The Colorado Countess

“Miss Carrie Dunn from Colorado, we meet again,” he smiled. About the Author Title Page Letter to Reader CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright

“Miss Carrie Dunn from Colorado, we meet again,” he smiled.

Carrie hadn’t a clue what to say or do. “Forgive me,” she said in a polite but firm tone, “but actually I’m wondering what you’re doing here.”

“It’s you who should forgive me.” He held out his hand to her. “Here I am in your home and I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Leone,” he told her. “Leone Montecrespi.”

Their eyes met and he smiled. “We have unfinished business.”

“I wasn’t aware that you and I had any business to finish.”

“Perhaps not, strictly speaking, business.”

Count Leone Alberto Cosimo George di Montecrespi, the heir to the throne of San Rinaldo, simply smiled at her reaction. I’m going to enjoy this, he was thinking. This one’s definitely no pushover. It would make a pleasant change from the easy victories he was used to.

Stephanie Howard was born and brought up in Dundee, Scotland, and educated at the London School of Economics. For ten years she worked as a journalist in London on a variety of women’s magazines, among them Woman’s Own, and was latterly editor of the now-defunct Honey. She has spent many years living and working abroad—in Italy, Malaysia, the Philippines and in the Middle East.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

Welcome to ROYAL AFFAIR! By appointment to her loyal readers, Stephanie Howard has created a blue-blooded trilogy of romeos, rebels and royalty. It follows the fortunes of the San Rinaldo royal family: Damiano, the Duke of San Rinaldo, his brother, Count Leone, and their sister, Lady Caterina. Together the three of them are dedicated to their country, people and family. But it takes only one thing to turn their perfectly ordered lives upside down: love!

COUNT LEONE MONTECRESPI, the younger brother of the ruling Duke, is a habitual heartbreaker. A playboy of the old school: love them, leave them and on no account, marry them. But will small-town American girl, Carrie Dunn, be the one to finally get him up the aisle?

LADY CATERINA MONTECRESPI. Leone and Damiano’s baby sister, has sworn off men since her last disastrous encounter with the opposite sex. And Matthew Allenby is hardly the man to change her mind. As far as Caterina is concerned, he’s a crook and a charlatan. Unfortunately he’s also proving irresistible!

The DUKE OF SAN RINALDO, DAMIANO MONTECRESPI, had married Sofia to secure his dukedom and produce an heir. But duty for Sofia is a cold bed partner—she wants Damiano to love her as much as he does their baby son, Alessandro. Is a happy ending to their fairy-tale romance too much to ask for?

Each of these books contains its own stand-alone romance, as well as making up a great trilogy. Follow Leone and Carrie’s tale in The Colorado Countess. In The Lady’s Man, it’s Caterina and Matthew’s turn. And finally, The Duke’s Wife features Sofia and Damiano’s story—not forgetting little baby Alessandro!

Happy Reading!

The Editors

CHAPTER ONE

‘CARRIE DUNN, you’re a lucky devil. I wish I was spending a couple of months in this little paradise!’

Carrie smiled at her friend Louise across the table where they were sitting, right at the very front of the magnificent terrace of the ultra-chic restaurant where they had come for dinner. Then she turned to cast a glance at the magical view spread out before them—a shimmer of lights that seemed to tumble down the hillside, setting out in sharp relief against the starstudded sky the higgledy-piggledy red-tiled roofs of the city, with, off in the distance, the illuminated turrets of the ancient rosy-stoned Palazzo Verde, and, down below, the glistening waters of the little marina, with its fleet of bobbing yachts twinkling like diamonds.

‘No, it’s not bad,’ she consented. ‘I think I’ll manage to put up with it.’ Then, catching Louise’s eye, she threw back her head and laughed. ‘How on earth did a girl from Boulder, Colorado, ever end up in a place like this?’

Both girls, in fact, knew the answer to that one. A bucketful of hard work was what had transported Carrie Dunn, the honey-haired, hazel-eyed elder daughter of a grocery store manager and his wife, to the glitzy little dukedom of San Rinaldo, set like a precious jewel on the edge of the Mediterranean. Though not so long ago it had been just a name to her, a place she’d simply read about in glossy magazines, famous for its wines and its wonderful porcelain, for the rich and famous who came here on holiday and, last but not least, for its colourful ruling family.

