From desire on the high seas...

To royal duty at the altar?

Savoring his last taste of freedom, reluctant Prince Luca Fortebracci escapes to the Mediterranean on his lavish yacht. He’s destined to wear a crown and wed a flawless royal bride, so mysterious British beauty Samia is everything he shouldn’t want—but everything he craves...

Samia’s thrilled by the longing Luca awakens within her but knows a temporary fling is their only option. A future with him is impossible. For the shadows of her past make Samia wholly unsuitable to be Luca’s princess...don’t they?

SUSAN STEPHENS was a professional singer before meeting her husband on the Mediterranean island of Malta. In true Mills & Boon style, they met on Monday, became engaged on Friday and married three months later. Susan enjoys entertaining, travel and going to the theatre. To relax she reads, cooks and plays the piano, and when she’s had enough of relaxing she throws herself off mountains on skis or gallops through the countryside singing loudly.

Also by Susan Stephens

A Diamond for Del Rio’s Housekeeper

The Sicilian’s Defiant Virgin

The Secret Kept from the Greek

A Night of Royal Consequences

The Sheikh’s Shock Child

Pregnant by the Desert King

The Greek’s Virgin Temptation

Snowbound with His Forbidden Innocent

Passion in Paradise collection

A Scandalous Midnight in Madrid

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

A Bride Fit for a Prince?

Susan Stephens

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09809-0

A BRIDE FIT FOR A PRINCE?

© 2020 Susan Stephens

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Note to Readers

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To all my wonderful readers, editors,

publishing professionals, family and pets, who

inspire me every day, and who make writing such a joy.

Thank you!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

HE ENTERED THE restaurant at the front. The young backpacker rushed in from the alley at the back. They met in the middle at the bar.

More accurately, she crashed into him.

‘Sorry! Sorry!’ she exclaimed, bouncing off him with a yelp.

‘No need to apologise.’

He took stock of the new arrival. Bright eyes, firm chin and a face smudged with dust from her travels. It was an interesting face full of character and not unattractive. The impression of soft curves yielding to his muscular frame stayed with him as he stared into eyes the colour of an emerald ocean on an uncomplicated summer’s day—which this should have been. But when was anything as straightforward as it appeared?

‘I’m gagging for a drink of water,’ she gasped to no one in particular. Turning to study his face with engaging frankness, she added, ‘Do I know you?’

‘I don’t believe so.’

‘Are you sure?’

He thumbed twenty-four hours’ worth of stubble. ‘As I can be.’

She continued to stare at him intently, as if his face rang a bell but her brain refused to yield the required information.

This break in proceedings allowed him to inhale her wildflower scent, and to appreciate more than a sweet rosebud mouth pursed in thought. Though, sweet was not a word he would use to describe her, he decided, noting the stubborn set of her chin and narrowed eyes as she ran his features through some internal search engine.

‘I’m sure I know you from somewhere,’ she insisted, still frowning. ‘I just can’t place you yet. But I will,’ she warned with a smile that lit up her face. ‘You’re as out of place here as me, and yet you’re totally relaxed...’

‘Okay, Sherlock Holmes. Anything else?’

‘You’re obviously more used to eating in swanky eateries than I am...’

Undaunted by his silence, she turned to take stock of their surroundings. And gasped. ‘Paint me staggered—I must have stumbled into Oz. Do people really drink magnums of champagne at midday?’

‘It would appear so.’

She had freckles on her nose, he noticed as she wrinkled it with amusement. Having strayed off the alleyway behind the restaurant, she had landed in Babylon, where vintage wines were discussed in hushed tones, as if they were the answer to all the world’s woes, while waiters served delicacies to clientele who, for the most part, couldn’t care what they ate, so long as it was expensive enough to brag about. They were standing in a temple to excess on what was arguably the most stylish marina on the planet. He guessed the staff had left the rear entrance open to allow for the non-stop arrival of stock, as no place on earth could hope to keep sufficient food and booze on the premises to satisfy the appetites of the super-rich.

‘Water and a job are what I need, and in that order,’ the young woman announced, appearing to look to him for the solution. ‘Do you know of anything going?’ Chin angled to one side, she studied his face with brazen interest. Keen intelligence blazed from emerald eyes, and she had an eminently kissable mouth, he mused as she smiled again. ‘Maybe I could get some work on board one of those huge boats in the marina...’ She waited, and when he said nothing, she admitted, ‘I’ve run out of funds. This trip has lasted longer than I expected. There’s just so much to see, and so little time to fit everything in.’

‘You’re on some sort of deadline?’

