Читать книгу The Prince's Royal Concubine - Lynn Harris Raye - Страница 9

“THERE is a storm, Your Highness.”

Antonella blinked at the steward as he placed a breakfast tray on a table in her room. She pulled the covers up to her shoulders as she propped herself on an elbow, still groggy after too much worry and too little sleep. “A storm?”

He carefully repositioned the flowers in the small vase on the tray. “Yes, a hurricane. It has swung off track and is coming straight for Canta Paradiso. We are putting to sea very shortly. You may stay aboard if you wish, or you may transfer to the island for a flight out.”

“Where is Signor Vega?”

The steward stood at military-like attention. “He was called back to São Paulo on business. He left before day-break.”

Her heart sank. She’d known it was futile, and yet she’d hoped to speak with Raúl once more, hoped to convince him to give Monteverde a chance. Too late now.

No. She would not allow Cristiano di Savaré to defeat her so easily. There was still a very little time left before the loans came due, and she’d spent the night thinking about what Monteverde’s next move would be if Raúl would not change his mind. She’d come up with only one solution.

What if Dante went to Montebianco and asked for a loan to get them through this crisis? Their father had nearly started another war when he’d arrested the Crown Princess of that nation, but that was months ago. Would Montebianco help them now? Could she convince her brother to try? She knew he wouldn’t want to do it, but it was their last chance.

And if Dante wouldn’t approach the King, Antonella would go to Lily and beg her to ask her husband, the Crown Prince, for help. Either way, there was still a chance for them—if she acted quickly.

“Thank you,” she said to the steward. “I will go to the airport.”

He gave her a formal bow before slipping out of her cabin and closing the door. Antonella bolted from the bed and grabbed her mobile phone. She had to reach Dante. She’d tried last night, but the call wouldn’t go through. Perhaps the wind had knocked out a tower.

Or, more likely, something was wrong with Monteverde’s communications. They often had trouble with the utility companies as the infrastructure crumbled and there was no money left to repair the aging equipment.

An automated voice informed her that her call could not be completed as dialed and suggested she check the number. She snapped her phone shut and hurried to get dressed. The sooner she was on a plane home, the better.

Antonella emerged onto the top deck of the yacht, in search of someone who could arrange for a launch. She nearly stumbled when she caught sight of the man conversing with the yacht’s captain.

Cristiano di Savaré in a tuxedo had been magnificent. But Cristiano in Bermuda shorts, a crisp polo shirt, flip-flops, and Ray-Bans was downright sinful. He looked nothing like a prince and everything like some erotic fantasy of a muscled cabana boy who lived to serve the woman lucky enough to hire him.

He turned at her approach, no doubt because the captain ceased paying attention to him and watched her progress. She could see the captain’s eyes moving over her appreciatively, but it was Cristiano’s gaze she felt most keenly. Though he wore mirrored sunglasses, she was aware of the burning scrutiny behind them.

She’d dressed in a cotton wrap dress and sported a pair of sandals with a sensible heel. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she’d gone minimal with her make-up. She wasn’t trying to attract attention, and yet it never seemed to matter. Attention was what she got.

“You have heard about the storm?” Cristiano said, skipping the preliminaries.

Antonella pushed away a tendril of hair that had escaped her ponytail and blew across her lips. “Yes. When is the launch?” she asked, turning to the captain.

“There is a slight delay,” Cristiano said before the captain could reply. “Many in the harbor are requesting transportation.”

“I see.”

“Have you made flight arrangements yet?”

“No. I had hoped to go straight to the airport and take care of it.”

“Bene. You may fly with me.”

Antonella’s pulse beat like the wings of a thousand hummingbirds. The man was unbelievable. “Thank you, but no. I will get a flight when I reach the airport.”

Cristiano shoved his shades onto his head. The sunlight had disappeared as clouds rolled into the harbor. His eyes, she realized, weren’t blue or gray. They were deep, dark brown.

No, green.

Hazel, that was what it was called. Brown ringed the pupil, but most of the iris was green.

Striking.

How had she missed this at dinner last night? She’d sat across from him, but she’d barely looked directly at him with Raúl sitting beside her. The one time she had, she’d been far more mesmerized by the look on his face than the color of his eyes.

“Antonella,” he said sharply.

She jerked. “What?”

“Did you hear me?”

“You were talking about your jet.”

“Yes. It’s ready, and I have room for you. All commercial flights off the island are booked.”

“But you just asked me if I’d made arrangements!”

“I meant last night, before the hurricane changed direction.”

She shook her head emphatically. “I’ll take my chances at the airport.”

Was she crazy? She might despise him, but was it worth putting herself in danger to have the satisfaction of refusing him? Wasn’t the most important thing to get back to Monteverde and speak to her brother? If only Dante had been the one to come to Canta Paradiso! He’d have gotten Vega Steel and this would all be moot.

Except he had to stay to hold the country together. And his wife was about to give birth. Antonella had been the only choice, and she’d failed. She wanted to climb back into bed and pull the covers over her head until it all went away.

