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

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.

Before she could get down on her hands and knees to find it, Cristiano was there, shining a flashlight into the darkness. He retrieved one of the candles from the stash at the foot of the bed and lit it, then switched off the light. A second later, he was stretched out on the bed, leaning against the headboard with his hands behind his head. The pose molded the shirt to his chest, bulged the muscles in his arms. Made him seem so delicious and sexy.

Antonella crossed her arms over her body protectively and concentrated on the flickering candle where he’d set it on the bedside table. Anything except look at him.

“It will be a very long night if we ignore each other,” Cristiano finally said.

She forced herself to gaze at him evenly. “It’s already been a long day. Interminable.”

“Yes.”

Her pride pricked at the idea that he found her company tiresome. Why? Wasn’t that what she’d just intimated about him?

“Tell me about Monteverde,” he said, and her jaw threatened to fall to the floor.

“Why?” she asked a moment later, suspicion curling around the edges of her awareness.

“Because we are alone, the night is long, and it’s a good topic.”

“Why not tell me about Monterosso?”

He shrugged. “If you wish.”

For the next twenty minutes, he told her about his country—about the green mountains, the black cliffs, and the azure ocean. She found herself listening intently, nodding from time to time as she realized how much Monterosso sounded like Monterverde. When he talked of cool forests and bubbling mountain streams, she could picture them perfectly. When he spoke of the dryness along the coast, the cacti and aloe plants, she felt as if she’d stood beside him and looked upon the same things.

“It’s amazing,” she said when he finished.

“I think so, yes.”

Antonella shook her head. “No, I mean it sounds exactly like Monteverde.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You are surprised? We were a single country once.”

“And you would wish it so again,” she said, inflecting her words with steel.

“Have I said that?”

“You didn’t have to. It’s what your people have wanted for years.”

“Is this your opinion, or what you’ve been told by your father and brother?” His voice was diamond-edged.

“If it’s not what Monterosso wants, why must we defend our border? Why are your tanks and guns there? Your soldiers?”

“Because yours are.”

My God, men were insane. Was this the sort of circular logic that had caused so many lives to be lost over the years? While the solution seemed obvious, she knew it wasn’t. “Then why don’t we both turn around and go home?”

“Because we don’t trust each other, Antonella.”

She sat up straighter in her chair. “But we could sign treaties, pledge to cooperate—”

His laughter startled her. “Do you not think this has been tried?”

“It hasn’t been tried since Dante became King. We have only the ceasefire—”

“How would this change anything? He is a Romanelli.”

“What is that supposed to mean? That he is untrustworthy? That we are not as good as the di Savarés?”

“It means that your word and your treaties have not been enough thus far. Why should we believe your brother any different from your father?”

She ached to tell him. And yet she couldn’t. Because it was unexplainable. And private. No, what she and Dante had endured wouldn’t convince this man. And there was every danger it would only reinforce his beliefs. Abuse often turned out abusers. For all Cristiano knew, Dante could be just like his predecessor.

“He simply is,” she said firmly.

“Yes,” Cristiano sneered, “this is quite enough to convince me of Monteverdian sincerity.”

“You have yet to prove you are any better. If you would turn your tanks around, pull back your soldiers—”

“And let you bomb innocent civilians?” Rage suddenly seemed to roll from him in a giant wave. It was so palpable she thought it would crush her. His expression was dark, hard.

Intimidating.

Her voice came out in a whisper in spite of her best effort to make it otherwise. “We don’t use bombs against civilians. We only defend ourselves against Monterossan hostility—”

His laughter was so sharp and bitter it sliced her off in mid-sentence. She stared at him, at his jaw that had turned to granite. At the bleakness he failed to hide.

A moment later, he shoved both hands through his hair, blew out a hard breath. “You are quite wrong about that,” he said, his voice so utterly controlled it chilled her. He’d gone from hot rage to cold hatred in the space of a breath.

