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

Antonella’s breath caught. She had to force her lungs to work as she blanked her expression. Every inch of him was corded with muscle, as if he were a day laborer instead of a prince. Broad shoulders and defined pecs tapered to a narrow waist and lean hips. His skin was tanned, and yet it grew lighter the lower her eyes went. A dark arrow of hair slipped beneath the loose waistband of his shorts, and she found herself wanting to follow it down, see the rest of him.

Antonella snapped her gaze to his face. He smirked as if he knew exactly what she’d been thinking.

“You know you want to.”

Antonella blinked. “Want to what?”

The smirk turned into a grin. “Sleep with me. In the master bedroom.”

Oh, dear God—

She shook her head, heat suffusing her face. “No, I don’t and I won’t. I’m taking one of the other bedrooms—there are other bedrooms, yes?”

Cristiano shuffled past her, gazed out the window. She refused to focus on his naked back, the taut muscles of his buttocks beneath the damp material of his shorts—

“There are,” he said, turning to face her again. “But I just checked the generator and the fuel is nearly spent. Someone forgot to fill it, or it’s been drained recently. If we lose power, there’ll be no light.”

“Surely there are candles. Have you looked?”

“Not yet, but yes, there must be. And yet we need to preserve those as well. Not to mention there are trees outside the front of the home. The other bedrooms are up there. If a tree fell onto the house, then what? I prefer not to have to dig you out, assuming you survived.”

Antonella shuddered, but whether it was over the picture of a tree crushing her or being forced to share a room with this man, she didn’t know.

“One of us can stay in the living area. There are couches, the floor—”

“And should we lose power, or should something happen to this house, we would be separated. It is best to stay together, Antonella.”

She folded her arms. “How can you possibly know that? We don’t have hurricanes or cyclones—or whatever you call them—where we come from.”

“Every Monterossan prince since the beginning of time has served in the army, Principessa.” His eyes grew hard, bleak. She swallowed. “I assure you I have endured things you cannot imagine. Trust me when I say I know of what I speak.”

She did believe him, and yet she was still unnerved by the prospect of spending so much time confined with him. “Very convenient, Cristiano. I am forced to share a room with you, it would seem.”

“What is your alternative?”

“I don’t suppose I have one, do I?”

“Not if you care to survive.”

He spoke so casually it chilled her. Antonella went to the window, touched her fingers to the pane of glass as the water chased down it outside. “How much worse will the storm get?”

He came and stood beside her. She glanced up at his profile as he stared out at the churning sea, his expression troubled. Tried resolutely not to look down at all that naked skin.

“I wish I knew. It will worsen as it spins toward land. Possibly a category four when it comes ashore.” His head tilted back as he looked up at the sky. “The wind will reach one hundred and thirty-five knots, perhaps.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

He turned to face her. She kept her gaze straight ahead, though she could see him quite well in her peripheral vision. He was too close, too big. His bare skin gleamed in the pale light, and drops of water fell from his head onto his chest, trickled down, down…

“In excess of two hundred kilometers an hour.”

Antonella’s stomach dropped. She turned without thinking, took an instinctive step backward to put distance between them. “W-what could happen to us? Are we safe here?”

He perused her body in a leisurely way before answering, as if he knew she was as disconcerted by his nakedness as she was by the storm. “The trees could be a problem, and we will probably lose power. Beyond that, I do not know.”

“What about the sea?”

“The drop to the ocean is steep, so a storm surge is not likely.”

Antonella hurried to the center island and opened the handbag she’d set there. Her cell phone had no signal. She dropped it into her purse again. “Do you have a signal?”

He sauntered toward her, pulled his phone from his shorts. “No.”

Antonella leaned against the counter for support and closed her eyes. “I should have kept trying to call Dante. He will worry.”

“Perhaps he will simply think you are too occupied with your lover to inform him of your movements.”

She stiffened. “I call my brother every day.”

Why did she feel the need to justify herself?

“Do you? How extraordinary.”

“You don’t speak with your family daily?”

