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The Illegitimate King by Olivia Gates

She had to surface from under his spell…

“Now that we’ve got the dinner you’ve been harping on for years out of the way, I hope we can discuss something important.” As Clarissa spoke, Ferruccio’s eyes drained of the warmth that had ignited them for the past hours. She braced herself against the urge to soften her tone. “So…go ahead. Negotiate. I can’t wait to hear your ‘terms.’ They should be entertaining.”

After the shock passed, rage crashed over Ferruccio. How had she blindsided him again? He could swear she’d taken off her mask and shown him her true self. Now she’d thrown his invitations in his face, taunted him. It didn’t matter that he would be king. He remained a bastard in her eyes.

She had no idea who she was dealing with, how out of her depth she was. It was time to make her regret her snobbery.

“You want to negotiate, Princess? By all means. I have only one term for agreeing to take the crown. That I take you with it.”

Friday Night Mistress by Jan Colley

Jordan Lake would be the ultimate takeover.

“Does it bother you,” he asked roughly, “this secret of ours? This thing between us?”

Jordan was past reason. She wanted much more of “this thing” between them and she wanted it now.

With an effort almost too much to bear, she forced her mouth to open, to speak. “I know the score, Nick,” she told him tightly. “I’m playing the game.”

Sex.

Simple. Sensational. Secret.

Available in June 2010from Mills & Boon® Desire™

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The Illegitimate King

by Olivia Gates

&

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by Jan Colley

The Illegitimate King

by

Olivia Gates
Friday Night Mistress

by

Jan Colley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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The Illegitimate King

by

Olivia Gates

Dear Reader,

As I wrote the last words in The Illegitimate King, the book that wraps up THE CASTALDINI CROWN trilogy, I found myself sighing in pleasure and regret. To have come to the satisfying end of a family saga that has been all I thought about for five months made me feel at once elated and wistful. I’ve fallen in love with each of my magnificent heroes. It was as wonderful to have known them as it was hard to leave them behind.

Then I remembered that I can always open the books and revisit them and that I can and will create more one-woman men who are everything a woman might dream of. Men who are powerful in character and passion as well as in sensitivity, who are towers of strength and tenderness at once.

The Illegitimate King’s hero, Ferruccio Selvaggio, aka the Savage Iron Man, is such a man, but he surprised even me as I wrote his story. He was bent on revenge, but the side of him that longed for love and family overwhelmed his harsh intentions at every turn. I loved him that tiny bit more for having triumphed over unimaginable horrors and hardships to become the incredible man who would become Castaldini’s king and the one man his heroine, Clarissa, could love.

I hope that reading their story will give you as much pleasure as writing it gave me.

I would love to hear from you at oliviagates@gmail.com. You can also visit me on the web at www.oliviagates. com.

Thank you for reading.

Olivia Gates

Olivia Gates has always pursued creative passions – painting, singing and many handicrafts. She still does, but only one of her passions grew gratifying enough, consuming enough, to become an ongoing career: writing.

She is most fulfilled when she is creating worlds and conflicts for her characters, then exploring and untangling them bit by bit, sharing her protagonists’ every heart-wrenching heartache and hope, their every heart-pounding doubt and trial, until she leads them to an indisputably earned and gloriously satisfying happy ending.

When she’s not writing, she is a doctor, a wife to her own alpha male and a mother to one brilliant girl and one demanding angora cat. visit Olivia at www.oliviagates. com.

At the end of this trilogy, I again dedicate it to the two ladies who made it possible for me to write it.

My phenomenal editor, Natashya Wilson.

And Melissa Jeglinski, a wonderful lady and Desire’s former senior editor.

Thanks, ladies. It’s been a fantastic ride.

Prologue

Six years ago

“So gods do walk the earth!”

Clarissa D’Agostino frowned at her friend’s breathless exclamation as she dabbed at the stain on the décolleté of her lavender chiffon gown.

She cursed herself for biting into that overripe plum. Way to go, making a fool of herself when she was supposed to be Castaldini’s princess, all grown up and fit for court appearances at last. It seemed that four years in the States and graduating at the top of her class from Harvard Business School hadn’t done a thing to improve her ability to handle public appearances.

She grimaced at the visible stain. “What are you going on about?”

“I’m all about that…god over there!”

Clarissa swung around. Not to search out the proclaimed deity, but to check her best friend for signs of intoxication.

She found Luci fanning herself. “And I thought his profile was hard-hitting. His full-frontal assault is devastating.”

Clarissa gaped at her. Luciana Montgomery, whose feminist outlook and American side dominated her Castaldinian roots, was the last woman she knew who’d drool over a man. She’d never seen Luci react like this to anyone—not in the States, where they’d gone to college together and where hunks had regularly pursued the vivacious redhead, and not in Castaldini, which was crawling with gorgeous men. The only men Luci had ever even said were drool-worthy were Clarissa’s brothers and a few of her cousins. And she hadn’t reacted this way to any of them. It was weird, seeing her tongue almost lolling out.

The weirdness took a turn into the absurd when Luci grabbed her arm and squeaked in excitement, “He’s looking our way!”

“I could have sworn you had only one glass of champagne, Luci.” Clarissa turned to investigate the phenomenon who had made the most poised twenty-two-year-old woman she knew flutter like a giddy schoolgirl. “I’ll have to see if someone’s spiking the…”

The words backed up in her throat.

There were so many men in the ballroom whom Clarissa didn’t recognize. She’d been away for so long and had never been active in court life, and she was the one member of the king’s family who everyone almost forgot existed, just the way she wanted them to. But there could be only one man who warranted Luci’s overreaction.

There was only one man who Clarissa could see.

He wasn’t a god. He surpassed all depictions of gods she’d ever seen, with all the perfections worshippers’ imaginations had lavished on them. No one could have imagined him. She certainly hadn’t. She could barely believe he was real.

He was. And he was looking their way. Her way.

