“I don’t know,” he said with brutal honesty. “But I do know that I wish you only the best.”
He disconnected, put his BlackBerry in his pocket as the car pulled through the gates that led to his villa.
He had not planned on ending things just now. Soon, yes. But why now?
An image flashed into his mind.
Anna Orsini.
Naked this time, her golden hair loose on his pillows, her arms raised to him …
“Signore?”
The car had stopped at the foot of the steps to the villa. His driver stood beside the open rear door. Draco climbed out, told him he was free for the rest of the evening, went into the house and told his housekeeper the same thing.
She had left a salad for him. He ate it, had a cold beer and went to his rooms, where he undressed and stepped into the big steam shower.
Maybe the hot water would work the tension from his shoulders and neck.
Maybe it would wash away the image of Anna, naked, hot and silken under the stroke of his hand.
Draco cursed, stepped from the shower, wrapped a towel around his hips.
She had accused him of playing her, but he was the one being played!
An entire day wasted. And for what? He had money. Power. He could take on the entire Orsini famiglia and break it.
Why had he been so civilized when she showed up at his office? He should have told her to get the hell out. Of his office, of his life, of Rome.
And that exit she’d made. Gloating. Egotistical. As if she were the royal and he was the commoner—and wasn’t it pathetic she had him thinking such crap?
Anna Orsini needed to be put in her place. Reminded that she was a woman, not consigliere to a gangster.
And he could have reminded her. In the most basic way possible. Gone after her, slapped his hand on the door to keep her from opening it. Locked the damned thing, then finished what had begun somewhere high over the Atlantic, because that was what this was all about, not land, not her father, not anything but a man and a woman and frustrated desire.
He could see her in his mind’s eye, stripped to her soft skin, that mass of golden hair unbound, drifting over her shoulders, over her breasts. He’d put his mouth to the pebbled tips, his hand between her thighs, his fingers searching out her hot, wet heat because she would be hot and wet, eager, Dio, hungry for him, only for him.
Draco’s instant erection pushed hard against the towel draped around his hips. He said a word that came straight from the schoolyard of his childhood, but the urgency that accompanied it was solely that of a man.
Basta! Enough.
He had met Anna Orsini only last night, but she had already turned his life upside down. He could think about nothing but her.
And he had let her do this to him. He had permitted it.
Quickly, he tossed the towel aside, pulled on boxers, a pair of age-softened jeans, a black T-shirt, a pair of mocs.
His wallet, with her business card in it, was on a small table near the front door, where he’d left it. He yanked the card out and looked at it. He had never heard of her hotel, but he knew the location.
It would take him half an hour to get there.
He could have phoned her, but that wouldn’t be half as satisfying as confronting her.
Do your worst, he’d say. Go to the media. Spread whatever story you like, write it across the sky.
He would withstand the ugly publicity. Hell, he’d turn it in his favor. A h
oodlum and his daughter, threatening Prince Draco Valenti?