The Prince's Royal Concubine. Lynn Harris Raye

again. Fresh embarrassment buffeted her in waves. How could she have lost control like that? And with him, of all people? His shirt was wrinkled where she’d crumpled it in her fist, and a hint of mascara smudged the white fabric, but Cristiano said nothing.

      Madonna mia. If the owner took them in, she was locking herself in a bedroom and not coming out again until the storm was over. The less time she spent in Cristiano’s company, the better.

      Antonella waited in the car while Cristiano went to the door and checked to see if the island tycoon was home. He wasn’t, and yet a few minutes later Cristiano had managed to somehow get a call through to the man in New York.

      “The staff is on holiday,” he said when he returned to the taxi, “but we are welcome to stay until the storm has passed. There is a caretaker in the cottage we drove by. He will let us in.”

      “Wouldn’t we be better off in town?” Despite her earlier relief at not going to a hotel, she suddenly preferred it to being alone with this man for the foreseeable future. She felt too exposed, too raw. She couldn’t keep up the barrier of strength she needed simply to be in his company. It was like living on a battlefield.