One Summer at The Villa. Rebecca Winters
they had everything, Cristiano left the small room, returning with the blankets and pillows from the bed. Antonella accepted a pillow gratefully, putting it behind her and leaning back against the wall. She tucked her legs under her and bowed her head. Her eyes were heavy, but she couldn’t succumb to sleep just yet. She was far too keyed up.
That kiss. It didn’t matter how hard she tried to shove away the feelings, the images, she kept feeling his mouth on hers, his tongue stroking hers, his hands hard and smooth against her heated skin. She’d wanted him.
She still wanted him.
It was disconcerting as hell.
If she hadn’t stopped him, where would they be now? Would they still be making love? Or would they be tangled together, sleeping?
She wished she’d never seen him naked, because it was simply too easy to imagine his body lying alongside hers. To imagine the smooth, tanned flesh, the ridges and knots of muscle, the flat, hard stomach that begged her to press her mouth against him, to explore him completely.
“What are you thinking, Antonella?”
Her head jerked up, her gaze colliding with his. Seeing her need mirrored there no longer surprised her.
“I was thinking how I wished I were at home in my own bed. With Bruno.”
His gaze shuttered. “Bruno? This is one of your lovers?”
Antonella laughed. “Bruno is my dog. He is the light of my life and I miss him.”
“You were thinking of your dog,” he said, clearly not convinced. “This is not what I would have guessed.”
“Then you don’t know everything, do you?”
“Not everything, no. But the things I do know, I know quite well.”
“And yet you can be mistaken, it seems.” Except he hadn’t been mistaken at all. But she wasn’t about to admit it to him.
“What kind of dog?” he asked.
Antonella nearly breathed a sigh of relief. “Bruno is a Pomeranian. He’s very cute.”
Cristiano’s mouth twisted, but she was relieved to see it was only mock disdain. “A girly dog. I should have known.”
“And I suppose you have a great big pony of a dog, yes? The kind you can saddle up and let a child ride?”
Cristiano shifted his pillow and leaned back. “I have a cat, actually.”
Antonella felt her jaw drop. She snapped it shut again. “A cat? Seriously?”
“Scarlett is quite probably bigger than your Bruno.”
A giggle bubbled in her throat. “You have a cat named Scarlett?”
Now that was completely unexpected.
Cristiano answered her with a grin that made her heart turn over. “Scarlett O’Hara, because she is a self-centered Southern Belle.” His smile faded by degrees. “She was my wife’s. Julianne was from Georgia, and Gone with the Wind was her favorite movie.”
“Oh.” Antonella busied herself smoothing the fabric of her dress over her thigh. What was she supposed to say in reply? And why had he shared this now when he’d been so angry with her earlier? It forced her to see him as human, and she wasn’t sure she liked that.
When she thought of him as a Monterossan, an enemy, she could fight her attraction to him. But when he was a man who’d lost his wife? A sexy man who seemed tender and caring? Who kept a cat named Scarlett O’Hara and knew she’d been named after the main character in his wife’s favorite movie?
Madonna mia, it was too much.
“She’s getting old now,” he continued. “And she’s very spoiled. I cannot seem to say no when she wants a treat.”
The picture of this hard, ruthless man feeding a cat treats was mind-boggling. “She has you wrapped around her paw,” she ventured.
“Yes.”
His stoicism in the face of so much pain saddened her. She had to speak, even if he got angry with her. “I did not know about your wife,” Antonella said, her heart tripping along faster now. “How she died, I mean. I know you may not believe me, but I wouldn’t wish what happened upon anyone. I am sorry for your pain.”
He closed his eyes. “Perhaps you are.”
She waited for him to say something else. When he didn’t, she prepared to lie down and try to get some sleep. The day was catching up with her and she just wanted to forget all the pain and trouble for a few hours. Maybe when she awoke, the storm would have abated and they could get out of here. It was a lot to hope, but hope was all she had left at the moment.
Her stomach rumbled loudly and she pressed her hand against her belly to muffle the sound.
Cristiano’s eyes snapped open. “Why didn’t you say you were hungry?”
“I didn’t realize it until now.” She truly hadn’t. Besides, how was she supposed to be hungry when she’d been riding an emotional roller coaster since this morning? The emotion hadn’t slowed, much less stopped. Hunger seemed minor in comparison.
Cristiano glanced at his watch. “It’s been hours since breakfast. We need to eat, though we’ll have to ration what we have.” He handed her a box of crackers. “Open these while I uncork the wine.”
“How long do you think we could be here?” she asked, homing in on his comment about rationing food.
“Hopefully not more than a day or two.”
Antonella felt her breath catch. A day or two. Here. In this room. With Cristiano.
Heaven help her.
He finished uncorking the wine and poured them each a glass. Then he took a small knife and cut off a few slices of sausage. “Cheese?”
“I’ll pass.”
She watched Cristiano layer a neat dollop of the spray cheese over a slice of sausage on a cracker and pop it into his mouth. He didn’t grimace, so perhaps it wasn’t too bad after all.
They ate in silence, if you didn’t count the wind and rain hammering the roof. Antonella sipped the wine, thankful that at least the island tycoon had a good supply, even if he had little else in the house. She wasn’t much of a drinker, so it didn’t take much to make her mellow.
And right now, she needed mellow.
“You never told me about Monteverde,” Cristiano said a few minutes later. He sounded mildly interested, conversational—and yet there was an edge to him that hadn’t been there a few moments ago. As if he’d made up his mind about something.
“There’s not much to say. It sounds almost exactly like Monterosso.”
“Yes, but Monterosso isn’t on the edge of bankruptcy.”
Antonella had to work not to choke on the swallow of wine she’d just taken. “I’m not sure where you hear these things,” she replied carefully, “but we’re moving forward now that Dante is King. Monteverde is fine.”
“And did you support that? Dante deposing your father?”
“Yes,” she said simply. What was the use in denying it? “My father was…unbalanced.”
“I had heard of this. But what if it was simply an excuse for your brother to take the throne?”
“It wasn’t.” She picked up a cracker, nibbled a corner. “I was there, and I know what happened.”
His eyes narrowed. “Interesting.”
Anger began to uncoil itself in her belly at the tone of his voice. “Interesting? You have no idea, Cristiano. Do not presume to judge me or my brother for things you know