For the Montecrespis, the royal residents of the ancient Palazzo Verde—the Duke, Damiano, and his wife, his playboy brother, Count Leone, and their younger sister, Lady Caterina—had a knack of making newspaper headlines. Especially Count Leone, who went through more women than a brigade of Guards. Even Carrie, who didn’t much interest herself with such things, had heard a fair bit about the dashing count and his exploits.

But all the gossip and glamour associated with San Rinaldo were not what had brought Carrie to the sundrenched little dukedom. And she assured her friend now, pulling a face as she did so, ‘Don’t worry, I promise I won’t let it go to my head. You can go back to New York tomorrow with no worries on that score. The only reason I’m here is to work.’

‘Oh, I know it won’t go to your head,’ Louise threw her a frank look. ‘You’re not the type.’ For she knew Carrie well. Then she glanced round her and laughed. ‘But how can you even think of work in a place like this?’

Carrie was about to answer good-humouredly that she always thought of work, but at that moment she was distracted by the sound of raised voices coming from the end of the busy, table-packed terrace. As she turned curiously to look, a frowning waiter was hurrying towards them.

He stopped before their table, wringing his hands as he addressed Carrie.

‘Apologies, signorina, but there’s been a most regrettable error. This table you’re sitting at . . . you should never have been given it. It was already booked, you see. . .’ He glanced wretchedly across his shoulder at the noisy group of young people at the end of the terrace. ‘Your table and the one next to it. . . These people booked them some time ago. I really do apologise, but I’m going to have to move you to another table. . .’

‘And what if we don’t want to move?’

It wasn’t like Carrie to be awkward, but on this occasion she felt she was more than justified.

‘My friend and I are halfway through our meal,’ she protested. ‘I’m afraid it really would be most inconvenient.’

And besides, she was thinking, it rather stuck in her throat to be moved for the convenience of the group of young people in question, who more than likely hadn’t booked the table at all. They were obviously celebrities. They positively oozed self-importance. Her skin prickled as one of them called out now, in English, ‘Come on, waiter! What are we waiting for? Tell them they can go and sit at the back.’

What bad-mannered hooligans! Carrie glared in their direction. ‘Maybe they should go and sit at the back,’ she muttered.

But Louise was trying to persuade her. ‘Let’s just move,’ she was urging. ‘We’ve almost finished anyway and I’d rather avoid the hassle.’

Carrie could feel herself weakening. She knew how Louise hated scenes, and this evening was supposed to be a special treat for her—just to thank her for dropping by on her way back to the States after a business trip to Rome. So, reluctantly, she agreed. ‘Ok,’ she told the waiter—though she was thinking as they were moved to a half-hidden table at the back, I’ll never set foot in this restaurant again!

It was about twenty minutes later, after the two girls had had coffee and Louise had disappeared off to powder her nose, that Carrie decided to call for the bill. And it was as she was signaling to the waiter that, from the corner of her eye, she became aware of a tall figure at the table she had so recently vacated rising to his feet and coming across the terrace. But she did not turn to look at him. She would not honour him with a glance. Pompous, self-important swine, she was thinking.

But then, a moment later, to her total astonishment, she was aware that he had come to stand at her elbow. Then a voice said, ‘Signorina, may I have a word with you?’

Something had jolted inside Carrie even before she looked up. There was something in the voice, with its soft, smoky accent, that sent a shiver of expectation rippling down her spine. Feeling somewhat taken aback at herself, she slowly raised her eyes.

And that was when her heart did a somersault in her chest.

His face was in shadow, so she couldn’t see him clearly—for the lighting here at the back of the terrace was far from bright. But, shadow or not, his effect on her was electric. What a perfectly spectacular-looking guy!

