Italian Prince, Wedlocked Wife

“How long would the game last?” His “game” wasn’t so different from the battle she’d already been fighting since the day they’d met.

“Twenty-four hours.”

A whole day and night? Was he kidding? She stared at him, wide-eyed.

“Starting now.” He stood up, holding his hand out to help her up. “Those are my terms. Do you agree?”

She stared at his outstretched hand. Endure this assault of sensual pleasure for twenty-four hours without giving in? Impossible!

And yet, the prize glittered before her: She’d be able to survive the next three months without surrendering either body or soul. Being married to Maximo was hard enough. She could see why so many women fell for him. But she couldn’t allow herself to do the same. Otherwise, when he abandoned her when her grandfather died, she would be devastated. Crushed. She’d be no good to Chloe. No good to anyone. And she would have only herself to blame for not being strong enough to resist the playboy prince.

Twenty-four hours. Could she do it?

She had no choice, she realized. What was the alternative? Twenty-four hours—or simply wait for him to seduce her at will during the next few months, anytime, anywhere?

This was her only chance at survival. Holding her breath, she put her hand in his.

“I accept.”

He pulled her up from the sofa. Her body pressed against his, her naked breasts against his hard, dark-haired chest.

“Bene,” he whispered, stroking her cheek. He lowered his mouth to hers.

His kiss made her ache from within. She felt his hands everywhere: cupping her breasts, clasping her backside, stroking the inside of her thighs over her jeans. Gently he laid her back against the sofa, pressing his heavy body against her own. She could feel his hardness against her, and it was sweet agony as he slowly ravaged her resolve with exquisite, practiced touches that showed her why no woman on earth could resist him.

I can handle this, she told herself desperately. I can.

But her whole body was exploding with bliss and longing. She felt as soft and yielding as honey. With his every kiss, she lost her mind; with his every touch, she found it harder and harder to remember why she’d forbidden herself to surrender.

Gasping out a hoarse breath, she looked desperately at the old clock over the fireplace. Would the torture soon be over? How long had she endured?

Twenty minutes?

She swore aloud as he kissed her, covering her profanity with his sweet, sweet mouth. She fell back against the sofa, pulled beneath his body, drowning in pleasure…

Then, from the small bedroom, Chloe gave a startled little cry. She sometimes woke at night, and nearly always fell back asleep on her own. But Lucy seized on it as a daughter’s gift—Chloe unknowingly protecting her mother from her weakness. Thank you, she thought gratefully, and pushed away from the couch.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I agreed to your bargain,” she said, buttoning up her shirt. “But you don’t expect me to just let my baby cry?”

“Lucy—”

“She’s just scared to be sleeping alone in a new place. She’s lonely,” she said hastily. “I’ll see you in the morning.” Evading his arms, she ran for the little bedroom, closing the door behind her—and locking it.

She took a deep breath, leaning back against the door. She glanced at the crib. Chloe was already asleep again, but Maximo didn’t need to know that.

With a little luck, she thought, hunting through the dark for her suitcase, they would both sleep until late in the morning. Then, she would only have twelve hours to resist Maximo’s powerful onslaught—and her own aching need.

Rummaging through the suitcase, Lucy found her pajama top, but couldn’t find the pants. Putting on the silk shirt, she climbed into the wire-framed twin bed beside the crib.

Twelve hours?

It would take a miracle for her to win this wretched, horrible, agonizingly sweet war.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

BANG—crash—bang!