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 was no panic in her voice now, only razor-sharp warning. A muscle knotted in Draco’s jaw. Then, with elaborate care, he took his hands from her.
In a flash she tossed off the blanket, pushed the button that brought her seat upright, shot to her feet. He did the same, if a split second later.
“Listen to me,” he said …
Too late.
She had already turned and fled.
DRACO exited Fiumicino Airport, his cell phone at his ear.
“Just tell your boss that I am not, repeat, not going to meet his representative an hour from now. Two hours from now. That’s the best I’ll do. You don’t know if you can get in touch with his rep?” Draco took the phone from his ear and glared at it. “That is not my problem—it is yours.”
One good thing about old-fashioned desk phones, he thought grimly as he ended the call. In moments like this, you could slam the thing down and get some satisfaction out of it.
“Il mio principe!”
Heads swiveled. Glowering, Draco eyeballed his Maserati and his driver and strode toward them.
The man beamed. “Buon giorno, il mio principe. Come è stato il vostro volo?”
“My flight was a nightmare,” Draco snarled, “and must you announce my title to the world?”
Merda. The driver’s face fell. The man had been with him only a couple of weeks; he was just trying to be pleasant.
Draco took a deep breath, forced a smile he hoped was not a grimace to his lips.
“Mi dispiace. I’m sorry. I’m just jet-lagged.”
“You must not apologize to me, sir! It is my fault, surely.”
The driver clapped his heels together, lifted Draco’s carry-on, and reached for the handle of the rear door just as Draco did the same. Their hands and arms collided.
Cristo! Could the man’s face get any longer?
“Scusi,” the driver said in tones of hushed horror, “Dio, signore, scusi …”
“Benno. That is your name, is it not?”
“Sì. It is, sir, and I offer my deepest—”
“No. No apologies.” Draco smiled again. At least, he pulled his lips back from his teeth. “Suppose we start over. You say ‘Hello, how was your flight?’ And I’ll say—”
“Scusi?”
“I’ll say,” Draco said quickly, “it was fine. How’s that?”
His driver looked bewildered. “As you wish, sir.”
“Excellent,” Draco replied, and he got into the backseat of the Maserati and sank into its leather embrace.
He was going to have to be careful.
He had put off the impending meeting with the Sicilian’s man. That would, at least, give him time to shower, change his clothes, make some small attempt at getting his head on straight, but he was tired, not just jet-lagged but jet-fatigued.
Only that could explain what had happened on the plane.
“Il mio principe? Do you wish to go to your office or to your home?”
“Home, per favore, as quickly as possible, sì?”
“Sì, il mio principe.”
Draco
