The Mediterranean Prince's Passion (The Royal House of Cacciatore 1)

‘I have a house just outside Solajoya,’ he continued. ‘We can use that whenever we please. It is very beautiful and very isolated.’

Just as he was. Ella stared at the ebony smoulder of his eyes, the soft curve of anticipation that made his lush lips so sensual. His strong, lean body was tensed and expectant. She could almost feel the pulsing of his desire as it shimmered through the air towards her, and it was a feeling that was met and matched by her own.

Shouldn’t she just take away what she had experienced in his arms? Take it away to remember it with pleasure? Like a golden treasure to be pulled out on rainy days, to remind her of a time that had been both precious and matchless? There could be no future in a relationship with this man; the only outcome that lay ahead was certain heartbreak. And not, she suspected, simply because of his Royal position.

She remembered the way he had switched from warm and giving to cool and indifferent after they had made love. Surely an ability to compartmentalise like that was a much bigger obstacle than his lofty status? Was she hoping that he would change? That everything would change and that they would walk off towards the sunset, hand in hand?

Deep in her heart, she knew what she should do.

So what was stopping her?

He was. Just him. Just by being Nico. The very essence of the man himself. She had wanted him from the first moment she had set eyes on him, and the wanting had only increased. She had wanted him when she had thought he had nothing, and she wanted him still.

‘I don’t know,’ she said truthfully, but the doubt in her voice sounded like an invitation to be convinced.

‘We could go there later, cara mia.’ The velvet voice brushed deliberately over her senses. ‘Spend the night in each other’s arms. One night. Tonight. Why would you say no to that?’

With a mixture of excitement and dread, Ella knew that she could not resist. One night—what harm could it do? She nodded slowly, as if she was giving the matter consideration, but in reality it was to prevent him from seeing the vulnerability in her eyes, which was making her feel as raw and as naïve as a teenager.

She lifted her head, and now her gaze was proud and fearless. She had made her decision and she was going to enjoy every minute of it.

‘Why not?’ she said lightly, and pushed open the car door. ‘Will you pick me up? Or shall I put on a dark cloak and wait on a shadowed corner?’

He laughed, suddenly filled with a reckless excitement. ‘I will pick you up at eight,’ he said. ‘And I will cook for you again.’

But food was the last thing on Ella’s mind as she soaked away the picnic dust from her body in a long bath.

No doubts, she told herself sternly as she brushed her damp hair. That’s not the point of the exercise.

And the point of the exercise was…?

She slammed her hairbrush down on the dresser. Pleasure. Enjoyment. Simple, normal stuff—and she was not going to get heavy.

She slipped out of the side-door of L’Etoile to find his car waiting, and she slid into the seat beside him.

He smiled as he turned the ignition key. ‘You smell like flowers, cara. A meadow of flowers.’

She was glad that the dim light concealed her blush of pleasure. But it’s just the continental way, she reminded herself as the powerful car purred its way out of the capital. The men were schooled in elegant compliments in a way that Englishmen simply were not. She had found that out at the very beginning.

But sweet words could turn a woman’s head, even if that was the last thing in the world she needed, and Ella felt an unbearable sense of expectation as he negotiated the bends. In a way, this tryst was nothing but a cold—or hot!—blooded sensual arrangement between two consenting adults, and yet not even that knowledge could still her mounting excitement. Soon she would be in his arms again, and suddenly that was the only thing that mattered.

The house was in darkness as he unlocked it, but he clicked a switch and light immediately flooded from a huge chandelier. Yet Ella barely noticed the grand and elegant proportions, the pieces of antique French furniture that were dotted around the hallway, for he pulled her into his arms with a hungry groan, burying his face in her hair and breathing deeply, like a man who had been underwater for a long time.

He moved away and cupped her face between his palms, his black eyes glittering with an intensity that was brighter than the light overhead.

‘Bed,’ he whispered, and, taking her hand in his, led her up a wide and curving staircase.

Her mouth was too dry for words—but what use were words at a time like this? She was long past the stage of pretty protests that maybe they should eat supper first, or perhaps they should have a drink, because she wanted neither.

This felt grown-up—almost too grown-up—yet nothing could stop the heated longing that was clamouring its way through her veins, the longing to feel his skin next to her once again. Nico as Nico—stripped of everything—just a man of flesh against her flesh.

He pushed open a door to reveal a beautiful bed, hung with richly lavish embroidered drapes, and he turned her towards him, his eyes holding hers for one long, impenetrable second.

‘Now kiss me,’ he instructed quietly. ‘Kiss me, cara mia.’

It was a command that she could not have resisted even if the building had been tumbling down around them. She looped her arms around his neck, stood up on tiptoe and pressed her mouth to his, and his soft moan filled her with delight and with daring.

As his lips opened beneath hers, and their tongues laced in languid exploration, she pressed her body closer to his and felt his breath mingling with hers as he gave another moan.