One Summer at The Villa: The Prince's Royal Concubine / Her Italian Soldier / A Devilishly Dark Deal

“I’m sorry, Cristiano,” she said softly.

“I’ve had worse, Principessa.”

She turned the bloody towel and continued cleaning the wound. “No, I mean for causing this.”

“It is not your fault a tree fell.”

“But if I’d stayed in the room with you—”

“It doesn’t matter, Antonella. It happened. Let’s deal with right now.”

“Are you always so stoic?” She’d meant it as a gentle tease, yet he stiffened. A moment later, he relaxed again.

“I was not always, no.”

She didn’t ask what he meant. She didn’t have to. He’d lost his wife. It was a wound with the kind of pain that was worse than any other, she imagined. Did such a wound heal? Or did it scar forever? Would he ever love anyone again? Could he?

“I think I’ve just about got it now,” she said, squeezing water over the wound for a final rinse and then mopping it up with a fresh towel. “I need to spray the antiseptic.”

“Go ahead.”

Antonella picked up the bottle and took a deep breath. “Are you ready?”

“Do it.”

She sprayed the liquid over the wound, wincing as she did so. Cristiano didn’t make a sound, though his fists clenched at his sides and his skin seemed to ripple from one long shudder.

“I think that’ll do,” she said, setting the bottle down again.

He dug in the first aid kit, came up with bandages, gauze and tape. “You’ll need to wrap it tight.”

She took the bandages from him. Another quick dab at the new blood, and then she placed the bandages over the wound and wrapped him with gauze. When it was done, she let out the breath she’d been holding.

He turned to her then. White gauze stretched across his chest, making him seem somehow more human and vulnerable than he had before. Where was the arrogant prince of last night? She had no doubt he was in there. No doubt she had to keep up her guard. Appearances were deceptive, were they not? She certainly knew that better than anyone.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Antonella folded her arms over her chest. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He shrugged. “It’s been a trying afternoon. And I’m fairly certain you are not accustomed to dressing wounds, Principessa.?”

She couldn’t stop the bitter snort that escaped her. “You would be mistaken, then.”

His brows drew together. “Do you volunteer in hospital?”

Antonella dropped her gaze. She started to tidy the items on the sink. “No. Forget I said it.”

Now she felt even more inadequate. She’d never considered volunteering because she couldn’t stand the pain and anguish in a hospital. Seeing others hurting made her hurt too. Yet another flaw, she supposed.

His hand closed over her wrist. She stilled, her heart pounding—and not from fear this time. He opened his hand, slid his fingers over hers. Then he trailed them up her arm.

“You are an interesting woman.”

“I’m really not.”

“But you are. You are a princess, a Romanelli, and though I believe you are quite spoiled, there is another side to you as well. A most puzzling side.”

Antonella jerked free from his grip. “There is nothing puzzling about me, Cristiano. I am a spoiled princess, as you say. I’ve been around quite a bit, as you’ve repeatedly pointed out. I’ve seen things.”

“In Milan or Rome perhaps? On the catwalk? Or maybe one of your Greek lovers dashed himself against the cliffs of Santorini when you threatened to leave him?”

“It was the Greek lover, of course,” she replied, as flippantly as possible.

Before she knew what he was planning, he’d crowded her against the vanity. The granite pressed into her buttocks as she leaned back. Cristiano put a hand on either side of her, trapping her. The hard pressure of his body against hers was enough to make her weak with need.

Crazy.

“I find I have a need to know what it is that could drive a man so insane,” he said, his voice a deep purr in his chest. “Will you give me a taste, Antonella?”

“I-I…don’t think…that…” She lost her power to speak as his head lowered. In spite of her inner voice telling her not to allow this under any circumstances, her eyes fluttered closed. His lips brushed hers. The contact jolted her so deeply that she gasped. He took the opening of her mouth as an invitation.

This time when his tongue slid along hers, she was prepared for it. And yet the feeling was every bit as disconcerting as last night on the yacht. She answered him with a stroke of her own.

Thrilled to the growl in his throat as he deepened the kiss.

