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

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СКАЧАТЬ she hissed. “You chose to do those things. A child can’t choose her parents.”

      Cristiano blinked. What the hell was she talking about? With a growl, she turned away from him and punched her pillow into a ball. Then she slid down onto her side and curled herself toward the wall.

      He wanted to ask what she meant, wanted to probe and question until she spilled all her secrets to him.

      But he would not. He’d gotten what he wanted. He was another step closer to victory now. Soon, Monteverde would belong to the di Savarés. It was what he’d wanted for the last four years, what he’d worked for.

      So why wasn’t he feeling triumphant? And why was he more interested in what she’d just said about children and their parents?

      The scream that woke her was long and agonizing. So wrenching it made her throat hurt. Antonella bolted upright, but she couldn’t see in the inky blackness surrounding her. It was hot, and darker than any night she’d ever experienced before.

      Panic clawed at her, grabbed her around the throat; another scream pierced the blackness.

      “Antonella!”

      Hands settled on her, dragged her against a large, warm body. She fought, twisting and kicking, until something heavy settled over her legs, clamped her against the body that was so overwhelmingly strong and solid.

      “Antonella,” he hissed in her ear. “Wake up! You’re safe here…you’re safe.”

      Something in the voice pricked the bubble of her panic, deflated it—

      And then she was crying, shaking, remembering.

      She’d been dreaming. Oh, God.

      “You’re safe,” he repeated, one hand stroking up her arm, back down again.

      A trail of fire followed in his wake—and she just couldn’t take the sensation right now. Not on top of the agony of her nightmare.

       Her father, the lifeless gerbil, Bruno taking its place. Begging for her dog’s life, her face bruised and bloody…

      “It’s okay, Cristiano,” she forced out. “You can let me go. I’m fine.”

      She wasn’t, but she couldn’t let him keep touching her. He might want to soothe her, but he didn’t care about her. He needed her as a pawn in his game, nothing more. He needed her alive and whole, but he didn’t care if she was happy or sad or depressed or traumatized. Nothing mattered except his revenge.

      Had she really agreed to marry him?

      She hadn’t actually said the words, but it was implicit in the bargain. Cristiano might intend to marry her in order to gain advantage, but she had no illusions about what a union between them would be like. There was no love, no hope. There was only suspicion and hate. It was a worse fate, in some respects, than a marriage to Raúl would have been.

      “I’ll light another candle,” Cristiano said, his voice strangely disembodied as he let her go.

      She took the opportunity to scoot away from him. “You don’t have to. I’ll be fine.”

      But she heard the flicker of a lighter a split second before she saw the flame. The metallic odor of sulfur and flint was followed by the waxy scent of a candle flaring. Cristiano’s face was the first thing she saw.

      Light spilled across his cheekbones, his nose, illuminated his eyes. Eyes fixed intently upon her.

      “What were you dreaming about?” he asked.

      She wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s nothing I wish to share with you.”

      “Sometimes it helps,” he said. “I know this from experience.”

      She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. “Stop pretending that you care, Cristiano. You don’t, and I won’t share the things that haunt me with you. It will only make it more difficult.”

      “How do you know it won’t help to talk about it until you try?”

      “If you’re so into the idea, tell me about your life,” she shot back. “Tell me what happened when your wife died.”

      She didn’t miss the bleak look that crossed his face—and though she didn’t wish to harm him, she wanted him to understand how it made her feel when he so casually suggested she talk about herself. Just because she hadn’t lost someone she loved in so public and tragic a manner didn’t mean she had less to grieve for than he did.

      The tension in the small room was thick—and then he shrugged, and the tension dissipated.

      “I wasn’t myself,” he said. “Not for a long time. I did things, said things. I hurt people, Antonella. I hurt them because I wouldn’t let them help me.”

      She pictured him alone, raging, lashing out at everyone and everything. In spite of the heat, a shiver crept up her spine, made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

      “You must have loved her very much.” She couldn’t help but be curious. She wanted to know what it felt like to be loved so devotedly, how amazing it felt. She would never know that feeling, no matter what Lily had once said to her about the right man coming along when she least expected it.

      There was no right man for her. She couldn’t trust men, didn’t believe any of them capable of loving her. She was damaged inside, emotionally, and that made her hard to love. Dante was the only man in the world who loved her, and that wasn’t the same at all.

      Cristiano flexed the fingers of one hand. That gesture might have made her recoil if he had been anyone else, but oddly enough she felt no sense of danger.

      Suddenly, she felt as if she’d crossed a barrier she shouldn’t. “I’m sorry, don’t answer that. Forget I said anything.”

      He shrugged. “No, it’s fine.”

      But he didn’t say anything else.

      Antonella cleared her throat. “How long were you together before…”

      He seemed to understand what she meant without her finishing the question.

      Once more, he shrugged. The movement was at odds with what he must be feeling, but perhaps it was his coping mechanism. She certainly knew about coping mechanisms.

      “It was a whirlwind romance,” he said. “We were together six months before we married. My father was not happy, you may imagine. She died a month later.” He sighed. The sound was lonelier than she could have ever imagined a sigh could be. “There was nothing left of what had once been a vibrant, beautiful woman. Julianne’s DNA was all we had left to identify her with. I buried a nearly empty casket.”

      She dropped her gaze to her clasped hands. He’d lost so much, had endured such pain. Because a Monteverdian bomb had exploded beneath a truck. It saddened her, pricked her with a guilt that she knew was not justified. She was Monteverdian, but she had not built the bomb. Nor did she believe it was the way to solve differences between nations.

      Brutal, СКАЧАТЬ