And there was something else as well. Didn’t she know him from somewhere? For there was something a little familiar about the high-cheekboned face, with its amused, sensuous mouth and broad, intelligent brow, the dark-as-midnight eyes that seemed to smoulder with secrets and the curling black hair that fell to just below his ears. She couldn’t think where, but she’d seen him somewhere before.

All this went through Carrie’s head as she hurriedly pulled herself together and responded in a tone that impressed even her with its perfect calmness. ‘A word?’ What could he possibly want to have a word with her about?

The stranger answered that question immediately. ‘I wish to apologise,’ he said.

‘Apologise?’ Carrie blinked at him.

‘For the unfortunate business concerning your table.’

Ah, the table. She had quite forgotten about the table, bowled over as she had been by the sheer seductive power of him. But, now that he had reminded her, she felt her attitude abruptly change. How foolish of her to be so easily seduced by a handsome face! He was one of the band of hooligans who had pinched her table!

She looked back at him, quite recovered, a distinct edge to her voice now. ‘I would have thought,’ she pointed out, ‘that it’s a little late for that.’

‘I agree. It is. But I wanted to apologise, anyway.’

As he spoke, the dark eyes travelled quite openly over her, taking in her slender, feminine figure, currently dressed in a cream top and trousers that showed off the light tan she’d acquired in the few days she’d been here, skimming her heart-shaped face in its frame of cropped blonde hair, pausing to admire the wide hazel eyes, the tip-tilted nose and the soft-lipped mouth—though the latter, at this moment, was set in a disapproving line.

How dare he eye me like that? Carrie was thinking to herself irritably, though his gaze was so direct, his expression so open that it was really a little hard to take offence. And, if she was strictly honest with herself, she would have to admit that he was studying her no more carefully than she was secretly studying him.

He was tall, over six feet, in his early thirties, she guessed, with the lean and supple build of an athlete. Beneath the blue linen jacket his shoulders were broad and muscular, and there was something about the way he stood, on those long legs in their dark blue trousers, that suggested a powerful, restless energy. He really was rather seriously sexy.

No, he wasn’t, she contradicted herself. He was one of those awful hooligans. Some minor celebrity she couldn’t quite put a name to who thought he had the right to behave with total arrogance and who was simply amusing himself by coming over to apologise. No doubt she was supposed to feel deeply privileged and grateful.

Carrie narrowed her eyes as he continued to look at her with that half-amused, half-scrutinising gaze. ‘Well, you’ve apologised now,’ she pointed out in a clipped tone, ‘so I guess you can go back and rejoin your friends.’

‘You’re still angry, I see?’ One dark eyebrow lifted. ‘Well, I can’t really blame you. This is a far inferior table. I guess, if I were in your shoes, I’d be pretty angry too.’

That was patronising. What would he know about being in her shoes? Celebrities like him, whoever he was, were unlikely ever to encounter such disagreeable situations. Instead, they went about creating them for ordinary mortals like her.

She continued to squint at him, trying to put a name to his face. Was he a singer? An actor? Maybe he was in the theatre? For there was definitely something rather classy about him.

But, classy or not, he was making her bristle. She informed him in a cutting tone, ‘I can assure you, if it had been up to me, I’d have refused, point-blank to move to this table. But I’m here with a friend and she didn’t want a fuss. That’s the only reason you and your friends got our table.’

‘I see.’ He smiled. Her disapproval merely amused him, as did her claim that she would have stood up to him. ‘You believe in fighting for your rights, I see? That’s most commendable.’

‘And very necessary, I’d say, when there are so many people. . .’ As she said it she glanced pointedly across the terrace at his friends. ‘So many people about with such little regard for the rights of others.’

Again the dark eyebrows rose and again he smiled at her, and there was something so bright and so beguiling about that smile that Carrie very nearly forgot herself and smiled right back at him. But she resisted and continued to scowl at him as he responded, ‘I see you consider that my friends need teaching some manners. Well, perhaps you have a point. And that’s why I’m here to apologise.’

‘Well, that’s very nice of you.’ Carrie’s tone was barbed with sarcasm. ‘But, as I said, it’s a little late in the day for apologies. And an apology doesn’t change the fact that our dinner was spoiled.’

