Nicolo: The Powerful Sicilian

Kiss me, she thought, kiss me now!

Forget the carefully planned dinner, the guests, the cars even now pulling into the driveway, their headlights illuminating the drawing room.

But he didn’t kiss her. He didn’t touch her. He spoke to her, instead, and his words were more intimate than any caress.

“You’re killing me,” he said in a rough whisper.

Her heartbeat stuttered. “Am I?”

“You know damned well you are.” He came even closer, so close she could feel the heat emanating from him, and ran a fingertip over her lips. “How am I going to keep my hands off you tonight?”

Alessia took a long breath.

“Don’t keep them off me,” she said, her voice trembling.

And then the butler entered the room and announced the arrival of the first guest.

The evening was never going to end.

Either that, or she was going to go up in flames before it did.

Her guests—her father’s guests—were a polished, sophisticated group. Alessia knew he’d invited them to impress a potential investor. When he’d shown the guest list to her, she, who never gave a damn about impressing anyone, had coolly hoped for the same thing.

Better still, she’d hoped the American would be intimidated.

That was before she’d met Nicolo.

She knew now that no one and nothing would ever impress or intimidate him. Just as at the meeting earlier in the day, he was completely at ease, comfortable carrying on conversations about theater and travel and politics in English and in passable Italian.

Actually, it was he who directed conversations because, by the second course, her father’s aristocratic and powerful cronies, and especially their ladies, were transfixed by the handsome, intelligent, interesting stranger seated to her right.

A good thing, too, because Alessia had virtually lost her ability to speak.

The reason?

Even as the guest of honor talked pleasantly with the others, even as he ate the elegant meal she had carefully organized, sipped the vintage Antoninni wines she had selected—

Even as he behaved with impeccable decorum—

Even then, he was touching her.

Nobody knew. Nobody saw. It was a hot, hidden secret shared only by the two of them—and it was the most exciting experience she could ever have imagined.

It had started back in the drawing room, after drinks were poured and hors d’oeuvres nibbled. A brush of his shoulder. A slide of his hand on her bare arm.

His hand placed on her back when dinner was announced.

It was a simple gesture, typical of most men escorting a woman to the table.

“Princess,” Nicolo had said politely.

And spread his palm over her back.

Over her naked skin.

His warm, slightly calloused hand.

She’d caught her breath, looked up at him, saw his polite smile…saw the flame burning bright in his eyes.