She wasn’t even aware of her arms moving, but suddenly she had them wrapped around his neck. She’d kissed men before, certainly, but never had she wanted more the way she wanted more of Cristiano. My God, he smelled delicious, all man and sweat and blood and spice. The combination was strangely arousing.

The kiss slid into the danger zone much faster than she could have ever expected. Cristiano’s mouth was ravenous—and, shockingly, so was hers. Was it because they’d just survived death?

She wasn’t certain. And she didn’t seem to care. Cristiano’s mouth was magical, his kiss the absolute center of her gravity at the moment. If she were to let go of him, would she float away into space?

It certainly felt possible.

Her arms tightened around his neck, her head tilting back so he could gain better access. A moan escaped her as his hands slid up her sides, his palms skimming along the outer curves of her breasts. Would he touch her? How would she react? Part of her was begging for him to touch her—and part was telling her that she had to stop this immediately.

She could not lose her virginity to the Monterossan Crown Prince! It was unthinkable. The humiliation of giving herself to a man who hated her would be devastating.

Cristiano’s palms slid back down her body. Then he gripped her hips and lifted her onto the vanity without breaking the kiss. His hands were hot and smooth on her knees as he parted them. Then he pulled her forward, her dress sliding up her thighs as her legs widened around him. When their bodies connected in that most intimate of places, the shudder that went through her was mirrored in him. The only thing separating them was a bit of cloth.

So many sensations careened through her: the hard ridge of his groin pushing against the softness of hers; the sparks of desire zinging into her nerve endings; the delicious pressure building inside her, demanding release.

And more.

The urge to know what happened next, to feel that glorious oneness that she’d heard so much about. To feel it with this man in particular.

The kiss hadn’t stopped for even a moment. If anything, it intensified—

And then his hands were on her bare skin. His thumbs brushed the insides of her thighs, the elastic edge of her panties. Any second he would be beneath the thin barrier of silk and lace, his fingers touching her where no man had ever touched her before.

It scared her. The alarm bells clanging distantly in her head suddenly got far, far louder. This was going too far, too fast. No way could she have sex with this man.

And on a bathroom vanity? Did people even do that?

Oh, God, of course they did. She suddenly had an image burned into her head of Cristiano’s nude body, of her naked and willing, him stepping between her legs like this, pushing into her…

She had to bite back a moan.

It would hurt the first time. She knew that. But after? Would it be as magical as she believed? As incredible as the novels she’d read? As amazing as she’d heard other women say?

She’d never wanted to find out.

Until now.

But it was out of the question. She had to stop him before it was too late.

“Cristiano, no,” she gasped as his mouth left hers, as his lips trailed over her jaw and down her neck. His thumb slipped beneath her panties, brushed over the most private part of her.

“Please stop,” she gasped again, gripping his wrists. Squeezing to get his attention.

And he stopped. Backed away, confusion clear on his handsome features.

“I can’t,” she said, knowing how inadequate it sounded but unable to explain. How could she ever say everything she would need to say in order to make him understand? “I can’t.”

Frustration crossed his face. And, surprisingly, resignation. How many men had tried to convince her, after one kiss, that she should allow them into her bed? None had ever simply given up.

But Cristiano backed away, removing the delicious pressure of his body. She wanted to weep with the loss. And yet she was relieved too. It was wrong to want him. And futile.

“Because I am Monterossan, of course.”

Her throat was tight. “No, not because of that.”

He raked a hand through his hair. She could still see the firm ridge of his arousal beneath his shorts. “Then why, Antonella? I know when a woman wants me. And you do. As much as I want you, God help me.”

God help me.

Her heart ached as she hopped off the vanity and tugged her dress back down. “Maybe that is why, Cristiano.”

“Because you want me, you will deny me?” Fury took the place of resignation.

“No, not because of that. Because you despise me—and you despise yourself for wanting me anyway.”

His eyes glittered hot. “I am a man. I don’t hate myself for wanting a beautiful woman.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Maybe not, but you hate me. I am Monteverdian—and Monteverde killed your wife.”

Monteverde killed your wife.

Cristiano stared after her. As soon as she’d said it, she’d turned and hurried away. Left him standing here, contemplating her words.