His laugh was unexpected. Disbelieving. “No. I am thirty-one, cara. My father doesn’t expect a regular report.”

“Dante doesn’t expect a report either. But we are close, and much has happened recently—” She broke off, unwilling to continue. No one knew what she and Dante had suffered over the years at the hands of their father.

No one would, because neither of them was talking about it. Perhaps Dante had shared his story with his wife, but Antonella did not know and would not ask.

“It is good you are close,” Cristiano said after a moment. “Very good.”

She wasn’t certain how he meant that, but a shiver crept along her nerve endings. He turned and started rummaging through drawers. The rattle of silverware grated on her after a few moments and she knew she had to do something or go insane.

“What can I do?” She could’ve started searching for candles, but it was best if they didn’t duplicate effort. Since he seemed to know what to expect from the storm, she would bow to his experience.

If only he’d put on a shirt! Perhaps she could think then. Perhaps this shivery, achy feeling would go away. She’d seen bare-chested men before, but that had usually been poolside. Cristiano, naked to the waist, in a kitchen—

She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, he was looking at her.

“I need you to fill all the sinks and bath tubs with water,” he said after a few moments of silence in which she was utterly convinced he knew the effect he was having and did his utmost to draw it out.

She blinked. “Why?”

“Because if we lose power, we lose water.”

It made sense, but she’d have never thought of it until too late.

He continued, “Next, see if you can find any flashlights, batteries, candles and matches. If you run across a radio, get that too. Take everything to the master bedroom and leave it. I’ll search in here for a few things, and then I’m going outside to close the shutters. If you could get some towels and leave them on the kitchen island, I’ll use this entrance.”

She bit her lip as she studied him. He was all business now, and nothing like she’d expected. Dante was the most practical person she knew, and yet this man made him look like a cosseted child in comparison. At the moment, he was more like a military commando than an heir to a throne.

“Do you really think it could get that bad?”

His expression was grave. “Anything is possible, Principessa.

It’s best to be prepared.”

Cristiano was soaked. He’d spent twenty minutes in the pouring rain, closing the shutters and hooking them. The caretaker should have done the job when the storm had first been reported to have swung off track, but the man seemed to do little besides sit in his house and watch television.

Cristiano took no satisfaction in knowing it was unlikely the man was watching anything now. The rain was coming down so hard that the satellite signal had gone out a while ago. He knew because he’d turned on the flat-panel television in the bedroom before he’d gone outside. Now, he stood in the kitchen and stripped out of his shorts. Antonella was nowhere to be seen, but at least she’d brought the towels.

A vision of her face, her eyes red and swollen, came to him. He resolutely shoved it away.

He could not feel sorry for her.

She was a Monteverdian and a Romanelli. And he had a job to do. A promise to keep.

He’d sworn on Julianne’s memory that he would put an end to this war if it were the last thing he did. His people needed peace. Too long they’d lived in the shadow of this conflict.

He owed it to them. To her. He should have been there. If he had, he could have stopped her from dying. Could have kept her out of that convoy. He mourned the loss of all who’d died, but he didn’t feel responsible for them the way he did for his wife.

Dio, he should have never married her.

He grabbed a towel, scrubbed it over his body. He tried to picture Julianne, to remember the exact curve of her smile, but his mind insisted on seeing another face.

Antonella’s.

He couldn’t deny that he wanted her. He knew she was a thoughtless, manipulative puttana, yet he couldn’t seem to overrule the urges of his body. He should be able to do so, but he couldn’t.

She got to him on more than a physical level. When she’d cried earlier, he’d felt as if someone had stabbed a serrated knife into him and twisted it. He’d held her close and sung the same song his mother sang when he’d been small and unwilling to go to sleep.

Why?

Because something about Antonella defied explanation. She was shrewd and tough, manipulative—and yet there was pain, the kind of pain that only came with depth of experience. He knew because he’d felt that kind of pain too. He recognized something of himself within her.

And he didn’t like it one bit. To feel any sympathy at all for her, any kinship, was a betrayal of his dead wife’s memory. Not because she was a woman—he’d had plenty of lovers over the past few years—but because she was a Monteverdian.

