The Prince's Royal Concubine. Lynn Harris Raye

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СКАЧАТЬ didn’t say anything while he issued instructions to the driver. Maybe she should argue about the practicality of his plan, but what other choice was there? Far better to stay in a private home than be seen together in a hotel. There was always a chance, no matter how remote, that someone from the media would be there and would recognize them. A photo of her with Cristiano di Savaré could do irreparable harm to her country right now.

      He put his arm behind her again and she pressed herself farther away from him. He frowned.

      “It’s no use,” he said. “The car is small and there’s nowhere to go.”

      “I realize that, but you don’t need to put your arm around me.”

      “And I thought you liked it when I touched you.” His voice contained a hint of sarcasm that irritated her.

      “Hardly.”

      “Then why did you come?”

      Antonella blinked. “What choice did I have? You said yourself that all the flights were booked.”

      “Yes, but to accept help from me of all people…” He tsked.

      Antonella saw red. “It wasn’t my first choice, no, but I’m not stupid.”

      His gaze grew sharp, thoughtful. “No, I don’t think you are.”

      “What’s that supposed to mean?”

      A mocking smile curved his lips. “Whatever you think it means, Principessa.”

      “I think you simply like to irritate me. Why did you offer to help me get off the island if you don’t like me so much?”

      “I don’t have to like you for what I have in mind.”

      Antonella gasped. “How could you possibly dislike someone and still want to sleep with them?”

      The look on his face, something between mildly amused and completely arrogant, sent heat flooding into her cheeks. Had she mistaken his meaning?

      “There is a fine line between hate and passion, Antonella,” he replied. “One sometimes makes the other more rich.”

      “That’s horrible.” She’d always thought, assuming she weren’t obligated to marry a man of her father’s choosing, she would have to like the man she slept with for the first time. She’d never expected to have that choice, however. Now that it seemed she might, she was more than a little appalled at her physical reaction to Cristiano.

      He quirked an eyebrow. “Really? You would expect me to believe a woman of your experience has liked every man she’s ever bedded?”

      Her jaw clenched. She should have realized where this conversation would go. “I prefer not to discuss this with you.”

      “Why not? Ashamed?”

      “Of course not!”

      “So how many has it been, Antonella? How many men have you lured to your bed?” He looked haughty, cruel. It made her furious.

      “Lured? Lured? You make me sound like I’m running a stall at the market! Come get your peaches, come get your plums—hurry before they’re all gone.”

      His expression seemed in danger of crumpling for a split second. She thought he might laugh, but he turned and looked out the window at the rain, ignoring her. He also didn’t move his arm. Fury cycled through her in waves until she decided the hell with it and flopped back on the seat, wedging him over where he took too much of her space.

       What a hypocrite!

      His body was hard, solid, and hot. Antonella folded her arms over her chest and leaned her head back—on his arm since he hadn’t moved it. He infuriated her with his accusations. He knew nothing about her, and yet he smugly thought he knew everything.

      Arrogant man!

      He took up all the air in the taxi. She wanted to roll down the window and stick her head out, but it was raining too hard. She was just so tired. So damn tired. As her temper deflated, her eyes drifted closed in spite of the effort she made to keep them open.

      Cristiano’s scent wrapped around her senses. He smelled like rain and spice, and a pang of sadness pierced her. Why? It took her a moment to realize that it reminded her of something out of her childhood. Was it when her mother had fixed spiced tea for her when she was sick?

      Yes, that was it. Spice equaled comfort back then. She could picture her mother as if it were yesterday—her sad, beautiful mother who’d died far earlier than she should have. Was that when her father had grown violent?

      She couldn’t remember. She’d always tried to block those memories. Like the time he’d squeezed the life from Dante’s gerbil because Dante had forgotten to feed it. Her brother, who’d been ten at the time—far older than her impressionable five years—had taken the incident stoically.

      Antonella had cried and cried. It was the first time she’d ever experienced such cruelty. She’d never forgotten it, used to burst into tears at the oddest times when the memory crashed in on her. Even years later.

      Her face was suddenly cool, and she realized it was the air against her wet cheeks.

       No, not now. Please, not now.

      She opened her eyes, blinked against the blur. Then she swiped her hands over her cheeks, trying to stop the flow before Cristiano noticed and mocked her. She hadn’t cried over that memory in so long she couldn’t even remember the last time.

      “Crying won’t work,” Cristiano said coldly—but his voice sounded oddly thick.

      Antonella turned away from him. She didn’t want him to be here, didn’t want him to become a part of her struggle to be a normal person. It wasn’t his business! Nothing in her life was his business. “I’m just tired. Leave me alone.”

      Would she never be free of this? Would episodes from her past always move her to tears when she least expected it? She felt weak, helpless—and angry. Sometimes, in these moments, she thought she could kill her father if he were in front of her and at her mercy.

      And she hated that feeling most of all. The tears came faster now, turned into gulping sobs. She couldn’t stop the memories, couldn’t stop the guilt. She should have done something, should have—

      Cristiano swore, then wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him.

      “No, let me go,” she begged, trying to rip his hands away from her body. “Let me go.”

      But he didn’t. He turned her toward him, cupped the back of her head and pressed her to his chest. She bucked against him, trying to get away, but he was too strong. Eventually, her shoulders slumped.

      And once she gave up, his grip softened, his hand rubbing rhythmically up and down her neck while he spoke to her softly. She strained to hear the words over the roar of the rain and wind outside, over her own crying, and realized it was a song.

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