This was it.

The challenge that was going to tell him who he really was. What his values really were and whether he was made of the right stuff to rule a country in the best interests of the many thousands of people who would be trusting him to do the right thing.

He’d convinced himself that resisting the attraction he felt towards Mika was that test, so why—in this moment after those words had been uttered, when it felt as if time was holding its breath—did it feel so utterly wrong?

As if he didn’t really have a choice at all?

Again, he was reminded of when she had taken his hand, up there on the top of that cliff. Of when her trembling had finally ceased and he’d known she was trusting him.

He’d felt taller, then. Powerful in a way that had had nothing to do with him as a prince but everything to do with who he was as a man. Nothing would have persuaded him to break that trust.

And right now Mika was trusting him with so much more than her hand. She was asking him to take hold of her whole body, and by doing so he would still be leading her to safety—wouldn’t he?

The Forbidden Prince
Alison Roberts

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ALISON ROBERTS is a New Zealander, currently lucky enough to live near a beautiful beach in Auckland. She is also lucky enough to write for both the Mills & Boon Cherish and Medical Romance lines. A primary school-teacher in a former life, she is also a qualified paramedic. She loves to travel and dance, drink champagne and spend time with her daughter and her friends.

For Becky

With all my love

Contents

COVER

INTRODUCTION

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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

EPILOGUE

EXTRACT

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

SO THIS WAS what freedom felt like.

Raoul de Poitier sucked in a deep breath as he paused to get his first proper glimpse of the view he’d climbed about two thousand steps to find.

He had the whole world at his feet.

Well...he had what looked like a large part of the Amalfi coast of the Mediterranean down there, anyway. Far, far below he could pick out the tiny blue patch that was the swimming pool on the roof of the hotel Tramonto d’Oro where he’d stayed last night. Beside that was the tiled dome and spire of the ancient church against the terracotta tiles and white houses of the small coastal town of Praiano.

Beyond the village, the waters of the Mediterranean stretched as far as the horizon, a breathtakingly sapphire blue as the sunlight gentled its way to dusk. Somewhere out there was his homeland—the European principality of Les Iles Dauphins.

Another deep breath was released in what felt like a sigh, and with it came a pang of...what... homesickness? Guilt, perhaps?

His grandfather was ill. His heart was failing and it was time for him to step down from ruling his land. To hand the responsibility to the next-in-line to the throne.

His grandmother would be anxious. Not only about her beloved husband but about the grandson she’d raised as her own child after the tragic death of his parents.

‘I don’t understand, Raoul. A holiday...yes. Time to prepare yourself for what is to come. For your marriage... But alone? Incognito? That’s not who you are.’

‘Maybe that’s what I need to find out, Mamé. And this is the last chance I will ever get.’

No. The pang wasn’t guilt. He needed this time to centre himself for what was to come. To be sure that he had what it took to put aside his own desires if that was what was required to protect and nurture a whole nation, albeit a tiny one. He was thirty-two years old but he hadn’t been really tested yet. Oh, there’d been formal duties that had got in the way of private pleasures, and he had always had to curb any desire to push the boundaries of behaviour that might be frowned on by others. But, within that reasonably relaxed circumference, he’d been able to achieve the career that had been top of his chosen list—as a helicopter pilot in his country’s first-rate rescue service. And he’d had his share of a seemingly infinite supply of beautiful women.

All that was about to change, however. The boundaries would shrink to contain him in a very tight space. Almost every minute of every day would be accounted for.

He had always known it would happen. He just wasn’t sure how ready he was to accept it. Somehow, he needed to find that out. To test himself, by himself, which was why this had to be in a place where he knew no one and no one knew who he was.

Was it homesickness, perhaps? Because he was feeling a new and rather extraordinary sensation of being alone? No. He’d dealt with homesickness many years ago when he’d been sent to the best schools that Europe had to offer and, while the love of his family and homeland would always draw him back and enfold him, he loved to travel.

It was relief, that was what it was. He had won this time. A reprieve from thinking about the overwhelming responsibility of being in charge of a nation, along with the daunting prospect of a marriage that had been arranged when he’d been no more than a child. A union that would bond two similar principalities together and strengthen them both.

