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

Chapter Eight

HER pretty pink mouth dropped open. Cristiano had to force himself not to lean forward and close it for her with a kiss.

“You cannot be serious!”

“Why not? It makes sense, does it not?” He leaned back against the wall and gave her a lazy look. He was so close to achieving his goals now. So close he could taste the triumph.

Her brows drew down as she studied him. It didn’t surprise him she was suspicious. She was far stronger in spirit than he’d given her credit for when he’d first met her. Was it only yesterday? It seemed like weeks rather than hours.

Another woman would have fallen apart after nearly being crushed to death by a tree. But she’d endured, and she’d expertly taken care of his wound without a moment’s hesitation or squeamishness. He was quickly learning not to be startled by anything she said or did.

“Which part makes sense, Cristiano?” she asked. “The part about selling you our ore, or the part where you think I could ever agree to marry you?”

He resisted the urge to scowl.

“Both. You sell us the ore to guarantee your loans, and I agree to marry you as a show of good faith. You and your brother cannot doubt my sincerity if I pledge to make you a di Savaré.”

She snorted. Then she shook her head. “I could never do that to our people. They would see it as selling out to our enemies.”

“Selling out? Or saving your country from a worse fate?”

“What is worse than subordination to Monterosso?”

“Ceasing to exist. Becoming a fragmented people owned and controlled by differing factions. Being consumed by civil war as your people turn against each other. No other nation will risk their assets to help you then.”

Her grey eyes were huge in her face. A small cut over her cheekbone marred the perfection of her creamy skin. She seemed so young and vulnerable just now. Not at all the sophisticated and self-centered princess he’d counted on meeting when he’d flown to Canta Paradiso.

“You intend to gain control,” she said. “I’m not quite sure how, but this is your aim.”

“There is nothing in it for me.” Guilt pricked him, and he shoved it down deep. He could not afford to feel remorse about this too. Lives would be saved. He had to focus on that fact. Once he paid Monteverde’s creditors, it would establish who was in financial control to the world. Cristiano would make sure Monteverde was stripped of its weapons as part of the agreement. Without its ore, or the independent means to repay its loans, Monteverde would never again be sovereign.

Antonella tilted her chin up. Defiant to the end. “We still have options, Cristiano.”

“Time is running out, Principessa. The loans are due in a week’s time.”

He could see the calculations taking place in her head. She was trying to decide if the storm would be finished by then, and how much time that would leave her to explore other options.

“Vega was your last hope, and he’s gone. If you are thinking of approaching Montebianco, you should realize there is nothing they can do. They have agreed to sell Vega Steel their own mills, which will be run as a subsidiary. The incentive to do so was quite substantial, I understand.”

Her expression hardened, but not before he glimpsed her despair. “So you have brought Montebianco along on your journey. I should have guessed as much.”

“Perhaps you should have. It benefits both our nations to have Monteverde return to a free market system. There will be no more kidnapping of royal family members or attempts at blackmail.”

Her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “Blackmail,” she snorted. “And what do you call this?”

“I will do whatever is necessary for an end to this madness. Monteverde cannot continue the way it has been. It’s past time for change.”

Antonella tossed her dark mane of hair. “Why are you even asking my opinion? My cooperation? Go to Dante and force him to agree with your scheme. See how far you get then.”

Cristiano bit back a growl. “You will agree to do this, Antonella, or when the loans come due, I will make certain that Monteverde is destroyed forever.”

Her breath caught. And then her brows drew down. Fury saturated her voice. “I thought you wanted stability. Or do you simply want revenge? Make up your mind, Cristiano.”

He refused to acknowledge that she’d scored a hit. Yes, on some level he wanted to punish Monteverde for Julianne’s death. Perhaps he would finally be free of this guilt once he had. But in punishing them, he would make the world better for them as well. Ironic. “Stability is preferable. But I will take my chances if you do not cooperate.”

He knew she couldn’t doubt he was serious; his tone was colder and more brutal than an Arctic winter. Part of him disliked being so remote and cruel. But a lasting peace was more important than her feelings. More important than his.

She remained very still, her grey eyes fixed on him—and then her chest heaved. Once, twice. A third time. He expected tears to flow at any moment. Prepared to deal with a tantrum.

She’d caught him off guard in the taxi. But not again. She would not manipulate him with her tears this time. He would not relent.

She wrenched her gaze away and pinched the bridge of her nose. Her chest continued to heave.

And then she looked at him once more. Speared him with a glare so full of hatred that he felt the icy blast down to his toes. Oddly, his admiration for her increased. And his desire.

“I will speak with Dante, but I cannot guarantee he will agree to any part of your plan. He may prefer annihilation to a devil’s bargain with Monterosso.”

