Nicolo: The Powerful Sicilian

Alessia wanted to weep. He was right. She was terrified, horrified, appalled by what had almost happened but why would she admit that to such a man as this?

“Let go of me,” she said sharply.

“Try that imperious tone on someone you haven’t tried to kill. Now, get into the passenger seat and behave yourself!”

“I do not take orders! I am not…Mr. Orsini! Signore!” Alessia’s voice climbed as Nick lifted her off her feet and slung her over his shoulder. Tears of rage rose in her eyes; she knotted her hands into fists and beat at his shoulders and back as he strode around the car. “You cannot do this!”

“Watch me,” he said grimly, depositing her on her feet and reaching for the door.

“Bastardo,” she hissed. “Siete come tutti i uomini! You are the same as all men! You think women are incapable of taking care of themselves, that they need men to think for them—”

Enough, Nick thought, and he hauled Alessia to her toes and kissed her.

She gasped. Struggled. Fought him.

He went on kissing her.

And wondered, with almost clinical interest, why he was doing it.

Kissing her made no sense. A man kissed a woman because he liked her. Wanted her. Desired her and, God knew, he didn’t like or want or desire the slippery-as-an-eel creature in his arms. Was he kissing her because he was angry? Hell, no. He had never kissed a woman out of anger. He didn’t understand why a man would. Kissing wasn’t about rage, it was about taste and texture….

And then Alessia stopped struggling and he stopped thinking and the kiss turned into something hot and raw and primitive, and she went up on her toes and thrust her hands into his hair and he groaned, slid his hands under her jac

ket, under her blouse, felt the silky warmth of her skin and she said something against his mouth and he slid the tip of his tongue between her lips and…

A horn bleated.

A male voice yelled something into the night. Nick didn’t understand the words, his Italian wasn’t good enough for that, but he didn’t have to be a linguist to figure it out.

His hands clasped her shoulders.

He lifted his head.

A shudder went through him.

He was standing by the side of a busy road holding a woman he didn’t know and didn’t like in his arms, maybe a heartbeat away from shoving her against the side of the car, pushing up her skirt, tearing off her panties and burying himself inside her.

Holy hell, he thought, and Alessia opened her eyes and stared at him, her expression blank.

“Easy,” he said, and knew as soon as he said it that the word was inadequate.

The blank look on her face gave way to shock and then horror. She said something under her breath. His Italian wasn’t good enough for him to understand that, either, but once again, he got the gist.

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what—”

She slapped him. Hard. His head jerked back at the force of the blow.

“Okay,” he said, “if that made you feel bet—”

She slapped him again, or she would have, but he saw it coming and wrapped his hand around her wrist.

“That’s enough,” he said in a warning voice.

“You—you bastard! You pig! You—you brute!”

As obscenities went, he’d heard far worse. But that wasn’t the point. He’d initiated the kiss, yes, but she’d been into it, all the way.

“Calm down, princess.”