The Mediterranean Prince's Passion (The Royal House 0f Cacciatore Book 1) Read online

  With an effort he tore his eyes away from the silken thrust of her thighs as she came down the stairs towards him.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said shortly, and gave an insulting glance at his watch. ‘You might not be hungry, cara, but I am. I’ll drop you off at the hotel and then I’m going out to dinner.’

  Who with? she wondered. But the painful lurch of her heart was caused not by vague imagined jealousies, but by the realisation that already she was swiftly moving into Nico’s past.

  Soon she would be little more than a hazy memory.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE trouble was that there was no one Ella could tell—not really—because even to herself it sounded completely unbelievable. What would her parents say—or Rachel, or her best friend Celia—if she suddenly blurted out the reason for her sudden mood swings and the tears in her eyes that swam up without warning?

  Well, it’s like this. I’ve fallen in love with a prince, but he doesn’t love me. We’ve had an affair and now it’s over, and I have to move on and get on with my normal life.

  In the end she had to come up with some explanation, so she came up with one that said it all.

  It’s a man.

  Then they all understood, and there was no need for any more explanation at all. No one particularly cared where he was or who he was—although Celia had a pretty good try—because the bottom line was that he was out of the picture and Ella was left nursing a broken heart.

  And when she stopped to think about it that really was the fundamental issue. It didn’t matter that Nico was a prince. If he had been a banker or a restaurant owner or a truck driver would her pain have been any less?

  Of course not. Love hurt. It sliced through your heart with its particular and specific pain and you just had to wait for time to heal it. That boring prediction that everyone made. Time heals. On an intellectual level you knew it was true, but on an emotional one—well, you just couldn’t imagine not living in this state of misery for the rest of your life.

  Her departure from Mardivino had been hurried and inglorious. Oh, an elegant car had arrived to take her to the airport, but it had been driven by a chauffeur, not by Nico.

  Her only contact with him after that night, when he had driven her home in a simmering silence, had been a terse and factual telephone call when he had informed her of flight times.

  The only unexpected touch had come at the end of the conversation, when Nico had added, or perhaps growled might be a more accurate description of his tone, ‘Gianferro thinks that your idea is an inspired one.’

  And because she had been hanging onto her composure only by a thread, her response had come out as cool and sardonic. ‘Please tell him that I am delighted to have been of service.’

  So there you had it, thought Ella as she stared out of the window into her garden. Even the weather was reflecting her mood. It was one of those grey, depressing days when the clouds seemed so low they could touch your head, spilling out relentless sheets of rain.

  It had been raining ever since she’d arrived home, and now the lawn was like a quagmire, with great boggy puddles splashed by the falling stair-rods.

  Even by mid-morning the day did not seem to have lifted at all, and Ella had to light a lamp. She switched the radio on to find that a faded television personality was enjoying a renewed lease of fame by trekking to remote places all over the globe.

  Maybe I should do something like that? Ella thought. Change of scenery.

  She found that she missed Mardivino—but who wouldn’t? She couldn’t think of a single person who would not have ached for those clear blue skies and sapphire waters, and the green-clothed mountains and white-capped houses of the capital.

  She fiddled with the radio, swapping the explorer for the more soothing sounds of classical music, and had just made herself a large pot of coffee when there was a ring at the doorbell. She sighed.

  Please don’t be Rachel, she thought. Or Celia. Or any other well-meaning friend who had decided that she needed ‘taking out of herself’. For a second she thought about not answering it, but only for a second.

  No.

  The world wasn’t going to go away, and nor should it.

  When she pulled the door open, it was with a smile. Funny, that. Inside, your heart could be breaking into a thousand little pieces, but somehow you managed to disguise it with a bright smile.

  But the smile froze into a burning slash on her lips, for it was not Rachel, or Celia, but Nico who stood there, with raindrops sparkling on his black hair, his face shadowed and his big, strong body so alive and virile.

  He looked…

  Ella swallowed.

  He looked both man and prince. Despite the soaking flying jacket and the faded jeans, there was something indefinably regal about his proud and autocratic bearing.

  Never had he looked more desirable, nor quite so unobtainable.

  He stared down at her upturned face, pale and heart-shaped, with eyes like two enormous emeralds, and saw there the swift look of pain and regret. For a moment he almost turned away. Perhaps the feelings they aroused in each other were too intense—too incompatible with life itself—especially his life. Perhaps she had come to that conclusion herself. But he knew that he had to find out.

  ‘Ciao, bella,’ he said softly, and then, even more softly, ‘Gabriella.’

  He was the only person who had ever called her that. As if by using her true name he had awoken the true woman who had always lain beneath the surface. A woman who could love and live and feel and hurt—a woman with the same passions as him, only he sublimated those passions using damned machines!

  Ella stared at him, wanting to pinch herself, trying to get used to the fact that he was not a figment of her imagination but standing here, on her doorstep.

  She thought that he looked different. Harder, and leaner. Edgy. His jaw was dark-shadowed—taunting her with its potent symbol of virility. Seeing him again made the grey day suddenly seem bright, and Ella felt her heart melt. Oh, God—would she ever be able to look at him without curling up inside for love of him?