Cristiano tossed the soaked towel aside and prepared to grab a fresh one to wrap around his waist when a squeak from the entry hall drew his attention. Antonella stood there, her dark hair pulled away from her face, her jaw hanging loose as she stared at him. His body started to react to her perusal.

He didn’t care. Let her see the effect she had on him. Surely she was accustomed to it. Hell, she probably expected it.

Maybe, just maybe, if he got this physical attraction for her out of the way, he could think again. Could push her to agree to his plan and get on with the business of taking over her country.

A second later, she pivoted on her heel and disappeared in a rush. She seemed flustered—and yet it was an act. Had to be. She wanted him to feel pity for her, to feel protective. She’d already succeeded once today.

He cinched the towel low over his hips. He’d been insane to consider, even for a moment, that this sultry princess—the woman who’d been draped over Raúl Vega last night—was anything other than what overwhelming evidence indicated she was.

She did not defy explanation. She was a beautiful woman who enjoyed her pleasures. Aside from her two royal engagements, she’d been linked with one fashion designer, a German count, three Formula One drivers, and an aging Italian billionaire among others. Raúl Vega was only her latest conquest.

Cristiano had spent a lot of money and effort to confirm the rumors of Monteverde’s financial crisis. His father believed that if they waited, Monteverde would fall like a domino into their hands.

But Cristiano was taking no chances; he would allow no eleventh hour rescues. Now that he’d dried up the last source of possible investment, what remained of his plan was simple enough: his money for Antonella’s cooperation in gaining the mineral rights to Monteverde’s ore deposits. With the ore under Monterossan control, he could enforce peace in the region.

It was their last bankable resource. If he controlled it, he controlled them.

Yet he knew his plan wasn’t as straightforward as he’d first thought. She was shrewder than he’d imagined, for one thing. Antonella would never allow herself to be bought so cheaply. No, what she would expect was the crown of Monterosso.

And he would offer it to her on a platter if necessary.

But he would never deliver it. To go through with a marriage, to her of all people, was out of the question. She would be humiliated, perhaps, but it wouldn’t last. She’d already survived two royal breakups. A third wouldn’t shatter her.

He glanced up at the roof as a gust of wind howled along the structure. He’d expected trouble, but not this kind. While the storm had worked to his advantage in isolating Antonella, it was bad for every other reason known to man.

Cristiano pulled open a drawer and found a roll of utility tape. The patio doors were the only ones with no exterior shutters. The addition was new, and though there was an overhang, he didn’t trust that would be enough to protect the glass. Once he finished taping the windows in long spokes across the glass—if they shattered, at least the tape would help prevent shards from going everywhere—he padded toward the bedroom to face his adversary.

Antonella sat in a chair in one corner, flipping through a magazine. She did not look up as he entered. “Is it any worse?” she asked.

Cristiano unzipped his bag and pulled out some dry clothes. “Not yet, but I think it soon will be. Did you find a radio?”

“Yes, but no extra batteries.”

They would have to be careful listening to updates once the power failed. “There isn’t much food in the house. Crackers, sausage, a jar of olives, aerosol cheese—”

“What’s aerosol cheese?”

She’d looked up, her brows drawing together. A moment later, she seemed to realize what she’d done. Her eyes darted to the towel cinched low on his hips, back up again. When her tongue swept over her lower lip, Cristiano thought his body would turn to stone. As it was, the towel was about to reveal her effect on him.

Dio santo.

He clamped down on his will, forced his body to behave. “It is an American product,” he said matter-of-factly. He made a motion with his hand. “You spray it on the crackers.”

“Spray?” She looked horrified.

“Si.”

A shudder passed over her. “That sounds perfectly vile.”

“Depends on how hungry you are and how long until your next meal.” Though he’d been born into privilege, he’d done his time with the Monterossan Special Forces. He understood deprivation and hunger quite well. While she flitted around her family palazzo, beautiful and elegant, her countrymen—and women—huddled in bunkers on the border, surrounded by artillery and razor wire, and ate meals out of a package. Just like he and the soldiers he’d served with had done.

