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When she woke, the cabin was almost completely dark.
And she was cocooned in warmth.
Male warmth.
Somehow she was lying in the stranger’s arms, both of them covered by a soft blanket. Her head was on his shoulder, her face buried in the curve where his neck met his shoulder.
He was asleep. She could tell by the deep, slow exhalations of his breath.
Move, she told herself. Anna, for heaven’s sake, shift away from him.
Instead, she shifted closer. Closer. Drew his scent—masculine, musky, clean—deep into her lungs.
Her hand rose. By itself, surely. No way would she have deliberately lifted it, placed it against his jaw, rubbed her fingers lightly over the sexy stubble.
The sound of his breathing changed. Quickened. Her heartbeat quickened, too.
“Hello,” he whispered.
Anna touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. “Hello,” she whispered back.
His arms tightened around her. He turned his face, brought his lips against her palm in a soft kiss.
She heard a sound. Low, urgent …
The sound had come from her.
“I dreamed I was holding you,” he said. His teeth fastened lightly in the tender flesh at the base of her thumb. “And then I awoke, and you were in my arms.”
A tremor went through her. Or perhaps through him. She couldn’t tell. And it didn’t matter. The excitement growing within her was growing within him, too. His heartbeat had quickened. And when she shifted her weight, when she shifted her weight …
Yes. Oh, yes.
He was hard. Fully aroused. And she—dear God, she was, too. She could feel her breasts lift, her nipples bud. And she was wet. So wet …
He kissed her mouth. Her lips parted against his. He groaned; his teeth fastened lightly in the tender flesh of her bottom lip, his tongue stroked across the tiny, exquisite wound and Anna gave a soft, pleading cry.
He murmured something in Italian. She didn’t understand the words but she’d have had to be a fool not to understand their meaning.
His fingers tangled in her hair. Drew her head back. She could barely see his face in the dim light, but what she could see thrilled her—those dark eyes, the bones etched hard and harsh beneath his skin.
“You are playing with fire, cara,” he said thickly.
Anna cupped her hand around the back of his head. “I like fire,” she whispered.
“So do I.” His voice was low, rough, as hot as his skin.
She brought his head down to hers, brushed her lips over his.
“I wanted you long before this,” he said. “I wanted you hours ago, back in that lounge.”
Anna trembled. Ran her fingers into his hair. It had been the same for her. That was why she’d argued with him. Fought with him. Because she had wanted him. Wanted this. His heat. His embrace. His strength …
She cried out as his hand slipped under her suit jacket. Under her blouse. Found her breast, cupped it over her silky bra, and she would have cried out again but he captured her lips with his, shaped her lips with his, slipped his tongue inside her mouth and claimed her with a slow, deep, kiss.
His thumb swept over her nipple.
She gasped, arched against him, felt her nipple bead and press blindly against his hand.
Please, Anna thought, please …
Draco gave a low growl.
He shifted the woman against him, raised her leg, brought it over his hip and pressed his aroused flesh against her.
Now, he thought, now …
The cabin lights winked on.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be serving breakfast in just a few minutes ….”
The woman in his arms froze. Her eyes flew open, blurred with passion and then with shock.
Cristo, he was having difficulty grasping the facts himself. What had happened—what had almost happened …
Impossible.
He’d had sex on planes before. That was one of the perks of owning a private jet, but sex, or the closest thing to it, in a plane filled with people?
It was crazy.
How could he have done such a thing? It was an unacceptable, inexplicable loss of control, and he was not a man given to losses of control or, for that matter, to doing things that were either inexplicable or unacceptable.
“Let go of me,” the woman snapped.
Draco looked at her. She was as white as paper, and trembling.
“Easy,” he started to say, but she cut him short.
“Are you deaf? Let go!”
“Look, bella, I know you’re upset—”
“Damnit, let go!”
His mouth thinned. Was she going to try to label him the villain in this little drama?
“With pleasure, once I’m convinced you’re in control of your senses.” He waited, watched her face. “Are you?”
“You’d better believe I am.”
There was no panic in her voice now, only razor-sharp warning. A muscle knotted in Draco’s jaw. Then, with elaborate care, he took his hands from her.
In a flash she tossed off the blanket, pushed the button that brought her seat upright, shot to her feet. He did the same, if a split second later.
“Listen to me,” he said …
Too late.
She had already turned and fled.
CHAPTER FOUR (#udd2f8c82-befb-5918-af53-73188cfa6bb6)
DRACO exited Fiumicino Airport, his cell phone at his ear.
“Just tell your boss that I am not, repeat, not going to meet his representative an hour from now. Two hours from now. That’s the best I’ll do. You don’t know if you can get in touch with his rep?” Draco took the phone from his ear and glared at it. “That is not my problem—it is yours.”
One good thing about old-fashioned desk phones, he thought grimly as he ended the call. In moments like this, you could slam the thing down and get some satisfaction out of it.
“Il mio principe!”
Heads swiveled. Glowering, Draco eyeballed his Maserati and his driver and strode toward them.
The man beamed. “Buon giorno, il mio principe. Come è stato il vostro volo?”
“My flight was a nightmare,” Draco snarled, “and must you announce my title to the world?”
Merda. The driver’s face fell. The man had been with him only a couple of weeks; he was just trying to be pleasant.
Draco took a deep breath, forced a smile he hoped was not a grimace to his lips.
“Mi dispiace. I’m sorry. I’m just jet-lagged.”
“You must not apologize to me, sir! It is my fault, surely.”
The driver clapped his heels together, lifted Draco’s carry-on, and reached for the handle of the rear door just as Draco did the same. Their hands and arms collided.
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.
How was he to know she would sigh and fling her arm across his chest? That she’d lay her head on his shoulder? He was a man, not a machine; she’d all but moved into his embrace. Was he supposed to push her away? And when she’d lifted her dark lashes and looked up at him, her eyes as blue as the sea, when she’d caressed his cheek …