  ‘Nico!’ she exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Getting wet,’ he said wryly.

  ‘Oh, God—you’d better come in!’

  His lips were curved in a rueful smile. When in his life had he ever been left standing in the pouring rain on someone’s doorstep?

  ‘Give me your jacket,’ she said hurriedly, because it was easier to compose herself when she was doing something, and he was very wet. But her hands were shaking as she hung the dripping jacket up. Compose herself? Who did she think she was kidding?

  She ran her eyes over his face, not daring to nurture the tiny flicker of hope she felt. Just because he was here, it didn’t mean anything. ‘Why are you here?’ she whispered.

  His very presence here was a statement that normally would have been enough. But it was not enough. She had accused him of many things, but the one that had struck home had been running away. And using circumstances and privilege and things—yes, things—as a substitute for reality. Stark reality. Which was sometimes painful but which you could not hide from for ever if you wanted to live in any degree of peace.

  But Nico was a man who had never explained his feelings before—never had to—and, as with learning all new skills, he found himself in the long-forgotten position of being a novice.

  ‘I’ve got rid of my bike,’ he said.

  Ella blinked as her foolish little fantasies crumbled into dust. Whatever she might have been secretly hoping for, it had not been to talk about his damned motorbike! Her face was expressionless. ‘Have you?’ she questioned woodenly.

  He realised that this was not what she wanted to hear. Like a child learning to swim, he attempted a second, tentative stroke. ‘I don’t want to be a “sad old man of fifty careering around the hills.”’

  He was throwing her words back at her. Ella bit her lip. ‘I shouldn’t have said that—’

  ‘On the contrary, c
ara mia—you said exactly the right thing.’

  ‘I did?’

  He heard the disbelief in her voice and knew it was justified. ‘How else could I learn?’ he questioned simply, and he smiled as he saw her lips part in sheer astonishment. ‘I didn’t want to hear it at the time, but then no one had ever spoken quite like that to me before. I don’t want those thrills and spills any more. They mean nothing. They count for nothing because they are not real.’ Now his black gaze was very steady. ‘But you thrill me, Ella, and you are real. Very real.’

  She could scarcely breathe, but she knew that she wanted more than she suspected he was offering. And more than that she needed him to say it again, as if only repetition could convince her that he meant it, that it wasn’t just a whim because the physical thing between them was such dynamite.

  ‘You’ll get good sex with another woman, Nico, you know you will.’

  His face darkened. Stubborn, obtuse woman! ‘I’m not talking about sex!’

  ‘You’re not?’

  In the background he could hear the rippling notes of a piano being played, and the music drifted the most poignant sensation of contentment over his skin. ‘No.’

  ‘Then…what are you talking about?’

  Nico scowled. ‘I don’t know. It feels like love.’ This was an unimaginable admission, but it was not quite the truth. Hadn’t she peeled back all the layers of his life, forcing him to look deep into the true and sometimes painful core of it? Did he now dare? For a man who had spent his life taking risks, there had never been one that seemed quite as daunting as this one. He shrugged his shoulders like a little boy. ‘It is love,’ he admitted. ‘I am in love with you. I love you, Gabriella.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ she breathed. ‘Oh, Nico.’

  Her eyes were dazzling him—blinding him with a fervent emerald gaze that was more vivid than the shades found in any ocean. And in them he saw what she felt for him, a wordless declaration of how much he meant to her.

  But was it enough? Would she be prepared to relinquish her freedom for a Royal life, aspects of which she professed to despise?

  ‘Do you think we can have a future together?’ he questioned softly.

  Ella shook her head. ‘I can’t think beyond the next second,’ she declared, her voice breaking. ‘And if you don’t come here and hold me then I think I might just die.’

  Taking her in his arms was the easiest thing he had ever had to do, and to feel her arms wrapping tightly around his neck as though she was never going to let him go felt like coming home. Nico closed his eyes against the scented silk of her hair.

  It defied all logic and sense, this feeling—more precious and more rare than any of the priceless jewels contained in his family’s palaces. And he had only ever experienced it with her. Only her. In her arms. Like this. For this feeling men relinquished kingdoms, and he could understand exactly why.

  ‘Shh,’ he soothed as he felt her begin to tremble against him. ‘I know. Believe me, cara mia, I know.’

  He tipped her chin up and their eyes sizzled frantic seeking messages, questions answered without a single word being spoken. And then his mouth moved to blot out all the pain and the heartache, touching down on her lips with a tenderness she had never thought he would show, and she cupped his face in her hands and tenderly kissed him back.

  And when eventually they drew back from it their eyes were dazed.

  ‘Cielo dolce,’ murmured Nico, shaken by the power and beauty of the embrace, for he had never known that a kiss could be anything other than fore-play. How little he knew! How much to learn. He stroked her face, like a blind man seeking to see by touch alone.

  Ella stared up at him. Could this really be happening? And even if it was, what happened now? When two people were in love, of course they talked about a future—but this was not as it was for other people. How could it be? She pressed her finger to his cheek, which was still cool and faintly damp. ‘We can’t talk here. You’re frozen—come and let’s sit by the fire.’

