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

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?

      “Antonella.”

      She looked up—because if she didn’t, he would surely demand to know why. His eyes glittered diamond-hot.

      “You are feeling regret?” he asked.

      “No.”

      “Then what is wrong?”

      How did he always, always know? It was unnerving.

      She tossed her hair over her shoulder, tilted her chin up. “There is nothing wrong. I was simply hoping you would make love to me again.”

      He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Her heart lodged in her throat. Perhaps she should have kept quiet, not been so bold—

      “You will be the death of me,” he said softly. “And I find I can think of no better way to die.”

      For the next two days they ate crackers, sausage and cheese from their meager stores, talked, made love, and listened to the weather. Antonella learned so many things about him in those two days—and she shared more of herself than she’d ever thought possible.