“We should have returned to town,” she said, pushing up out of the chair and pacing toward the shuttered windows. She spun around again before she reached them. “Then we wouldn’t be isolated out here with spray cheese and no communications with the outside world.”

“Be thankful we are in a safe place, Principessa. There are those in the world who are not.”

If she noticed the steel in his voice, she didn’t show it. She seemed oblivious, on edge. Did the storm frighten her that much?

Her gaze raked over him, almost wild-eyed, then skittered away again. Once more, she spun toward the windows, following the track she’d paced before.

Cristiano recognized someone on the edge of control when he saw it. But what was causing her to feel so skittish? Did she have a thing about closed in spaces? Not that the room was small, but with the shutters closed and only a lamp for light, it felt rather cave-like.

Or was it the fact he was nearly naked? An interesting thought, to be sure.

“It wouldn’t have mattered where we were. Phone calls can fix nothing right now. And there was no time to make the trek back to town. This is the best we could do.”

She stopped and put her head in her hands. “I cannot believe I am stuck here with you for the foreseeable future. This is a nightmare.”

“I can think of a few ways to make the time pass.” He said it primarily because he knew it would irritate her.

Her head snapped up again. Score. “This isn’t something to make jokes about.”

“What makes you think I’m joking?”

She turned away from him with something that sounded like a growl. She made the circuit to the window again, stopped. Spun around, hands on hips, breasts thrust out enticingly. “Get this in your head, Cristiano—I am not sleeping with you. And I’d appreciate it very much if you’d put something on.”

Her voice rose at the end. Cristiano absently rubbed a hand over his chest, enjoying himself tremendously. So she was rattled by his semi-nakedness. Because she wanted him, no doubt. And because she felt guilty for doing so.

He certainly understood the feeling. “Do I disturb you, mia bella?”

She stood so stiffly, like a nun who’d blundered into a strip club. Now, why was that a turn-on? She wasn’t a virgin, wasn’t naïve, and yet she carried off the act so well. The contrast with her sensual body intrigued him. Made him hard. She couldn’t help but know it, clad as he was in a towel.

Her throat moved. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she rasped. A moment later, she waved a hand airily as she seemed to gather her equilibrium. “You don’t affect me one way or the other. So you might as well put on some clothes.”

The corners of his mouth curled in a smile that was both evil and triumphant. “I think you are right.”

And then he dropped the towel.

Chapter Five

ANTONELLA fought hard not to shriek and spin away like a frightened virgin. No, she had to play this cool. Collected. He thought she was experienced—so experienced she must act.

But Cristiano di Savaré was the first man she’d ever seen naked in the flesh, and the sight affected her quite oddly. She felt dizzy for one thing. Like she needed to sit before her knees buckled.

And she felt hot. Prickles of heat skittered along her skin like tiny flames, scorching everything in their path. Her mouth dropped, snapped shut again.

He was…was…big…all over. And completely unabashed.

The towel lay heaped at his feet, forgotten. His eyes glittered, daring her to react.

Every line of him was beautiful. His skin was smooth and golden, yet lighter from a point above his groin to the tops of his thighs. Inanely, she thought he must spend a lot of time outside without a shirt.

Her eyes skimmed downward, hardly believing what she was seeing and yet unable to look away at the same time. His penis thrust out from his body proudly. She understood enough about male anatomy to know what an erect penis meant. But why? That part she didn’t understand. How could he be aroused? They’d been arguing, for pity’s sake!

Another, more frightening thought occurred to her: should she be scared of him? They were alone here, just the two of them and a storm outside.

He was bigger than she was, stronger. It was in his blood to hate her, just as it was in hers to hate him. Would he use his size and strength against her, take what he wanted by force? No one would come to her rescue if she screamed.

Her mind cast about frantically for solutions, ways in which she could fight him off if he attacked her.

“Want to help?” he said, his voice a sensual purr as he slowly reached for the clothing he’d tossed onto the bed.

