A Bride Fit For A Prince?

CHAPTER TWO

SAMIA’S TINY HAND in his big fist felt unreasonably small. Her grip was strong, her skin smooth and soft, as if she didn’t work with her hands. She was in no hurry to remove her hand from his, he noticed, but stared directly into his eyes, giving the distinct impression that this was a woman who would bow her head to no man. Though, those shadows pointed to an event in her past that had driven her to travel in search of something different. Adding to his suspicions, there was a telltale mark on her wedding finger. A strip of pale skin showed where she had once worn a ring.

Forced to take hold of her shoulders to steer her away from a stream of waiters emerging from the kitchen, he was shocked by the bolt of heat that shot up his arm. This was matched by Samia’s sharp inhalation of breath. As they swung around to stare at each other, something changed between them. No longer two strangers who’d met in a bar, they were a man and a woman reduced to their most primal state. There was a pulse beating rapidly in her neck, and her eyes were almost black, with just a thin rim of emerald around pupils grown huge. Some of the diners had noticed this bombshell, and were whispering about it, so he backed her into the shadows where they could talk unobserved.

‘You don’t want to be seen with me?’ she challenged with a laugh.

‘I don’t want either of us to get in the way of the waitstaff,’ he argued.

Of course there was another reason. Everyone with a smartphone was a member of the paparazzi these days, and shots of the Pirate Prince were priceless. How much more so, when the man in question appeared to be on the point of embarking on yet another affair? This was not the sort of thing he wanted his countrymen to see. They’d had enough upheaval, and must already be dreading the day when Prince Pietro’s demon brother moved back home to take the throne.

‘What brings you to Saint-Tropez?’ he asked Samia. In unguarded moments, there appeared to be more than a backpack weighing her down.

‘The name Saint-Tropez is magical, thanks to the film star Brigitte Bardot, who was just eighteen when she married the dangerously handsome Roger Vadim back in the fifties. They were lovers before I was born, but everyone knows their story and how they brought glamour to a small fishing village in the South of France. Who could resist that story?’

‘Me,’ he said bluntly. ‘I see the place for what it is—a bustling, successful town.’

‘You’re a realist,’ she confirmed.

‘And you’re a romantic, it would appear.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Less than five years after they married, your glamorous couple divorced.’

‘Don’t spoil it,’ she scolded. ‘Why can’t you think about the happiness they shared instead?’

‘Because, as you pointed out, I’m a realist.’ But he did enjoy this woman’s company. ‘Doesn’t your romantic life ever hit the skids?’

‘Can we remain on topic, please?’

Her expression changed. Blood drained from her face. The dreamy expression had left her eyes. She looked almost frightened. ‘What can of worms did I just open?’ he enquired, pinning her with a shrewd stare.

‘The one that says I’m hungry as well as thirsty...’

He didn’t believe her for a moment, but they’d only known each other five minutes, which was far too soon for true confessions. ‘How much time did you spend planning this trip?’

‘It was a spur-of-the-moment decision,’ she admitted.

‘Who doesn’t need a time-out occasionally?’ he agreed. By taking things slowly, he might find out more about her.

‘I’m happy to go wherever the wind takes me.’

He didn’t believe that either. Everyone had some sort of plan. As she glanced at the door she’d used to come in, he wondered if she was running from something...or someone, and if the mark from the ring played a part in that. She hid it well, but she was jittery, reminding him of one of his highly strung polo ponies: always loyal, always willing, always ready to bolt. Beneath Samia’s engaging personality, there was a story, and he wanted to know what that story was.

‘So you always make a plan before you do anything?’ She raised a brow. ‘In that case, why should I believe that you just happen to be here, propping up the bar without good reason?’

If he told her he’d come to meet the man who had adopted his brother’s child, would she believe him? Both the surrogate his brother had used and her husband wanted nothing from Luca, other than for him to know that his dead brother’s child was safe and loved, and that they would never put a claim forward to the throne of Madlena.

Why would they? Maria, the child’s mother, had demanded. Who in their right mind would choose to be royal?

Who indeed? he’d thought at the time, knowing only too well the restrictions that would place on the child.

Maria had decided not to go through with the surrogacy, she had explained, and had told his brother this before Pietro’s death. Her husband was in full agreement. The child was theirs and needed no royal connections to improve his lot. What had hurt Luca the most was that Pietro hadn’t felt able to share his longing for a family, and he blamed himself for being away while his brother had nursed this sad wound. All he could do for Pietro now was to keep his brother’s secret. The people of Madlena needed reassurance, not another upheaval. ‘I came here to settle some family business,’ he told Samia.

