Nicolo: The Powerful Sicilian

“Calm down? After what you did?”

Nick narrowed his eyes. “What I did,” he said coldly, “was save us from being turned into roadkill.”

“I am not talking about that. I am talking about that—that disgusting display of macho!” Eyes flashing, she jerked her hand free of his. “Who do you think you are?”

It was the most weary, clichéd line imaginable but it stung because he knew damned well what she meant by it. Nick moved closer, gratified to see her take a couple of quick steps back until she was pressed against the car.

“You know who I am, baby. I’m the man who’s gonna save your daddy’s royal ass, assuming you treat me right.”

She recoiled. Hell, who could blame her? What kind of drivel was he spewing? And had a woman ever made him this angry before? He wanted to grab her and shake her.

Or grab her and kiss her again and again and again until she forgot who she was and who she was convinced he was, until she dragged his face down to hers and kissed him and kissed him…

Nick thought twice, stepped back, cleared his throat.

“Get in the car.”

He could see her considering things. What in hell was there to consider? She couldn’t drive worth a damn.

“Did you hear me, princess? Get in the car.”

She stared up at him. What now? Her eyes were blurry with angry tears. As he’d already noted, her obviously expensive outfit was a mess. And somewhere along the way, maybe when he’d thrown her over his shoulder, she’d lost a shoe.

Still, she was beautiful.

Beautiful and vulnerable, and why he should notice or care was beyond him to comprehend.

He jerked his head toward the open passenger door. She lifted her chin in defiant acquiescence, in a way that made him want to laugh. He didn’t; he wasn’t that much of a fool. Instead, he slammed the door after her, went around the car—and yeah, there was her shoe, lying in the grass. He picked it up, tossed it in the backseat where it joined his carry-on bag and got behind the wheel.

Seconds later, they were on the highway, this time as part of the traffic flow.

They said nothing for the next hour. Then Alessia spoke.

“The sign for the vineyard is just ahead. You will turn to the right.”

The headlights picked out a small wooden plaque. It said Antoninni in gilt letters; below it was a coat of arms. A griffin or maybe a lion, a shield and a sword. Nick’s mouth twisted. What would the Orsini coat of arms be? A pistol, a dagger and a stack of money?

The turn opened onto a long, straight driveway, if you could call a half-mile-long road lined by poplars a driveway. Nick could see a shape on a rise ahead. It was a villa, big, imposing and graceful.

“You may park in front.”

“How nice of you to say so.”

Hell, he thought, what was that all about? She’d simply told him what he needed to know. Whose fault was it if the words sounded like a command?

He pulled in front of a set of wide marble steps. By the time he stepped from the car, Alessia was halfway up those steps, limping because she was wearing only the one shoe. Nick reached in back, collected his carry-on bag and the other shoe, then trotted up the stairs. Massive double doors opened, revealing bright light and a guy dressed like something out of a period movie.

“This is Joseph,” Alessia said coolly. “He will show you to your rooms.”

She tossed the words over her shoulder, the royal once again addressing the peasant. Nick smiled thinly.

“Princess?”

She turned and looked down her nose at him. Still smiling, he tossed her the shoe.

“You wouldn’t want to go around half-naked,” he said. “I mean, that was okay while you and I were alone, but—”

Her face filled with color. She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut, spun away from him and vanished down a long hallway. Joseph, to his credit, showed no change in expression.