The Prince's Royal Concubine. Lynn Raye Harris

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 took were a few parties, a few rumors, and a few photos to turn the truth into a lie. Most men believed her sophisticated and worldly, and the one she’d actually been brave enough to date once she’d been free of her father’s iron grasp had told the lie he’d slept with her after she’d rebuffed him. Others had taken up the rallying cry until it was impossible to separate truth from rumor.

      God, men made her sick. And this one was no different.

      They could not see beneath the surface, which was why she primped and pampered and wore the careful exterior of a worldly princess. Her beauty was her only asset since she’d never been allowed to pursue any kind of profession.

      It was also her shield. When she focused the attention on her physical appearance, she didn’t need to share her secrets or fears with anyone. She could hide beneath her exterior, secure in the knowledge that no one could hurt her that way.

      The sound of Cristiano’s mocking laughter startled her back to the moment. She realized too late that she’d just done the unthinkable. She’d challenged a man with a legendary reputation for bedding women. A man about whom women spoke in tones of rapture and awe. She might not have anything to do with the Monterossans, but she’d heard the gossip about their Crown Prince.

      He’d been married once, but his wife was dead. Since then, no woman had held his attention for longer than a few weeks, a couple of months at most. He was a serial dater and a heartbreaker. A smooth operator, as her friend Lily, the Crown Princess of Montebianco, would have said.

      “Perhaps nothing so desperate as that,” he said, closing the distance between them. Antonella took a step backward, coming into contact with the solid wall of the yacht. Cristiano put a hand on either side of her head, trapping her. He leaned closer without touching her. “Should we test this vow of yours with a kiss?”

      “You can’t be serious,” she gasped.

      He loomed over her. Dark. Intense. “Why not?”

      “You’re Monterossan!”

      He laughed again, but there was no humor in it. It confused her—or maybe it was simply his overwhelming nearness bewildering her senses.

      His head dipped toward her. “Indeed. But you are a woman, and I’m a man. The night is warm, lush, perfect for passion…”

      For a moment, she was paralyzed. Any second his mouth would claim hers, any second she would feel the hot press of his lips, any second her soul would be in danger—because something about him sent her pulse skyrocketing. Her nipples tightened, her skin itched, and the deep, secret recesses of her body felt as if they were softening, melting—

      At the last possible moment, when his lips were a hair’s breadth away, when his hot breath mingled with hers, she found her strength and ducked beneath an imprisoning arm. He caught himself, shoving away from the side of the yacht.

      Swore.

      “Very good, Antonella. But then you are quite practiced at this game, aren’t you?”

      Antonella held herself rigid. Why did her name sound so exotic when he said it? “You’re despicable. You seek to take what is not yours, and you resort to force to get it. Exactly what I would expect from a Monterossan.”

      If she thought to anger him,