‘Not exactly,’ she replied, ‘but I do have to get back to work eventually—don’t we all? I can’t spend my entire life roaming. Though, I’d like to.’ A wistful look crept into her eyes. ‘At some point I’ve got to stop travelling and make a go of things again...’

‘Again?’ he probed as she stared off into the middle distance.

‘Oh, you know what I mean,’ she insisted with a careless flip of her wrist.

‘I’m not sure I do. Have you travelled far?’

‘From London, originally.’

‘Where you live and work?’

She didn’t answer his question, her gaze sweeping the marina. ‘I adore the South of France, don’t you?’

As attempts to change the subject went, that was clumsy. ‘The Riviera’s one of many places I like to visit.’

She pulled him up on his apparent disinterest right away. ‘Like? How can anyone like the South of France when it’s so obviously gorgeous and fabulous? Don’t you feel doubly alive when you’re here?’ Her face lit up, and all the tension he’d detected when she’d first burst into the bar dropped away. ‘Music, food, heat, blue skies and sunshine—the way everyone throws back their shoulders and speaks out clearly instead of mumbling. People walk tall here with confidence and optimism, instead of huddling beneath raincoats in a grey, chilly drizzle—’

‘You put forward a good case,’ he conceded, shaking himself out of his black mood. ‘Are you a lawyer?’

‘No, but I’ve often thought legal skills would be useful.’

‘In what way?’

‘Oh, you know,’ she said vaguely.

‘If not a lawyer, are you a writer? Your descriptive skills?’ he prompted.

She laughed and looked away.

‘Why don’t you ask here about jobs?’ he suggested.

She swept a hand down her crumpled clothes. ‘Like they’d hire me looking like this! And, anyway, I want to get as far away as I can. Out to sea would be my preference.’

‘Are you under pressure to get away?’

‘What makes you say that?’ she asked quickly.

‘I’m just following the ball of string as you reel it out.’

‘So I’m not the only detective. I’d better be careful what else I say.’

‘You’d better,’ he agreed as measuring glances flashed between them.

Young, attractive, intelligent and feisty, she was a welcome distraction on a difficult day.

‘I’m guessing you don’t work here,’ she said as she gave him a comprehensive once-over. ‘Ripped shorts and a sleeveless top don’t suggest to me that you’re trying out for the job of waiter.’

‘Me?’ He laughed. ‘No. I don’t think they’d trust me at the sink.’

‘A pot carrier, perhaps?’ she mused. ‘You’ve got the muscles for it.’

‘I’m hired, then?’ he teased with the lift of a brow.

‘You wish.’

When she laughed a dimple appeared in her cheek, he noted.

‘So how come they let you in?’ she asked with an appraising look.

‘Like you, I just walked in. If you do so with confidence, I find no one will stop you.’

‘But you can’t help me with a job?’

‘Sorry. I’m afraid I can’t.’

‘Afraid?’ she demanded askance. ‘I’ve known you less than five minutes, but it’s long enough to know you’re not afraid of anything.’

He might have agreed with her at one time, but when the rock he’d built his life on tottered and splintered into pieces, all bets were off.

‘Maybe you’re the type of guy I should know better than to talk to?’

‘Yet, here we are.’ Making himself comfortable against the wall at the side of the bar, he spread his hands wide.

‘Not for long,’ she said briskly. ‘All I need is a glass of water and then I’m out of here. I bet the barman could see you above their heads,’ she hinted as she took in the crowd at the bar. ‘Please,’ she begged. ‘You make the other men look like shrimps. They’ll part like the Red Sea when they see you on the move. They wouldn’t even notice me jumping up and down.’

‘You flatter me.’

‘Do I?’ she demanded, opening her eyes wide. ‘Entirely unintentional, I assure you.’

‘All right,’ he agreed. ‘Stay there.’

‘I’m not going anywhere without a drink of water,’ she assured him.

She amused him, and had stormed his reserve with nothing more than a bold line in chat and an engaging smile. The pert breasts didn’t hurt. Nor did a taut butt, displayed to best advantage beneath tantalisingly short shorts. It was all too easy to imagine those coltish legs wrapped around his waist, though they were tipped with a pair of battered old boots, which were possibly the ugliest he’d ever seen. He glanced back as he waited at the bar. Her face was a picture of puzzled concentration. She was still hammering away at the computer in her mind as she attempted to place him, he guessed.