But she couldn’t. Cowardice was not an option.

“Don’t be childish,” Cristiano snapped.

She forced herself to take a long, slow breath before speaking. “It’s not childish to avoid the company of people you despise.”

“No, but it is childish to put yourself in danger because of it.”

It was disconcerting to hear her thoughts echoed in his words.

Antonella stared at the mountains rising around the harbor. The airport was on the other side of those mountains. It could take hours to reach at this rate. Dark clouds billowed over the green peaks like a thick blanket unrolling. The wind had already picked up speed in the few hours between the time she’d gone to bed and now.

How she got home didn’t matter, so long as she did. “I will fly with you if there is no other option. Though when we reach the airport, I will check to see if I can book a flight first.”

“As you wish, Principessa.”

“But I cannot fly into Monterosso.” How would that look? And how would she get home to Monteverde? There were no direct flights, and the border was cut off. A Monteverdian princess could not be ferried across the border by Monterossan soldiers. It was unthinkable.

His expression hardened. “Of course not. We will land in Paris first. You can arrange transport from there.”

A dark thought occurred to her. “How do I know you will keep your word? That you won’t take me to Monterosso and demand a ransom for my return?”

His voice stroked over her like silk. “If I were to kidnap you, mia bella, I could think of far more interesting things to do than demand a ransom.”

By the time they were ferried to shore and found a taxi, three hours had passed. Everyone was rushing around the town, trying to batten down the hatches or get off the island. Canta Paradiso was a private resort island, but there was a town and many residents who lived there full-time. In spite of that, the traffic to the small airport was unbelievable.

Cristiano tucked his cell phone away with a growl. Since the rain had begun, the cell towers had ceased carrying calls for very long. Now, they were dropping altogether. Antonella looked at her signal indicator. No bars.

Cristiano raked a dark-fingered hand through his inky hair. The taxi was small, and his leg lay intimately against hers where they were crowded together in the back seat. At first, she’d tried to move away, but huddling against the door was uncomfortable. She’d struggled for the last hour to pretend that his skin didn’t burn into her where they touched.

“Will we make it?” she asked.

He was so close. Close enough that if she simply leaned over a few centimeters, their lips could touch.

And why would she want to do that?

“We should. It’s just rain thus far. We can still fly out.”

“Are you certain?” She watched the rain falling harder outside the steamy window beside him, bit her lip.

His gaze dropped to her mouth. “I am a pilot, cara. Rain provides good lift. The wind isn’t bad yet, and it also provides lift. There are many hours left before the storm is too dangerous to fly.”

“That’s good, then.”

He leaned back, stretched an arm behind her on the seat. She couldn’t escape the contact unless she sat forward. To do so would give him power, so she endured the press of his arm against her shoulders and neck.

The trilling of his phone several minutes later startled her from her reverie. The taxi was warm, and she was so tired that she’d nearly fallen asleep on him. Mortified, she pushed herself as far into her corner of the back seat as she could.

Cristiano answered quickly, before the call dropped again. The swearing that issued from him a few moments later wasn’t a good sign.

“What’s wrong?” she asked when he finished.

He looked grim. “We’re stuck.”

“What do you mean, stuck?” she asked, trying to tame the note of panic in her voice.

He swore again. “The plane has a hydraulic leak in the brakes. We can’t fly without a new cowling, and there isn’t one on the island.”

Antonella bit back a hysterical laugh. “Is there a chance we can get on a commercial plane?”

“The last flight left twenty minutes ago. There are no more flights in or out today.”

“You said it was safe to fly for many hours yet.”

“It is. But commercial airlines have different schedules, Antonella. And they’ve chosen to cancel flights that were coming in later today. Those planes would have been the flights out again.”

Antonella stared at him, swallowed the giant lump in her throat. “Now what?”

“We must find a place to stay.”

Unbelievable. Could her luck get any worse? “And where do you suggest we look? Do we simply drive up to every hotel on the island and see if they have a vacancy?”

He tapped his phone against his leg. “No, that would take too much time and there are no guarantees. I have another idea.”

“And what would that be?”

“I know the man who owns this island. He keeps a villa nearby. We will go there.”

She stared at him. “Why didn’t you mention this before?”

“I didn’t think it would be necessary.”

Antonella didn’t say anything while he issued instructions to the driver. Maybe she should argue about the practicality of his plan, but what other choice was there? Far better to stay in a private home than be seen together in a hotel. There was always a chance, no matter how remote, that someone from the media would be there and would recognize them. A photo of her with Cristiano di Savaré could do irreparable harm to her country right now.

He put his arm behind her again and she pressed herself farther away from him. He frowned.

“It’s no use,” he said. “The car is small and there’s nowhere to go.”

“I realize that, but you don’t need to put your arm around me.”

“And I thought you liked it when I touched you.” His voice contained a hint of sarcasm that irritated her.

“Hardly.”

“Then why did you come?”

