She’d heard the rumors and yet that night after the opera it somehow didn’t seem to matter. She’d been so infatuated for so long, so enamored that when he asked her to dance, and his arm slid around her and his hand rested on her waist, she felt like the luckiest woman alive.

“I should have known better, too,” she said faintly, looking away, feeling painfully exposed. “I’d heard you were promised to the princess, and I don’t know if I didn’t believe it, or if I didn’t care, but I got swept away by the magic that night. First the opera at La Scala, and then the party at the Trussardi palace, and then you.”

He was looking at her, his brows pulled, his expression intense.

“I felt like Cinderella at the ball,” she said. She’d been a virgin and embarrassingly inexperienced but when Marco started kissing her something happened inside her. There was no stopping, no thinking, no control. She just wanted to feel more. She wanted to feel everything. “I got carried away and I didn’t think until it was all over.”

His mouth twisted. “Was I that good?”

Payton’s face burned hot. Her heart beat wildly. He was better than good. He was brilliant. She sucked in a quick breath, fought to control her emotions. “It was perfect and it was my first time.”

 

Marco paid the dinner bill and they returned to his car and headed home.

They drove through the dark streets in silence and Payton stared out her window at the blur of passing buildings.

He’d said they were naive and he was right. She, especially. She’d never bought into auras and mystical elements but the night she saw him at the La Scala mingling with the glittering crowd during the intermission, everything felt so clear and bright. It was as if fate and the future had come together in a gorgeous glaze of light.

She’d never forget the moment he turned his head and looked at her, directly at her.

He was wearing a tuxedo without a bow tie and his white shirt was open at the throat. His dark hair was rather long, he always wore it long, and brushed the collar of his starched shirt, fell rakishly across the brow.

As he turned his head to look at her, one dark eyebrow arched ever so slightly and there was a glint in his eye. He looked very sexy…and a bit wicked…and when his dark eyes met hers she felt as if she’d glimpsed life itself.

There was time, she thought, and then there was time in Marco d’Angelo’s eyes.

She remembered how the bell sounded in the opera house, signaling the end of intermission and he and his circle of beautiful people moved on. Payton stood transfixed, legs shaking, watching him walk away. But she knew in a strange sixth sense sort of way that they weren’t finished yet.

Marco took a tight corner, his black Ferrari hugging the turn and Payton gripped the door handle to keep from falling sideways in her seat. No, they hadn’t been finished that night at La Scala. They hadn’t even begun yet.

Marco pulled into his parking garage. “About earlier, at the photo shoot,” he said, breaking the silence. “Your suggestions were dead-on. I don’t know how you do it, but you were wonderful. I couldn’t have asked for better. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He hesitated for a moment and then turned off the ignition. “Marilena is good with children,” he said in a flat voice.