Nicolo: The Powerful Sicilian

He told her those things and watched her eyes blur.

“Tonight,” she said brokenly, and he smiled.

“Yes, sweetheart. Tonight, we’ll be lost in each other’s arms.”

“But not here. Not at the villa…”

“No.” He kissed her again, softly, his mouth lingering against hers. “Not the villa, princess. I’ll get us a place. The right place. I promise.”

He rose to his feet, held out his hand. She took it and he drew her up beside him.

“We’ll drive to Florence. Right now. And…” He looked at her. She was shaking her head. “What?”

“I forgot, Nicolo. The dinner.”

“To hell with…” One glance at her face and he knew that was the wrong answer. “There’s no way out of it, huh?”

“I planned it.” She blushed. “It is what I do, you see? I represent people, bring them together, determine who will enjoy the company of whom. I know it is not an important occupation but—”

Nick silenced her with a kiss.

“If you do it, it’s important.” He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingertips. “We can wait, sweetheart. Didn’t some wag once say that anticipation makes the heart grow fonder?”

Alessia wrinkled her brow. “Wag? You mean, as a dog moves its tail?”

He smiled. “That, too.”

“I do not understand. Besides, it is absence that makes the heart grow fonder, not anticipation.”

Nick drew her closer, cupped her bottom, heard her sweet gasp as she felt his hardness against her.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice roughening, “but anticipation has its uses.”

Alessia rose to him, her arms around his neck. She kissed him, touched the velvet tip of her tongue to his.

“Sì,” she whispered, and by the time they broke apart, it struck him as a minor miracle they hadn’t turned into a column of flame.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ALESSIA had been to endless dinner parties, first as the daughter of a wealthy Florentine prince and in the last several years, as an up-and-coming associate at a publicity firm.

Some parties were dull. Some were interesting. The ones that involved her sometimes egotistically-challenged clients, a polite way of thinking of ones who were unsophisticated, were the most difficult.

She had to seem to be having fun even as she kept a sharp eye on everything.

Whatever kind of party it was, she’d long ago perfected the art of wearing a polite mask. She smiled, moved from group to group, carried on conversations about anything from art to Antarctica and did it all on autopilot.

And she was never nervous.

None of that applied tonight.

She was not just nervous, she was—there was no other word for it—a wreck.

Dressed and ready an hour early, staring at the clock in her bedroom, watching the minute hand drag around the dial didn’t help and finally she gave up and headed downstairs.

Surely, there were things she could find in the drawing room, the dining room, to keep her busy.

But she couldn’t.