Читать книгу One Summer at The Villa: The Prince's Royal Concubine / Her Italian Soldier / A Devilishly Dark Deal - Rebecca Winters - Страница 16

THE weather report, what they could hear of it, hadn’t been good. The storm had strengthened, and the eye wall wasn’t expected for another few hours. The rain and wind were torrential. She didn’t need to see it to know. The sound was devastating. Though the master bedroom door hadn’t blown open—likely because they’d shoved a dresser against it—she could feel the angry power on the other side.

For the first time, she began to think they might not live through this. She’d believed him thus far, believed his certainty and confidence in the face of danger, but her mind threw scenarios at her that had the two of them crushed beneath walls, washed out to sea, drowned, or even impaled by whirling storm debris.

Antonella shivered in spite of the heat in the dressing room. Across from her, Cristiano appeared to doze as he leaned back against the wall. She’d told him he could snuff the candle, but he’d said they had plenty.

She knew he did it for her. Did it so she wouldn’t be scared or have another nightmare.

She couldn’t tell him that simply falling asleep could bring another nightmare. It had been months since she’d felt too vulnerable to her wild emotions. Once her father had been put in prison, where he belonged, she’d slept better. Had fewer bad dreams. She’d become more confident in who she was, though she also knew it was merely a façade. Deep down, she was still the scared little girl cowering from her daddy’s wrath.

Cristiano’s eyes drifted open. She could tell the instant that he remembered where he was and who he was with. Awareness snapped into his gaze like a spark from tinder.

“You are not sleeping.”

She shook her head. Her eyes felt as if someone had propped them open with toothpicks, yet she couldn’t relax enough to sleep. Were they really about to die? There were so many things she’d never done, so many things she’d never said that she should have. Why had she never appreciated how precious each moment was? She’d spent so much time hiding, cowering, burying her feelings deep.

Even now. Shouldn’t she be focused on living instead of worrying about dying?

“I can see the wheels turning, Antonella. What are you thinking?” His voice was deep and rough with sleep. Sexy. It stroked over her nerves like the lightest touch of a feather.

“Nothing important,” she said. “I think quite a lot, actually. Sorry to say I’m not as empty-headed as you might have hoped.”

His brows drew down as he studied her. “I never said you were empty-headed, Principessa. What’s brought this on?”

How could he see past her veneer of scorn so quickly? How could he know in so few words there was something bothering her? It was simply another thing that made her feel more drawn to him than she should.

And more resentful.

“I’m just tired, Cristiano,” she said on a sigh. “And I can’t sleep.”

“Did you lie down?”

“No.”

“Maybe you should try that.”

“It doesn’t matter. It won’t work.” She chewed on her bottom lip. Cristiano’s gaze dropped to her mouth.

Heat rolled in her stomach. Intense, overpowering. “Don’t look at me like that,” she managed.

“Like what?”

He was so incredibly male, so sexual. He aroused her senses simply by being in the same room. Looking like a bronze-muscled god.

“Like you want to kiss me.”

His laughter was soft, but it sent a shiver through her nonetheless. “I want to do more than kiss you, Antonella. Much more.”

She held up a hand. “I don’t want to know. Please don’t tell me.”

“It seems like the perfect opportunity to pass some time. Don’t we need to know if we suit?”

She blinked. “Suit?”

“Sexually.”

The word sizzled into her brain. “I didn’t realize I had to pass a test. Is this how you usually get women into bed? By asking them to take your test?”

She couldn’t help the indignation that crept into her tone.

He grinned, disarming her once more. “I don’t usually have to ask. And it’s not a test; it’s simply an experiment to see if we want more.”

“More,” she repeated.

“Of each other.”

Her breath caught. Oh, yes, she could see wanting more. Wanting more of him. Never getting enough.

“That’s ridiculous.”

One eyebrow lifted. “Is it? Haven’t you ever slept with a man who did nothing for you? Who didn’t know his way around the territory, so to speak?”

Her breath strangled in her chest. “No.”

“That’s it? Just ‘no’? How fortunate you have been, cara.”

“I don’t know what else you expect me to say.” There was no way she could explain without also explaining she’d never slept with anyone in her life.

Something crashed against the wall outside. Antonella jumped, her heart in her throat as the aftershocks reverberated through the small dressing room. A second later, a gust of air blew under the door and the candle guttered. Cristiano grabbed a blanket and wedged it against the bottom edge, swearing. The candle flared to life again.

“The bedroom door has blown open, hasn’t it?” she asked. The dresser must have sailed into the opposite wall. She could only spare a momentary pang for the Colonial French chest of drawers that had surely been smashed to a thousand bits by now.

“Si.”

But maybe it was worse. Maybe the wall had blown down. The grave look on his face made her heart pound. “Will we make it, Cristiano?”

His gaze swung toward her. He looked troubled. But his answer wasn’t what she expected. “I believe we will, yes.”

She’d thought he would try to prepare her for the worst—or tell her how silly she was, and of course it would be okay. She respected that he did neither, though she still thought the outlook was more critical than he let on. The storm was sweeping closer every moment. The power of it was staggering. Her hope was minimal.