Satisfaction settled over him like a warm blanket in winter. “I’m glad you see it my way.”

“I don’t, but you’ve given me no choice,” she bit out. “Why didn’t you save us both the trouble and simply tell me what you wanted hours ago?”

It was his turn to laugh in derision. “Would it have made any difference? Perhaps you would have fled into the storm instead of another room. We both know how that worked out.” He shook his head. “No, I need you alive, Antonella, not running away like a spoiled child.”

Her chin quivered, but still she did not cry. Amazing.

“Not all children who run are spoiled. Have you ever thought of that? Sometimes they run for self-preservation. Not that you would know anything about that, of course.”

“I know about self-preservation, Principessa. I’ve sat in a bunker on the border while Monterverde lobbed shells at us. And I’ve rescued our soldiers from your torture chambers—”

“Stop,” she hissed. “You chose to do those things. A child can’t choose her parents.”

Cristiano blinked. What the hell was she talking about? With a growl, she turned away from him and punched her pillow into a ball. Then she slid down onto her side and curled herself toward the wall.

He wanted to ask what she meant, wanted to probe and question until she spilled all her secrets to him.

But he would not. He’d gotten what he wanted. He was another step closer to victory now. Soon, Monteverde would belong to the di Savarés. It was what he’d wanted for the last four years, what he’d worked for.

So why wasn’t he feeling triumphant? And why was he more interested in what she’d just said about children and their parents?

The scream that woke her was long and agonizing. So wrenching it made her throat hurt. Antonella bolted upright, but she couldn’t see in the inky blackness surrounding her. It was hot, and darker than any night she’d ever experienced before.

Panic clawed at her, grabbed her around the throat; another scream pierced the blackness.

“Antonella!”

Hands settled on her, dragged her against a large, warm body. She fought, twisting and kicking, until something heavy settled over her legs, clamped her against the body that was so overwhelmingly strong and solid.

“Antonella,” he hissed in her ear. “Wake up! You’re safe here…you’re safe.”

Something in the voice pricked the bubble of her panic, deflated it—

And then she was crying, shaking, remembering.

She’d been dreaming. Oh, God.

“You’re safe,” he repeated, one hand stroking up her arm, back down again.

A trail of fire followed in his wake—and she just couldn’t take the sensation right now. Not on top of the agony of her nightmare.

Her father, the lifeless gerbil, Bruno taking its place. Begging for her dog’s life, her face bruised and bloody…

“It’s okay, Cristiano,” she forced out. “You can let me go. I’m fine.”

She wasn’t, but she couldn’t let him keep touching her. He might want to soothe her, but he didn’t care about her. He needed her as a pawn in his game, nothing more. He needed her alive and whole, but he didn’t care if she was happy or sad or depressed or traumatized. Nothing mattered except his revenge.

Had she really agreed to marry him?

She hadn’t actually said the words, but it was implicit in the bargain. Cristiano might intend to marry her in order to gain advantage, but she had no illusions about what a union between them would be like. There was no love, no hope. There was only suspicion and hate. It was a worse fate, in some respects, than a marriage to Raúl would have been.

“I’ll light another candle,” Cristiano said, his voice strangely disembodied as he let her go.

She took the opportunity to scoot away from him. “You don’t have to. I’ll be fine.”

But she heard the flicker of a lighter a split second before she saw the flame. The metallic odor of sulfur and flint was followed by the waxy scent of a candle flaring. Cristiano’s face was the first thing she saw.

Light spilled across his cheekbones, his nose, illuminated his eyes. Eyes fixed intently upon her.

“What were you dreaming about?” he asked.

She wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s nothing I wish to share with you.”

“Sometimes it helps,” he said. “I know this from experience.”

She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. “Stop pretending that you care, Cristiano. You don’t, and I won’t share the things that haunt me with you. It will only make it more difficult.”

“How do you know it won’t help to talk about it until you try?”

“If you’re so into the idea, tell me about your life,” she shot back. “Tell me what happened when your wife died.”

She didn’t miss the bleak look that crossed his face—and though she didn’t wish to harm him, she wanted him to understand how it made her feel when he so casually suggested she talk about herself. Just because she hadn’t lost someone she loved in so public and tragic a manner didn’t mean she had less to grieve for than he did.

The tension in the small room was thick—and then he shrugged, and the tension dissipated.

“I wasn’t myself,” he said. “Not for a long time. I did things, said things. I hurt people, Antonella. I hurt them because I wouldn’t let them help me.”