Her heart plunged into the pit of her stomach. Time ceased. Reality fell away. Existence converged onto one thing. His eyes. Stormy skies illuminated by lightning, all their focus and power targeting her. But what started tremors arcing through her was what she saw in them; a reflection of her own state, stunned free fall into the awareness that crackled between them.

Suddenly he blinked, turned his face away. Through the fugue encompassing her, she realized why he had severed their connection. Her father.

King Benedetto had appeared beside the man, a wide smile—one she couldn’t remember seeing since she was a small child—spreading across his lips.

The man gazed at her father as if he didn’t recognize him. Her father spoke, the man listened. She found herself moving, unaware of anything or anyone, just needing to be closer, to find out what had just happened. Suddenly the man turned back, snared her again in the bull’s eye of his focus.

She stopped. Moving. Breathing. Her heart quivered inside her to a standstill. Shock splashed through her like ice water.

It was unmistakable, what she saw in his eyes now. Coldness. Hostility. Which meant one thing. She’d been wrong. It hadn’t been a blast of attraction she’d seen in his eyes, felt radiating from him. That had all been on her side.

Before she could recoil from the rush of mortification and letdown, he turned and walked away from her father.

She stood there, feeling as if a knife had been thrust between her ribs, heard Luci’s voice as if it were seeping in from another realm.

“Lord, what was that?”

Clarissa couldn’t produce a thought, let alone an answer.

“That was the Savage Iron Man.”

Clarissa swung around unsteadily toward the purring voice.

Stella. She’d been making Clarissa’s skin crawl ever since they were children. Thankfully, they were only third cousins, so she’d seen as little of Stella as possible. She would have liked to see far less. None.

Stella’s words made as much sense now.

It was Luci who summed up Clarissa’s thoughts: “Huh?”

“Ferruccio Selvaggio, shipping magnate extraordinaire, who, at thirty-two, is one of the richest men in the world. He’s like a wrecking ball, rising so high so young, over the smashed remains of anyone who’s dared stand in his way. Hence the nickname, which also happens to be the meaning of his aptly given names.”

“That’s according to you, of course.” Luci smirked.

“That’s according to common knowledge. He’s a terror. But judging by our king’s enthusiasm, it seems he’s willing to overlook that fact—along with the other fact, that Ferruccio is a bastard, literally—if he’ll only invest heavily enough in Castaldini.”

“My, Stella, I hope nobody thinks you’re the example of what royal blood does for a person,” Luci said. “It would be so unfair if you gave us all a reputation for being stuck-up bitches.”

Stella pouted. The perfect beauty was always putting on an act, oozing class and subtle sexuality, showing her true self only to other women, knowing men would think them jealous harpies if they criticized her. “Being a mongrel yourself, Luciana, you don’t have to worry about that. But then, that makes you the perfect merchandise he’s here to shop for. You have enough diluted blue blood that you might fit the bill in his bid to buy legitimacy. With what he has to offer in return, I say go for it.”

As Luci continued to argue with Stella, Clarissa turned and walked away. Stella’s vile words were like acid poured over the rawness of that incendiary moment. It didn’t matter that it had all been in her mind. The damage was real.

She’d moved a good way through the crowd when something made her turn around.

He was heading toward where she’d been standing. Coming back for her? Had she been wrong about that second look? She began walking back.

Her feet gathered momentum as he zeroed in on Luciana and Stella. Would he ask them about her?

Then she was close enough to see the glazed look entering the women’s eyes at being under his immediate influence, to hear the rumble of his deep voice, the predatory flirtation in it.

Something shriveled inside her, like a paper curling up as flames ate it to ashes. Her feet changed course again, quickened, until she was almost running as she exited the ballroom to the verandah. She breathed hard, snatching air into constricted lungs.

Stop it. You fool.

She’d imagined it all. The attraction and the antipathy. He’d been looking at Luciana all along. Or perhaps he looked at every woman the way she’d thought he’d looked at her.

Get ahold of yourself.

She slipped into the shadows, trying to do just that, to suppress tears she’d long thought had run dry.

She was a lousy excuse for a princess, but her father had asked her to take an active role in the court and in the kingdom, at his side, in her mother’s place. It had been the first thing he’d asked of her in…ever. She was damned if she’d run out on him. Again.

She straightened her aching back, started to move—and walked into a wall of hot, hard muscle and maleness. Him.

She stumbled back, started to apologize, to sidestep him, air shearing into her lungs, chaos invading her synapses.

He blocked her escape route. He didn’t touch her—he didn’t need to. His very presence reached out and snared her in an inescapable embrace. And that was before her gaze streaked up to his, to find him looking down at her with that trance-inducing intensity.

The effect was the same as it had been during that first flash flood of recognition.

Her consciousness wavered. The world swirled around her as his eyes ate her up. Then his lips moved and she heard his voice, unobscured by the din of background chatter and music. Rich and fathomless, sweeping over her like a binding spell.

“I’m leaving. And you’re not enjoying this reception any more than I am. Come with me.”

She stared up at him. No one should be endowed with all that. He was too…everything. He towered about ten inches above her five foot eight, his physique that of an Olympian, his face that of an avenging angel, planes and hollows and slashes of power and perfection, a being of bronze and gold and steel, who took her breath away and held it just out of reach.

Dangerous. And if he could do this to her with a look, he was beyond that. Lethal. But that wasn’t just a look in his eyes. That was…unadulterated coveting. Pure possession.

It was what she’d imagined she’d seen before. But she hadn’t imagined the cold way he’d looked at her afterward, or the way he’d gone straight to the other women who’d caught his eye.

What was he playing at? He must expect all women to lose their mental faculties at the sight of him, and fall to their knees at his approach. And after he’d conquered Luci and that scorpion Stella—who couldn’t have been immune to him—he’d come after her. Why?

He took a tight step closer, practically vibrating with something vast and overwhelming. She could have sworn it was hunger, barely checked. And it would be unleashed at the slightest provocation—a gasp, a tremor.

She was incapable of any physical reaction, caught in stasis, waiting for his next words to reanimate her.

Suddenly, the spectacular wings of his eyebrows drew together. “You’re uncertain whether you can trust me? Don’t you know that you can?”

