One Summer at The Villa. Rebecca Winters

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, cupped her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek. “What is your story, Antonella?”

      “I’ve already told you more than I’ve told anyone else.”

      “I believe you have,” he said. “But there’s more, I’m certain.”

      She dropped her lashes, too startled by the intensity in his eyes to keep looking at him. He wanted her, she knew that. And she wanted him. But how could she when he wanted to steal her country?

      She was weak, far too weak.

      “A girl has to have some secrets.”

      His head dipped down and his lips touched hers. Softly, gently. There was no pressure, no urgency, just a sweet kiss that slayed her heart and left it wide open to him. Once more, she was aware of the fact she’d never felt this way with any other man. She’d never wanted one the way she wanted him.

      Had never wanted to slip out of her clothes and feel her skin naked against his.

      Had never wanted to open herself to him and feel the stunning beauty of his possession.

      She wanted all this and more with Cristiano. What did it matter anymore? They would very probably not come out of this storm alive. He simply didn’t want to tell her the truth of it.

      This was her last chance to experience physical love between a man and a woman. It couldn’t be wrong, not under these circumstances. She opened her mouth beneath his, touched her tongue to his bottom lip very delicately.

      He responded with a groan. And then he kissed her again, more urgently this time. His mouth slanted over hers, his tongue demanding access. She willingly gave it to him.

      So many feelings crashed through her.

      Desire, of course.

      Fear. Regret. Anticipation.

      Of their own volition, her hands threaded into his hair, pulled him harder against her. His kiss shot up another notch, deepening, devouring.

      She met him with equal intensity, shifting until she was practically on his lap, until the only thing supporting her was the strength of his arms around her. The kiss was spiraling out of control, but she didn’t care. She only wanted more of this intoxicating feeling, this heat and fire that sizzled beneath her skin and made her think of things she’d never imagined.

      Naked bodies entwined. Sweat and pleasure. Bliss.

      But when he pressed her back against the carpet, panic assailed her. Part of her wanted to shove him away and run as fast as she could. She tried to withdraw into her shell, tried to view the events dispassionately from that deep, disconnected place within her—

      And found she couldn’t do it. Her usual refuge was denied. Anxiety spiked.

      Something of her struggle must have communicated itself to Cristiano because he stopped kissing her, lifted his head to look down at her.

      “What’s wrong, Antonella?”

      He sounded so tender, so concerned, and her heart careened wildly, skipping into her mental roadblocks, leaping against the constraints she placed. Her heart wanted to be free—and yet she knew it would never be free. Never free to love or be loved. Never free of the pain and anger of her past. Even if by some miracle they lived through this night, she would never be free.

      Suddenly, it was very important to her that he understood she was innocent, that she’d never done this before. Because if they did move forward, if this was her first and last time, she wanted to know that the man she gave herself to believed in her.

      “I—I don’t know what to do.”

      He frowned. “You don’t know whether or not to make love with me? It will be glorious, Antonella. Let yourself go—feel what we do to each other.”

      She closed her eyes, shook her head. “It’s not that.”

      His fingers spread over her stomach, slid up to cup her breast. “Then what is it, bellissima?”

      She dragged in a breath as his thumb brushed her nipple through the fabric. “I’ve never done this before,” she blurted.

      His thumb stilled its torturous track across her sensitive flesh. “Never done what?”

      His voice was like a whip and she flinched away from it. He would never believe her. Never.

      She pushed his hand away, struggled to move out from under the weight of his body where he half lay across her. “Forget it, Cristiano. It’s just a bad idea. I’ll sleep now.”

      He refused to let her go. His body pressed down on her, pinned her in place. And every wiggle of her hips against him only communicated to her the state of his interest in completing what she’d so foolishly begun.

      “I don’t want to forget it, Antonella. Explain to me why you do this. Why you are hot one minute and cold the next. Are you trying to punish me for wanting you? Do you enjoy these games? Because I grow weary of them.”

      She grew very still beneath him. Her eyes filled with angry tears as she looked up into his handsome, cold face. “I’m still a virgin,” she forced out. “And I know you don’t believe it, so please let me go.”

      “A virgin?” he repeated. “This is not possible.”

      There was a hint of self-doubt in his voice, but it did not cheer her.

      She pushed at his chest. “Why not? Because you’ve heard about me, Cristiano? You know what they say about gossip, don’t you?”

      Cristiano watched the pink stain creep over her delicate features. Was she telling him the truth? Or