One Summer at The Villa. Rebecca Winters

grow light-headed. Her father was a strong man. A man with a hair-trigger temper and a quick fist when angered. She’d borne the brunt of that fist more times than she cared to remember.

      “Let me go,” she bit out, her skin prickling with icy fear.

      “Your brother should control you better,” he said—but his grip loosened and she jerked free, rubbing her wrist though he had not hurt her.

      Anger slid into place, crowded out the fear. “Who do you think you are? Just because you’re the heir to the Monterossan throne does not make you special to me. And my life is none of your business.” Her laugh was bitter. “I know what you think of me, of my people. But know this—you have not beaten us in over one thousand years and you will not do so now.”

      “Bravo,” he said, eyes glittering dangerously. “Very passionate. One wonders how passionate you might be in other circumstances.”

      “You will have to continue to wonder, Your Highness. Because I would throw myself over the side of this yacht before ever entertaining a man such as you in my bed.”

      Not that she’d ever entertained any man in her bed—but he didn’t know that. Regardless that she’d never found a man she trusted enough to give herself to, that she was still a virgin, all it took were a few parties, a few rumors, and a few photos to turn the truth into a lie. Most men believed her sophisticated and worldly, and the one she’d actually been brave enough to date once she’d been free of her father’s iron grasp had told the lie he’d slept with her after she’d rebuffed him. Others had taken up the rallying cry until it was impossible to separate truth from rumor.

      God, men made her sick. And this one was no different.

      They could not see beneath the surface, which was why she primped and pampered and wore the careful exterior of a worldly princess. Her beauty was her only asset since she’d never been allowed to pursue any kind of profession.

      It was also her shield. When she focused the attention on her physical appearance, she didn’t need to share her secrets or fears with anyone. She could hide beneath her exterior, secure in the knowledge that no one could hurt her that way.

      The sound of Cristiano’s mocking laughter startled her back to the moment. She realized too late that she’d just done the unthinkable. She’d challenged a man with a legendary reputation for bedding women. A man about whom women spoke in tones of rapture and awe. She might not have anything to do with the Monterossans, but she’d heard the gossip about their Crown Prince.

      He’d been married once, but his wife was dead. Since then, no woman had held his attention for longer than a few weeks, a couple of months at most. He was a serial dater and a heartbreaker. A smooth operator, as her friend Lily, the Crown Princess of Montebianco, would have said.

      “Perhaps nothing so desperate as that,” he said, closing the distance between them. Antonella took a step backward, coming into contact with the solid wall of the yacht. Cristiano put a hand on either side of her head, trapping her. He leaned closer without touching her. “Should we test this vow of yours with a kiss?”

      “You can’t be serious,” she gasped.

      He loomed over her. Dark. Intense. “Why not?”

      “You’re Monterossan!”

      He laughed again, but there was no humor in it. It confused her—or maybe it was simply his overwhelming nearness bewildering her senses.

      His head dipped toward her. “Indeed. But you are a woman, and I’m a man. The night is warm, lush, perfect for passion…”

      For a moment, she was paralyzed. Any second his mouth would claim hers, any second she would feel the hot press of his lips, any second her soul would be in danger—because something about him sent her pulse skyrocketing. Her nipples tightened, her skin itched, and the deep, secret recesses of her body felt as if they were softening, melting—

      At the last possible moment, when his lips were a hair’s breadth away, when his hot breath mingled with hers, she found her strength and ducked beneath an imprisoning arm. He caught himself, shoving away from the side of the yacht.

      Swore.

      “Very good, Antonella. But then you are quite practiced at this game, aren’t you?”

      Antonella held herself rigid. Why did her name sound so exotic when he said it? “You’re despicable. You seek to take what is not yours, and you resort to force to get it. Exactly what I would expect from a Monterossan.”

      If she thought to anger him, she was disappointed. He merely smiled that wolfish smile of his. The ice in it made her shudder.

      “Excuses, excuses, Principessa. That is what your country is good at, si? Because you are not as successful or as wealthy as us, you blame us for your ills. And you take innocent lives to justify your hostility.”

      “I’m not listening to this,” she said, turning away from him. She had no time to engage in an argument with him. Nor would it do any good. She would simply be upset, and she couldn’t afford the distraction right now.

      “Yes, run away to your steel magnate. But let us see what he values most—his mistress or his bank account.”

      Antonella whirled. He’d dropped all pretense of friendliness; his voice dripped menace. “What do you mean by that?”

      Cristiano stalked closer and once again she found herself trapped. Not physically this time, but it felt the same as if he’d grabbed her and refused to let her move. Her feet may as well have been glued to the teak decking.

      “It means, bellissima Principessa, that I too have a proposition for Vega.” His gaze slid over her, and again she felt as if she’d stood too close to a lightning strike. “I am betting that my money trumps your…shall we say…obvious charms.”

      “How dare you—”

      “I believe you have said this already, yes? It grows tiring.”

      Antonella trembled with fury. The man was impossible, aggravating—and having the most incredible effect on her senses. Surely it was anger that made her flush hot and cold, that made her skin tingle. He was threatening to ruin all her hard work, to turn Vega away before she’d managed to hook him. She had to get those steel mills for Monteverde. Had to.

      And in order to do it, she needed to focus. Needed to will her heightened senses to calm. Needed to cloak herself in her ice princess mantle. No matter how this man made her feel, no matter how hot and achy and angry she was, she had to play this right.

      Antonella dug down deep, found what she was searching for. By degrees, she felt her body loosening from its rigid stance. Felt confidence and calm wash over her. She would not let him intimidate her.

      “Perhaps we have started on the wrong foot,” she purred. She needed to misdirect him, befuddle him. To do that, she would play the part he’d given her, make him believe there was indeed a chance of sex. It would buy her a little bit of time, at least. She could hold out the promise of a night together, keep him guessing while she worked hard to reel in Vega Steel before he could snatch victory from her.

      In spite of her inexperience, it wasn’t difficult to act the part. At times like this, she disappeared deep within herself, separated her inner being from the shell and watched everything from outside the scene. It was the only way she could cope—by pretending to be someone else. It was a skill she’d honed over years of living with an abusive father.

      Cristiano stood his ground as she reached for him, as her fingertips stroked along his freshly shaven jaw, over the fullness of his hard mouth, his chin.

      His eyes were impossible to read. And then something kindled in their depths, something that both frightened her and compelled her. Perhaps she was going too far, making a mistake…

      “You play with fire, Principessa,” he growled.

      She worked