Royally Bedded, Regally Wedded

Rico had come up behind him.

Ben tilted his head to one side. ‘Is Mummy a princess, then?’

‘Yes,’ said Rico casually, padding himself dry with a towel. ‘When I married her she became a princess.’

‘Has she got a crown?’ Ben asked interestedly. He had a strong mental association between royalty and crowns.

‘She can have a tiara. For when she goes to a ball.’

Ben’s eyes lit up.

‘Like Cinderella?’

‘Exactly like Cinderella,’ said Rico.

His eyes went to Lizzy’s face, and then shadowed. There was a look in her eyes he did not want there, but he knew why it was.

Lizzy looked away. If there was any role in Cinderella she was ideally cast for, it was not the heroine. It was as an ugly sister.

It was Maria—Maria who had been Cinderella—swept off her feet by Prince Charming. But the coach had crashed.

Rico saw her look away. Read her thought. His mouth pressed tight. It was time to get this sorted. Time to put that cruel word in the trash once and for all.

She was comfortable with him now, he knew—and he with her. But that harsh word still remained between them like a poison. A poison that needed to be drawn.

And there was no point delaying it any longer. It was time, more than time, to do something about it.

It proved very easy to arrange. The shopping complex by the marina was designed to cater to the needs of those who stayed at Capo D’Angeli. And those needs included the overwhelming demand to attend to their appearance—clothes, hair, beauty treatments, manicures; whatever was required was available.

He would book the lot, and let them loose on her.

The following day, at breakfast, he made his announcement.

‘I will look after Ben today. You will be too busy.’

Lizzy stared. ‘Busy?’ she asked. Apprehension filled her.

Rico only smiled cryptically. ‘Very busy,’ he said.

Within the hour, she found out just how busy.

Lizzy had her eyes shut. Over her head, it sounded as if the army of people who had invaded her bedroom were having a heated argument. They weren’t, she knew—they were just discussing her. But in a very Italianate manner they were doing so vehemently, with many loud exclamations. She could understand why. They had been given an impossible brief—to spin straw into gold.

Make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.

Mortification filled her.

She’d known this moment must come. Known that, however desperate the circumstances of her sudden marriage to Rico had been, they could not hide here at the villa for ever. At some point they would have to emerge. Face the world.

The prospect appalled her.

She could wear all the designer clothes in the world, but it would still be her underneath. Nothing could change that. Maria had looked a knock-out even in rags, because she’d had a face, a body, that was a knock-out.

Guilt knifed through her. Guilt and grief. Oh, God, it should be Maria here, in this beautiful Italian villa, having her honeymoon with her golden prince. Looking forward blissfully to their happy-ever-after. Their own personal fairytale.

Her hands twisted in her lap. Grief and guilt twisted together.

And not just guilt for her sister.