She was getting under his skin in ways he didn’t like. It was partly sexual, of course. She was beautiful, sexy, and with an edge of innocence he found absolutely riveting. How did she do it, as worldly as she was? It was no wonder men flocked to her.
He’d replayed the last hour in his head until he could no longer view it objectively. She’d been frightened of him when he’d tried to force her from the room. Frightened in ways he could only attribute to some trauma in her life.
But what? Who had hurt her?
Or was it an act? Was anyone truly capable of that level of deception?
If she was, she’d nearly gotten them both killed for it.
He simply didn’t know what the truth was. And what he needed to do was shove all the doubt and thought and even the sexual attraction down deep where it wouldn’t affect him. He didn’t need to know Antonella, didn’t need to understand why she’d looked so terrified, didn’t need to know why she’d cried her eyes out in the taxi, or why she spoke to her brother every day and seemed surprised that he did not speak with his family as frequently.
None of that made her good. None of it excused her from the crimes of her family and their despotic grip on their nation. She was too intelligent to be a pawn.
Which meant she had to know what kind of things happened to those who’d dared oppose the Romanellis’ rule. Journalists, engineers, scientists, teachers—those who’d spoken out during her father’s reign were silenced. Some had fled to Monterosso and Montebianco. Others were thrown into Monteverdian jails, never to be heard from again.
Cristiano had no doubt the same thing was still happening. What incentive did King Dante have to allow his people their freedom? He’d deposed his own father, yet the military dictatorship continued. He’d made no moves to pull back his troops from the border, sent no peace overtures aside from agreeing to the ceasefire.
It would simply be more of the same if Cristiano failed in his mission here. More bombs, more guns, more tanks, more lives lost.
Cristiano threw the towels into a nearby hamper, put the supplies back into the first aid kit, and turned to go. A glimpse in the mirror stopped him. He looked cold, ruthless.
Exactly what he needed to be.
ANTONELLA dug a jersey dress from one of her suitcases. She frowned as she held up the jade-green garment. The fabric was soft and she knew she would be comfortable, but it was a little too fancy for a hurricane.
Unfortunately, it was the most casual thing she had. She went into the adjoining dressing room and locked the door before stripping out of her wet, torn dress. Tiny cuts lay across her pale skin like the tracks of birds’ feet, remembrances of getting a little too up close and personal with Mother Nature.
After she slipped into the clean dress, she balled up the torn one and unlocked the door to the bedroom. She tossed the dress into her suitcase and dug out a comb. Her hair was a rat’s nest of tangles. She’d had it pulled back in a ponytail, but that hadn’t mattered in the gale force winds they’d endured while crawling from beneath that tree.
Oh, God.
Without volition, her hand stilled in the act of lifting the comb; that was when she realized she was shaking. She’d known it was close, but it wasn’t until she’d had to clean and bandage Cristiano’s back that she’d realized how close they’d come to dying.
It was a wonder they hadn’t been impaled.
Surely she could be forgiven for losing herself in his kiss in the aftermath of such an event? Just as he could. She had to admit that if he’d been any other man, and she’d felt this kind of exhilaration when he touched her, she’d have thrown caution to the wind and let him do what he’d wanted.
Because there might not be a tomorrow.
Antonella shuddered. There would be a tomorrow. There would.
But if there wasn’t?
She gave her head a little shake. It didn’t matter. He was still Cristiano di Savaré, the Crown Prince of Monterosso. He was not, and never would be, her knight in shining armor. She wouldn’t even be so attracted to him if they weren’t stuck here together, if he weren’t the absolute last man on the planet she should ever desire.
It was her perverse nature at work. The side of her that reveled in attracting trouble. Wasn’t it her fault when her father got mad at her?
It’s not your fault, Ella, Dante said after their father had sent them away without any food for being late to the dinner table once many years ago. But it had been her fault. She’d dawdled in the bath when she’d known she shouldn’t. And she’d brought down her father’s rage on them both. They’d been given nothing to eat for twenty-four hours.
Whenever she remembered an episode with her father, always there was something she’d done before he got violent. The last time was on the day he’d arrested the Crown Princess of Montebianco. Antonella had dared to tell him she had no intention of attending his event that night. She hadn’t wanted to be humiliated when Nico Cavelli showed up with his new wife. And she hadn’t wanted to see Lily Cavelli, to be forced to speak with her, especially not after she’d fallen apart in front of the woman in a Parisian salon only a couple of weeks before. Her father had been furious when Nico broke the engagement with her and married Lily; she’d mistakenly thought he would understand why she wouldn’t want to be there.
But he’d backhanded her across the face, told her she would be present at the event and be dressed to kill. And then he’d threatened Bruno if she dared defy him. Bruno, her sweet little dog who loved her so purely.
She’d gone to the party, of course, in spite of the bruising on her cheek and under her eye.
And it had turned out to be one of the best things she’d ever done, because she’d gotten to know Lily. In the months that followed, she had become friends with the other princess. Aside from Dante, Lily Cavelli was her only friend in the world.
What she wouldn’t give to speak with Lily right now! She should have talked Dante into going to Montebianco in the first place, and to hell with Vega Steel. But he was proud and stubborn and he wanted them to save their country with their own sweat and blood. He’d truly believed they could, and she’d believed because he’d wanted her to.
She heard the door to the bathroom open, but she didn’t look up. Her heart rate bumped up a couple of degrees. She was beginning to get used to it, though she didn’t like that she couldn’t control her reaction to him.
In her periphery, she saw him cross to the bedroom door. He was still shirtless, the white gauze standing out in the darkened room like a beacon. He pulled the door open. A gust of wind blew into the room, and guttered the candle. Cristiano closed the door again and the candle flared back to life.
“Is it bad?” she asked, and then felt silly for doing so. Of course it was bad. There was a tree in the house, for heaven’s sake.
“The storm is blowing a lot of rain our way. I think it will intensify over the next few hours.” He retrieved another shirt from his bag, slipped it over his head.
“That door isn’t going to hold, is it?” Antonella said.
“No, probably not.”
“Shouldn’t we go into the bathroom? Or the dressing room? At least it’s another door between us and the storm.”
He nodded. “Si. The dressing room is better. It is an interior room, and there are no skylights that could shatter in the night.”
It didn’t take long to gather their minimal supplies. Antonella tried not to think about how it would feel to be confined in such a small space with