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And then to wake up and find him all over her …
Anna sprang to her feet. Unzipped her carry-on.
“The bastard,” she hissed as she tore through the contents in search of toothpaste, toothbrush, cosmetics.
Who gave a damn about his looks? He’d pawed her. Attacked her.
She groaned again and sank onto the edge of the bed.
“Liar,” she whispered.
She was blaming everything on him when the truth was, whatever he had done, she had encouraged.
“How could you?” she whispered. “My God, Anna, how could you?”
The question was pointless. She didn’t have an answer. And she was not a child.
You opened your mouth to a man’s kisses, you moaned under his touch, you draped your leg over him … What could you call all that, if not encouragement?
The stranger hadn’t done anything she hadn’t wanted him to do.
Anna closed her eyes.
And, oh my, he had done it magnificently.
That wonderful, knowing mouth. That hard, long body. Those big hands on her breasts …
“Enough,” she said briskly, and got to her feet.
She had things to do before the meeting. And, thankfully, miraculously, an hour in which to do them. Her father’s capo had called on her cell. The prince had delayed the meeting by an hour.
Excellent news.
Not that she’d let the prince know it, Anna thought as she dumped the contents of her carry-on on the bed. On the contrary. She’d tell him that his change of plans—his unilaterally made change of plans—was an inconvenience. She would tell him of her flight, of how she had spent the entire time in the air diligently bent over her computer, studying the documents that proved, irrefutably, her mother’s ownership of the land in—in whatever the name of that town in Sicily was. Torminia. Tarminia. Taormina, and she had less than an hour to at least get that much into her weary brain.
A shower. A change of clothes. A quick look at the file that had, thus far, proven useless.
Yes, but she’d gone into court with less information before and come out the winner.
She was one hell of a fine attorney.
The prince’s attorney would probably be top grade, but so what? She could handle that. And she could definitely handle a fawned-upon, effeminate blue blood of a prince.
She was an American, after all.
Quickly she laid out fresh clothes. Another suit. Charcoal- gray, this time. Another blouse. Ivory silk, of course. A change of shoes. Stilettos. Black and glossy, with—for kicks—peep toes. Und
erwear. Silk. Sexy.
People could see the stilettos. The undies were just for her. She liked knowing that under the uniform she was all female.
The stranger would probably have liked it, too.
He was the kind of man who’d know how to strip a woman of a sexy half bra, a sexy thong. There were times she’d thought, fleetingly, that what she’d worn under her clothes had been wasted on a lover.
It would not be wasted on him.
His hands would be sure and exciting as he took off her bra, his fingers just brushing across her nipples. They’d be steady as he hooked his thumbs into the edges of her thong and slid it down her hips, his eyes never leaving hers even as her breathing quickened, as she felt herself getting wet and hot and … and …