“I-I don’t believe you.” But her heart pounded in her throat. Could it be true? Her father had been capable of ordering such cruelty. More than capable. She thought of Dante’s pet gerbil, swallowed. No, don’t let me cry again. Not now.

“It is quite true, I assure you,” he said, his demeanor smooth. She had the impression he’d just fought a battle with himself and won. A dark, cold battle that she didn’t understand.

“How do you know this? How can you prove it?”

“I don’t have to prove it. I carry the results in my heart every day of my life.”

“You were…hurt?” She couldn’t imagine it. His body, as much as she’d seen of it, was perfect. If he’d been hurt, surely there would be signs of it. Or had he lost someone?

“My wife, Principessa. She was killed on an aid mission to the border. A roadside bomb blew up under the truck she was riding in.”

Her chest squeezed tight as her lungs refused to work properly. “I’m sorry,” she managed. She’d known his wife died shortly after their marriage, but she’d never known how it happened. She’d only had true freedom of information for a few months now. Before that, her father had tightly controlled the news she’d been exposed to.

A bomb. My God, how horrible. The poor woman.

Poor Cristiano.

Could her father have supported such a thing? Known about it? Ordered it? The thought made her shiver.

“Of course you are.” The words were perfunctory, yet each felt like a physical blow.

“I am sorry, Cristiano,” she insisted. “I’ve lost loved ones too.”

Her mother, her aunt Maria. Leni, her first dog.

“Have you?” His voice was still so cold. “Yet you always manage to find someone new to replace the old.”

Her heart hurt. It simply hurt. He believed her the worst kind of monster. The kind of woman who cared for no one but herself, who was unaffected by the pain of others. Why that bothered her, she wasn’t certain. But it did.

The tears she’d been holding back threatened to consume her. No, she would not cry. She would not give him the satisfaction. His opinion meant nothing.

She got to her feet, her arms wrapped around her body to ward off the ice that hung in the air despite the tropical heat. He wanted to lash out—she understood that. Understood the need to hurt someone when you were hurting.

Yet how did that make him any different from other men she had known? From her father?

It didn’t. Cristiano hit with words instead of fists. And the pain was worse in some ways. Psychological pain had repercussions beyond the physical that stayed with you forever. She’d learned that lesson long ago. Hell, she was still learning it. Dante’s gerbil was a prime example.

And she was far too tired of it to suffer a moment’s more abuse at his, or anyone’s, hands.

“Where are you going?” he demanded as she crossed to the bedroom door.

She turned, her head held high, tears in check for the moment. “It doesn’t seem to matter where I stay, does it, Cristiano? There is danger for me in every room of this house. So I think I will take my chances in another room for a while.”

Cristiano bowed his head and concentrated on breathing evenly. He should not have spoken of Julianne’s death to her. But he’d felt the darkness settling over him when she’d accused Monterosso of prolonging the hostilities, and he’d been unable to keep it at bay. He’d wanted to wound, just like he’d been wounded by the guilt of causing an innocent woman to die. A woman whose only crime had been to marry him.

He had to go after Antonella. He couldn’t let her wander through the house with the storm intensifying. A tree could crash down on them. Windows could shatter. He could be wrong about the depth of the ocean and a storm surge could sweep into the house and drag her away.

Death lay over the structure like a coiled serpent, simply waiting for an opportunity to strike.

And he couldn’t let that happen. He needed her if he wanted to put an end to the violence.

No.

He tilted his head back on the headboard and sighed. It was more than that. She was a person, and though he might not trust her or like her very much, she didn’t deserve anything less than his best care for her safety while they endured this storm.

It had gotten out of control so fast.

He’d only meant to find out a bit more about her, but he should have known the conversation would head down a road he did not want to go. Could a Monteverdian and a Monterossan truly spend time together and not fight about the problems between their countries? If it were possible, perhaps there would be peace already.

Still, he was here to make sure it happened. He had to control his emotions and he had to deal with Antonella like a rational man, not a wounded lion.