The truth in them. Or nearly the truth, anyway. An enemy attack may have been the cause, but he had killed his wife. Killed her by marrying her. If he’d been honest with Julianne—about his feelings, his history and duty to the throne, the depth of conflict between Monteverde and Monterosso—would she have taken the risk?

It was a question he would never have the answer to. A question that both tormented him and drove him.

As if his thoughts weren’t complicated enough, Antonella was adding to the burden. That she’d seen deeply enough into him to recognize his turmoil was not at all what he’d expected. She was not what he expected, if he were honest with himself. In spite of his best efforts to believe otherwise, his view of her was being forced into new parameters.

And he didn’t like it.

Dio santo, his back still stung, he was in a constant state of arousal, and he was angry with himself. And with her.

She was getting under his skin in ways he didn’t like. It was partly sexual, of course. She was beautiful, sexy, and with an edge of innocence he found absolutely riveting. How did she do it, as worldly as she was? It was no wonder men flocked to her.

He’d replayed the last hour in his head until he could no longer view it objectively. She’d been frightened of him when he’d tried to force her from the room. Frightened in ways he could only attribute to some trauma in her life.

But what? Who had hurt her?

Or was it an act? Was anyone truly capable of that level of deception?

If she was, she’d nearly gotten them both killed for it.

He simply didn’t know what the truth was. And what he needed to do was shove all the doubt and thought and even the sexual attraction down deep where it wouldn’t affect him. He didn’t need to know Antonella, didn’t need to understand why she’d looked so terrified, didn’t need to know why she’d cried her eyes out in the taxi, or why she spoke to her brother every day and seemed surprised that he did not speak with his family as frequently.

None of that made her good. None of it excused her from the crimes of her family and their despotic grip on their nation. She was too intelligent to be a pawn.

Which meant she had to know what kind of things happened to those who’d dared oppose the Romanellis’ rule. Journalists, engineers, scientists, teachers—those who’d spoken out during her father’s reign were silenced. Some had fled to Monterosso and Montebianco. Others were thrown into Monteverdian jails, never to be heard from again.

Cristiano had no doubt the same thing was still happening. What incentive did King Dante have to allow his people their freedom? He’d deposed his own father, yet the military dictatorship continued. He’d made no moves to pull back his troops from the border, sent no peace overtures aside from agreeing to the ceasefire.

It would simply be more of the same if Cristiano failed in his mission here. More bombs, more guns, more tanks, more lives lost.

Cristiano threw the towels into a nearby hamper, put the supplies back into the first aid kit, and turned to go. A glimpse in the mirror stopped him. He looked cold, ruthless.

Exactly what he needed to be.

Chapter Seven

ANTONELLA dug a jersey dress from one of her suitcases. She frowned as she held up the jade-green garment. The fabric was soft and she knew she would be comfortable, but it was a little too fancy for a hurricane.

Unfortunately, it was the most casual thing she had. She went into the adjoining dressing room and locked the door before stripping out of her wet, torn dress. Tiny cuts lay across her pale skin like the tracks of birds’ feet, remembrances of getting a little too up close and personal with Mother Nature.

After she slipped into the clean dress, she balled up the torn one and unlocked the door to the bedroom. She tossed the dress into her suitcase and dug out a comb. Her hair was a rat’s nest of tangles. She’d had it pulled back in a ponytail, but that hadn’t mattered in the gale force winds they’d endured while crawling from beneath that tree.

Oh, God.

Without volition, her hand stilled in the act of lifting the comb; that was when she realized she was shaking. She’d known it was close, but it wasn’t until she’d had to clean and bandage Cristiano’s back that she’d realized how close they’d come to dying.

It was a wonder they hadn’t been impaled.

Surely she could be forgiven for losing herself in his kiss in the aftermath of such an event? Just as he could. She had to admit that if he’d been any other man, and she’d felt this kind of exhilaration when he touched her, she’d have thrown caution to the wind and let him do what he’d wanted.

Because there might not be a tomorrow.

Antonella shuddered. There would be a tomorrow. There would.

But if there wasn’t?