‘I think you’re a bit of a romantic on the quiet,’ she observed, smiling warmly. ‘Family is—or should be—everything.’

There was a wistful note in her voice as she said this. ‘It is to me,’ he confirmed, more curious than ever about her backstory.

‘Are you far from home? Judging by your accent, you’re not French.’

‘I sailed here,’ he reminded her, ‘I could have come from anywhere, but I guess my voice and my name tell their own story?’

‘It’s more about the tone of your voice,’ she mused, eyes half-closed. ‘Rich dark treacle with husky bass overtones...’

A laugh burst out of him. ‘If I had a clue what you’re talking about.’

‘Just hum, but don’t commit yourself,’ she advised, eyes flashing open to spear him as she spoke. ‘That’s what I do when I don’t want to answer questions—and it’s obvious you’re about as interested in answering questions as I am.’

‘Point taken,’ he said, interest spiking again as they stared into each other’s eyes.

‘I’ll stop talking now,’ she said, resting back against the wall next to him.

‘Is that a promise?’

She turned her head. ‘It’s as close as you’re going to get.’

The fact that they were still talking was nothing short of a miracle. Since Pietro’s death, he’d had no patience for anyone or anything. Discovering his brother had wanted a family so badly, yet had not mentioned this to Luca, had rocked his selfish world on its axis. How could he have been so self-absorbed he had remained oblivious to his brother’s distress? He had a lot to learn if he was to avoid letting down his country, as he’d let down Pietro.

‘Where are you heading when you leave here?’ his companion asked.

He turned to face her. ‘I thought you promised not to talk.’

‘It wasn’t a forever promise, and you look as if you need a distraction.’

He smiled in spite of himself. There was something about Samia that forced him to see a lighter side of life. It also made him want to kiss that cheeky mouth into silence.

‘Are you going home soon?’ she prompted.

Home to him was either on board his sailing yacht, or on a bunk in a spartan barracks. A sumptuous palace with servants waiting on him hand and foot was his least favoured choice. That had been his brother’s life, while Luca had joined Madlena’s special forces where he had believed he could be of most use to his people. He had never imagined his parting from Pietro would be so final, or that the memories they’d shared would be tainted by the pain of knowing he’d let his brother down.

‘You look sad and angry,’ Samia commented with a frown. ‘Is that my fault? Have I said something to upset you?’

‘I’m not sad.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it. Being Italian can only be a cause for celebration.’

He wavered between wanting to leave and ending their encounter, and staying to allow Samia to distract him from memories of his brother that threatened to splinter his mind. When his grandmother had been widowed and had gone off to live her own life, Pietro had raised him and cared for him, and where had he been when Pietro had so badly needed him?

‘All that delicious pasta—’

‘What?’ His tone was harsh. Samia’s intrusion into his private grief had jolted him—and even that was an indulgence. But seriously. Pasta? Of all the things she could have said about Italy—the art, the music, the architecture and stunning scenery—in her uniquely uninhibited way, she had gone straight for a decent plate of food. With a wry huff, he shook his head.

‘There you are, you see,’ she asserted. ‘You’re not so grim, after all. And I bet you’re as hungry as me...’

‘Are you hungry?’

‘What do you think?’ she teased. ‘But I don’t have enough money, and there’s no chance we’ll get fed here, even if I could afford it. With the best will in the world, the maître d’ couldn’t find us a table.’

He didn’t disillusion her, though he only had to raise a brow for a table to be made instantly available.

‘We’re sunk,’ she said.

‘We’re sunk?’ he queried.

‘Of course we. I’m hungry and you must be too. After your swim,’ she reminded him.

Okay, he did have an appetite, and not just for food.

‘Hamburger?’ she suggested.

He followed her gaze to the public promenade where a hamburger stall was placed conveniently in the shadows.

Momentarily distracted as a text pinged on his phone, he saw that it came from the head of his PA team in Madlena. A Red Box, that indispensable piece of royal equipment designed to hold documents relating to vital matters of state, would be delivered to his study on board the Black Diamond.

He texted back.

I’d like you to look into something else—someone else.

Key points only, he added, after printing Samia’s name.

‘Finished?’ she asked with a mildly disapproving look as he stowed the phone back in his pocket.

‘My world never sleeps.’

‘Poor you,’ she said as he turned for the exit.

‘I thought you were hungry. Aren’t you coming with me?’

She shrugged and held back. ‘I don’t know you from Adam. Perhaps I should split.’

‘Only you can decide. Are you hungry or not?’

‘Hungry, but—’

‘But what?’ he demanded impatiently.

‘If I do come with you, you have to take this.’

He stared at the ten-euro note she’d pressed into his hand.