He pushed away from the bed, grabbing the flashlight, and headed through the door. Outside, the wind howled and moaned. Tree branches scraped across the terracotta roof with an eerie sound like fingernails against a chalkboard. The walls groaned and creaked.

“Antonella!”

She didn’t answer, so he passed through the hall and into the living room. She wasn’t there. Next, he went into the kitchen. The temperature in the house was starting to climb now that the power had gone out. He would have to open a window soon, though he did not want to for fear of the wind being so strong. But they would need fresh air. Sweat beaded on his skin as he moved through the structure.

“Antonella!” She couldn’t have gone far, but she probably couldn’t hear him over the wind. He went into the first bedroom, shone the light. Nothing. The second also yielded nothing.

The third time, as the beam swept across the room, he hit the jackpot. She lay on the bed, curled into a ball, a pillow hugged tight to her body. The sight shafted an arrow of regret straight through his chest.

She looked like a child, vulnerable and helpless, and his protective instincts were kicking into gear. Dio, he had to remember who she was. What she was. They’d been here a handful of hours and he was already going soft.

“Antonella,” he said over the wind and rain pelting the roof.

“Go away.”

“It’s not safe in here. We have to return to the master bedroom.”

She bolted into an upright position, her hair wild as she shoved it out of her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed. “It’s not safe in there either,” she shot back. “I’ll take my chances here.”

“Don’t be stupid. We’re going back.”

He started forward and she scrambled against the headboard, folding her knees against her body as if to ward him off.

“It won’t work, Principessa,” he said, exasperation and fury surging through him in twin waves. His instincts were sounding an alarm inside his head, telling him to get her and get out, no matter how hard she fought. The skin at the back of his neck prickled as the wind surged against the house, banging the shutters. He’d closed them, but they were old and somewhat loose in places. “I’m bigger and stronger; I will win.”

Her eyes widened as he reached for her. She looked a little scared at his intensity, but he had no time to play nice. He had to get them back to safety. As if to punctuate the point, there was a loud snap outside. The wind howled even louder.

He grabbed her foot and yanked her toward him. She screamed.

But he ignored her feminine hysterics and dragged her up into his grasp. She twisted like a cat. “No!”

Cristiano gripped her shoulders hard and shook her. “Stop fighting me,” he ordered. “We have to go.”

But she didn’t seem to be listening. She twisted again, fell to the bed as he lost his hold on her. He lunged for her, furious—and more than a little concerned at the crackling sound coming from above their heads.

“We have to go,” he repeated. “Now.”

Instead of cooperating, she flinched and covered her head as if he were about to strike her. The sight gave him pause. He’d never hit a woman in his life. Never had a woman cower from him as if he were about to do so. Did she really think…?

Why?

Why?

Another sharp crack outside dragged his attention up. A moment later, the roof split open. Terracotta and splintered wood crumbled through the opening, showering down around them.

No time left.

Acting on a surge of adrenaline and pure instinct, Cristiano grabbed Antonella and hauled her from the bed. There was just enough time to roll her beneath him before the wall opened under the weight of the tree like a zipper dragging downward.

Chapter Six

WHEN Antonella came to, the first thing she noticed was the heavy weight pressing down on her. She could barely breathe. The second was the sharp smell of rain and the dark odor of wet wood. Wind whipped in gusts against her body, chilling where her dress was soaked through. She tried to push the weight off, but it shifted. Suddenly, she was looking up into Cristiano’s dark face.

Her heart turned over at the sight of blood trickling down his cheek.

“You are not hurt?” he said before she could manage to speak.

“I-I don’t think so. But I can’t breathe,” she rasped.

He shifted to the side and Antonella drew in a deep breath, nearly coughing with the relief of feeling her lungs expand. “What happened?”