Antonella drew in a shaky breath. No, she did not think he would force himself on her. He’d soothed her in the taxi when he could have ignored her. She kept telling herself that for comfort as she turned away very deliberately, very carefully. She couldn’t let him know she was flustered—or frightened. She couldn’t give him that kind of power.

Somehow she made her legs work. She returned to the slipper chair, sank down on it and picked up the magazine she’d been thumbing through. Thought better of flipping pages when she realized her hands were shaking. She laid the magazine on her lap and opened it to a random page, pretended to study what was there.

Cristiano hadn’t moved to follow her, yet he was still naked. Still aroused. Fear seeped away, replaced by heat and the pain of her own desire. Odd. She’d never realized sexual arousal could hurt.

Her heartbeat pounded in her chest, her neck, her wrists. She wanted to go into the bathroom and sink down into the cold water she’d filled the tub with. Perhaps then the heat would go away.

“I take it that’s a no,” Cristiano said.

Her cheeks were already on fire, but that didn’t stop the heat of a fresh blush. She’d forgotten he’d spoken to her, had asked her a question. She’d been so flustered by his body, by her own thoughts, that she’d blanked.

Did he know? Should she answer him now, or play it cool?

She saw movement in her periphery, but refused to look up. A flash of something pale. Clothing, she hoped. Please God, let him cover that body up before she made a bigger fool of herself. Before he realized she was a stammering virgin seeing her first naked man. Somehow, she knew that would diminish her in his eyes. He would pity her then. She couldn’t take his pity again today. Didn’t want it.

“Too bad, Antonella,” he said. The sound of a zipper going up nearly made her breathe a very audible sigh of relief. “The time would pass so pleasantly. Before you know it, we’d be leaving again.”

“Oh yes,” she forced out. Without looking up, of course. “We’d be leaving. And you’d waste no time informing everyone you could think of that you’d bedded me.”

“I never kiss and tell, Principessa.”

“Of course not,” she said, letting him know with her tone that she didn’t believe a word of it.

“But if I want to claim we’ve been lovers, what’s to stop me?”

Her head snapped back as her eyes met his. He was wearing another pair of khaki shorts and a navy T-shirt that molded the shape of his chest and abdomen. He was clothed, and yet her pulse still zipped along like an express train.

“You wouldn’t. Besides, I would deny it.”

Cristiano laughed. “Who would believe you, bellissima? You have a reputation, shall we say?”

Antonella’s cheeks burned. Oh, yes, she had a reputation—gained when men had lied about her, as this one threatened to do. It made her angry. She flipped a page in the magazine, ripping the paper as she did so. Damn him.

But maybe she could fight back. She arched an eyebrow, affected as chilly a look as she could manage. “Perhaps they would believe it when I claimed you were not so good as your reputation? I could say you were a selfish and hasty—” she emphasized the word “—lover.”

Cristiano’s laugh was louder this time. Then he swept her with hot eyes. “You are welcome to try.”

Antonella slapped the magazine closed irritably. “This is ridiculous, Cristiano. We could be in very real danger, and yet you keep insulting me and making jokes.”

His expression grew serious. “Do you know what I think?”

“No, but I know you will tell me.”

He came over to where she sat, towered above her until he dropped to one knee and reached for her. Her heart stopped, simply stopped, as she tried to imagine what he was about to do. He picked up the magazine, turned it and set it back down.

“I think you want me very much, Antonella.”

She forced herself to speak past the giant lump in her throat. “You are deluded,” she managed.

“Am I?” He stood and moved away without waiting for a reply.

Antonella watched numbly as he disappeared through the door that connected the bedroom with the rest of the house. Then she looked down. And realized that he’d turned the magazine the correct way.

She’d been staring at it upside down the entire time.

By the time Cristiano returned a short while later, she’d managed to calm her racing heart and jangled nerves. She’d tried reading a book, but the power had blinked a few times and then snapped out, leaving her in the dark. She’d fumbled for the candle she’d placed on the table nearby, cursing softly when it rolled away and fell.