  The sweet, sane normality of her words made him smile. ‘You’ve lit a fire? But it’s only September.’

  ‘And freezing! Come through. I’m going to pour us a brandy.’

  He held his hands out to the blaze and sank down. It pleased her to see him sprawling on her rug, his long legs stretched out in front of him. She sploshed a measure of brandy into two glasses and went and sat down beside him. Only when they had sipped and put the drinks down in the hearth did she turn to him.

  ‘So what has changed you from the icy man who stormed away to this…’ She traced his lips with her finger, as if to confirm that he was real and not some dream that would evaporate in a second.

  He opened his mouth and trapped the finger, sucking on it until it was quite wet. Seeing her eyes darken, he took it out again and absently wrapped it in a fold of his cashmere sweater, and left it there.

  ‘You did. You changed me,’ he said softly. ‘You forced me to look at things I did not wish to. You made me see that, yes, I was running away—all the time—running from feelings, because feelings can hurt.’ He shrugged. ‘But, more than that, you made me see my life for what it was, and without you it is empty. I want to be with you, Gabriella.’

  She forced herself to be practical, because if she started slipping into her greatest wish and then circumstances snatched it away again… ‘But Gianferro will never allow it!’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because I’m a commoner and you’re a prince! He will never approve of me!’

  ‘He certainly does approve of you,’ he contradicted drily. ‘He was storming round the throne room yesterday morning, asking what it was that you had which could make me see sense, when he had been trying to drum it into me for years!’

  ‘Approval is one thing,’ she said slowly, ‘but us having a life together is quite something else. And how can we? I live here and you live in Mardivino. You can’t live here, for practical reasons, and if I came out to join you in Mardivino then we’d have to conduct our affair in secret.’

  ‘Not if we were married.’

  Ella stared at him. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Sudden onset of defective hearing, Gabriella?’ he teased.

  ‘Did you just mention marriage?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You want to marry me?’

  ‘Of course I do! Don’t you want to marry me?’ He shot her a look of affectionate reprimand. ‘Though you still have not told me you love me!’

  ‘Of…’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Oh, my God—of course I love you, my darling, darling Nico—you know that I do.’

  ‘Si,’ he agreed, with arrogant contentment. ‘I do.’

  ‘But we can’t get married!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s too soon!’

  He shook his dark head and placed his hand on his heart in the most romantic gesture that Ella could ever have imagined. ‘No, it isn’t,’ he contradicted softly. ‘In fact, in this we are following tradition, for Royal courtships are never long drawn out.’

  ‘But won’t you need Gianferro’s permission?’

  ‘I would marry you without it, cara mia.’ His eyes glittered. ‘But my resistance is academic, since he has already given it.’

  Ella blinked. ‘S-seriously?’

  He nodded. ‘Oui, c’est vrai.’

  She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ‘You told me that Italian was the language of love!’

  He smiled. ‘And so it is,’ he agreed softly. ‘But French is the language of the law—and marriage is both—a combination of love and obligation.’ There was a pause, a silence broken only by the loud drumming of a heart. Was that his, or hers? ‘Will you marry me, Gabriella?’

  She didn’t blurt her answer out. She gave it the consideration that she knew she must, for a Royal marriage was different. She loved him, yes, but obligation and duty were paramount if they were to be happy together, and she must only accept his offer if she could be certain that she would make him a good wi
fe.

  ‘Oh, yes, Nico,’ she said softly, fervently. ‘I would be proud and honoured to be your wife.’

  EPILOGUE

  EVERYONE loved a Royal wedding, and Mardivino was no exception. The world’s press went crazy about the story of the youngest of the three darkly handsome princes falling in love with an ‘ordinary’ girl from England.

  It was all a bit overwhelming.

  In the end, Ella decided to confound all the pundits who were wildly predicting which of the world’s most exclusive designers would be lucky enough to create her wedding gown. She opted instead for a beautifully simple dress of finest white lawn, lovingly crafted by her mother’s dressmaker. In her arms she carried a bouquet of that most English of flowers—pure white roses.

  ‘Understated is the new black!’ screamed the pundits.

  But for Ella it did not matter that they were marrying in Solajoya’s exquisite medieval cathedral, with world leaders and Royalty among the congregation. She was marrying the man she loved, who loved her, and that was the only thing that counted.

  When she looked into his eyes at the altar everything else retreated, for all she could see was Nico, and only Nico—her love and her life.

  Nico had given her a free hand to refurnish his house outside the city, but they had also been given a suite of rooms in the palace itself. It could all have been a bit daunting, but Ella’s love outshone everything else, and she took on her new role with both zeal and pleasure.

  They would work together, too.

  Although they would not live together until after the marriage, Nico had introduced her to all areas of his life, and she had discovered just how many different schemes he was involved with. Little wonder he hadn’t had time to visit every single village on the island—but part of his new regeneration programme was to explore the under-funded towns, with Ella by his side.

  He had ordered the relocation of Solajoya’s main museum, and he wanted her to help plan a worldwide tour of Juan Lopez’s work—to bring the ‘artist’s artist’ to a much wider arena.