Cristiano glanced up. Her gaze followed his and she gasped as she realized what she was seeing. A jagged piece of the roof was gone. And the wall. But that wasn’t the most amazing thing. No, it was staring up at the rain-lashed sky through the branches of a tree that caused her insides to liquefy. The bulk of the tree had hit the bed, the branches splaying out crookedly in all directions.

Oh, God.

If he hadn’t pulled her off there in time…

Only the mattress prevented the tree from falling to the floor and crushing them beneath the weight of the branches. As it was, they would have to crawl out from under the limbs that spread over them.

Antonella touched his face, flinching at the same time he did—and trying very hard to ignore the sizzle arcing through her at such simple skin on skin contact. “You are bleeding.”

He swiped his fingers over his face, then probed upward, stopping just beneath his hairline. “It’s not serious, just a scratch.”

“It’s a lot of blood.”

“It’s fine.”

Antonella bit down on her lip to stop it trembling. Surely he would know if he were badly hurt. He’d said he’d served in the army, so he must have experience with this kind of thing. She had no choice but to trust that he did.

He lifted his shirt and wiped it across his face. “We’ll have to crawl out of here. Can you manage it?”

“Yes.”

He nodded once. “The going will be rough, but stay close.”

Though Cristiano picked his way carefully, Antonella scraped her arms and legs more times than she could count. Shards of wood had splintered off from the main tree, and crumbled terracotta and stucco littered the area, making the process slow and painful.

She suppressed her cries of pain. It would do no good and she was determined to get out from under this tree before the storm did something worse. The wind swirled through the collapsed wall, whipping her wet hair into her face and making it hard to see anything in front of her. Rain pelted her, chilling her heated skin.

Fortunately, it was still light outside, because if it’d been dark, she didn’t see how they could have made it. How would they know where to go? She’d stupidly left the master bedroom without a flashlight or a candle. She’d made her way to this bedroom in the meager light coming from the kitchen, the only room without shutters. Cristiano had a flashlight when he’d arrived, but he’d lost it, probably during the struggle with her.

It was all her fault.

They’d nearly died because of her, because of her wild emotions and stupid phobias.

Around her, the wood creaked ominously. Leaves rustled and the branches bit and scratched her tender skin. After what seemed like an hour, Cristiano turned back to look at her and she realized he’d made it through and was now holding the last of the branches up for her.

Antonella slipped beneath them and resisted the urge to collapse on the floor. Cristiano didn’t give her the chance anyway. He stood and offered her a hand. When she took it, he pulled her to her feet. Pain shot through muscles cramped from crawling across the hard floor, but still she didn’t cry out. She’d learned long ago not to show pain.

Pain equaled vulnerability.

And vulnerability to a man, in her experience, was like blood to a shark.

“Hold onto my shirt,” he ordered. She obediently grabbed a handful, and then they were moving again. A few moments later, they reached the master bedroom. Compared to where they’d just been, it was so peaceful. The white sheets on the bed glowed in the candlelight, making the bed seem even larger than it was. Antonella wanted to collapse on it, fall asleep, and pray this was a nightmare and she would wake up in her room at home in Monteverde. Dante and Isabel would laugh when she told them at the breakfast table about her strange dream.

“Come into the bathroom,” Cristiano said, grabbing the first aid kit he’d brought into the room earlier, “and we will clean these cuts.”

For the first time, she noticed that he too was scraped and bloody. When he turned, she stifled a gasp. “Cristiano, your back!”

She hadn’t been able to see him well when they were in the darkened hall, but his T-shirt was torn open over his shoulders and a gash spread across their width.

He glanced at her. “I know. You’ll have to tend it for me.”

In the bathroom, light from three skylights shafted down and lit the area well enough they didn’t need a candle. Cristiano took a towel from a stack on a bamboo shelf and dipped it into the water in the sink. After he’d wrung it out, he handed it to her.

“Wipe away the blood and dirt,” he said, then retrieved another towel for himself. He stripped out of his shirt while she worked on her arms and legs.

