One Summer at The Villa. Rebecca Winters

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, senseless violence.

      Would he stop the violence? Was that why he’d pushed her into agreeing to marry him? Did he truly believe a union between them could set an example for their countries?

      Another thought occurred to her: why hadn’t Dante done something to end the hostilities? She’d never considered it before. And it bothered her that she hadn’t. But she’d trusted her brother implicitly, trusted that he knew what he was doing and that he was looking out for the best interests of Monteverde.

      She still did.

      And yet…

      Why hadn’t he done something, besides agree to a ceasefire, before now? If he had, would Cristiano be doing this? Would prosperity have followed on the heels of peace? Would she be here now, sheltering from the storm with an enemy prince and learning things about him that made her want to put her arms around him and hold him tight?

      “My mother died when I was four,” she said into the taut silence. “I know it’s not the same thing, but her death left a hole that has never been filled. I empathize, Cristiano, even if I do not share the same experience.”

      His gaze sharpened. “And you still dream of this all these years later? Or is it something else that disturbs your sleep?”

      She twisted her fingers into the blanket on her lap. She was tired and sad and—Madonna mia, did it matter if she told him? Would it really help? She wouldn’t tell him everything—she could never share that with anyone—but could she at least give him a version of events that would make him understand her better? Was it worth the effort?

      She took a deep breath, let it out again in a sigh. He’d just shared something very personal and devastating with her. She could give him something in return.

      “My father grew violent after my mother’s death. He became a stranger to Dante and me. We did our best to avoid him, but it wasn’t always enough.”

      “He is the one who hit you.” It wasn’t a question, and she didn’t look up. She simply nodded. He swore.

      “He was ill,” she explained. “I knew this. I should have been a better daughter—”

      The swearing increased in volume and intensity, cutting her off mid-sentence. Hot fury crackled in the air between them.

      Yet she wasn’t afraid. Strangely, she wasn’t frightened of his anger. It was…liberating to feel this way. She’d never experienced a man’s fury without feeling the urge to flee.

      Until now.

      “That’s ridiculous,” he finally said, his voice roughened as if it had been scraped over sandpaper. “Children are not to blame for abuse. Not ever.”

      “No, but I knew I shouldn’t do things to anger him. And I did them anyway sometimes.”

      “You were a child,” he said fiercely. “It’s not up to you to bear the responsibility for what happened. Your father is to blame, not you.”

      She believed him, and yet there was always that niggling doubt. If she’d tried harder, been better—

      No. She had to stop thinking like that. Dante had always told her it was wrong. And now Cristiano. Why couldn’t she accept that perhaps some things were out of her control? That she couldn’t change the outcome simply by acting differently?

      She swiped her fingers beneath her eyes, unsurprised to feel moisture. But at least they were controlled tears this time. She didn’t feel on the verge of sobbing or falling apart.

      “What time is it?” she asked, too emotionally drained to continue this line of conversation. And tired. She was still so tired.

      He picked up the watch he’d removed and set aside. “Three in the morning.”

      No wonder