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CHAPTER 1: Rio
A Prince in the Piazza
I am Principe Vittorio Micheli Scorsolini, third in line to the throne of Isole dei Re and trained from the cradle to be self-possessed even in the face of country-wide catastrophe.
Yet, when the most compellingly beautiful woman I have ever seen walks by, I trip over my own feet.
Twenty-five years of training kick in, and I stop myself from falling, pivoting to follow the vision of loveliness crossing Palermo's Piazza Pretoria. The view is as beguiling from the back as the front, although her hat's wide brim obscures most of her hair.
What I did see is rich brown with golden highlights, falling in silky waves to her shoulders and framing a face worthy of a Botticelli. If Botticelli's Muses had worn Chanel sunglasses and backless white sundresses with a plunging neckline.
There's too much of the tanned skin on her back on display for her to be wearing a bra.
My dick engorges to semi-hardness in a single heartbeat.
Wanting another glimpse of her mouthwatering cleavage, I quicken my steps to catch up with her.
Her strappy sandals add three inches to her already statuesque height, but she walks with elegant grace, her hips swaying enticingly.
My beauty stops in front of the Fontana Pretoria and lifts her phone for a selfie giving me what I want. Another view of her appealing curves from the front. Papa would throw a blanket over my sister if she wore something that revealed so much flesh.
As Crown Princess to the throne of Isole dei Re, Elena would never think to wear a dress like the one gracing the delicious figure of my obsession.
Primal satisfaction courses through me that this woman is not hampered by the same expectations.
Frowning, the beautiful woman shifts her position and takes another selfie, but shakes her head.
Never slow to take advantage of an opportunity when presented, I step forward. "Would you like me to take a picture of you in front of the fountain?"
I sound so damn formal. I've tried relaxing my speech, but it feels like I'm pretending to be someone I'm not. People will accept me for who I am, or not at all.
The English is a calculated risk though. Most tourists speak at least some English. Though with her perfectly oval face, defined cheekbones and narrow nose, the other option I consider is Castilian Spanish.
She drops the hand holding her phone and eyes warm with humor meet mine through the light tint of her sunglasses. "You noticed my pathetic attempts to get both me and the fountain framed in my shot?"
"Sì."I manage a passably coherent affirmative, mesmerized by the soft contralto of her tone.
"That's a Sicilianyes, not Spanish." She cocks her head to one side, looking at me with curiosity.
"It is. I would be happy to..." I offer again, waving between her, the camera and the fountain.
Lightly glossed, bow shaped lips curve in a smile. "That would be great!"
The response isn't anything out of the norm. However, the breathy quality in her voice and the way she leans toward me without seeming to realize she's doing it tells me this instant and overwhelming attraction is not one-way.
I put my hand out for her phone.
After a brief hesitation, she gives it to me, careful not to brush my fingers with hers. "Just tap either of the white dots."
"I'm sure I can figure it out."
Slipping off her sunglasses, she puts one foot in front of the other at a slight angle and poses unselfconsciously in front of the fountain.
Eyes the color of storm clouds connect with mine in a look so compelling, it's me leaning forward this time.
TiaMaggie always claims she fell in love withTioTomasso at first sight, but it had taken him a lot longer to catch up.
I always thought my aunt was being a fanciful romantic until this moment. This overwhelming reaction cannot be love, but it issomething. Something I can neither ignore nor deny.