“I wish I’d spoken with Dante,” she said. Poor Dante. He would have to face the crisis alone now.

Cristiano reached for her, pulled her over and tucked her against his side. She did not resist. In this moment, it was nice to have companionship. To feel that someone cared. She knew he didn’t, but at least he made her believe it for a moment.

“We’ll make it, Antonella,” he said, his breath hot against her ear. Did his lips touch her hair? She wasn’t certain, and yet her body flamed at the thought.

Madonna mia, not now!

“You can’t be sure,” she said, drawing in a shaky breath. “But I won’t break down, Cristiano. I know how to be strong in the face of danger. You can count on that.”

“Dio santo,” he breathed. “I’m sorry I ever thought you were shallow.”

She tilted her head back to look up at him. In spite of everything that had happened between them, in spite of the anger and pain of being on opposite sides of a bloody war and the prospect of dying here together tonight, she smiled at him. Genuinely. He was more than she’d thought he was as well. Better. If they could come to this kind of understanding under these circumstances, what was possible for their people?

“No one is truly shallow, Cristiano. I believe everyone has a story. You only have to look deeply enough.”

He slipped a hand into her hair, cupped her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek. “What is your story, Antonella?”

“I’ve already told you more than I’ve told anyone else.”

“I believe you have,” he said. “But there’s more, I’m certain.”

She dropped her lashes, too startled by the intensity in his eyes to keep looking at him. He wanted her, she knew that. And she wanted him. But how could she when he wanted to steal her country?

She was weak, far too weak.

“A girl has to have some secrets.”

His head dipped down and his lips touched hers. Softly, gently. There was no pressure, no urgency, just a sweet kiss that slayed her heart and left it wide open to him. Once more, she was aware of the fact she’d never felt this way with any other man. She’d never wanted one the way she wanted him.

Had never wanted to slip out of her clothes and feel her skin naked against his.

Had never wanted to open herself to him and feel the stunning beauty of his possession.

She wanted all this and more with Cristiano. What did it matter anymore? They would very probably not come out of this storm alive. He simply didn’t want to tell her the truth of it.

This was her last chance to experience physical love between a man and a woman. It couldn’t be wrong, not under these circumstances. She opened her mouth beneath his, touched her tongue to his bottom lip very delicately.

He responded with a groan. And then he kissed her again, more urgently this time. His mouth slanted over hers, his tongue demanding access. She willingly gave it to him.

So many feelings crashed through her.

Desire, of course.

Fear. Regret. Anticipation.

Of their own volition, her hands threaded into his hair, pulled him harder against her. His kiss shot up another notch, deepening, devouring.

She met him with equal intensity, shifting until she was practically on his lap, until the only thing supporting her was the strength of his arms around her. The kiss was spiraling out of control, but she didn’t care. She only wanted more of this intoxicating feeling, this heat and fire that sizzled beneath her skin and made her think of things she’d never imagined.

Naked bodies entwined. Sweat and pleasure. Bliss.

But when he pressed her back against the carpet, panic assailed her. Part of her wanted to shove him away and run as fast as she could. She tried to withdraw into her shell, tried to view the events dispassionately from that deep, disconnected place within her—

And found she couldn’t do it. Her usual refuge was denied. Anxiety spiked.

Something of her struggle must have communicated itself to Cristiano because he stopped kissing her, lifted his head to look down at her.

“What’s wrong, Antonella?”

He sounded so tender, so concerned, and her heart careened wildly, skipping into her mental roadblocks, leaping against the constraints she placed. Her heart wanted to be free—and yet she knew it would never be free. Never free to love or be loved. Never free of the pain and anger of her past. Even if by some miracle they lived through this night, she would never be free.

Suddenly, it was very important to her that he understood she was innocent, that she’d never done this before. Because if they did move forward, if this was her first and last time, she wanted to know that the man she gave herself to believed in her.

“I—I don’t know what to do.”

He frowned. “You don’t know whether or not to make love with me? It will be glorious, Antonella. Let yourself go—feel what we do to each other.”

She closed her eyes, shook her head. “It’s not that.”

His fingers spread over her stomach, slid up to cup her breast. “Then what is it, bellissima?”

She dragged in a breath as his thumb brushed her nipple through the fabric. “I’ve never done this before,” she blurted.

His thumb stilled its torturous track across her sensitive flesh. “Never done what?”

His voice was like a whip and she flinched away from it. He would never believe her. Never.

She pushed his hand away, struggled to move out from under the weight of his body where he half lay across her. “Forget it, Cristiano. It’s just a bad idea. I’ll sleep now.”

He refused to let her go. His body pressed down on her, pinned her in place. And every wiggle of her hips against him only communicated to her the state of his interest in completing what she’d so foolishly begun.

“I don’t want to forget it, Antonella. Explain to me why you do this. Why you are hot one minute and cold the next. Are you trying to punish me for wanting you? Do you enjoy these games? Because I grow weary of them.”

She grew very still beneath him. Her eyes filled with angry tears as she looked up into his handsome, cold face. “I’m still a virgin,” she forced out. “And I know you don’t believe it, so please let me go.”

