The Prince's Royal Concubine. Lynn Raye Harris
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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 she crazy? She might despise him, but was it worth putting herself in danger to have the satisfaction of refusing him? Wasn’t the most important thing to get back to Monteverde and speak to her brother? If only Dante had been the one to come to Canta Paradiso! He’d have gotten Vega Steel and this would all be moot.
Except he had to stay to hold the country together. And his wife was about to give birth. Antonella had been the only choice, and she’d failed. She wanted to climb back into bed and pull the covers over her head until it all went away.
But she couldn’t. Cowardice was not an option.
“Don’t be childish,” Cristiano snapped.
She forced herself to take a long, slow breath before speaking. “It’s not childish to avoid the company of people you despise.”
“No, but it is childish to put yourself in danger because of it.”
It was disconcerting to hear her thoughts echoed in his words.
Antonella stared at the mountains rising around the harbor. The airport was on the other side of those mountains. It could take hours to reach at this rate. Dark clouds billowed over the green peaks like a thick blanket unrolling. The wind had already picked up speed in the few hours between the time she’d gone to bed and now.
How she got home didn’t matter, so long as she did. “I will fly with you if there is no other option. Though when we reach the airport, I will check to see if I can book a flight first.”
“As you wish, Principessa.”
“But I cannot fly into Monterosso.” How would that look? And how would she get home to Monteverde? There were no direct flights, and the border was cut off. A Monteverdian princess could not be ferried across the border by Monterossan soldiers. It was unthinkable.
His expression hardened. “Of course not. We will land in Paris first. You can arrange transport from there.”
A dark thought occurred to her. “How do I know you will keep your word? That you won’t take me to Monterosso and demand a ransom for my return?”
His voice stroked over her like silk. “If I were to kidnap you, mia bella, I could think of far more interesting things to do than demand a ransom.”
By the time they were ferried to shore and found a taxi, three hours had passed. Everyone was rushing around the town, trying to batten down the hatches or get off the island. Canta Paradiso was a private resort island, but there was a town and many residents who lived there full-time. In spite of that, the traffic to the small airport was unbelievable.
Cristiano tucked his cell phone away with a growl. Since the rain had begun, the cell towers had ceased carrying calls for very long. Now, they were dropping altogether. Antonella looked at her signal indicator. No bars.
Cristiano raked a dark-fingered hand through his inky hair. The taxi was small, and his leg lay intimately against hers where they were crowded together in the back seat. At first, she’d tried to move away, but huddling against the door was uncomfortable. She’d struggled for the last hour to pretend that his skin didn’t burn into her where they touched.
“Will we make it?” she asked.
He was so close. Close enough that if she simply leaned over a few centimeters, their lips could touch.
And why would she want to do that?
“We should. It’s just rain thus far. We can still fly out.”
“Are you certain?” She watched the rain falling harder outside the steamy window beside him, bit her lip.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. “I am a pilot, cara. Rain provides good lift. The wind isn’t bad yet, and it also provides lift. There are many hours left before the storm is too dangerous to fly.”
“That’s good, then.”
He leaned back, stretched an arm behind her on the seat. She couldn’t escape the contact unless she sat forward. To do so would give him power, so she endured the press of his arm against her shoulders and neck.
The trilling of his phone several minutes later startled her from her reverie. The taxi was warm, and she was so tired that she’d nearly fallen asleep on him. Mortified, she pushed herself as far into her corner of the back seat as she could.
Cristiano answered quickly, before the call dropped again. The swearing that issued from him a few moments later wasn’t a good sign.
“What’s wrong?” she asked when he finished.
He looked grim. “We’re stuck.”
“What do you mean, stuck?” she asked, trying to tame the note of panic in her voice.
He swore again. “The plane has a hydraulic leak in the brakes. We can’t fly without a new cowling, and there