LITMIR.BIZ

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business will be a thing of the past.”

      “You are a fine one to talk about family businesses,” she said, her face filling with color.

      It was a nicely placed jibe. Dead wrong, but she had no way of knowing that and Nick had no interest in pointing it out. She thought he was a famiglia heavy? Let her think it. Hell, he wanted her to think it. There was a sweet pleasure in a woman like this believing she was on the receiving end of help from the man she believed him to be.

      “The bottom line,” he said, “is that you need my money. I’d bet my last dollar your father will be more than happy to remind you of that.”

      “I need nothing from a man such as you!”

      “Five hundred years of royal living, gone in the blink of an eye?”

      “Do you think that matters to me?”

      “I think it matters enough so that you were willing to show up today to greet a commoner.”

      “You’re wrong, Mr. Orsini. I only, as you put it, showed up today because—because—”

      She blinked. Nick could almost see her processing what was happening. She’d been sent to greet him. She was the prince’s reception committee. She was an Antoninni, unaccustomed to dealing with the peasants, but she didn’t have the power to get rid of him.

      No wonder she was staring at him as if she’d just remembered something she’d all but forgotten.

      He was sure he knew what that “something” was.

      The princess had been flexing muscle she didn’t have. She had no power. To all intents, she might as well have been a chauffeur, sent to meet the plane of the visiting banker.

      “What’s the problem?” Nick smiled thinly. “Thinking twice about telling me to leave?” When she didn’t answer, he took his cell phone from his pocket and offered it to her. “Here. Call Daddy. See what he says about sending me home.”

      Alessia looked at the sleek bit of plastic as if it might bite her. Then she looked at the man holding it toward her.

       Bastardo insolente!

      He knew damned well she wasn’t about to make that call. He just didn’t know why.

      Mama, she thought, Mama, how could I have forgotten you?

      For a few moments, anger at this horrible man had blinded her to reality. Now, it was back. She’d made a bargain with the devil. If she wanted her mother to remain in the sanatorio, she could not get rid of Nicolo Orsini. She had to deal with him, no matter what.

      He was vile.

      His macho arrogance. His brutal occupation, if you could call being a hoodlum an occupation. And that kiss, the assumption that he was irresistible, that the male domination of his world extended to hers…

      Vile was not a strong enough word.

      It didn’t matter.

      She was stuck with him. He was her problem, and she knew how to handle that. Problems were her specialty. Let her father think that the public relations business was nothing but an excuse for protecting people with too much money and ego. Perhaps that was a reflection of what he knew of Rome and Romans.

      That was not her world.

      Alessia had put endless days, weeks and months into learning how to deal with the people her firm represented.

      Having a royal title helped, though she loathed the idea that titles should exist at all in today’s complex world. The rest? Damned hard work.

      Preventing clients from making asses of themselves was part of what she did. Cleaning up after they’d done so anyway was another part, as was making sure they did what they were supposed to do without veering from an accepted plan.

      Some clients were pleasant, talented people. Some were not. And still some, admittedly a small percentage, thought that money and power and, often, good looks made them gods.

      There was no question as to which category Nicolo Orsini belonged, nor was there any question that she could handle him. The truth was, given the circumstances, she had no choice.

      “A problem, princess? Have you forgotten Daddy’s phone number?”

      She blinked, looked up at him. Barbarian though he was, gangster that he was, Nicolo Orsini was also—there was no other word for it—magnificent. The epitome of masculinity. Alessia met a lot of very good-looking men in her work. Actors, industrialists, men whose money bought them the clothes, the cars that could turn a nice-looking man into a good-looking one.

      The American’s clothes were obviously expensive, his haircut as well. But he was also—could you call a man gorgeous? Because that was what he was. Gorgeous, and it was not what he wore or how he was groomed.

      It was him.

      The thick, espresso-brown hair. The eyes the color of night, the strong, straight nose set above a firm mouth and chiseled jaw. Even that little depression between nose and mouth, what was it called? A philtrum. That was it. How could something with such a foolish name be sexy?

      The truth was, all of him was sexy. The long, leanly muscled body. The hard face. The sculpted lips. Perfect in design, in texture. She knew that. Knew the warmth of that mouth,

      the feel of it against hers. If she’d parted her own lips a little when he’d kissed her, she’d even know his taste…

      “Take a good look, princess. Let me know if you like what you see.”

      Alessia’s gaze flew to his. His tone was as insulting as the heat in his eyes.

      She felt her face redden.

      That she could find him physically attractive was shocking. She didn’t understand it. A man’s looks meant nothing; she had never been taken in by such superficial things. No matter. Living with her father, dealing with his careless verbal and emotional cruelty, had taught her the benefits of a quick recovery.

      “I was thinking,” she said coolly, “that you do not look like a savage, Signore Orsini, but that only proves that looks can be deceiving.”

      He hesitated. Then, he shrugged.

      “Your father is what he is, as is mine, principessa. As for me—I am precisely what you see.”

      Alessia’s eyebrows rose. It was, at first, a disconcerting answer. Then she realized he was simply saying that she was right. He was the son of a don, a man from his father’s world, venerated in some dark corners of old Sicily but despised by decent Italians everywhere.

      And yes, she would have to deal with him.

      So. A tour of the vineyard tomorrow. The formal dinner tomorrow night. He’d be gone the following day, out of her life, forever.

      She could manage that.

      As for what her father had intended, that she act as Orsini’s driver, that he stay at the villa…Out of the question. He’d made it easy. He’d already told her he preferred to be on his own. The Ferrari, which would be a rental, was proof of it. Good. Excellent. As for his being a guest at the villa—she would suggest a hotel, if he hadn’t already arranged for one, and pick him up there in the morning.

      Easier and easier, she thought, but before she could say anything, Orsini punched a button on his cell phone and began speaking in English. There was no mistaking the conversation. He was talking with the agency from which he’d rented the Ferrari, telling a clerk in brisk tones of command that they could pick up the car here, at the curb. There was some minor damage; they could contact his insurance company. No, the car was fine except for that. It was simply that he would not need a car, after all.

      “But of course you’ll need it,” Alessia blurted. “To drive to your hotel. You did make hotel reservations, didn’t you?”

      He

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