Under the Italian's Command

Sheltered and mousy
Carly
Tate is out of her depth. Dark, dangerous Lorenzo
Domenico
is the first man to make her heart race, but she knows the gorgeous Italian will never see past her frumpy clothes and awkward shyness.

She's his for the taking!

Little does she realize that, to Lorenzo, sweet, endearing
Carly
is a breath of fresh air. He's sure that underneath her disastrous fashion there's a voluptuous figure--and he's going to be the one to discover it....

In July, escape to a world of beautiful locations, glamorous parties and irresistible men—only with Harlequin Presents!

Lucy Monroe brings you a brilliant new story in her ROYAL BRIDES series, Forbidden: The Billionaire’s Virgin Princess, where Sebastian can’t ignore
Lina’s
provocative innocence! Be sure to look out next month for another royal bride! The Sicilian’s Ruthless Marriage Revenge is the start of Carole Mortimer’s sexy new trilogy, THE SICILIANS. Three Sicilians of aristocratic birth seek passion—at any price! And don’t miss The Greek Tycoon’s Convenient Wife by Sharon Kendrick—the fabulous conclusion to her GREEK BILLIONAIRES’ BRIDES duet.

Also this month, there are hot desert nights in Penny Jordan’s The Sheikh’s Blackmailed Mistress, a surprise pregnancy in The Italian’s Secret Baby by Kim Lawrence, a sexy boss in Helen
Brooks’s
The Billionaire Boss’s Secretary Bride and an incredible Italian in Under the Italian’s Command by Susan Stephens. Also be sure to read Robyn Grady’s fantastic new novel, The Australian Millionaire’s Love-Child!

We’d love to hear what you think about Presents. E-mail us at [email protected] or join in the discussions at www.iheartpresents.com and www.sensationalromance.blogspot.com, where you’ll also find more information about books and authors!

She’s his mistress on demand!

Whether seduction takes place in his king-size
bed, a five-star hotel, his office or beachside
penthouse, these fabulously wealthy, charismatic
and sexy men know how to keep a woman
coming back for more! Commitment might not
be high on his agenda—or even on it at all!

She’s his mistress on demand—but when he
wants her body and soul he will be demanding a
whole lot more! Dare we say it…even marriage!

Don’t miss any books in this exciting new
miniseries from Harlequin Presents!

SUSAN STEPHENS was a professional singer before meeting her husband on the tiny Mediterranean island of Malta. In true Harlequin Presents style, they met on Monday, became engaged on Friday and were married three months after that. Almost thirty years and three children later, they are still in love. (Susan does not advise her children to return home one day with a similar story, as she may not take the news with the same fortitude as her own mother!)

Susan had written several nonfiction books when fate took a hand. At a charity costume ball, there was an after-dinner auction. One of the lots, “Spend a Day with an Author,” had been donated by Mills & Boon® author Penny Jordan. Susan’s husband bought this lot, and Penny was to become not just a great friend, but a wonderful mentor who encouraged Susan to write romance.

Susan loves her family, her pets, her friends and her writing. She enjoys entertaining, travel and going to the theater. She reads, cooks and plays the piano to relax, and can occasionally be found throwing herself off mountains on a pair of skis or galloping through the countryside. Visit Susan’s Web site, www.susanstephens.net. She loves to hear from her readers all around the world!

Don’t miss Susan’s next book,
Desert King, Pregnant Mistress,
available from Harlequin Presents EXTRA in August!

For
Wiggy

PARTIES BORED HIM. Office parties bored him most of all. But he’d been too busy to meet anyone in the hectic city chambers since he’d arrived in the country to head up an exchange
programme
between promising young lawyers in the UK and the US, and this was an opportunity to show his face, as well as to weigh up the raw material.

He paused in the entrance to the room. The reception was being held in
honour
of the latest judge on the local circuit to be elevated to the House of Lords. An uneasy silence had fallen and he knew immediately that something was wrong. The room was packed with the local legal aristocracy, together with a swarm of pupil barristers all hoping to be noticed. His gaze was drawn to the podium where a red-faced girl was struggling to make an introduction, while next to her stood the guest of
honour
, Judge
Deadfast
of Dearing. His Lordship appeared less than amused by the fact the girl appeared to have forgotten his name.

He held his breath as she tried again. Judge
Dredd
? It was time for him to step in….