Antonella blinked. “What choice did I have? You said yourself that all the flights were booked.”

“Yes, but to accept help from me of all people…” He tsked.

Antonella saw red. “It wasn’t my first choice, no, but I’m not stupid.”

His gaze grew sharp, thoughtful. “No, I don’t think you are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

A mocking smile curved his lips. “Whatever you think it means, Principessa.”

“I think you simply like to irritate me. Why did you offer to help me get off the island if you don’t like me so much?”

“I don’t have to like you for what I have in mind.”

Antonella gasped. “How could you possibly dislike someone and still want to sleep with them?”

The look on his face, something between mildly amused and completely arrogant, sent heat flooding into her cheeks. Had she mistaken his meaning?

“There is a fine line between hate and passion, Antonella,” he replied. “One sometimes makes the other more rich.”

“That’s horrible.” She’d always thought, assuming she weren’t obligated to marry a man of her father’s choosing, she would have to like the man she slept with for the first time. She’d never expected to have that choice, however. Now that it seemed she might, she was more than a little appalled at her physical reaction to Cristiano.

He quirked an eyebrow. “Really? You would expect me to believe a woman of your experience has liked every man she’s ever bedded?”

Her jaw clenched. She should have realized where this conversation would go. “I prefer not to discuss this with you.”

“Why not? Ashamed?”

“Of course not!”

“So how many has it been, Antonella? How many men have you lured to your bed?” He looked haughty, cruel. It made her furious.

“Lured? Lured? You make me sound like I’m running a stall at the market! Come get your peaches, come get your plums—hurry before they’re all gone.”

His expression seemed in danger of crumpling for a split second. She thought he might laugh, but he turned and looked out the window at the rain, ignoring her. He also didn’t move his arm. Fury cycled through her in waves until she decided the hell with it and flopped back on the seat, wedging him over where he took too much of her space.

What a hypocrite!

His body was hard, solid, and hot. Antonella folded her arms over her chest and leaned her head back—on his arm since he hadn’t moved it. He infuriated her with his accusations. He knew nothing about her, and yet he smugly thought he knew everything.

Arrogant man!

He took up all the air in the taxi. She wanted to roll down the window and stick her head out, but it was raining too hard. She was just so tired. So damn tired. As her temper deflated, her eyes drifted closed in spite of the effort she made to keep them open.

Cristiano’s scent wrapped around her senses. He smelled like rain and spice, and a pang of sadness pierced her. Why? It took her a moment to realize that it reminded her of something out of her childhood. Was it when her mother had fixed spiced tea for her when she was sick?

Yes, that was it. Spice equaled comfort back then. She could picture her mother as if it were yesterday—her sad, beautiful mother who’d died far earlier than she should have. Was that when her father had grown violent?

She couldn’t remember. She’d always tried to block those memories. Like the time he’d squeezed the life from Dante’s gerbil because Dante had forgotten to feed it. Her brother, who’d been ten at the time—far older than her impressionable five years—had taken the incident stoically.

Antonella had cried and cried. It was the first time she’d ever experienced such cruelty. She’d never forgotten it, used to burst into tears at the oddest times when the memory crashed in on her. Even years later.

Her face was suddenly cool, and she realized it was the air against her wet cheeks.

No, not now. Please, not now.

She opened her eyes, blinked against the blur. Then she swiped her hands over her cheeks, trying to stop the flow before Cristiano noticed and mocked her. She hadn’t cried over that memory in so long she couldn’t even remember the last time.

“Crying won’t work,” Cristiano said coldly—but his voice sounded oddly thick.

Antonella turned away from him. She didn’t want him to be here, didn’t want him to become a part of her struggle to be a normal person. It wasn’t his business! Nothing in her life was his business. “I’m just tired. Leave me alone.”

Would she never be free of this? Would episodes from her past always move her to tears when she least expected it? She felt weak, helpless—and angry. Sometimes, in these moments, she thought she could kill her father if he were in front of her and at her mercy.

And she hated that feeling most of all. The tears came faster now, turned into gulping sobs. She couldn’t stop the memories, couldn’t stop the guilt. She should have done something, should have—

Cristiano swore, then wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him.

“No, let me go,” she begged, trying to rip his hands away from her body. “Let me go.”

But he didn’t. He turned her toward him, cupped the back of her head and pressed her to his chest. She bucked against him, trying to get away, but he was too strong. Eventually, her shoulders slumped.

And once she gave up, his grip softened, his hand rubbing rhythmically up and down her neck while he spoke to her softly. She strained to hear the words over the roar of the rain and wind outside, over her own crying, and realized it was a song.

A song.

Shock was the least of what she felt at that moment. It was such an oddly tender gesture, and from the last person in the world she would have expected it. It was as if he understood somehow.

Her fisted hands curled into his shirt, held tight as she worked hard to stop the tears. She had every reason to hate him, but in that moment he was her ally. He held her for what seemed like hours. It was the closest she’d felt to anyone in a very long time.