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back now as good as she got, reveling in the thrills. She heard—and felt—Nick laugh deep in his throat, but the kisses were so delicious that she couldn’t be bothered to get angry with him. Couldn’t be bothered to do anything other than what came perfectly naturally, which was to circle her belly against his loins, hungry and wanton.
    “Anna,” he groaned, wrenching his lips from hers and burying them in her hair, “I’ve spent four whole years wondering if you’d still feel like this.” His fingers massaged her spine, then slid lower, compelling her sex closer to his.
    Anna’s eyes prickled. Her name sounded so different on his lips when he was aroused. The way he spoke normally was almost completely accentless and English, but when he muttered, “Anna” again, it sounded as Latin and romantic as high opera, and at the same time, tender and intimate.
    Her softly breathed name had been on his lips as he’d entered her body. She remembered the fleeting jolt of pain, his moment of hesitation, and then the awesome sensation of being filled and possessed by him, at last. Reaching up to touch his face, she urged his mouth back down on hers, then wound her fingers into his thick, damp hair, relishing its silkiness and the wild way it curled.
    Holding him, savoring the taste of his mouth and the feel of his lean, potent body against her, Anna wanted the kiss to go on forever. Like this, there were no issues between them, no problems, no history. They were just male and female, meant for each other, perfectly matched.
    Then the creak of the library door and an exaggerated stage cough snapped the spell, and everything was pretty much wrong again. Anna shot away from Nick and whirled around to see her father standing in the doorway, his jolly, jowly face pink above his bow tie and dress shirt and a pleased-as-punch grin plastered across it.
    “Nick! How good to see you, my boy,” Clive Felgate exclaimed, striding forward. “I’m so glad you could make it.” He grabbed Nick’s hand and pumped it for dear life, slapping the younger man on the arm as if he’d just scored a winning goal or come first in a marathon. “I hope this means that Carlo is doing much better?”
    Still reeling from the kiss, Anna hung away from the two of them, relieved to be ignored for a second or two. She needed breathing space to compose herself. Nick, she noted, didn’t appear to need time out. He’d segued instantly into comfortable bonhomie with her father, as easily if Clive had found them discussing the weather. Smiling and relaxed, he chatted easily about Carlo and congratulated Clive on his birthday.
    “I have a gift from Carlo and myself, but it’s slightly too large to have brought it along tonight.” Despite the fact that Nick infuriated her, Anna had to admit to a genuine gratitude as he told her father about the gift, a watercolor by one of his favorite artists. The way Clive’s face lit up was enough for her to cut Nick a fair bit of slack. Her father’s recent money problems, which he’d refused to discuss with her, had suppressed his naturally cheerful nature, so it warmed her heart to see him smiling and excited like this. Nick’s gift—both extravagant and thoughtfully chosen—had lifted his spirits no end.
    But was it just the watercolor? She suspected not, shuddering at implications that alarmed her. Clive had had been grinning like a loon already when he’d happened upon them. The wink and the encouraging look her father flashed her over Nick’s shoulder only confirmed her worst fears.
    Oh no! You haven’t said anything to my dad already, have you, Nick Lisitano? Please don’t tell me you’ve told him you’re proposing…
    To Clive it didn’t matter she’d been seeing Martin. Her father adored Nick, and always had done, and without being overtly hostile, he’d made it plain he wasn’t impressed with Martin and thought him dull.
    “Thank you, my boy. You’re far too generous,” Clive went on,