Читать книгу One Summer at The Villa: The Prince's Royal Concubine / Her Italian Soldier / A Devilishly Dark Deal - Rebecca Winters - Страница 13

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.

She had to stand on tiptoe to see the cut better. Carefully, she pressed the towel along the edges, cleaning away any dirt and debris. Blood welled up as soon as she moved to the next section.

“I think it will need to be bandaged.”

“I suspected that,” he said with a sigh.

“Does it hurt?”

“Like hell,” he replied, startling her. Not because it hurt, but because he admitted it.

“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.