could jet fatigue possibly be the reason for the incident on the plane? And what a hell of a way to describe that thing with the woman. What was that all about?
Draco frowned.
Well, he knew what it was all about.
He’d made love to her. And she’d made love to him, until those cursed lights went on, though he couldn’t call what they’d been doing “making love.”
It had been sex.
Mind-blowing, incredible sex.
Those few moments had been as exciting as any he’d ever spent with a woman.
He’d forgotten everything. Their surroundings, the fact that there were other people only a few feet away. All he’d known was her. Her taste. Her scent. Her heat.
There was a logical explanation, of course. There always was. For everything. In this case, the rush had come from having sex with a beautiful stranger in a place where anyone might have stumbled across them.
She’d been as out of control as he.
And then the lights had come on and she’d tried to lay it all on him.
No way, Draco thought, folding his arms over his chest.
All he’d done was watch her fall asleep, then drawn the blanket over her. All right. It had been his blanket, not hers, but her blanket had been half-tucked under her.
It had been logical to use his.
How was he to know she would sigh and fling her arm across his chest? That she’d lay her head on his shoulder? He was a man, not a machine; she’d all but moved into his embrace. Was he supposed to push her away? And when she’d lifted her dark lashes and looked up at him, her eyes as blue as the sea, when she’d caressed his cheek …
Everything after that had been unplanned. Unstoppable. The kiss. The way she’d opened her mouth to his. The way she’d moaned when he cupped her breast, the way her heart had raced when he put his hand under her blouse …
Damnit, he was hard, just remembering.
Enough.
He’d made a mistake, and the sole value of a mistake was learning not to make it again.
No danger of that, he thought grimly. He would never see the woman again.
Besides, it was time to turn his mind elsewhere, to the meeting that would take place in just a couple of hours with the sleazy representative of a sleazy hoodlum. An hour wasted was what it would be, but at least he’d have the satisfaction of knowing he’d sent the Orsini stooge home to the States with his tail between his legs.
His phone rang.
Draco took it from his pocket. “Pronto,” he said brusquely. He listened, listened some more and then he snarled a word princes surely did not use and jammed the phone back into his pocket.
His attorney couldn’t make the meeting. “Forgive me, sir,” the man had said. “Reschedule it for whenever you like …”
Draco scowled.
The hell he would.
He had not flown all this distance to reschedule a meeting. It would go on as planned.
The day he couldn’t handle a Sicilian’s errand boy had not yet dawned.
His home was a villa in the parkland that surrounded the Via Appia Antica, ocher in color in keeping with its ancient Roman roots, set far back from the road and protected by massive iron gates.
He’d been drawn to the place the first time he saw it, though what the draw had been was anybody’s guess. The villa had been a disaster, part of it in total disrepair, the rest of it in desperate need of work.
Still, something about it had appealed to him. The history, he’d thought, the realization of what the house must have seen over the centuries.
Foolish, of course; a man with demanding responsibilities did not give in to sentimental drivel. He’d taken an acquaintance to see it. An architect. His report was not encouraging.
Draco, he’d said, you want to do this, we’ll do it. But the place is an ugly pile of rubble. Why spend millions on it when you already own a magnificent palazzo on the Tiber?
It was an amazingly honest assessment. Draco told himself the man was right. Why not rebuild the Valenti palace? Once, a long time ago, he had promised himself that he would. His ancestors, his father, even his mother had stripped it of almost everything that could bring in cash and then neglected it to a state of near collapse, but he had the money to change all that.
So he had done it. Restored the palazzo to medieval grandeur. Everyone had pronounced it exquisite. Draco’s choice of adjectives was far less flattering, though he kept his thoughts to himself.
You could breathe new life into a building, but you could not rewrite the memories it held.
He had gone back to the realtor who’d shown him the villa. He bought it that same day, restored it and moved in. There was an honesty to its rooms and gardens. Best of all, its ghosts wore togas.
The memories the villa held had nothing to do with him.
The Maserati came to a purring stop at the top of the driveway. The driver sprang from behind the wheel, but Draco was already out of the car and striding up the curved marble steps that led to the villa’s massive wooden doors, which opened before he could touch them.
“Buon giorno, signore,” his smiling housekeeper said, welcoming him home. Did he want something to eat? Breakfast? Some fruit and cheese, perhaps?
Coffee, Draco said. Not morning coffee. Espresso. A large pot, per favore, and he would have it in the sitting room in the master suite.
His rooms were warm; he suspected the windows had not been opened since he’d left for his San Francisco office three weeks ago. Now he flung them open, toed off his mocs, stripped off shirt, jeans, all his clothes, left them as part of a long trail that led to his bathroom.
He could hardly wait to shower away the endless hours of travel.
One of the first things he’d seen to when he’d arranged for the restoration of the villa was the master bath. He wanted a deep marble Jacuzzi, marble vanities and the room’s centerpiece: a huge, glass-enclosed steam shower with multiple sprays.
His architect had raised an eyebrow. Draco had grinned. Life in America, he’d said, with all those oversize bathrooms, had spoiled him.
Perhaps it had.
His California duplex had a huge bathroom with a shower stall the size of a small bedroom. There were times, at the end of a long day, that he stood inside that stall and could almost feel the downpouring water easing the tension from him.
Now, standing in the shower at Villa Appia, Draco waited for that to happen.
Instead, an image suddenly filled his mind.
