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

Her name on his lips at the moment of his release was the sweetest thing she’d ever heard.

She’d thoroughly destroyed him. Cristiano lifted his head, once he had the energy, and gazed down at her. Her eyes were closed, and though a tear leaked from one corner, slipping down her silky skin into her hair, her half-smile of contentment told him she was not in pain.

He was still inside her, and more than anything he wanted to repeat what had just happened. But he couldn’t. She would be sore, even if she was not at the moment.

Dio, a virgin. If his body didn’t know the truth, his mind would insist it wasn’t possible. She was hot and tight, and so naturally sensual it amazed him she’d not been with a man before.

Guilt snapped against the surface of his conscience. He’d had no right to take her like this. No matter she’d given herself willingly, she’d done so under false pretenses. Not only because she believed their lives in mortal danger, but also because she believed he truly meant to marry her.

It was wrong…

And yet nothing had ever felt so right—

No.

Guilt of a different kind speared him. Since the moment he’d awakened and looked into Antonella’s frightened eyes earlier, he’d not thought of his dead wife once. He’d spent seven months with Julianne, married her, thought she was the woman he would fall in love with. How could he possibly forget her? She’d died because of him, because of who he was. Because he’d failed to protect her.

How could he lose himself so completely in the body of a Monteverdian princess?

He let his gaze slip down Antonella’s form, over the perfect rounds of her breasts, the pink nipples so stiff and straight, the tiny waist, the apex of her thighs where he still joined his body to hers. A pleasurable shudder went through him.

He was just a man. How could any man look at this woman and not do as he’d done?

No excuse. He was a bad, bad man.

She must have felt him shudder because her eyes opened. She smiled and arched her back beneath him like a cat. One hand drifted up, smoothed over his jaw, tickled his ear before threading into his hair. “Thank you,” she said.

Another pang of guilt stabbed into him. “For what, cara mia? The pleasure was all mine.”

She yawned. “I could get very used to this.”

“Yes, I imagine you could.”

Her brows drew down at his tone, but she seemed to shrug it off easily enough. He cursed himself inwardly. What was wrong with him? She was a virgin—was—not a wanton woman with a whole platoon of lovers. She didn’t deserve his sarcasm. She deserved far better. It wasn’t fair to take his disgust with himself out on her.

“You deserved a bed,” he told her. “Silk sheets, a bubble bath, champagne. You deserved to be treated like a princess.”

She frowned. “In my experience, being a princess doesn’t mean much when it comes to how I have been treated. I’m glad it happened this way.”

Because he didn’t want to think too deeply about her meaning, he focused on a red mark that marred her creamy skin where her neck and shoulder joined. And realized it hadn’t been there earlier. “I have hurt you.”

“What? No.”

“Your skin. I’m sorry if I was too rough.”

She touched the area in question. “It was nothing like that, Cristiano. Nothing at all.” She yawned again, finished with a smile. “You were very patient with me.”

Patient wasn’t quite how he would have described it, but he was glad she thought so.

He rolled to the side, withdrawing from her body and gathering her against him. For tonight, he would hold her close. If they survived—and he expected they would—he would deal with his tangled feelings about this in the morning. He pulled the blanket over them, yawning.

“Can you sleep now?” he asked once he’d tucked it around her.

The only answer was a soft ladylike snore.

Antonella came awake slowly. Something was different. For one thing, her bed was hard. For another, there was someone else in it with her. Someone large and warm. A man.

Her eyes popped open. And then she remembered.

The dressing room was pitch-black, the candle having died out presumably hours ago. She was lying on the carpeted floor, wedged up against Cristiano.

They were both naked.

Oh, God.

Images from a few hours ago played in her mind: Cristiano’s body tangled with hers, his magnificence, his utter lack of shame in allowing her to explore him. His skill at knowing just what her body wanted and in delivering it so expertly.

The sound of his voice when he came.

She couldn’t quite believe her own boldness at asking him to make love to her. She’d thought they would die, yet they were still alive. What was the storm doing now? She could hear the wind, but it didn’t seem to be a deafening roar any longer.

She tried to ease away from Cristiano. Perhaps she could open the door a crack and peer out.

Muscles she hadn’t known she possessed protested against the movement. Beside her, Cristiano stirred.

“Where are you going, Antonella?”

How did he wake so instantly? “I think the storm has lessened,” she said.

He was silent for a long moment. “I believe you are right.”

A second later, he was sliding away from her. The flick of a lighter, and then a candle flamed. Instinctively, she clutched the blanket to her breasts.

Cristiano’s expression flooded her with heat. Sexy, sensual. Knowing. “I’ve seen it all, Antonella. It’s too late.”

“I know.” But her cheeks heated anyway.

Cristiano pushed to his feet. His bronze body gleamed in the candlelight. He reminded her of a carved marble statue, he was so beautiful. He stepped to the door, then carefully slipped it open.

The candle flickered in the breeze coming from outside it.

“The wind seems to have lessened a bit, but I’ll need to see if I can hear anything on the radio,” he said as he closed the door and turned.

She dropped her gaze, afraid of what he might see in it if she kept looking at him. What was this hot, needy feeling uncoiling inside her? Desire, yes. But there was another emotion in the mix.

Companionship. She felt closer to this man than to any other person alive. It was a frightening feeling. Because he was still the enemy. In the cold light of day, he still wanted Monteverde’s ore. And the fact she would give him anything, including her soul, if only he would make love to her again, terrified her.

How could she be so greedy? So self-centered?