She gave her head a little shake. It didn’t matter. He was still Cristiano di Savaré, the Crown Prince of Monterosso. He was not, and never would be, her knight in shining armor. She wouldn’t even be so attracted to him if they weren’t stuck here together, if he weren’t the absolute last man on the planet she should ever desire.

It was her perverse nature at work. The side of her that reveled in attracting trouble. Wasn’t it her fault when her father got mad at her?

It’s not your fault, Ella, Dante said after their father had sent them away without any food for being late to the dinner table once many years ago. But it had been her fault. She’d dawdled in the bath when she’d known she shouldn’t. And she’d brought down her father’s rage on them both. They’d been given nothing to eat for twenty-four hours.

Whenever she remembered an episode with her father, always there was something she’d done before he got violent. The last time was on the day he’d arrested the Crown Princess of Montebianco. Antonella had dared to tell him she had no intention of attending his event that night. She hadn’t wanted to be humiliated when Nico Cavelli showed up with his new wife. And she hadn’t wanted to see Lily Cavelli, to be forced to speak with her, especially not after she’d fallen apart in front of the woman in a Parisian salon only a couple of weeks before. Her father had been furious when Nico broke the engagement with her and married Lily; she’d mistakenly thought he would understand why she wouldn’t want to be there.

But he’d backhanded her across the face, told her she would be present at the event and be dressed to kill. And then he’d threatened Bruno if she dared defy him. Bruno, her sweet little dog who loved her so purely.

She’d gone to the party, of course, in spite of the bruising on her cheek and under her eye.

And it had turned out to be one of the best things she’d ever done, because she’d gotten to know Lily. In the months that followed, she had become friends with the other princess. Aside from Dante, Lily Cavelli was her only friend in the world.

What she wouldn’t give to speak with Lily right now! She should have talked Dante into going to Montebianco in the first place, and to hell with Vega Steel. But he was proud and stubborn and he wanted them to save their country with their own sweat and blood. He’d truly believed they could, and she’d believed because he’d wanted her to.

She heard the door to the bathroom open, but she didn’t look up. Her heart rate bumped up a couple of degrees. She was beginning to get used to it, though she didn’t like that she couldn’t control her reaction to him.

In her periphery, she saw him cross to the bedroom door. He was still shirtless, the white gauze standing out in the darkened room like a beacon. He pulled the door open. A gust of wind blew into the room, and guttered the candle. Cristiano closed the door again and the candle flared back to life.

“Is it bad?” she asked, and then felt silly for doing so. Of course it was bad. There was a tree in the house, for heaven’s sake.

“The storm is blowing a lot of rain our way. I think it will intensify over the next few hours.” He retrieved another shirt from his bag, slipped it over his head.

“That door isn’t going to hold, is it?” Antonella said.

“No, probably not.”

“Shouldn’t we go into the bathroom? Or the dressing room? At least it’s another door between us and the storm.”

He nodded. “Si. The dressing room is better. It is an interior room, and there are no skylights that could shatter in the night.”

It didn’t take long to gather their minimal supplies. Antonella tried not to think about how it would feel to be confined in such a small space with Cristiano for the next few hours. She would get through it, however. She simply had to remind herself it could be worse.

They could be impaled beneath that tree, for instance…

When she thought they had everything, Cristiano left the small room, returning with the blankets and pillows from the bed. Antonella accepted a pillow gratefully, putting it behind her and leaning back against the wall. She tucked her legs under her and bowed her head. Her eyes were heavy, but she couldn’t succumb to sleep just yet. She was far too keyed up.

That kiss. It didn’t matter how hard she tried to shove away the feelings, the images, she kept feeling his mouth on hers, his tongue stroking hers, his hands hard and smooth against her heated skin. She’d wanted him.

She still wanted him.

It was disconcerting as hell.

If she hadn’t stopped him, where would they be now? Would they still be making love? Or would they be tangled together, sleeping?

She wished she’d never seen him naked, because it was simply too easy to imagine his body lying alongside hers. To imagine the smooth, tanned flesh, the ridges and knots of muscle, the flat, hard stomach that begged her to press her mouth against him, to explore him completely.