The stranger continued to watch her with that smouldering dark gaze he had that, though she was trying hard to fight it, was sending pins and needles through her. And Carrie was annoyed at herself, for it was perfectly obvious that he was an expert at reducing women to quivering lumps of jelly. He had that air of a seducer. He would know women well. How to draw them to him and how to please him. From the top of his beautiful head to the tips of his elegant fingertips, one could sense he was something of an expert in that field.

Carrie was considering this judgement and deciding it was another reason to dislike him when he surprised her by asking, ‘Which part of America are you from? I can’t quite manage to pin down your accent.’

Carrie had not expected this—that the conversation would turn personal. ‘Colorado,’ she said curtly, deliberately not elaborating that for the past three years she’d lived and worked in New York and that there was a touch of the Big Apple in her accent as well. If he was trying to hit on her, he’d find he’d fallen on stony ground!

And then, because she was sure it would almost certainly annoy him, for nothing annoyed a minor celebrity more than not being recognised, she added, regarding him levelly, her tone indicating that her interest was minimal, ‘And what about you? Where do you come from?’

He held her gaze for a moment, a smile flitting across his eyes. ‘Me? Oh, I’m just a local,’ he responded. Then, while she digested this, wondering if it was true, for San Rinaldo was not exactly famous for its showbiz celebrities, he continued, ‘Colorado? That’s a part of the States I’ve never visited. But I understand from friends who’ve been there that it’s extremely beautiful.’

‘Yes, it is.’ She eyed him. More condescension, she was thinking. He would have dredged up some friends who’d told him it was beautiful if she’d told him she came from a hole in the ground.

‘You’re a visitor here?’

‘Sort of,’ she answered unhelpfully. Was he trying to win her round now by feigning interest in her humble life?

She peered at him. If only she could think who he was. It was on the tip of her brain. If only she could see him better. If only his features weren’t in shadow all the time.

‘ “Sort of”. And what does that mean?’ He continued to watch her, and she could see that amused smile hovering round his lips. ‘Are you here on holiday? Are you a tourist?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Not exactly?’ He waited for her to elaborate. He was totally unfazed by her hostile lack of co-operation.

Carrie took a deep breath. She might as well tell him, then she could ask him the same question and finally find out who he was.

‘I happen to be here for reasons of work,’ she told him.

He feigned interest. ‘And what kind of work is that?’

‘I’m putting together a book.’

‘A book? That sounds fascinating. May I enquire what kind of book?’

‘A book on Castello porcelain.’ Then she added unnecessarily, for if he really was a local he would surely already know, ‘It’s a locally made porcelain that’s famous throughout the world. Over the centuries it’s graced the tables of every royal family in Europe, not to mention the table at the White House also.’

He was smiling. ‘Ah, so you are capable of stringing more than one sentence together. I was beginning to think you had a serious communication problem.’

Very amusing. But Carrie did not smile back. She’d already been thinking she’d been just a little too forthcoming. It was her enthusiasm for the project that had momentarily got the better of her, for this book she was putting together on Castello porcelain—literally putting together, for she was both writing it and doing the photographs!—was undoubtedly one of the most exciting projects she’d ever worked on. Ever since her New York editor had first OK’d the idea two months ago she had barely been able to think of anything else. And she loved talking about it to anyone who would listen!

But she hadn’t intended to confide her passion to this arrogant dark stranger, who now knew a little too much about her for her liking—especially since she still knew nothing about him!

And it was time to put that right. She regarded him boldly. ‘But enough about me. Tell me something about you. For example, what do you do for a living?’

‘Me?’

He continued to smile at her and did not answer immediately, almost as though he was pondering how to respond. Perhaps he was astonished that she didn’t know. Or insulted—though he did not look it. Rather, he looked intrigued, Carrie decided as she waited, wondering what had prompted this unlikely display of reticence.

‘Now it looks as though you’re the one with the communication problem,’ she pointed out.

He laughed then. ‘Touché!’ Then he smiled. ‘Well, since you ask. . .’

