He laughed scornfully, wading ashore with her. To think he had thought that her baggy, shapeless clothes had meant she was overweight. There wasn’t a kilo of flesh on her that wasn’t in the right place.
‘I can bench twice your weight,’ he said confidently. He lowered her gently to the sand, steadying her with his hands. She looked amazing. Her bare arms were smooth and already beginning to tan, now that they were finally being exposed to the sun.
She was beginning to get used to the transformation, he could see. The look of bewildered disbelief was rarer now; she was accepting what had happened. She was out of the box her parents had locked her into—a coffin for her womanhood.
Well, that was a box she would never go back into. And soon her womanhood would blaze into the glory it deserved.
His expression changed. Patience, he was discovering, was a hard virtue.
‘Tio Rico, I need a new sandcastle. Come and help—’ Ben’s piping treble pierced the air.
Rico was glad of the diversion.
He phoned Jean-Paul after lunch. ‘How would you feel about an exclusive photo-shoot?’ he asked him. ‘Ready for the glossies…’
He would send the photos to the palace first. Remind his father that time was running out for him, that if he kept on stonewalling Rico would simply make the announcement of his marriage himself—and let the press go to town on why the palace had let that happen.
‘Don’t wait too long, Rico. Security at Capo d’Angeli might be tight, but even so—’ His friend’s voice held a warning. ‘This is a story to kill for.’
‘I hear you—so can you do the shoot tomorrow?’
‘I’ll be there. Would I miss the second scoop of a lifetime on you?’ Jean-Paul laughed, and signed off.
Slowly, Rico slid his phone away. His eyes travelled down the terrace to the French windows, behind which Lizzy was attempting to make Ben yield to an afternoon siesta. His thoughts went to them.
Jean-Paul was coming tomorrow. To take photos of the happy couple—the happy family. A fairytale marriage that would set a glow over them all. A perfect ending to the tale—the Playboy Prince marrying the adoptive mother of his brother’s child.
Who had turned out to be Cinderella indeed—not the ugly sister she had always cast herself as. A Cinderella whose transformation had taken him by storm…inflamed his senses.
Whom he longed to embrace…possess…
A troubled look entered his eyes.
Did he have the right to do it? He wanted her, badly. He wanted her because she was a beautiful, alluring woman and he was bowled over by her—because his body was telling him, every time he saw her, that she was a woman to desire. And he wanted her, too, he knew, for her sake—because she had made him feel free and because he had seen her turn into a swan. Yes, she had emerged from the box she’d been locked into, and he wanted to lead her out of it—lead her to where every woman should go.
But did he have the right to take her there?
She’s my wife. What other woman in the world should I desire?
His expression shadowed. Became sombre.
Yes, she was his wife—but their marriage was not about them, it was about Ben. Everything about their marriage, including those fairytale photos tomorrow, would be about Ben. His safety—his future. Not theirs.
Why not about our future? Why not about us?
The words formed in his head, coming from the same place deep within him that told him that the woman he wanted so much now was his wife—a wife to desire…to possess…
He sat very still as he realised what he was thinking.
Feeling.
Wanting.
He had married her, promising her a marriage of convenience purely to protect Ben, to protect her. When that had been achieved, when it would not cause any scandal, then he would end the marriage. Set her free. Set himself free.
I don’t want that—
The realisation seared through him. Burning its way through his brain.