The Mediterranean Prince's Passion (The Royal House of Cacciatore 1)

On the other side of the bay she could see hills clothed in dark green, with ice-white villas set like jewels within them. It was a combination of natural beauty and vast wealth—a world accessible only to the very few—and in any other circumstances she would be pinching herself and enjoying every second of it.

She ran her fingertips over the petal of a waxy orchid, telling herself that she would be crazy not to enjoy at least some of this once-in-a-lifetime experience.

She dressed for sightseeing, putting on a pair of flat strappy sandals that matched her ice-blue sun-dress, and tying her hair back in a blue ribbon. She finished off with a wide-brimmed straw hat, and as she checked herself in one of the mirrors she could see the image she presented was cool and contained. Good. Long may it last.

The day was bakingly hot, but a light breeze stopped it from being oppressive and the hat had been a good idea. Nico had been right about the walking bit, for the hilly streets around the harbour were all cobbled—picturesque, but hardgoing. She peered in all the shop windows, where stores selling luxury goods and clothes jostled next to those selling boat accessories. So far, all pretty predictable.

There were pavement cafés galore, and she found an empty seat and sat outside one, ordering an extremely expensive cup of coffee. She sat sipping cappuccino and watching the people come and go. The main cause of congestion really did seem to be centred around the art gallery dedicated to Juan Lopez. At one point two coaches disgorged their contents at the top of one of the quaint streets, and as they surged forward it felt a bit like being outside a football ground before the match started.

Ella got out her notebook and wrote for a little while, and then went off and found a bookshop.

Inside, it was dark and deliciously cool. There was a whole section about Juan Lopez, but Ella’s attention was distracted by a part of the shop given over entirely to books about the ruling family of Mardivino.

Here there were biographies and picture books, family portraits and single portraits. In a sweet little tome entitled Just Like Us, she found a photo of Nico as a baby—a chubby-faced little cherub, wearing a cascading lace christening robe, being cradled in the arms of his nurse. Maybe that was normal for Royal princes, but she happened to know that his mother had died when Nico was just a baby.

There was a whole muted and solemn chapter about the death of the young Queen, and a heartbreaking shot of the three boys—the two older boys clad in matching dark grey coats and a crying Nico being held by another nurse—as they watched the flower-decked coffin file past.

She had read about the death of his mother during her research, of course, but seeing it here—in black and white and in Mardivino itself—somehow made it more real and more poignant.

It made her see him as flesh and blood—someone who really would bleed if you cut him. It made him seem lovable and in need of love—but surely that was just wishful thinking on her part?

Her fingers twitched irresistibly onto a chapter devoted entirely to Nico, entitled ‘The Daredevil Prince’. Here were snatched shots of Nico the action man among the formal poses—Nico sailing a yacht, giving a thumbs up at the top of a snowy mountain, and astride a monstrously large-looking motorbike.

Ella read on, engrossed, until she glanced at her watch and saw to her horror that she should have been back at L’Etoile ten minutes ago. But she couldn’t get the image of the motherless baby out of her mind. Did his love for all things fast and dangerous stem from a childhood without the grounding of a mother, with palace servants forbidden by protocol to show him real love? Or was that too simplistic an explanation?

She sped towards the hotel to find him waiting for her, leaning against the door of his car and her heart turned over.

His posture was outwardly relaxed, but as she grew closer she could see the tell-tale look of irritation that hardened his autocratic features and made his black eyes glitter. Her tender concern vanished under that cold look of censure.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said automatically.

‘Not very professional of you,’ he bit out—because he had felt strangely out of place, hanging around the car like a chauffeur. ‘Perhaps it pleases you to make me wait?’ he mused. ‘Did you do so deliberately?’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Of course I didn’t—I just lost track of the time.’

She was completely unapologetic! Quite the opposite, in fact! Nico was consumed by a simmering rage overpowered by a bubbling frustration. He looked down into her flushed face, at her parted lips, and felt the urge to kiss her as a kind of punishment—to tell her that no one ever kept him waiting.

He held the door of the car open, shaking his head slightly. A kiss? As a kind punishment? Who the hell did he think he was kidding?

As she moved towards the door he had opened for her, her bare arm brushed against his. It was the briefest and most fleeting contact, but it was like the sizzle of electricity, tingling fire over her skin, and she stepped back as if she had been stung.

‘Don’t,’ she whispered.

Their eyes met.

‘Don’t what?’ He could feel the tiny hairs standing up at the back of his neck and he stared back at her, angry and slightly appalled at himself for being so affected by such an innocent touch. ‘What did I do, cara?’ he mocked. ‘Don’t blame me for your own feelings. You want me. You still want me—you’re just too hypocritical to admit it.’

He walked round to the driver’s seat and slammed the door behind him, leaving Ella to shakily take her place beside him.

Ignore it, she told herself. Because if you don’t you’ll only have to admit he’s right.

The car screeched away and Ella stole a glance at Nico’s stony profile.

‘Who’s sulking now?’ she questioned.

With an effort he roused himself out of his reverie. ‘Not me.’

‘Just don’t want to talk?’