Italian Prince, Wedlocked Wife. Jennie Lucas

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      She’d expected a hotel suite, but…

      “This is a palace!”

      “I don’t have any palaces in this particular country.” Looking utterly at ease, Maximo took off his coat and tossed it on the upholstered settee beneath the mirrored foyer. “This is just the presidential suite.”

      Just the presidential suite. One night here would probably cost a year of her rent. “You’re having a New Year’s Eve party?”

      He glanced at her, his eyes heavy-lidded, sensual. “I will soon celebrate far more than that. Stay here.”

      Glamorous people were turning to stare. Two women in particular, a blonde and a brunette, whispered to each other as they looked Lucy up and down. She licked her lips nervously. “Perhaps I should wait for you outside—”

      “You will wait here.” His voice rang with authority, demanding immediate obedience. “If anyone speaks to you, you will not explain your presence.”

      “No problem,” she muttered. How could she explain it, when even she didn’t understand?

      She watched him make his way toward the bar across the suite, frequently stopped by his guests. Every woman in the suite, young and old, married and single, seemed determined to get his attention.

      Except for the two gorgeous, elegant women who’d seen her arrive with Maximo. They sashayed toward Lucy like vultures.

      The pretty blonde in a tight red dress looked at her scornfully, and Lucy was suddenly aware of her scuffed tennis shoes, her messy ponytail, her old clothes. The blonde’s lips twisted. “Nice outfit.”

      Lucy flushed. She knew her sweatshirt was not fashionable, but it had once been her mother’s. Working the night shift, that made her feel watched over; plus, the kitten on its front always made Chloe laugh.

      “I’ve heard of slumming,” the blonde drawled, “but this is ridiculous, isn’t it, Esmé?”

      “Now, Arabella. You should be more kind.” The chic brunette gave Lucy a patronizing stare. “She’s probably here to clean the bathrooms.”

      Lucy froze, reminded of the way she’d been teased as a child. Her mom had moved them around so much, Lucy had always been the new kid in school. With her thick glasses and secondhand clothes, she’d been an easy target. And after her mother died, it had been worse. She’d spent countless hours in the school library with books her only real friends.…

      “Esmé. Arabella.” Maximo suddenly appeared at Lucy’s shoulder. He leaned forward to kiss the cheeks of the brunette, then the blonde. At his attention, the women preened and tossed their hair, like flowers reaching for the sun.

      He drew back, putting his hand on Lucy’s arm. “I see you’ve met Lucia.”

      Esmé tossed Lucy a cold glare, then pretended to give a little laugh. “Oh. Is she your friend? I thought she was the maid. How very eccentric of you, Maximo. Why go out for a common drive-through hamburger when you could enjoy foie gras in the comfort of your suite?”

      She obviously wasn’t talking about food.

      For Lucy, it was the last straw in a stressful night.

      “Foie gras is outlawed in Chicago, Esmé,” Lucy replied sweetly. “I can’t imagine why anyone would find mashed duck liver appealing, anyway.” She looked the brunette over from her supershort minidress to her platform heels, “It’s so greasy and nasty.”

      Her eyes narrowed. “Why, you little—”

      “Excuse us,” Maximo said, hiding a smile as he pressed Lucy away.

      “It’s almost midnight, Maximo,” Esmé called after them as they reached the bedroom doorway. “Don’t forget our New Year’s kiss!”

      “No!” the blonde cried. “He’s going to kiss me!”

      Maximo closed the door solidly behind them, and just like that, all the noise of the party fell away. They were alone in the bedroom.

      Lucy rubbed her wrist.

      “I’m sorry,” she muttered, although she really wasn’t.

      “Sorry? For what?”

      “For being rude to your mistress.”

      He stared at her, then snorted. “Do you mean Lady Arabella? Or the Countess of Bedingford?”

      Lady? Countess? Apparently royal titles were as common in Maximo’s world as Mr. or Mrs. “Take your pick.”

      He shrugged. “I hardly think a meaningless fling qualifies any woman to claim the title of mistress.”

      “Meaning you’ve slept with both of them?” Her shocked voice ended with a squeak.

      His sensual mouth curved into a smile. “There have been many women in my life. But as for details—a gentleman can hardly be expected to kiss and tell.”

      “Some gentleman,” she huffed. “Can’t you tell that they’re in love with you?”

      “I doubt that very much.”

      “They were ready to scratch my eyes out just for being with you!”

      “You exaggerate. And in any case—” his blue eyes caressed hers “—if any woman chooses to love me, she has only herself to blame. I am always very clear. I am not a man to settle down or give my heart to just one woman. I am faithful to only three things.”

      “Those are?” she spat out, folding her arms.

      “Justice for my family. My own freedom.” He held out a crystal flute of champagne. “And the success of my company.”

      She stared at the champagne he was holding out to her. As a college student, she’d been too focused on her studies to bother with alcohol; as a single mother, she hadn’t had the money or inclination. “Look, I know it’s New Year’s and everything, but I’m just not in the mood. If you want to celebrate, why don’t you ask one of the princesses outside?”

      His dark eyebrow lifted in amusement. “Surely you’re not jealous?”

      She looked away. “I just feel sorry for them, that’s all.”

      “Esmé and Arabella have influence in certain circles, and though I’ve lost personal interest I see no reason to cut off ties with them. I trade in luxury. And that is what I celebrate. The takeover of a small leather-goods company for my conglomerate. I have desired this company for many years,” he said softly. “And it will be mine within the hour. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. Ferrazzi.”

      He watched her from beneath heavily-lidded eyes.

      Ferrazzi. She’d admired their three-thousand-dollar handbags, even sold a few of them to wealthy customers. They were lovely bags, impossibly stylish, with leather as soft as cashmere and hardy as steel.

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