The Orsini Brides. Sandra Marton

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 course you’re tired. I’m sure your day has been as long as mine. In fact, I’m going to put my seat back. You’ll do the same.”

      That tone of easy command made Anna laugh. “Do you ever ask a woman what she wants, or do you simply tell her?”

      Their eyes met. Her heart did a little stutter step.

      “There are times when there is no need to ask,” he said softly.

      Heat swept through her. Get up, she thought. Get up and go back to your own seat in the rear of the plane.

      But she didn’t.

      He reached out. Leaned across her. She caught her breath as he pressed the button that eased her seat all the way back.

      “Close your eyes, bellissima,” he whispered. “Get some sleep.”

      She nodded. Closing her eyes, pretending to sleep was probably a good plan. No reason to tell him that she never, ever was able to sleep on a plane ….

      When she woke, the cabin was almost completely dark.

      And she was cocooned in warmth.

      Male warmth.

      Somehow she was lying in the stranger’s arms, both of them covered by a soft blanket. Her head was on his shoulder, her face buried in the curve where his neck met his shoulder.

      He was asleep. She could tell by the deep, slow exhalations of his breath.

      Move, she told herself. Anna, for heaven’s sake, shift away from him.

      Instead, she shifted closer. Closer. Drew his scent—masculine, musky, clean—deep into her lungs.

      Her hand rose. By itself, surely. No way would she have deliberately lifted it, placed it against his jaw, rubbed her fingers lightly over the sexy stubble.

      The sound of his breathing changed. Quickened. Her heartbeat quickened, too.

      “Hello,” he whispered.

      Anna touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. “Hello,” she whispered back.

      His arms tightened around her. He turned his face, brought his lips against her palm in a soft kiss.

      She heard a sound. Low, urgent …

      The sound had come from her.

      “I dreamed I was holding you,” he said. His teeth fastened lightly in the tender flesh at the base of her thumb. “And then I awoke, and you were in my arms.”

      A tremor went through her. Or perhaps through him. She couldn’t tell. And it didn’t matter. The excitement growing within her was growing within him, too. His heartbeat had quickened. And when she shifted her weight, when she shifted her weight …

      Yes. Oh, yes.

      He was hard. Fully aroused. And she—dear God, she was, too. She could feel her breasts lift, her nipples bud. And she was wet. So wet …

      He kissed her mouth. Her lips parted against his. He groaned; his teeth fastened lightly in the tender flesh of her bottom lip, his tongue stroked across the tiny, exquisite wound and Anna gave a soft, pleading cry.

      He murmured something in Italian. She didn’t understand the words but she’d have had to be a fool not to understand their meaning.

      His fingers tangled in her hair. Drew her head back. She could barely see his face in the dim light, but what she could see thrilled her—those dark eyes, the bones etched hard and harsh beneath his skin.

      “You are playing with fire, cara,” he said thickly.

      Anna cupped her hand around the back of his head. “I like fire,” she whispered.

      “So do I.” His voice was low, rough, as hot as his skin.

      She brought his head down to hers, brushed her lips over his.

      “I wanted you long before this,” he said. “I wanted you hours ago, back in that lounge.”

      Anna trembled. Ran her fingers into his hair. It had been the same for her. That was why she’d argued with him. Fought with him. Because she had wanted him. Wanted this. His heat. His embrace. His strength …

      She cried out as his hand slipped under her suit jacket. Under her blouse. Found her breast, cupped it over her silky bra, and she would have cried out again but he captured her lips with his, shaped her lips with his, slipped his tongue inside her mouth and claimed her with a slow, deep, kiss.

      His thumb swept over her nipple.

      She gasped, arched against him, felt her nipple bead and press blindly against his hand.

      Please, Anna thought, please …

      Draco gave a low growl.

      He shifted the woman against him, raised her leg, brought it over his hip and pressed his aroused flesh against her.

      Now, he thought, now …

      The cabin lights winked on.

      “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be serving breakfast in just a few minutes ….”

      The woman in his arms froze. Her eyes flew open, blurred with passion and then with shock.

      Cristo, he was having difficulty grasping the facts himself. What had happened—what had almost happened …

      Impossible.

      He’d had sex on planes before. That was one of the perks of owning a private jet, but sex, or the closest thing to it, in a plane filled with people?

      It was crazy.

      How could he have done such a thing? It was an unacceptable, inexplicable loss of control, and he was not a man given to losses of control or, for that matter, to doing things that were either inexplicable or unacceptable.

      “Let go of me,” the woman snapped.

      Draco looked at her. She was as white as paper, and trembling.

      “Easy,” he started to say, but she cut him short.

      “Are you deaf? Let go!”

      “Look, bella, I know you’re upset—”

      “Damnit, let go!”

      His mouth thinned. Was she going to try to label him the villain in this little drama?

      “With pleasure, once I’m convinced you’re in control of your senses.” He waited, watched her face. “Are you?”

      “You’d better believe I am.”

      There