He was talking as if they knew each other. She would have found it the most natural thing in the world if this encounter had taken place immediately after that first glance. She had felt as if she’d known him, then.

When she remained staring up at him, mute, he exhaled. “I thought we didn’t need formalities, that we could revel in this…” he made an eloquent gesture, from his heart to hers “…connection, without outside interference. Maybe I’m asking too much.” He exhaled again. “Let’s go inside. We’ll find your father on the way out. He can vouch for me.”

He knew who she was.

That was why he was out here rather than with the women who’d interested him for real. He wasn’t here for her. He was here for Princess Clarissa D’Agostino, the king’s daughter. Just like every other man who’d ever found out she was royalty.

Stella had said he wanted to add some blue-blooded legitimacy to his image. She might or might not be right. But Clarissa knew one thing. He didn’t want her. And why should he?

Nobody had ever wanted her.

The hurt and humiliation finally forced an answer from her spastic lips. “That won’t be necessary, Signore Selvaggio.”

The heat and assurance in his gaze wavered. “You know me?”

“I know of you. Ferruccio Selvaggio, shipping magnate and potential investor in Castaldini.”

His lips tugged, not into a smile, tension entering his gaze. “Right now I’m only the man who wants the pleasure of your company for the rest of the evening. Join me for dinner.”

Not a request. A demand. One she would have stumbled over herself to accept if he hadn’t bypassed her for her glamorous friend and relative, only to pursue her when he realized she better served whatever purpose he had in mind.

She tilted her face, as princesses were supposed to do to end unsavory situations, striving to project detached authority and nonnegotiable dismissal, for the first time managing to implement the teachings of two dozen etiquette instructors who’d begged to be relieved of the impossible duty of teaching her to act her part. “Thank you for the invitation, Signore Selvaggio. But my…situation doesn’t allow me to…be with you. I’m sure you’ll find someone else who can.”

His whole body tensed and his nostrils flared as if he had braced himself against the force of a resounding slap. He understood. She wasn’t talking about her situation tonight. She was giving him a taste of his own medicine. If he wanted her for who she was in society, she was letting him know she didn’t want him for the same reason.

Heat seeped from his eyes, something almost scary flooding to fill the vacuum it left behind.

He finally shrugged. “Pity. But there may come a time when your…situation might not leave you any option but to…be with me.” With a nod of his awesome head, he pivoted, took a couple of relaxed steps away before he tossed a glance over his daunting shoulder. Then he murmured softly, menacingly, “Until then.”

Chapter One

The present

Finally.

The word reverberated in Ferruccio Selvaggio’s head, spread in his blood along with the thick, bitter ooze of grim satisfaction.

He’d finally gotten Clarissa D’Agostino where he wanted her.

A supplicant coming to beg his favor. In—he flicked a glance at his Rolex—twenty minutes’ time.

She couldn’t be here soon enough. He’d been waiting too long for this moment. Six years. That was how long she’d evaded him. Snubbed him. The princess who thought his hardwon wealth and power not enough to raise him to the status of the men she deigned to mix with, men born with the right lineage. The blue blood who thought a bastard, no matter how rich and influential, not worthy of civility.

But despite all her haughty disdain, he had Princess High-and-Mighty coming to do his bidding. And if everything went according to plan—and he now possessed all the leverage to make sure it did—he’d have her doing his bidding far longer and in far more ways than she thought.

He’d have her, period.

He’d been fantasizing about having her ever since that first night he’d seen her. That first glance.

It had been his first time in the royal court. He’d been uncertain of his reception, of his reaction to being there. Most of the people there had been D’Agostinos. His so-called family.

But he didn’t share their name. His parents hadn’t had him the acceptable way, hadn’t given the name to him. Others had given him the surname he used now. He’d been called by it so many times, it had stuck. So he’d made it legal.

The evidence that he was a D’Agostino had been presented to him long ago. At the time, he’d demanded public recognition. His parents had been willing to give him anything but that. He’d told them what to do with their love and offers of support. He’d survived so far without them. He’d make it on his own, make it to the top, the same way.

Finally he’d reached a height of success from which he thought it time to satisfy his curiosity. He wanted to see what it was like, the place that should have been his home. What they were like, the people who should have been his family. If he’d been missing anything. If he could make up for it if he had been; if he could grow the roots he’d never had.

He’d entered the king’s court unannounced. By then, he’d had enough clout that he could walk in anywhere in the world and be welcomed. And the court had welcomed him. To this day, he remembered none of those who’d done so. Besides his meeting with the king, he remembered nothing before and nothing after he’d seen her across the teeming space.

She’d been wiping at something on the neckline of that ethereal violet dress. In profile, her face had been a study of concentration and consternation. He’d felt everything inside him prime, rev into awareness.

Stunned, not knowing what that upsurge meant, he’d needed to look her in the face, in the eyes. Then she’d turned, fulfilled his need. And something he’d always scoffed at had ripped through him. A bolt of attraction. More, of recognition. Of the one woman who translated his every fantasy into glorious reality.

Physically, she’d been the amalgam of all the endowments he’d never thought could be gathered in one being. Hair the color of Castaldini’s beaches, streaked with rays of its sun, permeated by tones of the rich soil of its mountains. A body at once willowy and womanly, unconscious femininity screaming in its every line and curve. A face that embodied all his tastes and demands.

But it had been her eyes—which really had turned out to be violet, when he thought he’d imagined the color from that distance—and what he’d seen in them, that had snared him.

To think he’d thought they’d shown a reflection of his awareness, his discovery. He thought he’d seen more, too, a quality that had snapped the trap shut: Vulnerability.

Right. Clarissa D’Agostino was as vulnerable as an iceberg to the Titanic.

He still seethed to remember how he’d sought her, bared his need to have more of her, revealed his moronic belief in the existence of a connection between them that had transcended time and logic. He still burned at the memory of the moment he’d gotten what he deserved for such idiocy, when she’d stared at him as if he’d lost his mind, then told him to go find someone in a lesser…situation—who’d deem him good enough to…be with.

