One Summer at The Villa. Rebecca Winters

duplicate effort. Since he seemed to know what to expect from the storm, she would bow to his experience.

      If only he’d put on a shirt! Perhaps she could think then. Perhaps this shivery, achy feeling would go away. She’d seen bare-chested men before, but that had usually been poolside. Cristiano, naked to the waist, in a kitchen—

      She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, he was looking at her.

      “I need you to fill all the sinks and bath tubs with water,” he said after a few moments of silence in which she was utterly convinced he knew the effect he was having and did his utmost to draw it out.

      She blinked. “Why?”

      “Because if we lose power, we lose water.”

      It made sense, but she’d have never thought of it until too late.

      He continued, “Next, see if you can find any flashlights, batteries, candles and matches. If you run across a radio, get that too. Take everything to the master bedroom and leave it. I’ll search in here for a few things, and then I’m going outside to close the shutters. If you could get some towels and leave them on the kitchen island, I’ll use this entrance.”

      She bit her lip as she studied him. He was all business now, and nothing like she’d expected. Dante was the most practical person she knew, and yet this man made him look like a cosseted child in comparison. At the moment, he was more like a military commando than an heir to a throne.

      “Do you really think it could get that bad?”

      His expression was grave. “Anything is possible, Principessa.

      It’s best to be prepared.”

      Cristiano was soaked. He’d spent twenty minutes in the pouring rain, closing the shutters and hooking them. The caretaker should have done the job when the storm had first been reported to have swung off track, but the man seemed to do little besides sit in his house and watch television.

      Cristiano took no satisfaction in knowing it was unlikely the man was watching anything now. The rain was coming down so hard that the satellite signal had gone out a while ago. He knew because he’d turned on the flat-panel television in the bedroom before he’d gone outside. Now, he stood in the kitchen and stripped out of his shorts. Antonella was nowhere to be seen, but at least she’d brought the towels.

      A vision of her face, her eyes red and swollen, came to him. He resolutely shoved it away.

      He could not feel sorry for her.

      She was a Monteverdian and a Romanelli. And he had a job to do. A promise to keep.

      He’d sworn on Julianne’s memory that he would put an end to this war if it were the last thing he did. His people needed peace. Too long they’d lived in the shadow of this conflict.

      He owed it to them. To her. He should have been there. If he had, he could have stopped her from dying. Could have kept her out of that convoy. He mourned the loss of all who’d died, but he didn’t feel responsible for them the way he did for his wife.

      Dio, he should have never married her.

      He grabbed a towel, scrubbed it over his body. He tried to picture Julianne, to remember the exact curve of her smile, but his mind insisted on seeing another face.

       Antonella’s.

      He couldn’t deny that he wanted her. He knew she was a thoughtless, manipulative puttana, yet he couldn’t seem to overrule the urges of his body. He should be able to do so, but he couldn’t.

      She got to him on more than a physical level. When she’d cried earlier, he’d felt as if someone had stabbed a serrated knife into him and twisted it. He’d held her close and sung the same song his mother sang when he’d been small and unwilling to go to sleep.

      Why?

      Because something about Antonella defied explanation. She was shrewd and tough, manipulative—and yet there was pain, the kind of pain that only came with depth of experience. He knew because he’d felt that kind of pain too. He recognized something of himself within her.

      And he didn’t like it one bit. To feel any sympathy at all for her, any kinship, was a betrayal of his dead wife’s memory. Not because she was a woman—he’d had plenty of lovers over the past few years—but because she was a Monteverdian.

      Cristiano tossed the soaked towel aside and prepared to grab a fresh one to wrap around his waist when a squeak from the entry hall drew his attention. Antonella stood there, her dark hair pulled away from her face, her jaw hanging loose as she stared at him. His body started to react to her perusal.

      He didn’t care. Let her see the effect she had on him. Surely she was accustomed to it. Hell, she probably expected it.

      Maybe, just maybe, if he got this physical attraction for her out of the way, he could think again. Could push her to agree to his plan and get on with the business of taking over her country.

      A second later, she pivoted on her heel and disappeared in a rush. She seemed flustered—and yet it was an act. Had to be. She wanted him to feel pity for her, to feel protective. She’d already succeeded once today.

      He cinched the towel low over his hips. He’d been insane to consider, even for a moment, that this sultry princess—the woman who’d been draped over Raúl Vega last night—was anything other than what overwhelming evidence indicated she was.

      She did not defy explanation. She was a beautiful woman who enjoyed her pleasures. Aside from her two royal engagements, she’d been linked with one fashion designer, a German count, three Formula One drivers, and an aging Italian billionaire among others. Raúl Vega was only her latest conquest.

      Cristiano had spent a lot of money and effort to confirm the rumors of Monteverde’s financial crisis. His father believed that if they waited, Monteverde would fall like a domino into their hands.

      But Cristiano was taking no chances; he would allow no eleventh hour rescues. Now that he’d dried up the last source of possible investment, what remained of his plan was simple enough: his money for Antonella’s cooperation in gaining the mineral rights to Monteverde’s ore deposits. With the ore under Monterossan control, he could enforce peace in the region.

      It was their last bankable resource. If he controlled it, he controlled them.

      Yet he knew his plan wasn’t as straightforward as he’d first thought. She was shrewder than he’d imagined, for one thing. Antonella would never allow herself to be bought so cheaply. No, what she would expect was the crown of Monterosso.

      And he would offer it to her on a platter if necessary.

      But he would never deliver it. To go through with a marriage, to her of all people, was out of the question. She would be humiliated, perhaps, but it wouldn’t last. She’d already survived two royal breakups. A third wouldn’t shatter her.

      He glanced up at the roof as a gust of wind howled along the structure. He’d expected trouble, but not this kind. While the storm had worked to his advantage in isolating Antonella, it was bad for every other reason known to man.

      Cristiano pulled open a drawer and found a roll of utility tape. The patio doors were the only ones with no exterior shutters. The addition was new, and though there was an overhang, he didn’t trust that would be enough to protect the glass. Once he finished taping the windows in long spokes across the glass—if they shattered, at least the tape would help prevent shards from going everywhere—he padded toward the bedroom to face his adversary.

      Antonella sat in a chair in one corner, flipping through a magazine. She did not look up as he entered. “Is it any worse?” she asked.

      Cristiano unzipped his bag and pulled out some dry clothes. “Not yet, but I think it soon will be. Did you find a radio?”

      “Yes, but no extra batteries.”

      They would have