Lair of the Lion

"You, I know, have a brain in your head. I'm certain it would occur to you that the last thing your friend the captain would do is hold my hand in front of the servants." She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, a trace of humor in her voice.
    "If you came upon your husband holding the hand of another woman, what would you do?" Nicolai asked, curious, suddenly amused by her reaction. She hadn't even considered that he would be jealous or angry or in any way upset by seeing another man so close to her. She had faith in his ability to reason, never once considering that a jealous man was by definition unreasonable.
    She tugged on his hand, forcing him to stop. She went up on her toes and whispered in his ear. "If he truly were holding her hand, I would crack a broomstick over his thick skull very, very hard." Her voice was so sweet, so low and sensual, for a moment the words nearly didn't register.
    Then Nicolai shocked himself and his guests by laughing aloud. Real, heartfelt laughter.
    It rumbled in his throat and spilled into the room, making every servant within hearing distance smile. It had been long since they'd heard their don laugh. The sound instantly dispelled the tension running high in the palazzo. Sergio and Rolando exchanged a quick, amused smile.
    "Signorina Vernaducci, may I present my wife, Violante?" Sergio Drannacia said quietly, his arm wrapped around a woman who looked to be several years older than Isabella. "Violante, this is Isabella Vernaducci, betrothed to Don DeMarco."
    Violante curtseyed, a smile curving her mouth, but her eyes were wary, speculative, as they ran over Isabella's figure. "So pleased to meet you, signorina."
    Isabella nodded an acceptance of the introduction. "I hope we become great friends.
    Please call me Isabella."
    "And may I present my wife, Theresa Bartolmei," Rolando Bartolmei added.
    The young woman dropped a slight curtsey, lowering her lashes. "It is an honor to meet you, Signorina Vernaducci," she murmured softly, her voice wavering slightly.
    Theresa Bartolmei was about the same age as Isabella. She carried herself as an aristicratica yet seemed very uneasy in the don's presence. She was so jittery, she made Isabella nervous. The woman didn't look at Don DeMarco, keeping her gaze steadfastly on her feet other than the brief glance she had directed toward Isabella.
    Isabella forced a smile, moving closer to Nicolai. It irritated her that so many people treated him so strangely. "Grazie, Signora Bartolmei. It is wonderful to meet you. Your husband was very kind to me when we were traveling on the roads to the pass. And today, with the accident, he did his duty by protecting me. I appreciated it very much."
    Isabella was an innocent, yet she wrapped Nicolai up in an intimacy he had never shared with any other in his life. His body stilled, hardened. He held her in front of him, not daring to move when he would have preferred to retreat and leave his childhood friends to make conversation with the women. He was afraid he might shatter if he moved. There was a roaring in his head, a painful ache in his body. Fire raced through his bloodstream. Worse than his physical reaction to her was the way she was wrapping herself around his heart, until just looking at her hurt.
    His hands tightened possessively on her arms. It was all that kept him anchored. Sane. It was all that prevented him from sweeping her into his embrace and carrying her off to his lair, where he could indulge his every fantasy with her. The others were talking—he heard their voices but as if from a great distance. For Nicolai, there was only Isabella and the temptation of her mouth, of her soft body with its lush curves. Her laughter and her quick mind. No one else existed or mattered. He was becoming obsessed. He was fast losing control, and that was inherently dangerous. For a DeMarco, control was everything.
    Completely, utterly essential.

    He bent his head until his mouth brushed against her ear. "I should have been the one to rescue you, your true hero." There was an edge to his voice when he had wanted humor.
    Isabella dared not look at Nicolai, but she leaned against his broad chest so that he kept his dark head bent to hers. "He merely protected me from a runaway broom." She whispered the words against the corner of his mouth, her breath teasing his heightened senses.
    He had known she would find a way to lighten his heart. Her eyes danced with shared humor, locking them together. He found he