned …

      And saw her hurrying toward him, that ridiculously lumpy briefcase swinging from one shoulder.

      Despite himself, his mouth twitched.

      What had become of all her crisp American efficiency?

      The heavy case had tugged her suit jacket askew in a way he suspected Giorgio Armani would never approve; her golden hair had slipped free of its clasp. A shoe dangled from her fingers. In her rush to go after him, she’d apparently lost one of those high heels, which she’d managed to retrieve.

      Those incredibly sexy high heels.

      The thought marked the end of any desire to laugh. Instead, his eyes grew even more narrow. It was an indicator of his mood, and would have made any of his business opponents shudder.

      “Well? What is it?”

      “I—I—”

      His gaze, as cold as frost on a January morning, raked over her.

      “You what?”

      It was, Anna thought, an excellent question. How did you admit you’d made a mistake? Not in judging this man. He was as cold, as self-centered, as insolent as ever—but that wasn’t any reason to have rejected his offer.

      Never mind that she couldn’t think of a reason he’d made it, or that sitting next to him all the way to Rome would be the equivalent of choking down more humble pie than any one human being should have to consume.

      Only an idiot would refuse gaining access to a spot where she could plug in her computer … and, okay, incidentally combine that with a seat that lacked the psycho bookends.

      “I am waiting,” he growled, that accent of his growing more pronounced by the minute.

      Anna swallowed. Hard. The first bite of crow did not go down easily.

      “I—I accept your apology.”

      He laughed. Laughed, damn him! So did someone else. Anna looked around, felt her face blaze when she realized their little drama was proving more interesting than books or magazines to what looked like this entire section of the plane.

      “I did not apologize. I will not apologize.”

      She drew closer. He was inches away. Once again she had to tilt her head to look up at him, the same as she’d had to in the lounge an eternity ago. It was just as disconcerting now as it had been then, and suddenly she thought, He’s going to kiss me again, and if he does—if he does …

      “What I did was offer you the empty seat beside mine.” His mouth twisted. “The one you groveled for a little while ago.”

      “I did not grovel. I would never grovel. I—I—”

      Anna fell silent. She didn’t know where to look. There was nowhere that was safe, given the choice between his dark, hard eyes and the attentive faces of their audience.

      “Jeez, lady, are you nuts? You tell him you’ll take the seat or I will,” a male voice said, and somebody snickered. “Yes or no, lady? Last chance.”

      Anna glared. It was a toss-up who she despised more—her father for putting her in this untenable position or this … this arrogant idiot for putting her in this situation.

      “You are,” she said, her voice shaking, “a horrible, hideous man.”

      His eyelids flickered. “I take it that’s a yes,” he said, and he swung away from her and headed briskly up the aisle.

      Anna did the only thing that made sense.

      She fell in behind him and followed him to the front of the plane.

      An hour later Anna turned off her computer, closed it and put it away.

      So much for going through the document file.

      She’d read and read, switched screens and made notes, and she still didn’t have a true grasp of what was happening.

      No.

      She had a grasp, all right.

      She was about to step into a pile of doggy-doo, two centuries old and a mile high.

      There was a piece of land somewhere in Sicily that either belonged to her mother or belonged to a prince. None of the papers Anna had seen proved ownership; none even hinted at it.

      Unless the papers written in Italian said something different, the documents Cesare had given her proved nothing beside the fact that her father had sent several letters to the prince.

      The prince had sent only one that really mattered.

      It was a note written by one of his lackeys on a sheet of vellum that weighed almost much as her computer, and it took half