Even windswept, she was beautiful. Smudged with dirt from the trail and make-up-free. Her hair, in particular, was an abundant, fiery magnificence. Its unusual shade of copper reminded him of sunset at sea. Held back carelessly with a few pins, it begged to be set free so he could tangle his fingers through the lustrous locks as he eased her head back to kiss his way down the long, slender line of her neck. But it was more than good looks that had captured his attention. She had character and spirit and gave as good as she got, which, in the world of sycophants he was about to inhabit, made her a welcome change.

He was on a deadline. Soon he would return to the principality of Madlena to take the throne after the death of his brother. The responsibility that entailed hog-tied him a little more each day. This might be his last trip on his yacht the Black Diamond before duty put an end to his freedom for good. The last thing he needed was a complication in the form of a sassy young woman with a seemingly bottomless pit of questions. No doubt sex would ease his tension, but his usual pick would be an older, experienced woman who knew the score, not an ingénue on a backpacking trip around Europe.

‘Water! At last!’ she cried theatrically as he handed over a misted bottle and a glass.

As she reached for it, her body brushed his, causing a riot she was seemingly unaware of, while his groin had tightened to the point of pain.

‘Thank you,’ she gasped on a grateful exhalation as she drained the glass.

‘You could use another?’ he guessed.

‘You read my mind. But don’t worry. I can handle it,’ she assured him.

‘Go to it,’ he invited, standing back.

As she’d pressed against him, he’d been given more than a clue about the body beneath her shabby clothes. His adored nonna, Princess Aurelia, might have said this young woman was ‘well made’. Although she was tiny like his grandmother, at least a head smaller than anyone else at the bar, which meant her repeated attempts to attract the barman’s attention were a massive fail.

‘All right,’ she conceded finally. ‘Seems I’ve got no option but to throw myself on your mercy again. Go to it!’ she urged. ‘I’ll cheer you on from the sidelines—as much as I can with a throat that feels like sandpaper.’

Her voice was unmistakeably British, while her mouth was extremely sexy. An almost perfect Cupid’s bow, it tugged up at one corner, which made the endearing dimple appear in her cheek. ‘Hurry,’ she begged, clutching her throat like the leading light in some amateur dramatic society. ‘Can’t you see I’m desperate?’

‘You belong on the stage,’ he commented dryly.

‘Yeah, scrubbing it,’ she agreed.

That she made him laugh on a day when laughter had seemed impossible pointed up the fact that this was no overentitled drip. She wasn’t helpless in any way. Here in this preserve of the rich and famous, where labels didn’t just count, they were mandatory, and where a designer outfit would never dare to show its face twice, she was as poised as a princess—and a lot more fun, if the selection of po-faced contenders drawn up by his royal council was anything to go by. She could also be a lot more trouble, he considered on his return from the bar. Her mouth had pursed disapprovingly when she saw him served before anyone else.

‘I didn’t ask you to crash the line,’ she scolded with a grin.

‘I didn’t. The barman just happens to be superefficient.’

‘Okay,’ she conceded. ‘Well, thank you. You’ve done me a real favour, and I appreciate it.’

‘I splashed out on two glasses of water,’ he pointed out, bringing her back down to earth. ‘Hardly a good enough reason to throw yourself at my feet.’

‘You should be so lucky,’ she assured him. ‘Anyway, sometimes a glass of water is all it takes. Do you know everyone here?’ she added as she glugged it down.

‘No. Why?’

‘Because they’re all staring at you.’

‘Perhaps they’re staring at you.’ When he turned, heads swivelled away as the übersophisticated clientele pretended they hadn’t seen him.

‘Hmm,’ she mused thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think so.’ She downed the second glass in record time. ‘I’m well outclassed.’

That was a matter of opinion.

‘Anyway,’ she added with a gasp of relief as she put the empty glass down, ‘don’t let these nosy parkers worry you. You’ve got me to protect you now.’

‘That’s a joke?’ he asked.

‘Take it any way you want,’ she said, ‘but my suggestion is, just ignore them.’

Fiery hair was a fair indicator of temperament, he suspected, guessing she could be a little terrier if she was put to the test. There was no risk of overdosing on sugar when it came to this woman.

‘So,’ she added, barely pausing for breath, ‘are you going to tell me who you are? I mean, apart from being the only person in here as badly dressed as me?’

There was no denying they were both showing a flagrant disregard for the dress code. As a minimum, patrons were required to wash the sand from their bodies before sitting down to eat—but who questioned royalty? And she was with him.

‘My name is Luca,’ he revealed. ‘And you are?’

‘Before we get to that—’ she gave him one of her cheeky smiles ‘—I want to know how you’ve managed not to be thrown out when you look as if you’ve just stepped out of the sea.’

‘Because that’s exactly what I did.’

