The Ice Prince. Sandra Marton

what her father called the old country, but she knew enough to be certain that peasants didn’t argue with princes.

      For all she’d learned, she might as well still be back in coach, without access to her computer.

      And without access to the man seated on the aisle seat beside her.

      Anna gave him a covert glance.

      Access was the wrong word to use. He had not looked at her or spoken to her since they’d sat down. He had a computer on his lap, too, and it was the only thing that claimed his attention.

      That was fine.

      The hell it was.

      Calmer now, she could look at him and admit that he was a beautiful sight. That chiseled, masculine face. That hard body. Those strong-looking hands, one lightly wrapped around his computer, the other working its touch pad …

      She knew what his hands felt like.

      Back in the lounge, he’d grasped her shoulder. Here, he’d put his palm lightly on the small of her back, guiding her into the window seat. His touch had been impersonal then.

      What if he touched her differently?

      Not that automatic, you-first thing men did, but a stroke of those long, tanned fingers. A caress of that powerful hand.

      Anna frowned, shifted in her seat.

      Such nonsense!

      He wasn’t her type and she wasn’t his. He’d like girlie women. Pliable in nature, eager to please, the kind who’d do whatever it took to make a man happy.

      She was none of that.

      “Prickly,” a guy she’d dated a couple of times had called her.

      “Difficult,” another had claimed.

      “Tough as nails,” her brothers said, with pride.

      Yes, she was.

      How else did a woman get to make it in a world dominated by men, or endure growing up in a household where your mother walked two paces behind your father? Metaphorically, of course, but still …

      Back to peasants and princes. And the man next to her. And the simple fact that in this situation he was the prince. Not because of their different seating arrangements but because he’d done something gracious and she …

      She had not.

      Would a simple thank you have killed her?

      No. It would not have.

      Was it too late to say the words now? It’s never too late to say something nice, she could almost hear her sister, Izzy, saying. Okay. She wasn’t sweet like Iz—she never would be—but she could try.

      “Finished already?”

      She blinked. He was looking at her, a hint of a smile on his lips.

      Anna cleared her throat. “Yes.”

      “Didn’t find what you wanted on your computer?”

      She shook her head. “I only wish.”

      “Same here.” He closed the cover of his and put it away. “I’m going to a meeting that will almost surely be a complete waste of time.”

      “Sounds like my story.” She gave a little laugh. “Don’t you just hate that kind of thing?”

      “I despise it,” he said, nodding in agreement. “There’s nothing worse than having to sit across the table from a guy who can’t figure out he’s absolutely not going to accomplish anything.”

      “Exactly. It’s so useless.” Anna sighed. “Actually, what I’d like to do is walk into my meeting and say, ‘Okay, this is pointless. I’m going to turn around and go home and if you have half a brain, so will you.’”

      He chuckled. “Yes, but if the idiot really had half a brain, he wouldn’t be there, eating up your time in the first place.”

      Anna grinned. “Exactly.”

      “That’s life, isn’t it? Things don’t always work out as one expects.”

      “No, they don’t.” She hesitated. It was the perfect segue, and she took it. “Which brings me to offering my thanks for this seat. I should have said it sooner, but—”

      “Yes,” he said, “you should have.”

      “Now, wait a minute …”

      He laughed. “Just teasing. This was my fault, too. I overreacted when you first asked for the seat. How about we call it even? I’ll apologize if you will.”

      Anna laughed, too. “You’re not a lawyer, are you?”

      He gave a mock shudder. “Dio, no. Why do you ask?”

      “Because you have a way with words.”

      “It’s what I do,” he said, smiling. “I’m a negotiator.” What better way to describe fashioning deals that made him millions and millions of dollars and euros? “So, do we have a truce?”

      He held out his hand. Anna took it—and jerked back. An electric current seemed to flow from his fingers to hers.

      “Static electricity,” she said quickly. “Or something.”

      “Or something,” he said, and all at once his voice was low and husky.

      Their eyes met. His were dark, deep, fathomless. Anna felt her heartbeat stutter. I’m tired, she thought quickly. I must be terribly tired or everything wouldn’t seem so—so—

      “Would you like to see the wine list?”

      It was the flight attendant, her smile perfect, her voice bright and bubbly, though Anna had to give her credit for not having reacted to the sight of a refugee from coach slipping into the cabin an hour or so before.

      “Champagne,” said the man still holding her hand, his gaze never leaving hers. “Unless you’d rather have something else?”

      “No,” Anna said quickly. “No, champagne would be lovely.”

      “Lovely,” he said, and Anna wondered why she’d ever thought him cold or arrogant.

      They drank champagne. In flutes. Glass flutes, not plastic. Switched to red wine, also in glasses, when dinner was served—served on china, with real flatware and real linen napkins.

      Being in first class wasn’t bad.

      Neither was being with such a gorgeous stranger.

      He ordered for them both. Normally Anna would have bristled at a man assuming he could order for her, but tonight it seemed right.

      Everything seemed right, she thought as they ate and talked. Conversation flowed easily, not about anything important, just about the weather they’d left behind in New York, how it would compare to the weather they’d find in Rome, about where he lived—in San Francisco, overlooking the bay, he said. And where she lived—in Manhattan, on the lower east side.

      For all of that, they didn’t exchange names.

      That seemed right, too.

      There was something exciting about hurtling through the night at six hundred plus miles an hour, laughing and talking and having dinner with a man she didn’t know and would never see again.

      Anything was possible, Anna thought after their dishes had been whisked away and the cabin lights were dimmed. Absolutely anything, she thought, looking at him, and a faint tremor went through her.

      “Are you cold?”

      “No,” she said quickly. “I’m fine.”

      “Tired, then.”

      “No. Really …”

      “Of