But he never finished the sentence, for at that very moment a man in a dark suit suddenly appeared at his elbow, murmuring something in Italian that Carrie couldn’t understand. Damn! she was thinking as her still unidentified stranger, with a polite nod in her direction, turned away to reply to him. Wouldn’t you just believe it? Talk about bad timing!

‘I’m afraid I have to go.’ He was turning back to look at her. ‘It would appear my presence is required elsewhere.’

Then, surprising her, he held out his hand for a brief handshake. ‘It’s been most interesting meeting you. And again, let me offer you my apologies. I hope your bad experience this evening won’t spoil your stay here.’

And, before she had time to do more than mumble, ‘I’m sure it won’t,’ he was turning sharply on his heel and disappearing into the interior part of the restaurant.

Not, Carrie thought wryly as she watched his departure, that she would have been capable of saying much more anyway. That brief handshake had quite literally galvanised her for a moment. The touch of his skin had seemed to scorch against her. In those brief seconds of contact she’d been aware of a raw vitality that had sent shock waves down to the soles of her feet.

Phew! Whoever he was, this guy was pure dynamite!

She was rather glad to be brought back to earth as the waiter appeared at the next table and she suddenly remembered that he still hadn’t brought her the bill. She waved to catch his attention. ‘My bill, please,’ she called, but he was already coming over.

‘Signorina,’ he smiled. ‘There is no bill.’ He shrugged an expressive shrug. ‘It has already been paid.’

‘Paid?’

‘Yes, signorina.’

‘By whom has it been paid?’ Though Carrie had a sneaking suspicion that she already knew the answer.

The waiter made a gesture as though reluctant to divulge this information. Then he murmured conspiratorially, confirming her suspicion, ‘By the gentleman you were just speaking to a moment ago.’

‘But he had no right to do that!’ Carrie was already rising to her feet indignantly. ‘I’m perfectly capable of paying my own bills!’

And before the waiter could stop her, if indeed he even thought of trying, she was grabbing her bag and steaming across the terrace in the direction her misguided benefactor had taken. Who the devil did he think he was?

There was no sign of him in the inner restaurant, but he couldn’t have gone far. Carrie headed for the door that led to the foyer at the front. And as she pushed the door open she beamed in triumph to herself. He hadn’t escaped her, after all. She’d arrived just in the nick of time!

He was standing by the open door, just about to step out into the street, his back towards her so he couldn’t see her. And on the pavement ahead of him was the man in the dark suit who was now holding open the door of a black limousine which was conveniently parked just a couple of steps away.

Nice, Carrie thought scathingly as she stepped boldly towards her quarry. No wonder he thinks he can behave all high and mighty if this is the way he gets treated all the time!

The thought fired up her anger. In a tight voice, she called out to him, ‘Just a minute, if you don’t mind! I’m afraid I’ve got a bone to pick with you!’ She continued to hurry up to him. ‘About that high-handed gesture of yours. . . that high-handed gesture of paying my bill for me. . .’

Then her voice trailed off. He had turned round to look at her. And, suddenly, Carrie was dying a thousand deaths all in one go. For now, in the much brighter light of the foyer, she had instantly recognised who he was.

How could I have been so stupid? she berated herself sickly, wishing she could just melt into the carpet and disappear. How could I have been so dim as not to recognise him instantly? And much worse, how could I have been so gross as to speak to him the way I just did?

Her heart had stopped inside her, her flesh turned to stone. Me and my big mouth. Now I’m really going to be in trouble! she thought.

But if she was, it was not just yet.

He threw her a look she could not decipher. Then with a small lift of the eyebrow he told her, ‘I’m sorry, I’m in a hurry. Some other time, perhaps. I can’t stop now.’

Then he was turning away, sweeping across the pavement and climbing into the back of the black limousine. And Carrie was still standing there, speechlessly staring at it, when a moment later it purred away.

‘Ah, there you are! The waiter said you’d left. I’m sorry I took such ages. I met someone in the john.’

Carrie turned woodenly to look at Louise who had just appeared at her elbow. Her brain was still spinning inside her head like a top.