‘Okay...’ She drew the word out. ‘My best guess, in that case, is that even if they combined their forces, security and the staff here wouldn’t dream of taking you on.’

‘More compliments?’ he suggested dryly.

Pressing her lips together, she grinned. ‘My mistake. But you still haven’t told me how you get away with it.’

‘Perhaps they like me here, and make an exception?’

‘And perhaps pigs might fly,’ she countered dryly. ‘The maître d’ looks like a regimental sergeant major, and I don’t imagine he lets anyone slip by. You’re either respected or feared,’ she conjectured. ‘So, which is it, Luca?’

Probably a bit of both, he mused. ‘I have been here before,’ he conceded.

‘So are you crew from one of those floating office blocks?’

Following her stare to the line of gleaming superyachts moored up in a row down the quay, he shook his head.

‘Not crew,’ she reflected, ‘yet everyone seems to know you, so are you the local criminal mastermind, or some fabulously wealthy billionaire out slumming it for the day?’

He raised a brow. ‘I imagine I could play either role.’

‘I bet you could,’ she agreed. ‘But not with me.’

‘Has it occurred to you that it might be you that everyone’s staring at?’

‘Me?’ she scoffed. ‘I hardly fit the style brief here. Apart from a few disapproving glances when I first walked in, no one’s looked at me since.’

‘Your fabulous hair might cause comment.’

‘Why, thank you, kind sir,’ she said, dipping into a curtsey.

‘Did I let a compliment slip past me?’ he mocked lightly.

She twisted her mouth before carrying on with her interrogation. ‘It’s definitely not me they’re looking at. Now I’ve had my drink there’s nothing desperate about me to suggest some sort of mystery attached to my coming here, or that might lead anyone to believe I’m seeking sanctuary in this steel and glass temple to excess.’

Sanctuary? ‘Are you running from something?’

Instead of answering his question she went off on another tangent. ‘The trouble with Saint-Tropez is that it’s so misleading. I’d never been here before, so when I first arrived it was hard to believe the town retained the charm of the original fishing village. There’s such an abundance of megayachts and boys’ toys—the dream cars,’ she explained. ‘But everything coexists happily. Bourgeois French life cheek by jowl with ostentatious wealth.’

‘Don’t you approve?’

‘Of course I do. The contrast is what makes Saint-Tropez so special and fun to visit. But don’t change the subject. We’re talking about you.’

‘I changed the subject?’ he challenged.

She shrugged and laughed this off. ‘So, come on—tell me. Are you a celebrity, or a fugitive from the law?’

‘I don’t fall into either category.’

‘You might as well come clean. I’m very good at extracting information,’ she told him with a comic accent.

‘MI6?’

‘I’ve always fancied being a sleuth,’ she admitted, adding a comic face to the mix. ‘I could never resist a good puzzle.’

‘Perhaps I’m hiding out like you.’

‘I’m not hiding out!’

The heat of her defence reinforced his growing belief that that was exactly what she was doing.

‘You could hardly blend into the scenery with your looks,’ she commented, making it sound like the worst insult possible. ‘Simply stating facts,’ she told him when he raised an ironic brow.

Some women simpered and preened when they met him. She did neither, but continued to stare at him narrow-eyed, as if he were an interesting specimen in a lab.

‘The name Luca isn’t much of a clue...’

‘Can you put a name to everyone you meet?’

‘Of course not, but I really feel I should know you,’ she mused, still frowning. ‘Anyway, let’s forget that for now. I’m on my own, trekking around Europe, so I’d better be careful who I talk to. I think it’s time to move on.’

‘That’s your choice, but if you’re so concerned about safety, why strike up a conversation with a stranger in the first place?’

‘You look trustworthy, and you don’t frighten me.’

‘Evidently,’ he agreed, finding it hard to curb a smile.

Where had she been these past few months when his image had been splashed across the press? The tragedy of losing his older brother had resonated across the globe. First his grandmother, and then Pietro had raised him when their parents were killed in an air crash, only for Pietro to die in tragic circumstances. Two brothers cruelly torn apart, with the added fascination of great wealth and royal lineage, had made sure that their story reached everyone’s ears.

Seeing him out of context must have thrown her. He bore no resemblance to the solemn man in uniform that had been pictured in the press. Those images showed a grim-faced individual, mired in sorrow, standing on a parade ground to accept the fealty of troops who were loyal to him now. That man didn’t relax, or slouch on one hip, but stood sternly to attention, as he endured the unendurable, which was to accept that his beloved older brother would never brighten his life again. The diners who knew him here thought only that he was an aristocrat and a billionaire, with a megayacht worthy of mention. His vast three-mast rigger, the Black Diamond, was anchored off shore. Its modern take on a traditional design always caused comment, though no one fussed over him, as billionaires and members of the aristocracy were two a penny in Saint-Tropez.