She’d told him that dozens of times since then. With every rejection of the invitations he’d never ceased to issue. Making them had become the masochistic lash he used every time he found his will to go on flagging, using the anger and frustration to keep on rising, keep on acquiring everything in his path. As he couldn’t acquire her.

But now he finally would. One way or another.

He’d teach her a lesson. Many lessons. He’d take her down a few dozen pegs, and he’d revel in every one.

He braced his arms against the balustrade, cast his gaze into the distance. The sun’s gold was starting to deepen as the star quickened its descent toward the endless expanse of liquid turquoise and emerald that was the southern Castaldinian Sea.

Another rush of bitter anticipation tumbled and sprayed through his system like the waves did on the shore. He wasn’t here only for the spectacular vista the tower of his mansion afforded him. This was also the best vantage point from which to view the winding road over which she’d be brought to him…

Everything seemed to dim as the last three words replayed in his mind like a distorted old recording.

Brought to him. Not coming to him of her free will, unable to wait to see him, as she had in too many dreams to count.

What would he have felt if she’d been rushing here with hunger in her eyes, with longing on her lips?

If only…

His lips compressed as he tore his eyes away from the road and blindly roamed the view he could no longer see.

No. No if onlys. She’d made her choice that first night. Had reinforced it countless times throughout six interminable years.

Even if she changed her mind now, for whatever reason, it would be too late. Now only one thing mattered. That she had no choice. That there was no way she could reject him again. And he intended to savor every second of her downfall, starting—he snapped another look at his Rolex—ten minutes from now.

He pushed away from the balustrade, swung around.

Time to put the finishing touches to his plan.

“Until then.”

The words, spoken like a pledge, a prophecy, in the lethal tone of a dangerous man, reverberated inside Clarissa’s head. They had done so for six years now.

Twenty-four hours ago, she’d found out that “then” had arrived. Ferruccio Selvaggio had her cornered.

She exhaled and gazed through sunglasses and rioting hair at the vista rushing by as the limo zoomed over the road that snaked parallel to the shore.

She knew the sun was turning flame orange and speeding on an intercept course with the sea, that the horizon would be changing into a thousand hues and the waters would be starting their transformation from aquamarine to royal blue.

She saw none of it. Her vision was turned inward, where there was nothing but gray chaos.

Calm down. Breathe.

She carefully drew in a stream of the fresh sea air that buffeted her face. Then again. And again.

And nothing. Taking one breath at a time wouldn’t restore any measure of calm. It hadn’t since yesterday. Since her father had made her cut short her first official mission to the States to give her the news. The shock of her life.

She thought she’d known the limit of her father’s desperation to find himself a crown prince after his stroke. He’d proven her wrong.

The crown of Castaldini was by law not passed from father to son, but rather earned by merit. With the approval of the royal council, the current king would choose his successor from the royal D’Agonstino family—a man of impeccable reputation, sturdy health and no vices, solid lineage, a leader with character and charisma, and above all, a self-made success of the highest order.

She’d been the only one who hadn’t been stunned when he’d announced his first candidate. Leandro, the prince whom eight years ago her father had declared renegade, stripped of his nationality and exiled. She’d thought Leandro the wisest choice of any candidate for the crown. It had been time to forget grievances and think of Castaldini’s best interests. But when her father had wrestled the Council into making the offer, Leandro had done the unthinkable. He’d turned the power and responsibility down.

And her father had dropped another bomb. He had another even more impossible candidate. Her oldest brother, Durante. And in an undreamed of precedent in Castaldinian history, he’d gotten the Council to amend the most fundamental part of the kingdom’s constitution to make his son eligible for the crown.

She’d never been so excited. She’d always thought how unfairly absolute the laws of succession were, that while they protected Castaldini from unsuitable heirs, in Durante’s case they were depriving it from having its best king ever. But the Council had voted, and the impossible had become possible.

Then Durante had come back with his bride-to-be, and Clarissa had even dared to hope that he and her father would work out their rift. Everything had looked like it would have a perfect happy ending for her family and for Castaldini.

Again the impossible had happened. They had sorted out their rift, but Durante had turned down the succession.

She’d tried to speak to him, but he hadn’t been available for discussion as he’d prepared for his wedding and disappeared with his bride on an extended honeymoon. Clarissa had gone to the States, her father assuring her that he was working on securing the next candidate, the one he believed most suited to the job despite there being an even more insurmountable barrier to overcome to make the Council agree.

She hadn’t been able to imagine who could possibly be better than Leandro or Durante. Then the king made her cut her mission short to drop the biggest bomb of all.

He’d gotten the Council to make an even more incredible amendment, allowing the king to extend another offer of the crown of Castaldini.

To Ferruccio Selvaggio.

She still didn’t know how she hadn’t collapsed in a heap of shock and confusion upon hearing that.

From what she’d heard in the media about Ferruccio, he was a man with no origins. All that was known about his parentage was that he’d been given up for adoption in Napoli when he was born.

But he’d never been adopted. By the time he was a difficult six-year-old, he’d been placed in a foster home, the first of a dozen, until he ran away from the last one at age thirteen. He’d chosen to live the harshest of lives on the streets of Italian coastal cities and in Sicily and Sardinia rather than return to the system. Over the next two decades, he educated himself extensively and worked his way up to the highest echelons imaginable.

When his status had solidified, he’d come to Castaldini. Since then, he’d been a recurring figure in her father’s court, and a constant one in her dreams and nightmares. Worse, his businesses in the kingdom now comprised almost one quarter of the national income.

When she’d told her father that that didn’t make him king material, that Castaldini couldn’t just waive the laws that had made it unique in the world for eight hundred years to have a king who only answered the financial criterion of the ancient laws of succession who wasn’t a D’Agostino or even a Castaldinian, her father had dropped the biggest bomb yet.

Ferruccio was a D’Agostino.

The king had been entrusted with this fact before Ferruccio had first come to Castaldini. He’d told a select few, among them Durante and Paolo, her brothers; but knowing the delicate dynamics involved, he’d chosen not to divulge Ferruccio’s parents’ names so that the house he belonged to wouldn’t suffer the repercussions of exhuming buried secrets.