She pictured him alone, raging, lashing out at everyone and everything. In spite of the heat, a shiver crept up her spine, made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

“You must have loved her very much.” She couldn’t help but be curious. She wanted to know what it felt like to be loved so devotedly, how amazing it felt. She would never know that feeling, no matter what Lily had once said to her about the right man coming along when she least expected it.

There was no right man for her. She couldn’t trust men, didn’t believe any of them capable of loving her. She was damaged inside, emotionally, and that made her hard to love. Dante was the only man in the world who loved her, and that wasn’t the same at all.

Cristiano flexed the fingers of one hand. That gesture might have made her recoil if he had been anyone else, but oddly enough she felt no sense of danger.

Suddenly, she felt as if she’d crossed a barrier she shouldn’t. “I’m sorry, don’t answer that. Forget I said anything.”

He shrugged. “No, it’s fine.”

But he didn’t say anything else.

Antonella cleared her throat. “How long were you together before…”

He seemed to understand what she meant without her finishing the question.

Once more, he shrugged. The movement was at odds with what he must be feeling, but perhaps it was his coping mechanism. She certainly knew about coping mechanisms.

“It was a whirlwind romance,” he said. “We were together six months before we married. My father was not happy, you may imagine. She died a month later.” He sighed. The sound was lonelier than she could have ever imagined a sigh could be. “There was nothing left of what had once been a vibrant, beautiful woman. Julianne’s DNA was all we had left to identify her with. I buried a nearly empty casket.”

She dropped her gaze to her clasped hands. He’d lost so much, had endured such pain. Because a Monteverdian bomb had exploded beneath a truck. It saddened her, pricked her with a guilt that she knew was not justified. She was Monteverdian, but she had not built the bomb. Nor did she believe it was the way to solve differences between nations.

Brutal, senseless violence.

Would he stop the violence? Was that why he’d pushed her into agreeing to marry him? Did he truly believe a union between them could set an example for their countries?

Another thought occurred to her: why hadn’t Dante done something to end the hostilities? She’d never considered it before. And it bothered her that she hadn’t. But she’d trusted her brother implicitly, trusted that he knew what he was doing and that he was looking out for the best interests of Monteverde.

She still did.

And yet…

Why hadn’t he done something, besides agree to a ceasefire, before now? If he had, would Cristiano be doing this? Would prosperity have followed on the heels of peace? Would she be here now, sheltering from the storm with an enemy prince and learning things about him that made her want to put her arms around him and hold him tight?

“My mother died when I was four,” she said into the taut silence. “I know it’s not the same thing, but her death left a hole that has never been filled. I empathize, Cristiano, even if I do not share the same experience.”

His gaze sharpened. “And you still dream of this all these years later? Or is it something else that disturbs your sleep?”

She twisted her fingers into the blanket on her lap. She was tired and sad and—Madonna mia, did it matter if she told him? Would it really help? She wouldn’t tell him everything—she could never share that with anyone—but could she at least give him a version of events that would make him understand her better? Was it worth the effort?

She took a deep breath, let it out again in a sigh. He’d just shared something very personal and devastating with her. She could give him something in return.

“My father grew violent after my mother’s death. He became a stranger to Dante and me. We did our best to avoid him, but it wasn’t always enough.”

“He is the one who hit you.” It wasn’t a question, and she didn’t look up. She simply nodded. He swore.

“He was ill,” she explained. “I knew this. I should have been a better daughter—”

The swearing increased in volume and intensity, cutting her off mid-sentence. Hot fury crackled in the air between them.

Yet she wasn’t afraid. Strangely, she wasn’t frightened of his anger. It was…liberating to feel this way. She’d never experienced a man’s fury without feeling the urge to flee.

Until now.

“That’s ridiculous,” he finally said, his voice roughened as if it had been scraped over sandpaper. “Children are not to blame for abuse. Not ever.”

“No, but I knew I shouldn’t do things to anger him. And I did them anyway sometimes.”

“You were a child,” he said fiercely. “It’s not up to you to bear the responsibility for what happened. Your father is to blame, not you.”

She believed him, and yet there was always that niggling doubt. If she’d tried harder, been better—

No. She had to stop thinking like that. Dante had always told her it was wrong. And now Cristiano. Why couldn’t she accept that perhaps some things were out of her control? That she couldn’t change the outcome simply by acting differently?

She swiped her fingers beneath her eyes, unsurprised to feel moisture. But at least they were controlled tears this time. She didn’t feel on the verge of sobbing or falling apart.

“What time is it?” she asked, too emotionally drained to continue this line of conversation. And tired. She was still so tired.

He picked up the watch he’d removed and set aside. “Three in the morning.”

No wonder her eyes felt so gritty. She shifted—and her body fought back with aches and pains she hadn’t realized she possessed when she’d been struggling with Cristiano in her sleep.