The yacht was his pride and joy, and a guaranteed escape route from a news-hungry world. He’d bought it some years back with profits from a tech company he’d started in his bedroom as a boy. News had spread quickly that the Pirate Prince—as people liked to call him, thanks to his uniquely sinister yacht with its black sails and night-dark hull—was indulging in one last round of freedom before embarking on a life of royal circumspection.

‘Since you’re not afraid of me,’ he told the young woman, ‘I think it’s time we became properly acquainted.’

‘I’m honoured,’ she mocked, bringing her hand palm flat to her magnificent breasts. ‘My name is Samia. Samia Smith.’

‘Exotic,’ he commented.

‘Me, or the name?’ A smile tugged at her lips.

‘What if I said both?’

‘I’d say you were trying too hard and I don’t think that’s you.’

The name suited her perfectly. A bunch of contradictions, Samia was resolutely upbeat, but there was no mistaking the shadows behind her laughing eyes. ‘Samia,’ he murmured. Having tried the name on his tongue he found it rolled off like warm, sweet honey, much as she’d taste, he imagined. ‘Very pleased to meet you, Samia Smith.’

‘Also very pleased,’ she said as they shook hands. She spared him another curtsey. But had she placed him, he wondered as she narrowed her eyes to stare thoughtfully into his. And would it change her attitude towards him if she had?

His best guess was no.

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.’

A rebellious glint fired in her eyes that promised more entertainment down the line. What had happened to his much-vaunted control? Wrecked, he concluded when he’d bought the burger and watched Samia lap red sauce from her fingers.

‘So what do you think you know about me?’ he asked as a distraction from his body’s urgent prompting to do more with this woman than eat burgers.

‘Very little,’ she admitted. ‘Only what I’ve read in the press.’

‘You mentioned being off the radar a while. Is that because of this trip?’

She confined her answer to a brief nod.

‘I was hoping for more than that,’ he admitted.

Flattening her lips, she said nothing, but her eyes told him firmly, Back off.

He liked that she stood up to him, but as he caught sight of the Black Diamond, apparently floating serenely on a tranquil ocean, when he knew all about dangerous currents lurking beneath, it was as if sailing was a metaphor for life. He didn’t know this woman, or the harm she could do to him.

‘Don’t you want to share?’ she asked, holding out the greasy bun.

His mind flew to the galley on board the Black Diamond where his Michelin-starred chef would be preparing some delicacy to tempt him. ‘Thank you, but I’ll pass.’

‘Not up to your princely standards?’

He gave her a look, then thought of the unidentifiable sludge he used to eat in the army. ‘I have a healthy appetite, and it will take more than a mouthful of meat to satisfy me.’

Her cheeks fired red, but she drove past her embarrassment to assure him she would remember that, if she got a job in his galley.

Or in his bed.

‘Once you’ve had a chance to settle in, I’ll assess what you can do.’

‘Settle in?’ she queried, pulling her head back to frown at him. ‘What do you think I’ve got in this knapsack? It isn’t the Tardis. If I have to wear a uniform it would double the number of outfits I own. Will I have to wear a uniform?’

A number of options flashed into his mind. ‘Not right away.’

She lightened him, he admitted silently, and no one but his beloved nonna could do that. A better state of mind was good for him, and could only be good for his people. Her banter amused him, and her quick wits kept his on point. Either she’d annoy the hell out of him when they were on board, in which case she’d leave at the next port, or she’d join him in bed.

‘Will we be sailing straight to Madlena?’ she asked as if reading his mind.

‘I haven’t decided yet,’ he said as they approached his private dock.

‘Aren’t you due at an enthronement in a couple of weeks’ time?’

His hackles rose. He didn’t need a reminder that the gulf between the freedom he was enjoying now and the shackles he was facing then was closing. ‘What’s that to you?’

‘Hold on to your hat,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m just trying to work out your schedule, so I know where I stand.’

His schedule might have to undergo some radical changes if he was to fit in an interlude of pleasure before duty claimed him. That gap had almost closed already, he concluded as they approached the tight security cordon at the entrance to his dock. ‘We might take a small diversion.’

‘We?’ she queried.

‘The crew and I.’

The Fortebracci dynasty would have to wait a little longer for its next Prince to forge some cold-blooded alliance with a po-faced princess. Spending time with a woman who gave as good as she got held far more appeal.

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