One Summer at The Villa. Rebecca Winters

into her expressive eyes now, seeing the hurt and anger and uncertainty there, he wanted to kick himself. They’d shared too much tonight to fall back on entrenched beliefs. He could no longer think of her as the shallow, greedy woman he had only yesterday.

      She was innocent. In spite of everything, she was innocent.

      She had every reason in the world to fear him, yet she’d trusted him enough to let him get close to her this way. She’d been trying to tell him she didn’t know what she was supposed to do, not that she was uncertain of her decision.

      The fact she’d chosen him, of all the men who had no doubt tried to bed her, staggered him. Humbled him. He did not deserve her trust.

      “Antonella,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

      Her eyes widened briefly. But then the cool princess was back. She was so good at hiding her feelings. Had she always been this way? The thought troubled him. She’d been abused and she’d learned to shield emotion as a way to cope. No one should ever experience what she had.

      She looked away. “It’s nothing. I am over it already. And I’m sorry to inconvenience you.”

      “Inconvenience me?” He laughed, a dry raspy sound. The irony of what he was about to do hurt more than he would have thought possible, given the circumstances. But he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t, in good conscience, accept the gift of her innocence when he never intended to marry her. When everything he did was for the sole purpose of gaining control of her nation and bending it to his will.

      She deserved better. He threaded his fingers through hers, pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. Closed his eyes as her intoxicating scent stole to his nose. Dio, he should be nominated for sainthood after this.

      “I cannot make love to you, Antonella.”

      Her heart was pounding so hard she thought she’d misheard him. But she hadn’t. His face said it all. He had refused to make love to her.

      Another man who’d rejected her, who’d seen that she was a damaged soul and refused to have anything more to do with her. Yes, he was the first man she’d ever wanted to make love with, but it was no different than her first fiancé driving off a cliff or her second rejecting her to marry another woman.

      Men didn’t want her. Not really. They wanted the idea of her, of her beauty and poise, but not her.

      She closed her eyes, turned her head and pressed her cheek to the floor.

      “Antonella,” he said, his voice still raspy. Full of…regret? “You deserve better your first time. Better than a floor, better than a heated coupling brought on by desperation and the belief that our lives are in mortal danger. You deserve silk and roses, a man who cares for you—”

      She snapped back to spear him with a glare. “You’re forcing me to marry you. If not you, who? Who will make love to me the first time? You will allow me to choose a man, and then you will marry me regardless? I think not.”

      His brows drew together. He looked fierce. Possessive. Conflicted.

      A little thrill shot through her.

      “No. Of course I will be your first. But not here, not now.”

      Her breath caught. She’d heard the words, but this was the first time she truly registered them. “You really believe me?”

      “I believe you.”

      In spite of her confusion and hurt, contentment washed over her. He believed her. “Thank you.”

      His index finger rubbed across her lower lip. Soft, sensual. Her body flamed in response.

      “We will wait. We will do this right when it is time.” He looked troubled, as if he knew there would not be another time. As if he knew they would die.

      She refused to accept his decision. He believed her and he wanted her first time to be special. It was enough.

      She caught his wrist, nipped his finger. Then she licked it. It was a far bolder move than she’d have ever imagined possible.

      Desire flared in his eyes, scorching her. “Antonella,” he grated.

      “I want to do this. I want you.”

      His voice was strangled. “You are making a decision you would not otherwise make if not for the storm.”

      That he saw deeply enough into her to recognize that the hurricane affected her only made her desire him more. No man had ever known her so well. Not even Dante. How ironic that it was a Monterossan who seemed to understand her best.

      “I know. But I don’t want to die tonight without experiencing this.”

      “We aren’t going to die, Antonella.”

      “You don’t know that.”

      “I do. I promise you.”

      As if in defiance, a roar sounded outside the dressing room. Something exploded with a bang. A tattoo of rain beat harder on the roof, plinking the terracotta with a deafening staccato rhythm.

      “Please, Cristiano. If tomorrow comes, we’ll deal with it then.”

      “Antonella,” he groaned, tilting his head back, eyes squeezed shut as if he were fighting himself. “You would regret it tomorrow, and you would hate me for it.”

      “You’ve forgotten that I already hate you,” she said primly.

      A smile curved one corner of his mouth. “Dio, yes. How could I have forgotten this?”

      She lifted a shaky hand, threaded her fingers through his hair. His eyes glittered with heat and need. God, she loved the feel of his hair. Soft, silky. Black as a starless night.

      “Kiss me, Cristiano. Pretend we’re lying on silk sheets. Pretend that you care about me…”