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Draco gave an ugly laugh.
He had money. Power. Far more of both than Cesare Orsini could ever hope to have. And he would use them both.
By the time he was done with the old man and his daughter, they would wish to God they’d never even heard of him.
There were three cars, and the keys to them, in his garage. The big Maserati limo, a red Lamborghini and a black Ferrari. He got behind the wheel of the Ferrari.
The car was fast and powerful and it suited the rage boiling within him.
He made the drive in fifteen minutes, his foot to the floor, cutting off whatever vehicle was in his way, ignoring the bleat of horns and raised fingers of the drivers he sped past.
The car’s tires squealed as he brought it to a stop in the hotel’s driveway. A uniformed doorman approached, hand raised, to tell him he couldn’t park there. Draco tossed him a hundred-euro note and moved quickly through the front door.
The desk clerk looked up at his approach.
“May I help you,” he started to say, but Draco cut him short.
“Anna Orsini. What room?”
“I am sorry, signore, but I cannot—”
Draco reached across the desk, grabbed the clerk by the tie and hauled him forward.
“What room?” he growled.
“Three—three fourteen,” the clerk sputtered.
Draco nodded, dropped another hundred-euro note on the counter.
There were two elevators, one in use, one with an out-of-order sign taped to its door. He waited a couple of seconds for the one that was supposedly operating and then he took the stairs instead.
Room 314 was at the end of a dark hall. He strode along a frayed carpet runner until he reached it and then he hit the door once, with his fist.
It opened instantly.
“Wow,” Anna said, “that’s the quickest room service I ever—”
“Anna.”
She was barefoot, swaddled in a voluminous white terry-cloth robe, her face bare of makeup and as beautiful as any ever sculpted by Michelangelo. Her hair was a damp tumble of golden curls; her eyes were wide with shock and as blue as the deepest part of the sea.
“Draco?” she whispered.
He stepped into the room. Shut the door behind him without once looking away from her.
“I am not room service,” he said in a low voice. “And I am not a man you can toy with.” He paused. He could feel the rage in him changing to something dark and hot and far more dangerous.
“Anna,” he said roughly, “goddamnit, Anna …”
“Goddamnit, Draco,” Anna said, “what took you so long?”
And then …
Then she was in his arms.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ANNA was on her toes, her body tight against Draco’s, her arms wound around his neck.
