The Prince's Royal Concubine. Lynn Harris Raye

his body was beginning to insist on the idea of a seduction.

      It was time to close this deal and move on to the real business at hand before he became any more distracted. “Raúl, if you can spare some time now, I’d like to conclude our discussion. I’m afraid I must return to Monterosso in the morning.”

      Raúl nodded. “Yes, of course. If you will excuse us, my dear?” he said to Antonella.

      “I must speak with you as well,” she said, her voice rising. “And I’d rather do it now.”

      She looked fierce, like an Amazon warrior. Determined.

      Raúl seemed puzzled. And perhaps a bit annoyed. Cristiano laughed inwardly. She was making it too easy for him. No man liked petulant demands from his lover, and especially not in front of witnesses. A shrewd woman would have stated her case when they were in bed together later. Her problem, not his.

      “Go ahead, Raúl,” Cristiano said. “I’ll be here when you’ve finished.”

      He could afford to be generous. She’d just lost the game.

      Antonella wanted to scream. It’d been more than an hour since Raúl and Cristiano di Savaré had disappeared for their talk. What was happening? What if Raúl decided to build his mills in Monterosso?

      She’d done her best to convince him, but she didn’t have a good feeling about it. What could Monteverde do for Vega Steel? They had vast deposits of raw ore, a necessary ingredient in steel, but they had little else to offer.

      Except for a royal title. Yes, she’d put that on the table too when she’d sensed Raúl’s reluctance to commit to her country. Why not? She’d been intended since birth to marry for Monteverde’s best interests. Her father was no longer King, and she’d had two royal alliances fall through before the weddings could happen, but that didn’t mean she didn’t owe it to her people to do her part.

      Desperate times called for desperate measures. If her choice was marriage to a man she didn’t love or the annexation of her country, she’d take marriage.

      No matter how angry it made her. No matter how helpless she felt, how useless. Madonna mia, couldn’t her father have at least let her attend university instead of finishing school? She could pour tea and work a room with the best hostesses out there. And yet what good were those skills?

      Raúl had taken the offer in his stride, but was it enough to convince him? In spite of his humble upbringing and his rise from poverty to great wealth, she had a feeling she’d failed miserably. If any man should have been tempted by a royal title, it should have been Raúl Vega.

      If she failed, it would be yet another humiliation to add to her long list. Her first fiancé had driven a car off a cliff and her second had married another woman before the handshake had grown cold on the deal her father had made to wed her to him.

      She was doomed in love, it would seem. Not that she’d ever been in love, but she’d like a chance to experience it. Like Lily, the woman her second almost-fiancé had married instead of her. What was it like to have a man look at you the way Nico Cavelli looked at Lily? To have a man sacrifice everything to be with you?

      She would never know. It wasn’t her lot in life to find love. Dante had told her she didn’t need to marry for Monteverde now that their father was no longer King, but she’d insisted it was her duty. If it benefited her country, she would do it. No matter how desperate and sad it made her. No matter how much the idea of tying herself to a man terrified her.

       Not all men were like her father. Not all men would grow violent when they were angry.

      Antonella shook her head to clear it. She didn’t know for certain that she had failed this time. There was still a chance she’d won, that her royal title and her ore would be more enticing than anything Cristiano di Savaré had to offer.

      She threw the tail of her shawl over her shoulder and continued her pacing on deck. Most of Raúl’s guests had returned to shore or to their own yachts, with the exception of those who had cabins aboard. In the harbor, yachts, a cruise ship, and fishing boats lay at anchor for the night, though the sounds of laughter and music drifted across the bay.

      She chewed on the edge of a fingernail, then jerked her hand away with a curse when she realized what she was doing. She hadn’t chewed her nails since she was twelve and her father made her drink half a bottle of hot sauce to end the habit. It had certainly worked—she’d spent two days so sick she’d thought she would die; afterwards, she could hardly look at her fingernails without retching.

      But Cristiano unsettled her in ways she couldn’t quite fathom. He was Monterossan, which was a big strike against him. He was the future King of that nation, an even bigger strike. He was tall, incredibly magnetic, and arrogant beyond all imagination.

      And yet, a little thrill of excitement insisted on rearing its ugly head whenever she thought about him. Stop. She didn’t like him, and she damn sure didn’t trust him.

      A shiver slid over her. What if she’d failed?

      “Perhaps you should drink fewer espressos so late at night, cara.”

      Antonella whirled to find Cristiano emerging onto the deck. Her heart thumped, though not from fright. Why did he disconcert her so? “What are you talking about?”

      He tipped his chin to her. “Pacing. Less caffeine would help.”

      Antonella closed her eyes and counted to five. He knew he irritated her. Worse, he seemed to take great pleasure in it. She must not allow him to do so any longer. She could control her reactions. Would control them.

      “I had one espresso, grazie. Your concern is touching.”

      He came over and leaned against the rail, watching her. His eyes dipped to her chest, back up. Typical. Half the time, men talked exclusively to her breasts. She’d grown quite accustomed to it.

      “You are dying to know what we talked about, aren’t you?”

      Antonella shrugged. “You are mistaken if you think I care. I’m not here for business.”

      He laughed. “So you have said. But what do they call it now, if not the oldest business in the world?”

      She would not react. Would not. Had Raúl told him what they’d discussed, that she’d offered herself in exchange for the mills? Or was he simply baiting her?

      “Is that what it’s called when you sleep around, Cristiano?” she said very coolly, her heart throbbing with hurt and anger and the urge to deny she’d ever slept with any man. He’d never believe her, of course. Nor did he deserve an explanation.

      Why did men have a double standard when it came to sex? He could bed countless women and it only added to his allure.

      “Sensitive, cara?”

      “Not at all. I simply don’t like you. Or your hypocrisy.”

      “I’m hurt.” His teeth flashed in a grin.

      She wished he’d jump off the side of the yacht and leave her alone. “Where is Raúl?” she demanded.

      “I’m not your social secretary, Principessa. If you want him, go find him.” The words were said mildly, almost mockingly. And with a hint of steel beneath the velvet. “And what makes you think I’m a hypocrite? I quite like that you’ve had lovers. It means you know your way around a man’s body. It means we will not need to waste time once we are naked.”

      Perhaps she’d had too much caffeine after all. Her pulse raced like a bullet fired from a gun. “I’m not sleeping with you, Cristiano.”

      “Don’t be too sure,” he said, his voice a sensual growl that scraped over her nerve endings and left her shivering.

      “I know my own mind, and I know what I don’t want. I don’t want you.”

      Cristiano