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"Mari." He whispered against her skin. "Mari, ti desidero. Sei bellissima.."

She felt his hand on her waist beneath her blouse. Slowly his touch moved up her skin, causing a heat to spread up and down her body that had nothing to do with the fire. Gently he picked her up and carried her to the sofa in front of the old stone fireplace. She shivered as he stepped back from her, standing in a beam in moonlight. Outside, a fierce January wind rattled the window panes. In here, they were safe. In here, no one could touch her. Except him.

With his gaze fixed on hers, he pulled off his shirt. She nearly gasped at the hard planes of his muscular chest, revealed in the moonlight and flickering shadows of the fire. She swallowed, barely able to breathe. He lowered himself over her on the sofa. As he kissed her, she could already feel herself surrendering.

He unbuttoned her shirt, and she made no resistance. His fingertips traced the lace of her bra. Her breasts felt so taut, her nipples so hard, that she held her breath as he undid the clasp. He reached beneath the fabric and cupped her breasts with his hands. Sparks shot down her down. As he lowered his mouth to one nipple, stroking the other between his fingers, she almost cried out.. She'd never felt like this before. She wanted him. All of them. She wanted him to rip off her clothes and bury himself in her. She wanted to scream and sigh and pound and love…

"No!"

It took all her force of will to push him away with a hard shove to his chest. Their eyes locked. "I can't do this." She panted. "However easy it is for you, it will make me emotionally involved."

"We already are emotionally involved, cara."

Her heart stopped. "We are?"

"Of course." He gave her a smooth Italian smile. "You are my wife. For the next few months, I will fulfill your every wish. And—"his lips spread in a wicked smile. "—I'll satisfy your every desire…"

She swallowed. She wanted him—but she couldn't have him. She already felt close, too close, to tipping over: from merely caring for him to far more…

"I can't!" her frustrated body made emotion spill out of her like tears. "Don't you understand what this does to me?"

"Let's play a game." He said, running his fingers along her naked belly in the moonlight.

"A game?"

"Si."

It sounded innocent enough. Anything had to be better than being lured back into the unimaginable, soul stealing pleasure of his kiss. "What is the game?"

His eyes met hers. "I try to make you explode with pleasure. You try to resist."

A cloud passed over the moon outside, and for a moment, she could see only the dark silhouette of his face, hear only the furious pounding of her heart.

She whispered. "And if I resist you?"

"I will accept your demand for a marriage in name only." He stroked up her belly beneath her shirt. Taking her hand, he lightly kissed the palm, then placed it against his naked, muscular chest. "But if I make you moan and gasp in my arms, you are completely mine for the next three months."

By the look on his face, he did not expect to lose. "How long would the game last?" His "game" wasn't so different from the battle she'd already been fighting since the day they'd met.

"Twenty-four hours."

A whole day and night? Was he kidding? She stared at him, wide-eyed.

"Starting now." He stood up, holding his hand out to help her up. "Those are my terms. Do you agree?"

She stared at his outstretched hand. Endure this assault of sensual pleasure for twenty-four hours without giving in? Impossible! And yet, the prize glittered before her: she'd be able to survive the next three months without surrendering either body or soul. Being married to John was hard enough. She could see why so many women fell for him. But she couldn't allow herself to do the same. Otherwise, when he abandoned her when her grandfather died, she would be devastated. Crushed. She'd be no good to Bailey. No good to anyone. And she would have only herself to blame for not being strong enough to resist the playboy prince.

Twenty-four hours. Could she do it? She had no choice, she realized. What was the alternative? Twenty-four hours—or simply wait for him to seduce her at will during the next few months, anytime, anywhere? This was her only chance at survival. Holding her breathe, she put her hand in his.

"I accept."

He pulled her up from the sofa. Her body pressed against his, her naked breasts against his hard chest. "Bene." He whispered, stroking her cheek. He lowered his mouth to hers.

His kiss made her ache from within. She felt his hands everywhere: cupping her breasts, clasping her backside, stroking the inside of her thighs over her jeans. Gently he laid her back against the sofa, pressing his heavy body against her own. She could feel his hardness against her, and it was sweet agony as he slowly ravaged her resolve with exquisite, practiced touches that showed her why no woman on earth could resist him.

I can handle this, she told herself desperately. I can. But her whole body was exploding with bliss and longing. She felt as soft and yielding as honey. With his every kiss, she lost her mind; with his every touch, she found it harder and harder to remember why she'd forbidden herself to surrender.

Gasping out a hoarse breath, she looked desperately at the old clock over the fireplace. Would the torture soon be over? How long had she endured? Twenty minutes? She swore aloud as he kissed her, covering her profanity with his sweet, sweet mouth. She fell back against the sofa, pulled beneath his body, drowning in pleasure..

Then from the small bedroom, Bailey gave a startled little cry. She sometimes woke at night, and nearly always fell back asleep on her own. But Mari seized on it as a daughter's gift—Bailey unknowingly protecting her mother from her weakness. Thank you, she thought gratefully and pushed away from the couch.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"I agreed to your bargain." She said, buttoning up her shirt. "But you don't expect me to just let my baby cry?"

"Mari—"

"She's just scared to be sleeping alone in a new place. She's lonely." She said hastily. "I'll see you in the morning." Evading his arms, she ran for the little bedroom, closing the door behind her—and locking it.

She took a deep breath, leaning back against the door. She glanced at the crib. Bailey was already asleep again, but John didn't need to know that. With a little luck, she thought, hunting through the dark for her suitcase, they would both sleep until late in the morning. Then, she would only have twelve hours to resist John's powerful onslaught—and her own aching need.

Rummaging through the suitcase, Mari found her pajama top, but couldn't find the pants. Putting on the silk shirt, she climbed into the wire-framed twin bed beside the crib. Twelve hours?

It would take a miracle for her to win this wretched, horrible, agonizing sweet war.

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