After his stroke, he’d given the Council his word as proof of the fact. They’d argued that illegitimacy was by far the worst breach of the ancient laws that he’d asked them to commit in his quest to find the next king. They couldn’t accept a bastard contender for the crown. But the king had made a solid case for Ferruccio otherwise.

Ferruccio was everything the king must be, he said, even more so than his first two choices. He was even more radically self-made, as his rise had been against what should have been insurmountable odds. He was a leader by nature, his shipping empire the largest in the world and his political powers farreaching. At last the Council succumbed and made the offer.

Contrary to Durante and Leandro, Ferruccio had been instantly amenable to discussing that offer. But he’d refused to give a word of either consent or refusal. Before he would give either, he had terms to negotiate.

He would negotiate with only one Council member. Her.

Clarissa closed her eyes again on another eruption of fury.

How dare that arrogant jerk!

Castaldini was not only acknowledging him, it was offering him the incalculable honor and privilege of becoming its future king, and he had terms? What more did he want? A binding contract adding the island to his real estate acquisitions?

Not that that was too far-fetched. Among her shocking discoveries, she found out that he’d long ago purchased a huge chunk of Castaldinian soil. Three hundred square miles of the six thousand that made up the island. It didn’t matter that this was the south eastern area that was said to be unreclaimable for being too mountainous, it was still five percent of the whole damn kingdom.

And why negotiate with her? She was the most junior Council member. Wasn’t really even that, yet. She’d been made a member the day before she embarked on her trip to the States, a training mission that had been cut short, too.

But she knew why.

Now that Ferruccio was in a position of unprecedented power, he wanted to lord it over the D’Agostinos, the royal family, maybe over the whole nation he felt had spurned him. He wanted to lord it over her, too, the only female, she believed, who hadn’t fallen flat on her face at his approach, quaked at his every glance, melted when he beckoned.

Well, she had…But he didn’t know that. She hadn’t let him know, and she thanked God for that daily. She hated to think what would have happened if she hadn’t been forewarned of his true nature and intentions and had succumbed to the dictates of her desires that first time he’d expressed interest.

His ruthless reputation proclaimed him to be an overendowed, overprivileged, overeverything boor who believed people’s—especially women’s—only use was to throw themselves at his feet, follow his orders and satisfy his appetites before being discarded. He’d lost no sleep over her rejection, as evidenced by the constant stream of interchangeable hotties who’d been flitting in and out of his bed ever since.

Not that he’d taken no for answer. Her dismissal seemed to have roused the conqueror in him, and he’d continued to approach her despite her consistent refusals.

After she dared to decline his first invitation, she’d seen him everywhere she went during the week he spent on Castaldini. She hadn’t been able to breathe until he left. Then he’d come back within a month to issue another invitation and had continued to do so whenever he returned, and even more when he hadn’t. He kept asking her to hop over to Milan, Monaco or Madrid, to join him for a meal, Hong Kong or Tokyo or Rio De Janeiro to join him for the weekend, among a party or alone.

She turned him down every time, with one excuse or another, struggling to observe formal politeness and neutrality, since he was such an important man to her father and Castaldini.

But he’d left her that first night with the augury that there would come a time when she’d have no option but to do his bidding.

That time was finally here.

She wondered how he’d justified his demand to her father. He must have said something convincing, or her father wouldn’t have been so matter-of-fact about it.

So he’d finally have his laugh. That had to be his objective. If there’d been a shadow of a doubt that he’d been pursuing her to freshen his image with a coat of legitimacy, it had evaporated. He was a D’Agostino, would be proclaimed the future king of Castaldini. There was no higher status or recognition he could aspire to.

The limo slowed down, and with it her streaking thoughts.

That only made her anger gain momentum again. She’d been fuming since he’d sent his aides to summon her. She’d grudgingly let them escort her to his jet. She hadn’t found him onboard as she’d expected, had been stunned to find the jet taking off, whisking her away to his private part of the island without so much as an explanation or request for her token agreement.

And here she was. Approaching the only man-made construction and landscaping she’d seen in the last twenty minutes since the jet had landed at what was clearly a private airport.

There were no fences anywhere. The limo passed through a gate made by an opening in a row of towering cypress trees.

As they cruised down the driveway she realized the estate must cover hundreds of acres and the mansion at its middle must be over thirty thousand square feet. It sprawled in many levels, crouching over the highest point in the landscape, surrounded by manicured, mature gardens that on one side gave way to a mile-deep, golden beach, on another to the terrain where the road ended, and on the remaining sides to densely verdant groves ripe with fruit.

It felt like she was forging deeper into a tranquil paradise as they passed acres of oranges and tangerines, the fresh, tangy scent filling her.

The moment they stopped at the beginning of a stone path, she disembarked, more than usual unable to bear the pomp of ceremony.

Her chauffeur hurried to lead her on the path flanked by magnificent palms and a plethora of other Mediterranean flora to the entrance of the mansion. Her eyes wandered over its neo-Gothic stone facade as they neared. It looked as if it had been built centuries ago and transported through time the moment the last touch had been applied. The most characteristic features were the arched motif to all its windows, passageways and doors and the central tower.

She squinted up at the elaborate coat of arms that decorated the tower’s top. She wondered what it was, if it had any significance, or if it was just something that had appealed to him. It did bear resemblance to the D’Agostino family’s crest. Had he meant it that way, to express his affiliation, yet not wanted it to be the same, as he considered himself an outsider?

Her futile conjectures came to an end when the chauffeur opened the huge, arched antique oak door for her. She preceded him inside, but rather than following her, he closed the door behind her. She heard his steps receding quickly. Her lips tightened.

He’d delivered his master’s package and ran away as if he were being pursued by some malevolent force. It seemed everyone who must populate this place, who took care of all the immaculateness she’d seen, had the same orders. She hadn’t seen a soul so far.

