The Orsini Brides. Sandra Marton

regret.

      Carefully he bent to the table where his laptop lay, turned it off, put it in its case, zipped the case closed, slung the strap over his shoulder. Then he took a step forward; the woman took a step back. Her face had gone pale.

      She was afraid of him now. She’d realized she had gone too far.

      Good, he thought grimly, even though part of him knew this was overkill.

      “You could have approached me quietly,” he said in a tone of voice that had brought business opponents to their knees. “You could have said, ‘I have a problem and I would be grateful for your help.’”

      The color in her face came back, sweeping over her high cheekbones like crimson flags.

      “That’s exactly what I did.”

      “No. You did not. You told me what you wanted. Then you told me what I was going to do about it.” His mouth thinned. “Unfortunately for you, signorina, that was the wrong approach. I don’t give a damn what you want, and you will not sit in that seat.”

      Her mouth dropped open.

      Hell. Why wouldn’t it? Had he really just said something so foolish and petty? Had she reduced him to that?

      Get moving, Valenti, he told himself, and he would have …

      But she laughed. Laughed! Her fear had given way to laughter.

      His face burned with humiliation.

      There was only one way to retaliate and he took it.

      He closed the last inch of space between them. She must have seen something bright and icy-hot glowing in his eyes, because she stopped laughing and took another quick step back.

      Too late.

      Draco reached out. Ran the tip of one finger over her lips.

      “Perhaps,” he said softly, “perhaps if you had offered me something interesting in trade …”

      He put his arms around her, lifted her into the leanly muscled length of his body and took her mouth as if it were his to take, as if he were a Roman prince in a century when Rome ruled the world.

      He heard the woman’s muffled cry. Heard the hostess gasp.

      Then he heard nothing but the thunder of his blood as it coursed through his veins, tasted nothing but her mouth, her mouth, her sweet, hot mouth …

      She hit him. Hard. A surprisingly solid blow to the ribs. The sting of her small fist was worth the rage he saw in her eyes when he lifted his head.

      “Have a pleasant flight, signorina,” he said, and he brushed past her, leaving Anna Orsini standing right where he’d left her, staring at the lounge door as it swung shut behind him while she wished to hell she’d had the brains to slug the sexist bastard not in the side but right where he lived.

      Where all men lived, she thought grimly as she snatched up her carry-on and briefcase that had somehow ended up on the floor.

      In the balls.

       CHAPTER TWO

      ANNA stalked through the crowded terminal, so furious she could hardly see straight.

      That insufferable pig! That supermacho idiot!

      Punching him hadn’t been enough.

      She should have called the cops. Had him arrested. Charged him with—with sexual assault ….

      Okay.

      A kiss was not sexual assault. It was a kiss. Unwanted, which could maybe make it a misdemeanor …

      Not that anyone would call what had landed on her lips just a kiss.

      That firm, warm mouth. That hard, long body. That arm, taut with muscle, wrapped around her as if she were something to be claimed …

      Or branded.

      A little shudder of rage went through her. It was rage, wasn’t it?

      Damned right it was.

      Absolutely, she should have done something more than slug him.

      Where was the gate? Her shoulders ached from the weight of her carry-on and briefcase. Her feet hurt from the stilettos. Why in hell hadn’t she had the sense to change to flats? She’d worn the stilettos to court. Deliberately. It had become her uniform. The tailored suit coupled with the spike heels. It was a look she’d learned worked against some of the high and mighty prosecutors who obviously thought a female defense counsel, especially one named Orsini, would be easy to read.

      Nothing about her was easy to read, thank you very much, and Anna wanted to keep it that way.

      But the shoes were wrong for hurrying through an airport. Where on earth was that gate?

      Back in the other direction, was where.

      Anna groaned, turned and ran.

      By the time she reached the right gate, the plane was already boarding. She fell in at the end of the line of passengers shuffling slowly forward. Her hair had come mostly out of the tortoiseshell clip that held it; wild strands hung in her face and clung to her sweat-dampened skin.

      Anna shifted her carry-on, dug into its front pocket, took out her boarding pass. Her seat was far back in the plane and, according to the annoyingly perky voice coming over the loudspeaker, that section had already boarded.

      Perfect.

      She was late enough so that the most convenient overhead bins would surely be full by the time she reached them.

       Thank you, Mr. Macho.

      The line, and Anna, moved forward at the speed of cold molasses dripping from a spoon.

      He, of course, would have no such problem. First-class passengers had lots of overhead storage room. By now he probably had a glass of wine in his hand, brought by an attentive flight attendant who’d do everything but drool over her good-looking passenger, because there were lots of women who’d drool over a man who looked like that.

      Tall. Dark. Thickly lashed dark eyes. A strong jaw. A face, a body that might have belonged to a Roman emperor.

      And the attitude to go with it.

      That was why he would have access to a computer outlet, and she would not ….

      Anna took a breath. No. Absolutely not. She was not going there!

      Concentrate, she told herself. Try to remember what it said on those yellowed, zillion-year-old documents her father had given her.

      Hey, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t read them ….

      Okay. She hadn’t read them. Not exactly. She’d looked through them prior to scanning them into her computer, but the oldest ones were mostly handwritten. In Italian. And her Italian was pretty much confined to ciao, va bene and a handful of words she’d learned as a kid that wouldn’t get you very far in polite company.

      The endless queue drew nearer to the gate.

      If only she’d had more time, not just to read those notes but to arrange for this flight. She’d have flown first class instead of coach, let her father pay for her ticket because Cesare was the only reason she was on this fool’s errand.

      Cesare could afford whatever ridiculous amount of money first class cost.

      She certainly couldn’t. You didn’t fly in comfort on what you earned representing mostly indigent clients.

      And comfort was what first class was all about. She’d flown that way once, after she’d passed her bar exams and her brothers had given her a two-week trip to Paris as a gift.

      “You’re all crazy,” she’d said, blubbering happily as she