The Ice Prince (15 page)

“You’re a pigheaded mule,” she told Anna, and Anna tried to laugh at the impossible image, but she couldn’t.

Laughing seemed out of the question.

At least she’d gotten rid of Izzy for a while. A half hour would give her time to regroup.

Unfortunately, Izzy had obviously decided leaving was a mistake, because the doorbell rang not five minutes later.
Anna rubbed her eyes with her fists, pasted a smile on her face and went to the door.

“No,” she said as she flung it open, “I will not compromise on Tangerine Twist ….” The words died on her tongue. “Draco?” she said, and two things happened at once. Her hand balled into a fist so she could hit him, and Draco said her name and reached for her, and after a hesitation that surely lasted no more than a heartbeat, Anna sobbed her lover’s name and went into his arms.

He kissed her, over and over. Her forehead. Her eyes. The tip of her nose. Her mouth. Oh, her mouth, even sweeter than he remembered.

“Anna,” he said brokenly, “Anna,
bellissima, mio amante
Anna,
ti amo, ti adoro!
”

Anna didn’t speak much Italian, but a woman didn’t have to speak the language to understand any of those words.

“I love you, too,” she whispered. “I adore you. I’ve missed you so terribly!”

“
Sì.
I have missed you, too. My heart, my life have been so empty …”

“That night,” Anna said, “that awful night …”

“I was afraid to lose you. And afraid to try and keep you.” Draco laughed as he framed her face in his hands. “I always thought love was a foolish fairy tale.”

Anna smiled, even as tears rolled down her cheeks.

“I thought it was just a way of keeping a woman under a man’s thumb.”

Draco kissed her again.

“We were both wrong,
bellissima.
”

“Yes. Oh yes, we were.”

Draco took a deep breath. And dropped to one knee.

“Anna. Beloved,” he said, “will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

The smile that curved Anna’s lips was, Draco knew, the most beautiful sight a man would ever see.

“Yes,” she said, “oh, yes. I will.”

He reached in his pocket, took out a ring and slipped it on her finger. It was a perfect copy of the Valenti crest, done in sapphires and diamonds.

Anna looked from her hand to her lover. Her eyes filled again.

“It’s beautiful,” she said softly. “And I am honored to wear it.”

Draco rose to his feet. “Anna,” he murmured, “
bella
Anna.”

She went into his arms and he kissed her, kissed her until the world floated away. They never heard Isabella come in, never heard her hurried departure.

But when Izzy quietly shut the apartment door, she was smiling.

They were married two weeks later in the little church Anna’s mother had always loved, on a street that was either part of Little Italy or Greenwich Village, depending on who you asked.

Sofia Orsini was thrilled with her new son-in-law, but she raised her eyebrows when he came to her at the party that followed in the observatory at the Orsini mansion and said he had a wedding gift for her.

It was the deed to the Sicilian land that sheltered the ruins of the castle that had belonged to his ancestors.

“Now it will belong to two families,” he said.

Sofia shook her head and gently gave the document back to him. She said she had no idea what he was talking about, but that it was good to know her Anna had married a man who loved Sicily.

He shook hands with each of Anna’s brothers, all of whom
had been his best men—“Just try and talk me out of it,” he’d told the wedding planner, who had not been foolish enough to try—and laughed with them in a way that told Anna they shared something, but none of them would tell her what it was.

He kissed his sisters-in-law, who had been Anna’s bridesmaids, kissed the nephews and nieces he’d so suddenly acquired, and reserved a special hug for Anna’s maid of honor.

“Isabella,” he said, “Anna says you are the dearest sister a woman could possibly have.”

“You next, kid,” Rafe said to Izzy as he swept her away and danced her around the room.

“Right,” Izzy said brightly, and thought,
Not me, not now, not ever in a million billion years.

And, finally, he walked up to Cesare.

“Anna thinks she despises you,” he said softly, “but the truth,
signore,
is that she loves you because you are her father.” He looked the don straight in the eye. “And you made up all that nonsense about your wife’s family and my land.”

The don permitted himself a small smile.

“I may have had my facts confused. Anything is possible.” He paused. “By the way,” he continued, as if what he were about to say was unimportant, “I knew your father. He was not the best of men but then, neither am I.”

Draco waited. Then he said, “And?”

The don smiled. “And, I suspect your father would be proud of the man you have become.”

At last it was time for Anna and Draco to say goodbye and leave on their honeymoon.

They were flying to Venice, on his private plane. It was big and luxurious; the center aisle had been garlanded with white roses.

Draco carried his bride down that aisle to the private bedroom in the rear of the plane and kicked the door shut after him.

“This is how it all began,
cara,
” he said softly. “A plane. And you. And me.”

Anna smiled as he set her slowly on her feet. She was wearing stilettos, of course. Still, she had to rise on tiptoe to kiss him, and then to put her lips to his ear and whisper something hot and wicked.

His eyes grew very, very dark. Slowly he shrugged off his jacket. Undid his tie. Unbuttoned his shirt.

“Anna,” he said in a voice that was pure sex.

Anna laughed and wound her arms around his neck.

“Draco,” she whispered. “What took you so long?”

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II BV/S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

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First published in Great Britain 2011
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of Harlequin (UK) Limited,
Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

© Sandra Marton 2011

ISBN: 978-1-408-92582-9