She waited for Ferruccio to appear, her heart thudding. She’d never been totally alone with him. Even that first night when he’d followed her out to the seclusion of the verandah, masses of people had been within reach. She made sure he never found her alone from then on. Here in his domain where he ruled supreme, she felt cut off from the world. As she was sure he’d meant her to be. Another wave of resentment crashed over her.

And the worst part? She couldn’t act on her antipathy. More than ever she had to observe the dictates of diplomacy. Her position on the Council demanded that she strip her demeanor of any personal reaction, save only what would serve her mission.

But with every second that he didn’t appear, he was transforming that task from difficult to impossible.

Her hearing sharpened until every heartbeat was amplified to thunder in her ears. But she didn’thear approaching footsteps. There was only the distant drone of the waves and the tranquility of the internal courtyard in which she stood. It was at least two thousand square feet, paved in lava stones, lit with the impending sunset’s red-gold beams, which filtered from arched and round windows inset in the walls just below its domed ceiling.

He wasn’t coming. Not yet, at least. He must be letting her stew. She exhaled, moved. Might as well take a look around.

She strolled to the end of the courtyard, opened doors, her surprise rising as she found an olive press and wine-processing rooms. She wouldn’t have thought he’d go to the trouble of making his own oil and wines.

Mulling over this discovery, she headed to the other side of the courtyard where a corridor of arched columns ended in five stone steps. These led down to an arrangement of expansive sitting rooms with a unique take on Roman décor, in a combination of stucco and stone walls, and strewn with luxurious couches and low tables.

She wondered if he entertained a lot, if one of his many unspecified-destination invitations had been to come join him here. She wondered how she would have reacted to this place if she’d come here ignorant of the truth of his intentions, breathless with anticipation, ready to be swept away by the spell of his domain, to sink into its sensory decadence.

Shaking her head at the pointlessness of her musings, at the stupidity of letting them depress her with what ifs, she crossed into an amazing dining room with a round bronze table and a circular stone platform for chairs, with pillow seating.

This section had a medieval feel, with wall torches and large white cushions abounding in every corner. The floors were layered in old Sicilian pottery tiles, the designs flowing into variations as she progressed through the rest of the ground floor. Huge stone fireplaces sprouted in strategic spots, though subtle evidence of state-of-the-art electric heating was also present.

But what really amazed her was some of the most ingeniously placed and painted trompe-l’oeil she’d ever seen in the walls and ceilings. The murals’ optical illusions were almost indistinguishable from the three-dimensional imagery they depicted in depth and realism. They felt like portals into alternate realities.

She stopped in front of one, a tableau of a pigeon on a ferforgé windowsill, the glass behind it reflecting it and a distant sea and sky. It looked so real she almost thought the glass was there, did reflect that vista, that she could pet the gleaming feathers of the bird, that it would take flight if she tried.

Ferruccio must have spent untold millions here, from acquiring the land, to equipping it with a private airport and silksmooth roads, to building that incredible edifice that must be maintained year-round so he’d find it in perfect condition whenever he hopped over, maybe a few days each season.

It was clear to her why he brought her here, and why he hadn’t appeared yet. He was flaunting his wealth and power, giving her time for every detail to sink in, make its mark.

He’d picked the last woman on earth to be awed by affluence.

She lived in a palace, and she’d come to associate the grandeur that had surrounded her since birth with the anxiety and despair that had tainted her turbulent childhood. In fact, she’d been almost relieved that the opulence had long faded, with her father barely maintaining the parts of the palace that were national monuments. She sure wasn’t about to swoon over pretentious extravagance.

But she grudgingly had to hand it to Ferruccio. This place wasn’t pretentious. Or extravagant. It was a masterpiece of architecture and attention to detail but every article and line of design spoke of taste and discernment, everything so simple and unobtrusive it amalgamated into a retreat that promised enjoyment and ease to both mind and body.

Suddenly, ever fiber of her mind and body seemed to become a compass needle, obeying the magnetism that mushroomed at her back. She spun around.

And there he was. The man who’d ruled her every thought since the night she’d laid eyes on him, who’d manipulated her reactions and emotions with the slightest tug here, nudge there, just because he could.

He was standing at the mezzanine level gallery that overlooked the courtyard she’d wandered back to, looking down on her like a Roman deity would on a supplicant coming to beg his mercy.

She thought he’d stand there until she begged for real, for him to just come down and get this over with. Then, without a word, his eyes maintaining their lock on hers, he started moving toward the stone stairs. He descended soundlessly, effortlessly, his long legs turning the movement of taking each wide step into a performance of predatory grace.

Then he was striding toward her, his every step like an expanding shock wave, rattling her bones with reaction.

Was it possible that he had become more vigorous, more virile, that every time she saw him she’d find new things to marvel at, that his effect on her would keep intensifying? She’d thought him magnificent in the formal outfits she always saw him in. But in faded jeans and a partially unbuttoned denim shirt, he was…unfair.

She looked up at him, praying that her inner turmoil wouldn’t be translated into an outward manifestation that he could read and exploit.

He stopped a breath away, took the rest of her breath away as his gaze sliced through her like a steel blade. Then his lips spread in the first smile he’d ever trained on her.

“Principessa Clarissa,” he murmured, low and lethal, “It’s such a delight to see your…situation has finally allowed you to…be with me.”

Chapter Two

He remembered. What she’d said that first night.

Of course he did. And he was throwing it back in her face.

She bet the injury to his pride had been the prod that had kept him issuing those invitations, intent on breaking her resistance so that he could avenge what he must have considered a colossal insult—so that he’d keep his perfect score.

And he’d kept it. He’d made her bow to his will. She should have known he would. He’d gotten where he had by being inexorable.

She’d known that, yet thought there’d be no way he could prevail in this. She couldn’t have imagined the developments that had led her here.

But even without them, she now believed he would have won eventually. Hadn’t she studied his methods at length, both on her own and where they were taught in business school—to demonstrate the ultimate model of long-term, unrelenting, undetectable planning?

