The Italian Read Online Free Page A

doors, he cupped elbows with the best of them. But his hand at her back had nothing to do with manners. He wanted—needed—to touch her. The trip from his desk to the door was all too short.
    They stopped at the door. The light didn’t reach here and he could vaguely see the glow of her eyes. The room was so silent he could hear her breathing. His own breathing.
    Moving slowly, Stefano lifted her hand to his mouth. You weren’t supposed to touch your lips to a woman’s hand, but the temptation was too great. He brushed that soft, soft skin with his lips, lingered. He ran his thumb across the back of her hand then reluctantly released it and opened the door.
    Buzzanca was right there, hand raised to knock again.
    “Buzzanca,” he said in Italian, not taking his eyes from hers, “see that Signorina McIntyre gets home safely.” He straightened and switched his gaze. “I want you to see her to her door. That’s an order.”
    Buzzanca saluted. “Yes sir.”
    And Stefano knew it would be done.
    He smiled down at her. “See you tomorrow night,” he said softly.
    Her chest rose gently on a breath. “Yes.”
    Stefano watched them walking down the corridor. The man he trusted most in the world and the most enticing woman he’d ever met.
    Suddenly, he had a vision.
    Anyone who knew him would have scoffed at the idea of Stefano Leone having visions. He was a realist and a lawyer. Lawyers didn’t do visions. But whether born of a sudden unsuspected gift for prophecy or of his own burning desire, he suddenly saw something else.
    He saw her walking down another corridor, naked this time. Laughing and looking teasingly over her shoulder. Her naked form was enchantment itself. Slender, sleek, womanly.
    He caught up with her, with this entrancing woman, and turned her around in his arms. She lifted a laughing face to his and he moved fast. His lips took hers hungrily and she wasn’t laughing anymore but moving against him, loin to loin, chest to chest. He moved forward, taking her with him, until her back was against the wall. His hands moved over her, seeking hungrily all those places where she showed her desire for him. He discovered immediately that she was wet, ready. As she had been so many times before.
    Blood rushed from his head to his cock and he groaned. She sighed gently into his mouth and he was lost. Feverishly he unzipped, lifted her legs. He could feel her heartbeat behind her naked breast, hammering as he opened her with his fingers and thrust his cock inside.
    She was hot, wet, tight…and he trembled. He pulled back, almost out, then thrust again…she shifted closer, legs tightening around him, and he started pounding into her, over and over again…
    He weakened, stopped, still embedded within her, his lips at her smooth pale neck. Her arms were around him and his cock was rock-hard, buried deep inside her, but he felt himself slipping away.
    He took a hand from her smooth skin and touched his side. It was wet.
    He reached higher, to the hilt of the blade buried between his ribs, embedded in his heart, and knew his life’s blood was escaping, knew he was dying—
    “Good night.”
    Stefano came to himself with a jerk.
    Jamie McIntyre was in the elevator with Buzzanca. The door was closing.
    Stefano leaned a hand against the doorjamb. What had happened to him? He was breathing heavily and sweating. Thank God the dim light hid his erection.
    “Good night,” she said again, her voice soft with distance.
    He desperately pulled air into his burning lungs.
    “ Buona notte .” His voice was hoarse. “Good night.”

Chapter Three
     
    Jamie had received flowers from a man before. But never at eight in the morning and never delivered by an armed police officer with a machine gun and a pistol.
    She’d slept badly for the first time since arriving in Palermo. Uneasy dreams of glittering dark eyes watching her in the shadows, of daggers and swords and lions. She woke up with a dry mouth, heart pounding to the