Nicolo: The Powerful Sicilian

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 smiled tightly. Eyes still locked to hers, he hit another button on his phone. She listened as he canceled a reservation at the Grand. Then he flipped the phone closed.

“Your father intended that I stay at your villa and that you be my tour guide. Isn’t that right, princess?”

“Don’t call me that!”

“It’s what you are, isn’t it? The princess who commands the peasants?”

Alessia thought of responding, then thought better of it. Instead, she jerked her head toward her Mercedes, still just behind the Ferrari.

“Get in,” she said brusquely.

“Such a warm and hospitable invitation.”

She strode around the car, got behind the wheel, sat stiffly as he folded his long legs under the dashboard. Then she slammed the car into gear, backed up just enough to avoid hitting the Ferrari again and pulled into traffic.

“Two days,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Sorry?”

Dio, she hated him! The pleasant tone, the polite manner that was about as real as…as fairies at the bottom of the garden. Ahead, a green light turned red. She slowed the Mercedes, pulled to the light and stopped.