Even if she’d been dead wrong about her safety from his octopoid reach, she’d been spot on about another thing: He was gloating. And there was not a thing she could do about it.

Not only that, but she had to be on her best behavior, answer with something unrelated, divert the dialogue away from personal hostilities. In short, she couldn’t rise to his bait.

Then she opened her mouth. “What can I say? Life takes such…regrettable twists and turns. And downward spirals.”

She almost groaned out loud. What was she saying? And in that long-suffering, condescending tone, too? He’d take it as provocation. And he’d be right. It was.

Sure enough, his lips tugged wider, the cool smile heating, the assessing, dispassionate eyes sparking. “Indeed. But I don’t know about regrettable. I’m quite the fan of roller coasters.”

She should keep her mouth shut, hope he’d take the conversation to safer areas. Even if he didn’t and kept poking at her, she should nod and agree. Let him have his victory, let him rub her nose in it, shove its bitterness down her throat. She’d bet that was the “negotiations” he wanted to conduct—an extended session of having her here on his “terms,” in a position where she couldn’t say no or walk away. She should let him have his fill, get it over with.

Then she opened her mouth, and it seemed someone willful and inflammatory had hijacked her voice, which taunted in its husky tones, “You would be. It has taken a twisting, turning spiral upward with you. Apparently with no drop in sight.”

His lips twitched as he pretended to suppress his mockery. “I should hope not. Can you imagine a fall from such heights?”

Dio, he was giving her more rope. She duly took it and secured it around her neck. Then she kicked the bucket. “Oh, how I can.”

His mouth lost the fight with the sobriety he’d been forcing on it and spread wide, almost blinding her with a flash of white teeth and brutal charisma. “I see you’ve given it some serious thought. Seems you enjoyed the detailed visualization of such an event.”

She gave up trying to rein in her responses, gave in, admitted her acrimony. “Enjoyment would be a mild term if such an event came to pass. It would be—how did you put it—such a delight.”

She heard the fervent venom in her voice, knew he’d heard it, too. Everything stilled as he stared at her, probably unable to believe that anyone dared talk to him that way, princess or not.

Then suddenly, he threw his head back and guffawed.

It was her turn to stare, feeling as if one move now would snap the last tatters of tension holding her up.

She’d never seen him laugh. She hadn’t known he was capable of such a human indulgence. She should have known he’d do it like he did everything else. Overridingly.

The sight and sound of his unbearably male amusement hit her between her eyes and forked a downward path through her heart and gut to lodge in her loins. The semiarousal that burned inside her just because he existed roared higher. Along with the blaze of her anger.

He was goading her into even more catastrophic antagonism, into giving him enough incriminating evidence to report back to her father and the Council that their newest addition was a disgrace to the body of power she represented and should be banned from public service forever.

And she didn’t give a damn. Not anymore. He’d won. Six years of dangling himself before her, of pricking and prodding her periodically until she was inflamed and perpetually on the verge of an explosion, had taken their toll. She thought she’d been far from the breaking point. She was clearly way past it.

Ferruccio still chuckled, rich, dark reverberations from deep in his chest, annihilating what remained of her restraint. “Wouldn’t your conscience prick you if you felt ‘such a delight’ in my downfall? Now that you know I’m a newfound family member?”

Clarissa rolled her eyes. “Don’t remind me.”

He hooted on another surge of amusement. “Si. There she is. I always knew that beneath all that impassive decorum you had the temper of a lioness. I kept wondering what could rile you enough to get you to unsheath your claws and slash away.”

She harumphed, disgusted at her pathetic excuse for self-control, at his ability to peel it away. “Congratulations. You’ve succeeded in finding out. I hope you’re enjoying your success.”

“I’ve never enjoyed anything more. Ever.”

“‘Never’ got the point across. Don’t be redundant.”

He laughed again. “What a cruel cousin you are.”

“A very distant cousin.”

His eyes seemed to turn to molten steel. “Si. In every way.”

He was referring to her keeping him at an arm’s to a continent’s length all those years. As if he’d really cared.

“But you’re not distant now, at least not in one sense.” He took a step closer, his thigh almost touching her hip. She stumbled backward two steps. He lowered his gaze for a moment—as if debating closing the gap again—before raising his eyes. This time he almost did knock her off her feet. And that was before he added, deeply, smoothly, “See how easy it turned out to be?”

“What did? Being flown in to you like a package? One that you had dropped on your doorstep, to be left untended and unacknowledged until you stirred from your beauty sleep and puttered down to reluctantly receive it? Yeah, that sure didn’t involve any effort on my part.”

“You think there was any reluctance involved in my…receiving you? After I’ve gone to the trouble of insulting all the senior Council members by refusing to negotiate with anyone but you?”

“That’s my proof that you welcomed my arrival? Try another one, Signore Selvaggio. The only insult you hurled was at me. The others must be thinking you asked for me because I’m the only Council member who’s a young woman, the demographic where you reign supreme, and you think me the pushover who’ll promise you rights to every Castaldinian citizen’s immortal soul in return for your acceptance.”

He snorted. “Now those are rights that might be worth my while to investigate acquiring.” Before she gave in to the urge to smack him, he added, “But if anyone thinks you a pushover, they need to be declared mentally incompetent. Whatever else you think of me, you know my mental faculties aren’t among my dodgy areas.”

She huffed. “Then they’ll think something even worse. That you’re exploiting the situation for a personal purpose, which must again have something to do with my being a woman, devaluating my position within the Council even more.”

As the word “position” left her mouth, his gaze traveled down her body. Her throat closed at what she saw there, in her own mind’s eye. His gaze finally burned a path back up to her eyes, the hewn planes of his face simmering as they had that first night. When she thought she’d imagined it. She wasn’t imagining it now.

“Your…position is quite safe, I assure you. You should know by now that no matter what the textbooks they stuffed your mind with in business school said, in the real world, the personal factor is what ends up making or breaking business deals. If the Council thinks I’m being personal about you being a woman, they’ll think it only natural, even logical. After all, what kind of a businessman would I be if I didn’t maximize on my opportunities? If I didn’t use my stones to hit as many birds as possible?”

