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

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ couldn’t tell him that simply falling asleep could bring another nightmare. It had been months since she’d felt too vulnerable to her wild emotions. Once her father had been put in prison, where he belonged, she’d slept better. Had fewer bad dreams. She’d become more confident in who she was, though she also knew it was merely a façade. Deep down, she was still the scared little girl cowering from her daddy’s wrath.

      Cristiano’s eyes drifted open. She could tell the instant that he remembered where he was and who he was with. Awareness snapped into his gaze like a spark from tinder.

      “You are not sleeping.”

      She shook her head. Her eyes felt as if someone had propped them open with toothpicks, yet she couldn’t relax enough to sleep. Were they really about to die? There were so many things she’d never done, so many things she’d never said that she should have. Why had she never appreciated how precious each moment was? She’d spent so much time hiding, cowering, burying her feelings deep.

      Even now. Shouldn’t she be focused on living instead of worrying about dying?

      “I can see the wheels turning, Antonella. What are you thinking?” His voice was deep and rough with sleep. Sexy. It stroked over her nerves like the lightest touch of a feather.

      “Nothing important,” she said. “I think quite a lot, actually. Sorry to say I’m not as empty-headed as you might have hoped.”

      His brows drew down as he studied her. “I never said you were empty-headed, Principessa. What’s brought this on?”

      How could he see past her veneer of scorn so quickly? How could he know in so few words there was something bothering her? It was simply another thing that made her feel more drawn to him than she should.

      And more resentful.

      “I’m just tired, Cristiano,” she said on a sigh. “And I can’t sleep.”

      “Did you lie down?”

      “No.”

      “Maybe you should try that.”

      “It doesn’t matter. It won’t work.” She chewed on her bottom lip. Cristiano’s gaze dropped to her mouth.

      Heat rolled in her stomach. Intense, overpowering. “Don’t look at me like that,” she managed.

      “Like what?”

      He was so incredibly male, so sexual. He aroused her senses simply by being in the same room. Looking like a bronze-muscled god.

      “Like you want to kiss me.”

      His laughter was soft, but it sent a shiver through her nonetheless. “I want to do more than kiss you, Antonella. Much more.”

      She held up a hand. “I don’t want to know. Please don’t tell me.”

      “It seems like the perfect opportunity to pass some time. Don’t we need to know if we suit?”

      She blinked. “Suit?”

      “Sexually.”

      The word sizzled into her brain. “I didn’t realize I had to pass a test. Is this how you usually get women into bed? By asking them to take your test?”

      She couldn’t help the indignation that crept into her tone.

      He grinned, disarming her once more. “I don’t usually have to ask. And it’s not a test; it’s simply an experiment to see if we want more.”

      “More,” she repeated.

      “Of each other.”

      Her breath caught. Oh, yes, she could see wanting more. Wanting more of him. Never getting enough.

      “That’s ridiculous.”

      One eyebrow lifted. “Is it? Haven’t you ever slept with a man who did nothing for you? Who didn’t know his way around the territory, so to speak?”

      Her breath strangled in her chest. “No.”

      “That’s it? Just ‘no’? How fortunate you have been, cara.”

      “I don’t know what else you expect me to say.” There was no way she could explain without also explaining she’d never slept with anyone in her life.

      Something crashed against the wall outside. Antonella jumped, her heart in her throat as the aftershocks reverberated through the small dressing room. A second later, a gust of air blew under the door and the candle guttered. Cristiano grabbed a blanket and wedged it against the bottom edge, swearing. The candle flared to life again.

      “The bedroom door has blown open, hasn’t it?” she asked. The dresser must have sailed into the opposite wall. She could only spare a momentary pang for the Colonial French chest of drawers that had surely been smashed to a thousand bits by now.

      “Si.”

      But maybe it was worse. Maybe the wall had blown down. The grave look on his face made her heart pound. “Will we make it, Cristiano?”

      His gaze swung toward her. He looked troubled. But his answer wasn’t what she expected. “I believe we will, yes.”

      She’d thought he would try to prepare her for the worst—or tell her how silly she was, and of course it would be okay. She respected that he did neither, though she still thought the outlook was more critical than he let on. The storm was sweeping closer every moment. The power of it was staggering. Her hope was minimal.

      “I wish I’d spoken with Dante,” she said. Poor Dante. He would have to face the crisis alone now.

      Cristiano reached for her, pulled her over and tucked her against his side. She did not resist. In this moment, it was nice to have companionship. To feel that someone cared. She knew he didn’t, but at least he made her believe it for a moment.

      “We’ll make it, Antonella,” he said, his breath hot against her ear. Did his lips touch her hair? She wasn’t certain, and yet her body flamed at the thought.

       Madonna mia, not now!

      “You can’t be sure,” she said, drawing in a shaky breath. “But I won’t break down, Cristiano. I know how to be strong in the face of danger. You can count on that.”

      “Dio santo,” he breathed. “I’m sorry I ever thought you were shallow.”

      She tilted her head back to look up at him. In spite of everything that had happened between them, in spite of the anger and pain of being on opposite sides of a bloody war and the prospect of dying here together tonight, she smiled at him. Genuinely. He was more than she’d thought he was as well. Better. If they could come to this kind of understanding under these circumstances, what was possible for their people?

      “No one is truly shallow, Cristiano. I believe everyone has a story. You only have to look deeply enough.”

      He slipped a hand into her hair, СКАЧАТЬ