Nicolo: The Powerful Sicilian

Until he got downstairs and saw Alessia.

The beautiful face. The gorgeous body. The gown that was an invitation to sin, the take-me stiletto heels.

How am I going to keep my hands off you? he’d said.

Her sexy-as-hell response had sent the civilized man inside him packing.

Somehow, they’d made it through dinner, playing a game so hot he was amazed they hadn’t set the place on fire. That he’d been forced to carry on intelligent conversation while he touched her had added to it.

And then that last moment, when he’d brought her to the brink…

A muscle knotted in his jaw.

He glanced at Alessia. She hadn’t spoken since she’d asked him where he was taking her. She sat very straight, hands folded in her lap, gaze straight ahead. Was she imagining what would happen next? Was her body softening as she pictured him touching her?

Or was she worried that she wouldn’t—how had she put it? That she wouldn’t live up to his expectations?

Was she really that naive? Or simply clever?

He told himself it didn’t matter.

Hell. Why lie to himself? It mattered. A lot. When they were finally alone, what if what he did to her, did with her, was new to her? What if he was the first man to teach her things that would make her moan and beg him to end the exquisite torment, as she had today on the hilltop?

Dammit!

Nick shifted his weight in the seat. If he kept this up, they might never make it to the villa he’d rented…. And, thank God, there it was, just ahead and exactly as the Realtor had described. A narrow gravel road, leading through an open iron gate. A stand of gnarled olive trees. And in the distance, the lights of a stone house.

Villa Riposante.

And not a minute too soon.

Alessia trembled as she stepped from the car.

“Here,” Nicolo said, shrugging off his jacket and wrapping it around her shoulders. “This should keep you warm until we’re inside.”

She nodded, though he was wrong.

She was not cold, she was terrified. Not of him. That fear was long since gone. She was terrified of herself, of the awful knowledge that no matter what he’d said, she knew she was going to disappoint him.

She had no idea where they were, only that they were in the hills high above Villa Antoninni and that this place, this beautiful stone villa, could only have been found on such short notice by a man who could ask whatever he wished of the world and get it.

He put his arm around her, led her up the stone steps to the door. The key—big, brass, old—was under a thick rush doormat. Nicolo inserted it in the lock, turned it, the heavy wood and brass door swung open…

“Nicolo.” She sounded breathless and she was. This was a mistake. A mistake. To have led him on, to have let him think… “Nicolo,” she said again, this time with urgency. “Listen to me—”

All at once, she was being swept up in his arms.

“Stop thinking,” he said in a rough voice. “Stop worrying. Just let the night happen.”

He elbowed the door shut behind him as he carried her into the villa. Alessia wound her arms around his neck and buried her face against his throat. She could feel his heart thudding against hers.

The villa was softly lit. And beautiful, what she sa

w of it over his shoulder. A frescoed ceiling. A floor of pale gray stone. A steep wooden staircase and at the top, a stream of ivory moonlight that led into a room lit by tapers in tall silver candlesticks. A fire glowed on a slate hearth; orchids rose like graceful ballerinas from crystal vases on the dresser and the night tables….

The night tables that framed the bed.

The bed.