One Summer at The Villa. Rebecca Winters

you think so, Principessa?” he asked coolly, his expression both smug and devilish at once.

      Antonella’s hands clenched into impotent fists as her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She was a fool, a hopeless fool, still looking for some spark of feeling with a man. And he was the enemy, plain and simple. He hadn’t forgotten it for one moment, even if she had.

      “Because you’re selfish, that’s why. You don’t care who you hurt or what you have to destroy to get your way.”

      One corner of his mouth curled, but it could hardly be called a smile. “It seems as if we are kindred spirits, then.”

      “No. I care about people’s feelings. And now I’m going to apologize to Raúl.”

      “There is no need.”

      “Of course there is.”

      “Afraid not, Antonella. You were part of the deal.”

      “Deal?” She thought her heart would stop as she waited for his answer. How could they make deals that included her? It was impossible. She’d offered herself in marriage, but it had been her choice. Neither of these men owned her, neither could make decisions for her.

      “Vega Steel will be building in Monterosso. And Monteverde will supply the ore.”

      “Never,” she bit out. It was unthinkable! To sell their ore to Monterosso? So the King could build more tanks and guns in his factories? So the di Savarés could slowly strangle the life from her country? It was the money Monteverde desperately needed, yes, but at what cost?

      “You may wish to rethink your position.” He sounded mildly friendly, though she knew he was anything but.

      Antonella thrust her chin out in answer. “I can’t see why we need to.”

      “One word,” he said, his eyes now empty, flat. So cold she hugged herself to ward off a chill. “One very important word: existence.”

       Chapter Three

      “THERE is a storm, Your Highness.”

      Antonella blinked at the steward as he placed a breakfast tray on a table in her room. She pulled the covers up to her shoulders as she propped herself on an elbow, still groggy after too much worry and too little sleep. “A storm?”

      He carefully repositioned the flowers in the small vase on the tray. “Yes, a hurricane. It has swung off track and is coming straight for Canta Paradiso. We are putting to sea very shortly. You may stay aboard if you wish, or you may transfer to the island for a flight out.”

      “Where is Signor Vega?”

      The steward stood at military-like attention. “He was called back to São Paulo on business. He left before day-break.”

      Her heart sank. She’d known it was futile, and yet she’d hoped to speak with Raúl once more, hoped to convince him to give Monteverde a chance. Too late now.

      No. She would not allow Cristiano di Savaré to defeat her so easily. There was still a very little time left before the loans came due, and she’d spent the night thinking about what Monteverde’s next move would be if Raúl would not change his mind. She’d come up with only one solution.

      What if Dante went to Montebianco and asked for a loan to get them through this crisis? Their father had nearly started another war when he’d arrested the Crown Princess of that nation, but that was months ago. Would Montebianco help them now? Could she convince her brother to try? She knew he wouldn’t want to do it, but it was their last chance.

      And if Dante wouldn’t approach the King, Antonella would go to Lily and beg her to ask her husband, the Crown Prince, for help. Either way, there was still a chance for them—if she acted quickly.

      “Thank you,” she said to the steward. “I will go to the airport.”

      He gave her a formal bow before slipping out of her cabin and closing the door. Antonella bolted from the bed and grabbed her mobile phone. She had to reach Dante. She’d tried last night, but the call wouldn’t go through. Perhaps the wind had knocked out a tower.

      Or, more likely, something was wrong with Monteverde’s communications. They often had trouble with the utility companies as the infrastructure crumbled and there was no money left to repair the aging equipment.

      An automated voice informed her that her call could not be completed as dialed and suggested she check the number. She snapped her phone shut and hurried to get dressed. The sooner she was on a plane home, the better.

      Antonella emerged onto the top deck of the yacht, in search of someone who could arrange for a launch. She nearly stumbled when she caught sight of the man conversing with the yacht’s captain.

      Cristiano di Savaré in a tuxedo had been magnificent. But Cristiano in Bermuda shorts, a crisp polo shirt, flip-flops, and Ray-Bans was downright sinful. He looked nothing like a prince and everything like some erotic fantasy of a muscled cabana boy who lived to serve the woman lucky enough to hire him.

      He turned at her approach, no doubt because the captain ceased paying attention to him and watched her progress. She could see the captain’s eyes moving over her appreciatively, but it was Cristiano’s gaze she felt most keenly. Though he wore mirrored sunglasses, she was aware of the burning scrutiny behind them.

      She’d dressed in a cotton wrap dress and sported a pair of sandals with a sensible heel. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she’d gone minimal with her make-up. She wasn’t trying to attract attention, and yet it never seemed to matter. Attention was what she got.

      “You have heard about the storm?” Cristiano said, skipping the preliminaries.

      Antonella pushed away a tendril of hair that had escaped her ponytail and blew across her lips. “Yes. When is the launch?” she asked, turning to the captain.

      “There is a slight delay,” Cristiano said before the captain could reply. “Many in the harbor are requesting transportation.”

      “I see.”

      “Have you made flight arrangements yet?”

      “No. I had hoped to go straight to the airport and take care of it.”

      “Bene. You may fly with me.”

      Antonella’s pulse beat like the wings of a thousand hummingbirds. The man was unbelievable. “Thank you, but no. I will get a flight when I reach the airport.”

      Cristiano shoved his shades onto his head. The sunlight had disappeared as clouds rolled into the harbor. His eyes, she realized, weren’t blue or gray. They were deep, dark brown.

      No, green.

      Hazel, that was what it was called. Brown ringed the pupil, but most of the iris was green.

      Striking.

      How had she missed this at dinner last night? She’d sat across from him, but she’d barely looked directly at him with Raúl sitting beside her. The one time she had, she’d been far more mesmerized by the look on his face than the color of his eyes.

      “Antonella,” he said sharply.

      She jerked. “What?”

      “Did you hear me?”

      “You were talking about your jet.”

      “Yes. It’s ready, and I have room for you. All commercial flights off the island are booked.”

      “But you just asked me if I’d made arrangements!”

      “I meant last night, before the hurricane changed direction.”

      She shook her head emphatically. “I’ll take my chances at the airport.”

      Was