The elderly man at
Carly’s
side shifted impatiently as she tried again. ‘And it is my great pleasure this evening to introduce Judge…’ Why had her mind chosen now to blank? Was it because the most incredible looking man she had ever seen in her life had just entered the room? Tall and fierce, with dark flashing eyes, he took in everything at a glance, including her red face, no doubt. With his tan, athletic build and thick, chocolate-brown hair, he was the quintessential Latin lover made flesh. While she was the quintessential fat girl battling to introduce a geriatric judge with eyebrows that badly needed shearing.

No wonder she’d lost her audience! Who wouldn’t prefer to look at that gorgeous man?

Would she be defeated? Sucking in a deep breath, she tried again. ‘Ladies and gentlemen—’

Response: nil. Humiliation: a bottomless pit.

She was a back-room girl, not an MC. But if she hoped to pursue her career at the bar and become an effective advocate she had to get over her stage fright fast. But now it was too late! The cavalry had arrived in the form of the man with more testosterone flying off him than sparks off a Catherine wheel.

A path formed in front of him as he strode across the room. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, smiling confidently at his audience as he rescued the microphone. ‘My apologies for being late…’ He wasn’t late of course, but no one knew that, did they?

He turned his charm on the judge next, keeping the microphone close to his lips. He could feel the rustle of interest in the room, the shower of pheromones in the air. He could also feel the abject misery of the girl who had failed, but he’d see to her later.

‘Your Lordship, what an
honour
…’ He continued in this vein until the apoplectic look on His Lordship’s face had paled into his usual sepulchral pallor.

He stood back well pleased with his performance as the grimly smiling judge left the podium to be toadied by his colleagues. Courting judges was his area of expertise; courting women, his passion. His spirited Italian mother had taught him that keeping women happy was fundamental to life. He had since learned that it was fundamental to his sanity. The red-faced girl was next in line for some TLC, but not before he’d won back her audience.

‘My Lords, ladies and gentlemen…Some appreciation, if you please, for my learned colleague.’ As he spoke he laid a protective arm over the culprit’s shoulders and drew her forward. ‘Who amongst us would have made the connection between our
honoured
guest Judge
Deadfast
of Dearing and that legendary comic-strip character Judge Joe
Dredd
, law enforcement par excellence?’ He paused to allow the mood against the young woman under his protection to change. He had His Lordship’s interest now. ‘And let us not forget,’ he added, raising his hands to silence the
oohs
and
aahs
of understanding rippling through his audience, ‘that Judge Joe
Dredd
has the power to arrest, sentence, and even execute criminals on the spot. So I advise prudence tonight…’ As His Lordship led the laughter, he relaxed, job done. ‘Enjoy the rest of your evening, everyone!’

He turned to rescue his charge and found her gone. His mouth firmed when he spotted her at the bar.

She knocked back a second glass of wine, but nothing helped. She was over; finished. She wasn’t a natural party animal, or speech-giver. Perhaps that was why her fellow pupil barristers had set her up by making her the
compere
…

As she picked up the wine bottle to pour herself some more, he made his move.
Realising
he was coming over she fired red and turned away, but not before he’d had a chance to assess the voluptuous figure. It appealed to his Latin soul, like the tilt of her chin and the abundance of Titian hair. Those were the points in her
favour
. On the reverse side of the coin she had the fashion sense of a—

Of an Englishwoman, he reminded himself as she glanced around to see how close he was.

She gasped to find him right behind her. ‘I’m really, really grateful,’ she blurted, drawing his attention to her wine-dampened lips. ‘I don’t know what came over me…’

She gulped as he took the wineglass out of her hand. ‘Thanks for rescuing the situation. Can’t imagine why you did it,’ she finished awkwardly.

Chivalry would sound outdated to her, and he’d moved on in any case to urges and fantasies that had yet to be explored. His body, like his mind, was meant to be used. Years of study hadn’t robbed him of the need to express himself physically, hence the workouts, tarmac, the gym, the sparring he indulged in twice a week. ‘Think nothing of it,’ he said, pouring her a glass of water. ‘Here, drink this—you’ll feel better in a minute.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, sipping demurely.