“A virgin?” he repeated. “This is not possible.”

There was a hint of self-doubt in his voice, but it did not cheer her.

She pushed at his chest. “Why not? Because you’ve heard about me, Cristiano? You know what they say about gossip, don’t you?”

Cristiano watched the pink stain creep over her delicate features. Was she telling him the truth? Or was she so skilled at manipulation that she could stammer and call up a blush at will?

Dio santo.

He thought back to her reaction when he’d been naked, the way she’d seemed uncomfortable. The way she’d grown frightened earlier when he’d kissed her. She hadn’t truly panicked until he’d hiked her dress up her thighs.

Looking into her expressive eyes now, seeing the hurt and anger and uncertainty there, he wanted to kick himself. They’d shared too much tonight to fall back on entrenched beliefs. He could no longer think of her as the shallow, greedy woman he had only yesterday.

She was innocent. In spite of everything, she was innocent.

She had every reason in the world to fear him, yet she’d trusted him enough to let him get close to her this way. She’d been trying to tell him she didn’t know what she was supposed to do, not that she was uncertain of her decision.

The fact she’d chosen him, of all the men who had no doubt tried to bed her, staggered him. Humbled him. He did not deserve her trust.

“Antonella,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Her eyes widened briefly. But then the cool princess was back. She was so good at hiding her feelings. Had she always been this way? The thought troubled him. She’d been abused and she’d learned to shield emotion as a way to cope. No one should ever experience what she had.

She looked away. “It’s nothing. I am over it already. And I’m sorry to inconvenience you.”

“Inconvenience me?” He laughed, a dry raspy sound. The irony of what he was about to do hurt more than he would have thought possible, given the circumstances. But he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t, in good conscience, accept the gift of her innocence when he never intended to marry her. When everything he did was for the sole purpose of gaining control of her nation and bending it to his will.

She deserved better. He threaded his fingers through hers, pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. Closed his eyes as her intoxicating scent stole to his nose. Dio, he should be nominated for sainthood after this.

“I cannot make love to you, Antonella.”

Her heart was pounding so hard she thought she’d misheard him. But she hadn’t. His face said it all. He had refused to make love to her.

Another man who’d rejected her, who’d seen that she was a damaged soul and refused to have anything more to do with her. Yes, he was the first man she’d ever wanted to make love with, but it was no different than her first fiancé driving off a cliff or her second rejecting her to marry another woman.

Men didn’t want her. Not really. They wanted the idea of her, of her beauty and poise, but not her.

She closed her eyes, turned her head and pressed her cheek to the floor.

“Antonella,” he said, his voice still raspy. Full of…regret? “You deserve better your first time. Better than a floor, better than a heated coupling brought on by desperation and the belief that our lives are in mortal danger. You deserve silk and roses, a man who cares for you—”

She snapped back to spear him with a glare. “You’re forcing me to marry you. If not you, who? Who will make love to me the first time? You will allow me to choose a man, and then you will marry me regardless? I think not.”

His brows drew together. He looked fierce. Possessive. Conflicted.

A little thrill shot through her.

“No. Of course I will be your first. But not here, not now.”

Her breath caught. She’d heard the words, but this was the first time she truly registered them. “You really believe me?”

“I believe you.”

In spite of her confusion and hurt, contentment washed over her. He believed her. “Thank you.”

His index finger rubbed across her lower lip. Soft, sensual. Her body flamed in response.

“We will wait. We will do this right when it is time.” He looked troubled, as if he knew there would not be another time. As if he knew they would die.

She refused to accept his decision. He believed her and he wanted her first time to be special. It was enough.

She caught his wrist, nipped his finger. Then she licked it. It was a far bolder move than she’d have ever imagined possible.

Desire flared in his eyes, scorching her. “Antonella,” he grated.

“I want to do this. I want you.”

His voice was strangled. “You are making a decision you would not otherwise make if not for the storm.”

That he saw deeply enough into her to recognize that the hurricane affected her only made her desire him more. No man had ever known her so well. Not even Dante. How ironic that it was a Monterossan who seemed to understand her best.

“I know. But I don’t want to die tonight without experiencing this.”

“We aren’t going to die, Antonella.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. I promise you.”

As if in defiance, a roar sounded outside the dressing room. Something exploded with a bang. A tattoo of rain beat harder on the roof, plinking the terracotta with a deafening staccato rhythm.

“Please, Cristiano. If tomorrow comes, we’ll deal with it then.”

“Antonella,” he groaned, tilting his head back, eyes squeezed shut as if he were fighting himself. “You would regret it tomorrow, and you would hate me for it.”

“You’ve forgotten that I already hate you,” she said primly.

A smile curved one corner of his mouth. “Dio, yes. How could I have forgotten this?”

She lifted a shaky hand, threaded her fingers through his hair. His eyes glittered with heat and need. God, she loved the feel of his hair. Soft, silky. Black as a starless night.

“Kiss me, Cristiano. Pretend we’re lying on silk sheets. Pretend that you care about me…”