His grin was not what she expected, a flash of impossibly white teeth in the gloom. And about as friendly as a lion’s feral growl. The hair on the back of her neck stood up.
“The same as you, I imagine. Raúl Vega is a very wealthy man, si? He could bring many jobs to a country fortunate enough to win his business.”
Antonella’s blood froze. She needed Raúl Vega, not this…this arrogant, too-handsome man who already had all the advantages of his power and position. Monterosso was wealthy beyond compare; Monteverde needed Vega Steel to survive. It was life or death for her people. Since her father had been deposed, her brother had been holding the country together through sheer force of will. But it wouldn’t last much longer. They needed foreign investment, needed someone with the clout of Vega to come in and show other investors through example that the country was still a good bet.
The astronomical loans her father had taken out were coming due, and they had no money to pay them. Extensions were out of the question. Though Dante and the government had acted in the nation’s best interest when they’d deposed her father, creditor nations had viewed the events with trepidation and suspicion. To them, requests for loan extensions would mean Monteverde was seeking ways to have the loans declared void.
A commitment from Vega Steel would change that.
If Cristiano di Savaré knew how close they were to the brink of collapse—
No. He couldn’t know. No one could. Not yet, though her country couldn’t hide it for much longer. Soon the world would know. And Monteverde would cease to exist. The thought dripped courage into her veins, each dose stronger than the last until she was brimming with it.
“I am surprised Monterosso cares about Vega Steel,” she said coolly. “And my interest in Signor Vega has nothing to do with business.”
Cristiano smirked, but it was too late to take back the words. She’d meant to deflect him, but she’d opened herself up to ridicule instead. Careless.
“Ah, yes, I have heard about this. About you.”
Antonella pulled her silk shawl closer over the pale cream designer gown she wore. He made her feel cheap—small and dirty and insignificant—without saying one word of what he truly meant. He didn’t need to; the implication was clear.
“If you are finished, Your Highness?” she said frostily. “I believe I am expected at dinner.”
He moved closer, so nearly into her personal space that it must be intentional. He was tall and broad, and it took everything she had not to shrink from him. She’d spent years cowering before her father when he was in a rage; when he’d been arrested six months ago, she’d promised herself she would not cower before a man ever again.
She stood rigid, waiting. Trembling, and hating herself for the weakness.
“Allow me to escort you, Principessa, for I am headed in the same direction.”
He was so close, so real. So intimidating. “I can find my own way.”
“Of course.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Beneath his studied demeanor, she sensed hostility. Darkness. Emptiness.
He continued, “But if you refuse, I might think you afraid of me.”
Antonella swallowed, forced her throat to work. Too close to the mark. “Why on earth would I be afraid of you?”
“Precisely.” He held out his arm, daring her to accept.
She hesitated. But there was no way out and she would not run like a frightened child. It was a betrayal of Monteverde to be seen with him—and yet this was the Caribbean; Monteverde was thousands of miles away. No one would ever know.
“Very well.” She laid her hand on his arm—and nearly jerked away at the sizzle skimming through her. Touching Cristiano was like touching lightning. She thought he flinched, but she couldn’t be sure.
Was that brimstone she smelled? It wouldn’t surprise her—he was the devil incarnate so far as she was concerned.
The enemy.
But, no, it was simply her imagination. He smelled like a sea-swept night, fresh and clean with a hint of spice. When his hand settled over hers, she had to force down a sense of panic. She felt trapped, and yet his grip was light. Impersonal perhaps. It was the touch of a man schooled in protocol, a man escorting a woman to an event.
It was nothing.
And yet—
Yet her heart tripped as if it were on a downhill plunge. There was something about him, something dark and dangerous and altogether different from the type of men she usually met.
“You have been in the Caribbean long?” he asked as they strolled along the outer deck.
“A few days,” she replied absently, wondering how to make him pick up the pace. At this rate, it would take several minutes to reach the grand ballroom. Several minutes in which she would be alone in his company. “But I haven’t seen much of the island yet.”
“No, I don’t imagine you would.”
Antonella ground to a halt at his tone. Smug, superior. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He turned toward her, his eyes slipping down her body, back up again. Evaluating her. Judging her. Oddly enough, she found herself wanting to know what color they were. Blue? Grey like her own? She couldn’t tell in the yellowish light from the deck lamps. But they left her shivering and achy all at once.
“It means, Principessa, that when you spend much of your time on your back, you can hardly expect to do much sightseeing.”
She couldn’t stifle a gasp. “How dare you pretend to know me—”
“Who does not know you, Antonella Romanelli? In the past six months, you have certainly made yourself known. You parade around Europe dressed in the latest fashions, attending all the best parties, and sleeping with whoever catches your fancy at the moment. Like Vega.”
If he’d notched an arrow and aimed it straight at her heart, it could have hurt no worse.
What could she possibly say to defend herself? Why did she even want to?
Antonella spun away, but Cristiano caught her wrist and prevented her from escaping. His grip was harder than any she’d imagined. Her heart raced so hard she was afraid she’d grow light-headed. Her father was a strong man. A man with a hair-trigger temper and a quick fist when angered. She’d borne the brunt of that fist more times than she cared to remember.
“Let me go,” she bit out, her skin prickling with icy fear.
“Your brother should control you better,” he said—but his grip loosened and she jerked free, rubbing her wrist though he had not hurt her.
Anger slid into place, crowded out the fear. “Who do you think you are? Just because you’re the heir to the Monterossan throne does not make you special to me. And my life is none of your business.” Her laugh was bitter. “I know what you think of me, of my people. But know this—you have not beaten us in over one thousand years and you will not do so now.”
“Bravo,” he said, eyes glittering dangerously. “Very passionate. One wonders how passionate you might be in other circumstances.”
“You will have to continue to wonder, Your Highness. Because I would throw myself over the side of this yacht before ever entertaining a man such as you in my bed.”
Not that she’d ever entertained any man in her bed—but he didn’t know that. Regardless that she’d never found a man she trusted enough to give herself to, that she was still a virgin, all it