The Prince's Royal Concubine. Lynn Raye Harris
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“I can’t,” she said, knowing how inadequate it sounded but unable to explain. How could she ever say everything she would need to say in order to make him understand? “I can’t.”
“Because I am Monterossan, of course.”
Her throat was tight. “No, not because of that.”
He raked a hand through his hair. She could still see the firm ridge of his arousal beneath his shorts. “Then why, Antonella? I know when a woman wants me. And you do. As much as I want you, God help me.”
God help me.
Her heart ached as she hopped off the vanity and tugged her dress back down. “Maybe that is why, Cristiano.”
“Because you want me you will deny me?” Fury took the place of resignation.
“No, not because of that. Because you despise me—and you despise yourself for wanting me anyway.”
Lynn Raye Harris read her first Mills & Boon® romance when her grandmother carted home a box from a yard sale. She didn’t know she wanted to be a writer then, but she definitely knew she wanted to marry a sheikh or a prince, and live the glamorous life she read about in the pages. Instead, she married a military man and moved around the world. These days she makes her home in North Alabama, with her handsome husband and two crazy cats. Writing for Harlequin Mills & Boon is a dream come true. You can visit her at www.lynnrayeharris.com
The Prince’s Royal Concubine
by
Lynn Raye Harris
MILLS & BOON
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To all the editors at Harlequin Mills & Boon for holding a competition to find new writers and for choosing me as their winner.
I am truly honored by your faith in me, and thankful for the opportunity you have given me.
But most especially to my editor, Sally Williamson, who pushes me to be the best I can be and encourages me to stretch my wings with each book.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
PRINCE CRISTIANO DI SAVARÉ slipped the last stud into his tuxedo shirt and straightened the points of his collar as he gazed at his reflection. The yacht rocked gently beneath his feet, but that was the only indication he was on board a ship and not in a luxury hotel room. He’d flown over two thousand miles to be here tonight and, though he wasn’t tired, the expression on his face was grim. So grim that lines bracketed his mouth, furrowed his forehead, and made him look older than his thirty-one years.
He would have to work on that before he hunted his quarry. Though his task tonight gave him no joy, it had to be done. He forced a smile, studied it. Yes, that would work.
Women always melted when he turned on the charm.
He shrugged into his jacket and whisked a spot of lint away with a flick of his fingers. What would Julianne think if she saw him now? He’d give anything for another glimpse of her, for the little pout on her face whenever she concentrated—as she surely would while she straightened his tie and implored him not to look so serious.
Cristiano turned away from the mirror, unwilling to see the expression he now wore at the thought of his dead wife. He’d been married for so short a time—and so long ago now that he sometimes couldn’t remember the exact shade of Julianne’s hair or the way her laugh sounded. Was that normal?
He knew it was, and yet it both angered and saddened him. She’d paid the ultimate price for marrying him. He would never forgive himself for allowing her to die when he could have prevented it. Should have prevented it.
It was four and a half years since he’d let her climb onto a helicopter destined for the volatile border between Monterosso