‘I know what things cost in this town,’ she insisted. ‘Great for keeping your ear to the ground, but not for eating out.’

‘You’re not a newspaper reporter, are you?’

She laughed. ‘Why, do you have something to hide?’

‘Do you?’

‘Now we’re both intrigued.’ A smile hovered on her lips as she gave him a sideways look.

Warning bells started clanging loud and clear. Base instinct drowned them out. They had started leaning towards each other as their discussion grew more heated, close enough for him to detect Samia’s wildflower scent, and to absorb the warmth of her body.

‘I don’t know how you can look so serious,’ she told him. ‘I find it impossible not to smile in Saint-Tropez.’

But with shadows in your eyes, he thought as she added, ‘The sun is shining and the sky is bright blue. What’s not to like?’

‘A woman who never stops asking questions?’ he suggested.

She laughed as she swung her bulky backpack off the floor, almost taking out a couple of drunks. Fortunately, they were too far gone to notice.

‘I guess sailing isn’t just work for you?’ she said as she wove her perilous way through the crowded tables.

He glanced outside to where the bay of Saint-Tropez lay tranquil and glistening like a bright blue disc sprayed with silver in the trembling heat of late afternoon. ‘No,’ he agreed, remembering long, silent nights at sea beneath a blue-black sky littered with stars, and crazy, windy sunlit days when dolphins raced ahead of the prow. ‘Sailing isn’t just work for me.’

‘No wonder everyone’s staring at you,’ she commented when they reached the exit. ‘They’re jealous as hell, and I am too. What a wonderful life to work on board a yacht. Is the yacht where you work in the marina? Can we go and look at it when we’ve had something to eat?’

‘It’s moored out at sea.’

‘Oh.’ She sounded disappointed. ‘Which one is it?’ Shading her eyes, she followed his gaze. ‘You are kidding? You work on board the Black Diamond? Everyone in town is talking about it. Isn’t that one of the biggest sailing yachts at sea?’

‘The biggest.’

‘I read an article about the Black Diamond. If you could get me a job on board, it would be a dream come true.’

‘I can put in a word.’ It wasn’t such a bad idea. A distraction like Samia was exactly what he needed before returning home to take up the reins of duty.

‘I’m impressed,’ she admitted. ‘All the other yachts are scrubbed white to within an inch of their plimsoll line, while you sail the devil’s own invention.’

‘It’s black,’ he agreed.

‘And massive.’

‘Larger than average,’ he agreed dryly.

‘I’m glad you don’t work on one of those floating office blocks.’

‘But rather the stuff dreams are made of?’ he suggested with a cynical lift of his brow.

‘Where I’m sure you fit right in. The pirate look?’ she prompted. ‘You’re only short of an earring and a parrot on your shoulder.’

Game on, he thought as they stared at each other and laughed.

CHAPTER THREE

SAMIA FROWNED AS she weighed the evidence. ‘How did you get from ship to shore?’

Luca shrugged. ‘Swam from the deck.’

Her frown deepened. ‘That explains the thin film of sand on your skin.’

‘You’re quite the sleuth.’

‘Just interested,’ she admitted. ‘But, surely that deck’s too high for you to dive safely into the sea?’

‘There’s a marine deck at the stern where we keep the jet skis and power boats.’

‘We?’ She pounced on this right away. ‘Does the owner know you make free with his possessions? I feel I should know who owns the Black Diamond. I’m sure I read somewhere that he’s a tech billionaire with royal connections, and a reputation to make your toes curl...’ Her thoughtful frown sharpened into an appraising stare. ‘So you’re no barfly, but a superfit member of the crew on a fabulous yacht. Who might even be able to get me a job on board,’ she added with a winning smile.

Luca’s mouth tugged slightly. It could have been a smile if his eyes hadn’t been so calculating. She knew that feeling. Keeping a resolutely upbeat expression was making her muscles ache, but who wanted to employ a harassed-looking woman?

‘Please tell your employer I’ll do anything—within reason,’ she added quickly. ‘If you could arrange a meeting with whoever hires and fires, I won’t let you down.’

Relief dashed over her like a great, drowning wave when Luca agreed. Impulsively, she stood on tiptoes to plant a kiss on his chin. Not her best decision, she realised when she saw the look in his eyes. She wasn’t playing with fire, she was walking into it. She should be guarding her heart, not giving it away to the first man who offered to do something for her.

His overriding urge was to kiss her back. Which was crazy here in gossip central, aka the lobby of Saint-Tropez’s most fashionable watering hole, but Samia’s kiss was both a surprise and amazing. She felt so soft and warm against his hard frame, and smelled so good. He wanted nothing more than to kiss away the shadows in her eyes. Her zany sense of humour lifted him, while the sense of desperation he detected behind her jauntiness intrigued him.

