the dictates of my heart."

"You can’t prove any of that." She shrugged contemptuously.

Lorenzo knew that what she had said was true.

"As I’ve already told you, Nonna confided her

thoughts to her notary," he continued acidly. "Unfortunately,

by the time he managed to alert me to what

was going on, it was too late."

"Much too late — for you." Caterina smirked at him.

"So you admit it?"

"So what if I do? You can’t prove it," Caterina repeated.

"And even if you could, what good would it

do?"

"Let me make this clear to you, Caterina. No matter

what my grandmother has written in her will, you will

never become my wife. You are the last woman I

would want to give my name to."

Caterina laughed. "You have no choice."

Lorenzo had a reputation for being a formidable

and ruthless adversary. He was the kind of man other

men both respected and feared — the kind of man

women dreamed excitedly of enticing into their beds.

He was also a superb male animal, strikingly handsome,

with a hormone-unleashing combination of arrogance

and a predatory, very dangerous male sexuality—

a sexuality that he wore as easily as a panther

wore its coat. He was not just a prize, but perhaps the

most coveted prize amongst the very best of Italy’s

most eligible and wealthy men. All through his twenties

gossip columns had seethed with excited interest,

trying to guess which high-born young woman he

would make his duchess. It certainly wasn’t from any

lack of willing partners to share his wealth and his

title, along with enjoying the sexual pleasure of mating

with such a vigorously sensual man, that he had