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Cristo! Could the man’s face get any longer?
“Scusi,” the driver said in tones of hushed horror, “Dio, signore, scusi …”
“Benno. That is your name, is it not?”
“Sì. It is, sir, and I offer my deepest—”
“No. No apologies.” Draco smiled again. At least, he pulled his lips back from his teeth. “Suppose we start over. You say ‘Hello, how was your flight?’ And I’ll say—”
“Scusi?”
“I’ll say,” Draco said quickly, “it was fine. How’s that?”
His driver looked bewildered. “As you wish, sir.”
“Excellent,” Draco replied, and he got into the backseat of the Maserati and sank into its leather embrace.
He was going to have to be careful.
He had put off the impending meeting with the Sicilian’s man. That would, at least, give him time to shower, change his clothes, make some small attempt at getting his head on straight, but he was tired, not just jet-lagged but jet-fatigued.
Only that could explain what had happened on the plane.
“Il mio principe? Do you wish to go to your office or to your home?”
“Home, per favore, as quickly as possible, sì?”
“Sì, il mio principe.”
Draco sat back as the Maserati eased from the curb.
How could jet fatigue possibly be the reason for the incident on the plane? And what a hell of a way to describe that thing with the woman. What was that all about?
Draco frowned.
Well, he knew what it was all about.
He’d made love to her. And she’d made love to him, until those cursed lights went on, though he couldn’t call what they’d been doing “making love.”
It had been sex.
Mind-blowing, incredible sex.
Those few moments had been as exciting as any he’d ever spent with a woman.
He’d forgotten everything. Their surroundings, the fact that there were other people only a few feet away. All he’d known was her. Her taste. Her scent. Her heat.
There was a logical explanation, of course. There always was. For everything. In this case, the rush had come from having sex with a beautiful stranger in a place where anyone might have stumbled across them.
She’d been as out of control as he.
And then the lights had come on and she’d tried to lay it all on him.
No way, Draco thought, folding his arms over his chest.
All he’d done was watch her fall asleep, then drawn the blanket over her. All right. It had been his blanket, not hers, but her blanket had been half-tucked under her.
It had been logical to use his.
