One Summer at The Villa. Rebecca Winters
stared at him, at his jaw that had turned to granite. At the bleakness he failed to hide.
A moment later, he shoved both hands through his hair, blew out a hard breath. “You are quite wrong about that,” he said, his voice so utterly controlled it chilled her. He’d gone from hot rage to cold hatred in the space of a breath.
“I-I don’t believe you.” But her heart pounded in her throat. Could it be true? Her father had been capable of ordering such cruelty. More than capable. She thought of Dante’s pet gerbil, swallowed. No, don’t let me cry again. Not now.
“It is quite true, I assure you,” he said, his demeanor smooth. She had the impression he’d just fought a battle with himself and won. A dark, cold battle that she didn’t understand.
“How do you know this? How can you prove it?”
“I don’t have to prove it. I carry the results in my heart every day of my life.”
“You were…hurt?” She couldn’t imagine it. His body, as much as she’d seen of it, was perfect. If he’d been hurt, surely there would be signs of it. Or had he lost someone?
“My wife, Principessa. She was killed on an aid mission to the border. A roadside bomb blew up under the truck she was riding in.”
Her chest squeezed tight as her lungs refused to work properly. “I’m sorry,” she managed. She’d known his wife died shortly after their marriage, but she’d never known how it happened. She’d only had true freedom of information for a few months now. Before that, her father had tightly controlled the news she’d been exposed to.
A bomb. My God, how horrible. The poor woman.
Poor Cristiano.
Could her father have supported such a thing? Known about it? Ordered it? The thought made her shiver.
“Of course you are.” The words were perfunctory, yet each felt like a physical blow.
“I am sorry, Cristiano,” she insisted. “I’ve lost loved ones too.”
Her mother, her aunt Maria. Leni, her first dog.
“Have you?” His voice was still so cold. “Yet you always manage to find someone new to replace the old.”
Her heart hurt. It simply hurt. He believed her the worst kind of monster. The kind of woman who cared for no one but herself, who was unaffected by the pain of others. Why that bothered her, she wasn’t certain. But it did.
The tears she’d been holding back threatened to consume her. No, she would not cry. She would not give him the satisfaction. His opinion meant nothing.
She got to her feet, her arms wrapped around her body to ward off the ice that hung in the air despite the tropical heat. He wanted to lash out—she understood that. Understood the need to hurt someone when you were hurting.
Yet how did that make him any different from other men she had known? From her father?
It didn’t. Cristiano hit with words instead of fists. And the pain was worse in some ways. Psychological pain had repercussions beyond the physical that stayed with you forever. She’d learned that lesson long ago. Hell, she was still learning it. Dante’s gerbil was a prime example.
And she was far too tired of it to suffer a moment’s more abuse at his, or anyone’s, hands.
“Where are you going?” he demanded as she crossed to the bedroom door.
She turned, her head held high, tears in check for the moment. “It doesn’t seem to matter where I stay, does it, Cristiano? There is danger for me in every room of this house. So I think I will take my chances in another room for a while.”
Cristiano bowed his head and concentrated on breathing evenly. He should not have spoken of Julianne’s death to her. But he’d felt the darkness settling over him when she’d accused Monterosso of prolonging the hostilities, and he’d been unable to keep it at bay. He’d wanted to wound, just like he’d been wounded by the guilt of causing an innocent woman to die. A woman whose only crime had been to marry him.
He had to go after Antonella. He couldn’t let her wander through the house with the storm intensifying. A tree could crash down on them. Windows could shatter. He could be wrong about the depth of the ocean and a storm surge could sweep into the house and drag her away.
Death lay over the structure like a coiled serpent, simply waiting for an opportunity to strike.
And he couldn’t let that happen. He needed her if he wanted to put an end to the violence.
No.
He tilted his head back on the headboard and sighed. It was more than that. She was a person, and though he might not trust her or like her very much, she didn’t deserve anything less than his best care for her safety while they endured this storm.
It had gotten out of control so fast.
He’d only meant to find out a bit more about her, but he should have known the conversation would head down a road he did not want to go. Could a Monteverdian and a Monterossan truly spend time together and not fight about the problems between their countries? If it were possible, perhaps there would be peace already.
Still, he was here to make sure it happened. He had to control his emotions and he had to deal with Antonella like a rational man, not a wounded lion.
He pushed away from the bed, grabbing the flashlight, and headed through the door. Outside, the wind howled and moaned. Tree branches scraped across the terracotta roof with an eerie sound like fingernails against a chalkboard. The walls groaned and creaked.
“Antonella!”
She didn’t answer, so he passed through the hall and into the living room. She wasn’t there. Next, he went into the kitchen. The temperature in the house was starting to climb now that the power had gone out. He would have to open a window soon, though he did not want to for fear of the wind being so strong. But they would need fresh air. Sweat beaded on his skin as he moved through the structure.
“Antonella!” She couldn’t have gone far, but she probably couldn’t hear him over the wind. He went into the first bedroom, shone the light. Nothing. The second also yielded nothing.
The third time, as the beam swept across the room, he hit the jackpot. She lay on the bed, curled into a ball, a pillow hugged tight to her body. The sight shafted an arrow of regret straight through his chest.
She looked like a child, vulnerable and helpless, and his protective instincts were kicking into gear. Dio, he had to remember who she was. What she was. They’d been here a handful of hours and he was already going soft.
“Antonella,” he said over the wind and rain pelting the roof.
“Go away.”
“It’s not safe in here. We have to return to the master bedroom.”
She bolted into an upright position, her hair wild as she shoved it out of her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed. “It’s not safe in there either,” she shot back. “I’ll take my chances here.”
“Don’t be stupid. We’re going back.”
He started forward and she scrambled against the headboard, folding her knees against her body as if to ward him off.
“It won’t work, Principessa,” he said, exasperation and fury surging through him in twin waves. His instincts were sounding an alarm inside his head, telling him to get her and get out, no matter how hard she fought. The skin at the back of his neck prickled as the wind surged against the house, banging the shutters. He’d closed them, but they were old and somewhat loose in places. “I’m bigger and stronger; I will win.”
Her eyes widened as he reached for her. She looked a little scared at his intensity, but he had no time to play nice. He had to get them back to safety. As if to punctuate