‘My priority remains finding a job,’ she told him bluntly, in case he harboured any amorous notions, he presumed.

‘You’d do better in an interview if your stomach isn’t growling,’ he observed.

‘Then, you have my permission to feed me.’

And afterwards? She would join him on board or not. If she did, she would be one hell of a distraction from the ugliness banging in his brain that said he’d let his brother down. The world had judged Pietro a more than worthy heir to the throne of Madlena, while Luca was the spare, the bad boy, the rebellious teen; a dark and mysterious figure who was said to run dangerous missions, and who looked like a pirate, sailed like a pirate and, if the scandal sheets were to be believed, rampaged through countless love affairs like a pirate. He had a lot of work to do before he could convince his people that he was not the devil to Pietro’s saint.

Samia and her enormous backpack jostled him as they reached the door.

‘Hands off,’ she said when he offered to carry it for her. ‘I’ll have you know that this is a highly prized fashion item.’

‘In whose universe?’

‘And contains all my worldly goods.’

Why? he wondered. Her green eyes were dancing with laughter, but the shadows were still there. Samia might turn out to be an amusing coda to his trip, or a complete non-event. Either way, he’d board his yacht and sail home.

‘There’s just one more thing,’ she said as the doorman advanced.

‘Only one?’ He groaned theatrically.

‘Any job I take must be lawful and respectable.’

‘Of course. What do you take me for?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ she said honestly.

Recognising him, the uniformed doorman flung the door wide. ‘Principe!’ he gushed, bowing low. ‘What an honour!’

‘Principe?’ Breath shot from Samia’s lungs. ‘What?’

Numb with shock, she stared at Luca, and it took a few moments before the pieces fell into place.

‘I do know you... Of course I do. You don’t work on the Black Diamond. You own it. You’re Luca Fortebracci, heir to the throne of Madlena since your brother’s tragic—’ She stopped when she saw the expression on Luca’s face. ‘I’m so sorry. That was clumsy of me. I’ve been off the grid too long, but that’s no excuse for not thinking before I open my mouth. How insensitive you must think me.’

‘Why should I think that?’

Nice words, but Luca’s tone was frighteningly clipped and cold. She braced herself as he continued, ‘Are you in a position to offer sympathy? Do you know me? Did you know my brother?’

In the space of a brief few moments, the sexy, laid-back guy she’d met in a bar had changed into a cold and distant prince.

‘We need to clear the doorway,’ he rapped. ‘More diners are arriving.’

Cut him some slack! His grief was still raw, and she’d clearly poured salt on the wounds. ‘I’m really sorry. If you’d rather I didn’t come with you, I’ll just go.’

Luca kept his hold on her arm and then she saw his need to hurry. Photographs. Those who had witnessed the mini drama between them were surreptitiously capturing the moment on their phones.

‘Come on,’ Luca gritted out. ‘Let’s get out of here. There’s a time and a place, and this isn’t it.’

She knew how it felt to be the focus of everyone’s interest, and though in her case the scandal had soon passed over, forgotten as someone else came under the spotlight, for royalty it was remorseless.

‘I understand your need for discretion,’ she told Luca, ‘and I get that everything needs to be calm and orderly in the enclosed confines of a yacht, but please don’t let this stand in the way of you considering me for a job. I really need something, and I’ll keep my head down and work as hard as I can. We’ve both relaxed more than perhaps we intended to over this past hour or so—equally, I think we both know playtime is over.’

Luca drew to a halt on the pavement outside. Narrowing his eyes, he pierced her with a stare, as if mining for truth, and then, as if he’d come to a decision, he jerked his chin, indicating it was time to move on.

Stay or go? Glancing behind them, she went with the best option.

She’d touched a nerve by mentioning his brother’s death, but Luca knew that Samia wasn’t responsible for his guilt. If he wanted her on board, he had to ease off. In her favour, having learned he was a prince, and no doubt recalling his colourful reputation, had made no difference to her opinion of him, and there was no doubt she was a welcome change from simpering princesses and spoiled celebrities.

‘Hey! Watch out!’ A surge of concern ripped through him as she almost stepped into the path of a passing coach. ‘I get you had a shock back there, but there’s no need to throw yourself under a bus.’

She looked at him, weighed him up, and then laughed. ‘Wow, I thought I’d lost you there for a moment. Welcome back.’

He huffed something resembling a laugh as he stared down into her heart-shaped face.

‘Are you sure this is good enough for your princely self?’ she asked as they approached the burger stall.

‘On the basis that your mouth will be too full of food for more cheeky remarks, I’d say it’s the perfect choice.’