“No, not because of that. Because you despise me—and you despise yourself for wanting me anyway.”
LYNN RAYE HARRIS read her first Mills & Boon® romance when her grandmother carted home a box from a yard sale. She didn’t know she wanted to be a writer then, but she definitely knew she wanted to marry a sheikh or a prince, and live the glamorous life she read about in the pages. Instead, she married a military man and moved around the world. These days she makes her home in North Alabama, with her handsome husband and two crazy cats. Writing for Harlequin Mills & Boon is a dream come true. You can visit her at www.lynnrayeharris.com
To all the editors at Harlequin Mills & Boon for holding a competition to find new writers and for choosing me as their winner.
I am truly honored by your faith in me, and thankful for the opportunity you have given me.
But most especially to my editor, Sally Williamson, who pushes me to be the best I can be and encourages me to stretch my wings with each book.
PRINCE CRISTIANO DI SAVARÉ slipped the last stud into his tuxedo shirt and straightened the points of his collar as he gazed at his reflection. The yacht rocked gently beneath his feet, but that was the only indication he was on board a ship and not in a luxury hotel room. He’d flown over two thousand miles to be here tonight and, though he wasn’t tired, the expression on his face was grim. So grim that lines bracketed his mouth, furrowed his forehead, and made him look older than his thirty-one years.
He would have to work on that before he hunted his quarry. Though his task tonight gave him no joy, it had to be done. He forced a smile, studied it. Yes, that would work.
Women always melted when he turned on the charm.
He shrugged into his jacket and whisked a spot of lint away with a flick of his fingers. What would Julianne think if she saw him now? He’d give anything for another glimpse of her, for the little pout on her face whenever she concentrated—as she surely would while she straightened his tie and implored him not to look so serious.
Cristiano turned away from the mirror, unwilling to see the expression he now wore at the thought of his dead wife. He’d been married for so short a time—and so long ago now that he sometimes couldn’t remember the exact shade of Julianne’s hair or the way her laugh sounded. Was that normal?
He knew it was, and yet it both angered and saddened him. She’d paid the ultimate price for marrying him. He would never forgive himself for allowing her to die when he could have prevented it. Should have prevented it.
It was four and a half years since he’d let her climb onto a helicopter destined for the volatile border between Monterosso and Monteverde. In spite of the unease churning in his gut, he’d let her go without him.
Julianne had been a medical student, and she’d insisted on accompanying him on an aid mission. When he had to cancel at the last moment, he should have ordered her to stay behind with him.
But she’d convinced him that the new Crown Princess should work toward peace with Monteverde. As an American, she’d felt safe enough visiting both countries. She’d been certain she could make a difference.
And he’d let her certainty convince him.
Cristiano closed his eyes. The news that a Monteverdian bomb had ended Julianne’s life, and the lives of three aid workers with her, triggered the kind of rage and despair he’d never experienced before or since.
It was his fault. She would have lived if he’d refused to let her go. Would have lived if he’d never married her. Why had he done so? He’d asked himself that question many times since.
He didn’t believe in lightning bolts and love at first sight, but he’d been drawn to her. The attraction between them had been strong, and he’d been certain marrying her was the right decision.
Except that it hadn’t been. Not for her.
The truth was that he’d done it for selfish reasons. He’d needed to marry, and he’d refused to allow his father to dictate who his bride would be. Instead, he’d chosen a bold, beautiful girl he barely knew simply because the sex was great and he liked her very much. He’d swept her off her feet, promised her the world.
And she’d believed him. Far better if she hadn’t.
Basta!
He dropped a mental shield into place, slicing off his thoughts. He would be unfit for mingling with Raúl Vega’s guests if he did not do so. Those dark days were over. He’d found a purpose in their aftermath, and he would not rest until it was done.
Monteverde.
The princess. The reason he was here.
“It is a beautiful night, is it not?”
Princess Antonella Romanelli spun from her cabin door to find a man leaning against the railing, watching her. Faintly, the ocean lapped the yacht’s sides, someone laughed on another ship anchored not too far away, and the smell of jasmine hung in the air.
But her gaze was locked on the dark form of the man. His tuxedo blended into the night, making him nothing more than a silhouette against the backdrop of Canta Paradiso’s city lights. Then he stepped forward and the light from the deck illuminated his face.
She recognized him instantly, though they’d never met. That handsome countenance—the jet-dark hair, the sharp cheekbones, the sensual lips—belonged to only one man in the whole world. The absolute last man she should be talking to at this moment.
Or ever.
Antonella drew in a sharp breath, fighting for that famous detachment for which she was renowned. Dear God, why was he here? What did he want? Did he know how desperate she was?
Of course not—don’t be silly!
“Cat got your tongue, I see.”
Antonella swallowed, willed her thrumming heart to beat normally. He was more beautiful in person than in the photos she’d seen. And more dangerous. Tension rolled from him, enveloping her in his dark presence. His unexpected presence. Warning bells clanged in her mind. “Not at all. You merely surprised me.”
His gaze raked over her slowly, leaving her skin prickling in its wake. “We have not been introduced,” he said smoothly, his voice as rich and alluring as dark chocolate. “I am Cristiano di Savaré.”
“I know who you are,” Antonella said—and then cursed herself for saying it so quickly. As if words were weapons and she could use them to push him away.
“Yes, I imagine you do.”
He made it sound like an insult. Antonella drew herself up with all the dignity and hauteur a princess could manage. “And why wouldn’t I recognize the name of the Crown Prince of Monterosso?”
Her country’s bitterest rival. Though the history between the three sister-nations—Monteverde, Montebianco, and Monterosso—was tangled, it was only Monteverde and Monterosso that remained at war to this day. Antonella thought of the Monteverdian soldiers stationed on the volatile border tonight, of the razor wire fences, the landmines and tanks, and a pang of dark emotion ricocheted through her.
They were there for her, for everyone in Monteverde. They kept her nation safe from invasion. She could not fail them—or the rest of her people—in her mission here. Would not. Her nation would not disappear off the face of this earth simply because her father was a tyrannical brute who’d bankrupted