Dio
! She was a contradiction. In unguarded moments her green eyes flashed fire, which gave him a hint of the busy thoughts beneath her frumpy exterior, and now he was close enough he could see her skin had the translucency of delicate porcelain. She might be considered gauche and awkward compared to the polish of the other girls in the room, but she had his attention. Taking the wine bottle she thought she had so cleverly hidden behind the punch bowl, he replaced it in the ice bucket where it belonged. ‘I think you’ve had enough. It doesn’t do to blunt the senses…’

His gravelly voice made her toes curl. He was so gorgeous. She had no coping strategies for a man with the body of a kick boxer dressed by
Savile
Row. Which hardly mattered. With his stubble-darkened face and commanding manner he could have any woman in the room. He would pour himself a drink, give her one of those dangerous half smiles, and walk away.

How did she know this? Because she had dressed carefully so as not to draw attention to herself, just as every other woman present had dressed to impress, and now she should get out of his way and spare herself the indignity of being asked to move. Unfortunately her feet refused to agree with this proposition and remained where they were. Glaring at them, she noticed his feet: shoe size large. She blanked out the obvious correlation to other parts of his anatomy.

As he flipped back his jacket to slip a hand in his pocket, he raised the line of one trouser leg enough to display the most extraordinary socks. A man in a traditional three-piece suit wearing crazy-
coloured
socks? Which said what about the workings in his head?

‘Feeling better now?’ Dark eyes probed deep, and the voice that went with them was intriguingly foreign: mid-Atlantic with a dash of
chilli
. He was waiting for her to say something, but her quickness of mind—the only worthwhile attribute she possessed—deserted her. All she could think was, You don’t normally look at teeth and think, Bite me. But this man’s teeth were very white, and very strong, and something in his mocking expression promised a very pleasurable nip indeed. He had the sexiest lips on earth, and his eyes…were expressive pools of wicked thoughts and sardonic
humour
; perfect.

But who was he? She was a pupil barrister in this busy city chambers, a freckle-faced country bumpkin with a lively interior mind, but the man towering over her was film-star perfect. ‘Are you Italian?’ It was the best she could come up with going on nothing more than his looks.

‘Italian American,’ he said, staring at her empty wineglass. ‘I don’t think you like parties any more than I do. Am I right?’ He didn’t wait for her answer. Taking hold of her arm, he drew her across the room, guiding her in and out of the alcohol-fuelled mayhem with an arm outstretched in front of her face.

To protect her?

No one had ever done that before. Everyone assumed she could look after herself. As they should; she was big and capable, but this was nice for a change.

As they walked she worked out that, as a stranger in town, he must want her to point him in the direction of the nearest taxi rank. But then he tested this assumption, taking her past the elevators and heading for the offices. She ran out of feasible alternatives as to what would happen next. And okay, maybe she would regret this in the morning, but tomorrow was another day…

‘This office is being used as a cloakroom, I believe.’ Trying the door, he held it open for her.

She stared at him blankly.

‘You do have a coat, don’t you? It’s cold outside…’

All he wanted to do was help her on with her coat? That lively interior mind had let her down badly this time! ‘You’re assuming I’m ready to go—’

‘Aren’t you?’

Of course she was, but was that an invitation to leave with him? Her heart started thundering even though she doubted it.

‘Shall I call a taxi for you?’

Not an invitation! ‘It’s only walking distance to my flat.’

‘Are you sure?’ He dipped his head to give her the type of stare a ringside doctor might give a boxer he suspected of being punch drunk.

‘Absolutely sure…’ The punch had been good, come to think of it. She’d made it herself to an old family recipe, and in hindsight perhaps the glasses of white wine on top of it had been a mistake. She tapped her foot, starting to feel uncomfortable beneath the scrutiny of a man who had taken grooming to new heights—six feet two or thereabouts, she guessed. ‘Something wrong?’ She grabbed her coat.

‘Not at all. I just think you’ve had rather a lot to drink.’

‘Are you judging me?’

The raised brow and almost-smile were the signal for her heartbeat to go crazy. ‘Well, if you don’t mind…’ She stared pointedly at the door. He was way out of her league, so there was no point in prolonging the agony.

‘Of course…’ With a mocking bow, he stood aside.

Who was that man? she wondered again. Crunching frost beneath her boots,
Carly
realised
his socks were the only clue she’d come away with. They’d been extraordinary: bright green with a motif of red boxing gloves, garnished with the badge of some club he must belong to…Which made sense when you considered the evidence—there was nothing soft about him—so maybe he was just that: a particularly desirable kick boxer with a keen sense of style. Whatever the case, she was too busy developing her career to think about men.