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But this had gone beyond irritation. Anna’s suggestion, hell, her assumption that he’d figure the night they’d spent had changed the fact that they had a dispute to settle was insulting.
He had to put it out of his head.
Draco stepped down harder on the gas. The mood he was in, driving fast was safer than thinking, but how could a man stop thinking?
His head felt as if it might explode.
Damn Anna Orsini. Damn himself, too. How could he have forgotten that old saw about never mixing business with pleasure?
That he had just didn’t make sense.
Anna was attractive. So what? He knew dozens, scores of attractive women. Why be modest at a moment like this? Attractive women, beautiful women were his for the taking.
Hadn’t he just left one behind in Hawaii? In
fact, he thought coldly, if you wanted to be blunt about it, Giselle was the better looking of the two.
Maybe not.
Maybe she was just more interested in pleasing him than Anna was.
Giselle was always perfumed, every hair in place, her face carefully made-up even when he knew she’d spent who knew how long making sure she didn’t look made-up. He’d been with her for, what, two months? In all that time he’d never seen her looking disheveled unless it was artfully so.
Sometimes he suspected she slipped from bed so she could tiptoe into the bathroom to fix her hair and face before he woke and saw her.
Anna certainly hadn’t bothered to do that.
By morning her hair had been a wild tangle, her lipstick a memory. She had not looked even remotely perfect.
Draco’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.
She’d looked like a woman who had enjoyed every moment she’d spent in her lover’s arms, but if that were true, would she even have thought of pointing out that their dispute was not settled just because they’d had sex?
Was there nothing on her mind but that cursed land in Sicily?
Probably not.
A woman with so much attitude … Dio, she was impossible. She had an opinion on everything. She was stubborn and defiant, and she argued at the drop of a hat.
He had to have been out of his mind to have slept with her.
Not that he preferred his women to be compliant.
He was not a male chauvinist—he was just a man who understood that men were men and women were women, and a little show of deference to the dominant sex, goddamnit, could be a very nice thing.
He was still driving too fast, but the traffic had lessened. That was one of the benefits of living off the Via Appia Antica. A handful of villas, lots of parkland, lots of space.
And space, metaphorically speaking, was what he needed right now.
Unbelievable that Anna would think of the land first and the hours they’d spent making love a distant second.
Correction again.
They hadn’t made love.
They’d had sex. Anna had been very clear about that, and rightly so. That ability to see sex as a man saw it was definitely one thing he liked about her.
Making love was a woman’s phrase, a female way of twisting words to turn something basic and honest into something they could do without having to admit they had the same appetites as men.
