One Summer at The Villa. Rebecca Winters
she said when he started to rip at the adhesive strip.
He was standing so close, his naked chest gleaming with sweat and fresh blood. His hair was damp with rain, and a smear of dirt crossed beneath his right eye. He’d wiped the blood from his face, but had missed the dirt. Even dirty and somewhat disheveled, he made her heart thud.
He didn’t say anything, simply handed her the strip and let her do it herself. She bandaged her arm first, then her knees. When she looked up, Cristiano was watching her, an odd expression on his face.
Or not so odd, in fact. When she’d bent to bandage her knees, he’d been able to see straight down her dress as the wrap gaped open. In spite of the lingering pain of her cuts, heat slipped through her veins, caused a fine sheen of sweat to rise on her skin. Moments ago, she’d been chilled and sober.
Now, she marveled at the languid warmth creeping along her nerve endings and pooling in her deepest recesses.
Cristiano’s eyes clouded for a moment. When he reached for her, she thought her heart would stop. Would he kiss her? Would she let him? Should she?
His fingers brushed her ear as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind it. A shiver ran down her body.
“Why did you think I would hit you, Antonella?” he said softly.
She stiffened. She knew he couldn’t miss it, though she tried to shrug it off. She even forced a “how silly” laugh. But it sounded fake—and he knew it as well as she.
She didn’t want him to see how close to the truth he was, how it rattled her to have him know something so deep and personal. How many times would she fall apart in front of this man she was supposed to hate?
“I’m sorry,” she finally said. “I’m just a bit stressed. I overreacted.”
But Cristiano would not be stopped. “Did one of your lovers hit you? Is that why you thought I would do so?”
“Of course not!”
It was embarrassing to think of how she’d reacted, starting from the moment he’d told her about the bomb that had killed his wife. She was usually so in control of herself. But she’d let emotion get the better of her this time. She’d been shocked, hurt, and angered by the brutal death of his wife and by his accusation that she didn’t love anyone but herself.
And then…
Antonella swallowed. Oh, God, she’d thought when he’d come in so angry and insistent that he was about to get violent with her. He’d been reaching for her, trying to tell her they needed to go, and she’d been so blindly out of control of her emotions that she’d panicked.
“You need to turn around and let me see your back,” she said firmly. She couldn’t bear the scrutiny of his gaze, the probing that threatened to unveil all her secrets if she were too weak to resist. And she was beginning to tire of always keeping up her guard, beginning to worry she would indeed spill too much if he continued with his sympathetic act.
Because he didn’t care about her. She had to remind herself of that. It was most assuredly an act. His wife had died at Monteverdian hands—he had no reason to care one whit for any Monteverdian, no matter the circumstances of their current situation or the fact he’d saved her life when he’d yanked her from the bed and covered her body with his own.
Why had he done it? He could have left her there, could have stayed where he was and not come for her in the first place. But he had. And she hated the feelings of guilt and gratitude swarming through her because of it.
She prayed he wouldn’t push her any further, wouldn’t demand answers or keep probing. She didn’t think she could take much more of it.
Silently, eyes hot in his tanned face, he handed her a fresh towel and turned. Antonella breathed a mental sigh of relief. It was short-lived, however, when she got a better look at his back. Blood dripped from a long, clean gash that went from one shoulder blade to the other. The skin of his back was stained red as blood and sweat mingled, and she hastily wiped it away.
She had to stand on tiptoe to see the cut better. Carefully, she pressed the towel along the edges, cleaning away any dirt and debris. Blood welled up as soon as she moved to the next section.
“I think it will need to be bandaged.”
“I suspected that,” he said with a sigh.
“Does it hurt?”
“Like hell,” he replied, startling her. Not because it hurt, but because he admitted it.
“I’m sorry, Cristiano,” she said softly.
“I’ve had worse, Principessa.”
She turned the bloody towel and continued cleaning the wound. “No, I mean for causing this.”
“It is not your fault a tree fell.”
“But if I’d stayed in the room with you—”
“It doesn’t matter, Antonella. It happened. Let’s deal with right now.”
“Are you always so stoic?” She’d meant it as a gentle tease, yet he stiffened. A moment later, he relaxed again.
“I was not always, no.”
She didn’t ask what he meant. She didn’t have to. He’d lost his wife. It was a wound with the kind of pain that was worse than any other, she imagined. Did such a wound heal? Or did it scar forever? Would he ever love anyone again? Could he?
“I think I’ve just about got it now,” she said, squeezing water over the wound for a final rinse and then mopping it up with a fresh towel. “I need to spray the antiseptic.”
“Go ahead.”
Antonella picked up the bottle and took a deep breath. “Are you ready?”
“Do it.”
She sprayed the liquid over the wound, wincing as she did so. Cristiano didn’t make a sound, though his fists clenched at his sides and his skin seemed to ripple from one long shudder.
“I think that’ll do,” she said, setting the bottle down again.
He dug in the first aid kit, came up with bandages, gauze and tape. “You’ll need to wrap it tight.”
She took the bandages from him. Another quick dab at the new blood, and then she placed the bandages over the wound and wrapped him with gauze. When it was done, she let out the breath she’d been holding.
He turned to her then. White gauze stretched across his chest, making him seem somehow more human and vulnerable than he had before. Where was the arrogant prince of last night? She had no doubt he was in there. No doubt she had to keep up her guard. Appearances were deceptive, were they not? She certainly knew that better than anyone.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Antonella folded her arms over her chest. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He shrugged. “It’s been a trying afternoon. And I’m fairly certain you are not accustomed to dressing wounds, Principessa.?”
She couldn’t stop the bitter snort that escaped her. “You would be mistaken, then.”
His brows drew together. “Do you volunteer in hospital?”
Antonella dropped her gaze. She started to tidy the items on the sink. “No. Forget I said it.”
Now she felt even more inadequate. She’d never considered volunteering because she couldn’t stand the pain and anguish in a hospital. Seeing others hurting made her hurt too. Yet another flaw, she supposed.
His hand closed over her wrist. She stilled, her heart pounding—and not from fear this time. He opened his hand, slid his fingers over hers. Then he trailed them up her arm.
“You are an interesting woman.”
“I’m