“What are you thinking, Antonella?”

Her head jerked up, her gaze colliding with his. Seeing her need mirrored there no longer surprised her.

“I was thinking how I wished I were at home in my own bed. With Bruno.”

His gaze shuttered. “Bruno? This is one of your lovers?”

Antonella laughed. “Bruno is my dog. He is the light of my life and I miss him.”

“You were thinking of your dog,” he said, clearly not convinced. “This is not what I would have guessed.”

“Then you don’t know everything, do you?”

“Not everything, no. But the things I do know, I know quite well.”

“And yet you can be mistaken, it seems.” Except he hadn’t been mistaken at all. But she wasn’t about to admit it to him.

“What kind of dog?” he asked.

Antonella nearly breathed a sigh of relief. “Bruno is a Pomeranian. He’s very cute.”

Cristiano’s mouth twisted, but she was relieved to see it was only mock disdain. “A girly dog. I should have known.”

“And I suppose you have a great big pony of a dog, yes? The kind you can saddle up and let a child ride?”

Cristiano shifted his pillow and leaned back. “I have a cat, actually.”

Antonella felt her jaw drop. She snapped it shut again. “A cat? Seriously?”

“Scarlett is quite probably bigger than your Bruno.”

A giggle bubbled in her throat. “You have a cat named Scarlett?”

Now that was completely unexpected.

Cristiano answered her with a grin that made her heart turn over. “Scarlett O’Hara, because she is a self-centered Southern Belle.” His smile faded by degrees. “She was my wife’s. Julianne was from Georgia, and Gone with the Wind was her favorite movie.”

“Oh.” Antonella busied herself smoothing the fabric of her dress over her thigh. What was she supposed to say in reply? And why had he shared this now when he’d been so angry with her earlier? It forced her to see him as human, and she wasn’t sure she liked that.

When she thought of him as a Monterossan, an enemy, she could fight her attraction to him. But when he was a man who’d lost his wife? A sexy man who seemed tender and caring? Who kept a cat named Scarlett O’Hara and knew she’d been named after the main character in his wife’s favorite movie?

Madonna mia, it was too much.

“She’s getting old now,” he continued. “And she’s very spoiled. I cannot seem to say no when she wants a treat.”

The picture of this hard, ruthless man feeding a cat treats was mind-boggling. “She has you wrapped around her paw,” she ventured.

“Yes.”

His stoicism in the face of so much pain saddened her. She had to speak, even if he got angry with her. “I did not know about your wife,” Antonella said, her heart tripping along faster now. “How she died, I mean. I know you may not believe me, but I wouldn’t wish what happened upon anyone. I am sorry for your pain.”

He closed his eyes. “Perhaps you are.”

She waited for him to say something else. When he didn’t, she prepared to lie down and try to get some sleep. The day was catching up with her and she just wanted to forget all the pain and trouble for a few hours. Maybe when she awoke, the storm would have abated and they could get out of here. It was a lot to hope, but hope was all she had left at the moment.

Her stomach rumbled loudly and she pressed her hand against her belly to muffle the sound.

Cristiano’s eyes snapped open. “Why didn’t you say you were hungry?”

“I didn’t realize it until now.” She truly hadn’t. Besides, how was she supposed to be hungry when she’d been riding an emotional roller coaster since this morning? The emotion hadn’t slowed, much less stopped. Hunger seemed minor in comparison.

Cristiano glanced at his watch. “It’s been hours since breakfast. We need to eat, though we’ll have to ration what we have.” He handed her a box of crackers. “Open these while I uncork the wine.”

“How long do you think we could be here?” she asked, homing in on his comment about rationing food.

“Hopefully not more than a day or two.”

Antonella felt her breath catch. A day or two. Here. In this room. With Cristiano.

Heaven help her.

He finished uncorking the wine and poured them each a glass. Then he took a small knife and cut off a few slices of sausage. “Cheese?”

“I’ll pass.”

She watched Cristiano layer a neat dollop of the spray cheese over a slice of sausage on a cracker and pop it into his mouth. He didn’t grimace, so perhaps it wasn’t too bad after all.