Several of the cuts welled up again and she spent more time pressing the towel hard against them in succession, trying to stop the bleeding. No cut was very deep, thankfully. She would certainly be bruised, though, where Cristiano had slammed her to the floor.

“When you’ve finished, spray some of this on,” he said, pushing a bottle of antiseptic toward her. “I’m afraid it will sting, however.”

“I’ve cut myself before. I’ll survive a few stings.”

When she sprayed the first cut, she thought she would scream. Sharp pain lanced through her, diminishing after a few moments. She repeated the process again and again, biting her lip and working quickly.

Cristiano was waiting with bandages. She had three cuts that needed taping up—one on her left arm and one on each knee. “I can do it,” she said when he started to rip at the adhesive strip.

He was standing so close, his naked chest gleaming with sweat and fresh blood. His hair was damp with rain, and a smear of dirt crossed beneath his right eye. He’d wiped the blood from his face, but had missed the dirt. Even dirty and somewhat disheveled, he made her heart thud.

He didn’t say anything, simply handed her the strip and let her do it herself. She bandaged her arm first, then her knees. When she looked up, Cristiano was watching her, an odd expression on his face.

Or not so odd, in fact. When she’d bent to bandage her knees, he’d been able to see straight down her dress as the wrap gaped open. In spite of the lingering pain of her cuts, heat slipped through her veins, caused a fine sheen of sweat to rise on her skin. Moments ago, she’d been chilled and sober.

Now, she marveled at the languid warmth creeping along her nerve endings and pooling in her deepest recesses.

Cristiano’s eyes clouded for a moment. When he reached for her, she thought her heart would stop. Would he kiss her? Would she let him? Should she?

His fingers brushed her ear as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind it. A shiver ran down her body.

“Why did you think I would hit you, Antonella?” he said softly.

She stiffened. She knew he couldn’t miss it, though she tried to shrug it off. She even forced a “how silly” laugh. But it sounded fake—and he knew it as well as she.

She didn’t want him to see how close to the truth he was, how it rattled her to have him know something so deep and personal. How many times would she fall apart in front of this man she was supposed to hate?

“I’m sorry,” she finally said. “I’m just a bit stressed. I overreacted.”

But Cristiano would not be stopped. “Did one of your lovers hit you? Is that why you thought I would do so?”

“Of course not!”

It was embarrassing to think of how she’d reacted, starting from the moment he’d told her about the bomb that had killed his wife. She was usually so in control of herself. But she’d let emotion get the better of her this time. She’d been shocked, hurt, and angered by the brutal death of his wife and by his accusation that she didn’t love anyone but herself.

And then…

Antonella swallowed. Oh, God, she’d thought when he’d come in so angry and insistent that he was about to get violent with her. He’d been reaching for her, trying to tell her they needed to go, and she’d been so blindly out of control of her emotions that she’d panicked.

“You need to turn around and let me see your back,” she said firmly. She couldn’t bear the scrutiny of his gaze, the probing that threatened to unveil all her secrets if she were too weak to resist. And she was beginning to tire of always keeping up her guard, beginning to worry she would indeed spill too much if he continued with his sympathetic act.

Because he didn’t care about her. She had to remind herself of that. It was most assuredly an act. His wife had died at Monteverdian hands—he had no reason to care one whit for any Monteverdian, no matter the circumstances of their current situation or the fact he’d saved her life when he’d yanked her from the bed and covered her body with his own.

Why had he done it? He could have left her there, could have stayed where he was and not come for her in the first place. But he had. And she hated the feelings of guilt and gratitude swarming through her because of it.

She prayed he wouldn’t push her any further, wouldn’t demand answers or keep probing. She didn’t think she could take much more of it.

Silently, eyes hot in his tanned face, he handed her a fresh towel and turned. Antonella breathed a mental sigh of relief. It was short-lived, however, when she got a better look at his back. Blood dripped from a long, clean gash that went from one shoulder blade to the other. The skin of his back was stained red as blood and sweat mingled, and she hastily wiped it away.