“I should have known you wouldn’t even bother to deny it.”

He gave her an enigmatic look. “I’m not admitting it, either. So it’s all open to interpretation. And here’s a third one: That I asked for you because I want to talk to someone close to my own age, rather than with men my absentee father’s age or older.”

Her chest suddenly felt as if it had caved in. It was that distress again, the one thing that had always stopped her from despising him completely. The knowledge that he’d grown up without a father, or any parents at all.

How many times had she imagined him as a young boy desperately in need of the firm and loving guidance and protection of a father figure, and knowing he’d never have that? How many times had she woken up with tears in her eyes imagining the fear and loneliness he must have suffered until he’d grown that impenetrable shell of capability and ruthlessness that had seen him through his meteoric rise? How hard had she struggled to separate her empathy with the tormented child he’d been from her antipathy toward the man he’d become?

When she made no answer, his lips twisted. “Here’s a fourth one. That you’re the easiest Council member on my eyes…on all my senses.”

She was glad to hook onto something to drag her out of her turmoil. “Now that I can buy. Considering the alternatives.”

His eyebrows rose in astonishment. She could swear it was genuine. “You think the I’d only pick you when the alternatives are sour-faced older men and their feminine counterparts?”

She bit her tongue to stop herself from blurting out that she didn’t think it, she knew it. Hadn’t he just said what amounted to that? Even if he hadn’t, she knew that when there’d been more glamorous options, she hadn’t featured as one at all. She’d made sure of that.

Pathetic wretch that she was, she’d sought Luci’s version of what had happened that night, hoping she’d misinterpreted what she’d witnessed. Luci had only confirmed her worst suspicions.

Ferruccio had come on hot and heavy, expressed interest in both Luci and Stella. At the same time. Luci had said he’d been so overpowering that she’d found herself wondering whether she could share a man, and with the dreaded Stella, of all women, too. She’d said she thought Stella herself had been tempted. That was, for the fleeting moments before he suddenly moved on without a look back.

Throughout the years, Clarissa had seen him acting as if he’d never said a word in private to either woman, let alone propositioned them so outrageously. That had reaffirmed her belief that he went through life making sure all women were his for the taking, but not actually taking up with anyone whose connections might cause him trouble. Her only lure had been that she was the king’s daughter, and later on that she was the only woman who’d told him no. And if she thought she’d seen something in his eyes every time he caught her gaze—something that told her what he’d do with her if he ever got her alone—she reminded herself of the facts, concluded that she’d been superimposing her fantasies on his expression. As she must be now.

“No more contentiousness, Principessa? Hmm, I think I know why.” His gaze dropped to her lips, clung, until she felt his mouth was there, drawing hard on her flesh until it swelled, ached, until she ached for him to do it for real. “You’re…hungry.”

Alarm erupted, followed by a flood of mortification. He knew. Or was he guessing, based on universal female response to him?

Before she could say anything, he took her elbow in a phantom grip. “Come. Let me feed you, get you back in fighting form.”

Food. He’d meant hungry for food.

She was so relieved she let him guide her without a word.

She lost all sense of direction as he led her through his mansion, until they reached another huge oak door. She followed him through it, her every movement feeling controlled by his will.

Minutes later, they came to an elevated, open-air deck overlooking a stunning, symmetrical landscaped scene. Its centerpiece was a gigantic rectangular pool with a semicircular protrusion at its near end, glittering pure aquamarine in the declining sun. Its lava stone and mosaic periphery segued at its far end into a cleared passage between olive groves that continued until it melted into the vegetation-covered mountain in the distance. To the left, the groves gave way to dunes of pure gold, leading down to the serpentine shore and the azure and emerald waters.

She stopped, paralyzed by the magnificence of the sight.

She’d been raised on this island, but she never knew it still had such pristine natural places. The contrast with such lavish human design was breathtaking. But it was the seclusion that intensified that otherworldly feel. She’d never been anywhere so totally devoid of people. It felt as if they were the only man and woman on Earth.

The side of her face felt as if it were burning. She tore her eyes away from the scene, blinked up at him. She found him brooding down at her, his eyes heavy with so much emotion she didn’t understand. Didn’t want to understand.

He reached out a hand as if he was going to cup her cheek. At the last moment, he swept a lock of her long hair from her flaming face, tucked it with extreme care behind her ear. “You like?”

She swallowed, her heart spiraling in a nosedive like a shot-down plane. “I’m alive, am I not? I have to like.”

His lips twitched. His eyes didn’t change expression, seemed bent on liquefying her. Then he reached for her hand.

She felt as if he’d electrocuted her as he strode ahead, had her almost running behind him. She gurgled something about his legs being longer than hers. He turned as he slowed down, his smile riddling her vision in spots of blindness.

He had them circumventing the pool before taking one of the passageways that ran parallel to the groves and ended up at the edge of the beach. He suddenly stopped.

She rocked on her heels as he dropped to his haunches. Before she could process his action, he took her hands, placed them on his shoulders. She gaped as he lifted her right foot off the ground. Breath deserted her as he so slowly, so gently slid off her high-heeled sandal strap. The sandal fell off her suddenly stinging foot into his hand. Her toes curled, a gasp tearing from her. He looked up, noted her distress. Then he closed his hand over her foot, raised it, his lips parting, filling with sensuality.

He was going to…to…She couldn’t let him or she’d…she’d…

She lost her balance, forced him to let her regain her footing. She leaned heavily on his shoulders so she wouldn’t keel over him, electricity roaring from where her fingertips clutched their daunting power to zap incapacitation throughout her nervous system. He pressed her hands harder to his shoulders before repeating the de-sandaling ritual on her other foot.

When she was sure she would faint, he let her foot down, rose, bent and took his own sneakers off, placed them at the sand’s edge with her sandals and spread his arm, inviting her to walk on.

She stumbled forward a few steps before she gasped, stopped.

The feeling of the powdered gold beneath her feet, its warmth and complex texture, its gritty softness, its resilient malleability heightened her sensory tumult.