Raoul turned away from the view of the sea. Les Iles Dauphins was out of sight and he was going to try and put it out of mind for just a little while.

He was free. All he had was in his backpack and he could choose any direction at all, the time he would take to get there and how long he would stay when he did. As of yesterday, nobody knew where he was and he was confident that nobody would recognise him. His hair grew fast and he’d deliberately missed his last cut. His beard was coming along well, too. With his dark sunglasses, he could pass for any European tourist. Italian, French... Spanish, even.

He could feel the corners of his mouth curve. If he’d had a guitar case on his back instead of his backpack, he would probably have looked like a flashback to the sixties. He was completely alone for what felt like the first time in his entire life. No family, no friends and, most importantly, no bodyguards or lurking paparazzi. He had won the freedom simply to be himself.

He just needed to find out who that was, exactly, because he had a feeling there were layers to his personality that had been buried for ever. Even his earliest memories involved a performance of some kind. Of behaving in a way that would never have been expected of others.

How many five-year-olds could take part in a national ceremony to mourn both parents and not cry until they were finally alone in their own beds and presumed to be sound asleep? Who had childhood friends chosen for them and, even then, had to be careful of what was said? What young adult knew how much had been sacrificed by a generation that had already raised a child and shouldn’t have had to start all over again? The burden of a debt that could never properly be repaid had never been intended but it was there all the same.

He had never been drunk enough to do anything inappropriate or create a scandal by dating indiscreet women. He had excelled in his university studies and military training and, until he’d taken this leave, had shone in his role as a helicopter pilot for a service that provided both military transport and emergency rescue services.

Sometimes, it felt like his life had been recorded by photographs that had been staged for public consumption and approval. A picture-perfect life of a happy prince. And the next album would have all the pomp and ceremony of his coronation, then his wedding and then the births of the next generation of the de Poitier royal family.

The happiness was not an illusion. Raoul loved his life and knew how incredibly fortunate he was but his curiosity of the unknown had teased him with increasing frequency of late. Was there something solid that formed the essence of who he was as a person? Something that would have been there if he hadn’t been born a prince?

He had four weeks to try and find some kind of answer to what seemed an impossible question and the only plan he had come up with was to see if he could find a challenge that would be testing enough to make him dig deep. He had set out with no more than the bare essentials of survival in a backpack—a phone, a fake ID, limited funds and a change of clothes. This demanding climb up a mountain to the track that led from Praiano to Positano was just the first step on a very private journey.

Or maybe it wasn’t quite that private.

Frowning, Raoul stared at the narrow, winding track ahead of him. He could hear voices. One voice, anyway.

Faint.

Female.

‘Aiuti... Per favore aiutatemi...’

* * *

The vertigo had come from nowhere.

Utterly unexpected and totally debilitating.

Tamika Gordon was clinging to the side of a cliff and she didn’t dare open her eyes. If she did, the nausea would come back, the world would start spinning again and there would be nothing to stop her falling into that terrifyingly sheer drop onto rocks hundreds of feet below. But keeping her eyes shut didn’t wipe out the knowledge that the unprotected edge to this track was no more than the length of her arm away.

The panic that led her to cry for help was almost as terrifying as the yawning chasm below.

Mika didn’t do panic. She’d been told more than once that she was ‘as hard as nails’ and she was proud of it. It was a badge of honour, won by surviving. Of course she was tough. Who wouldn’t be when they’d been dragged up through a succession of disastrous foster homes and then had ended up on the streets as a teenager? She’d fought for everything she had achieved in her twenty-nine years on earth so far and she’d been confident she could cope with whatever life chose to throw at her.

But this...this was totally out of her control. She’d fought it for as long as possible with sheer willpower but the symptoms were physical rather than mental and they had increased in ferocity until she’d reached a point of complete helplessness—reduced to a shivering blob of humanity clinging to a couple of tufts of coarse mountain grass. It was beyond humiliating. She’d be angry about it as soon as she got out of this and the terror had a chance to wear off. If she ever got out of this...

She hadn’t seen anyone else on this supposedly popular walking route so far. Maybe that was her own fault. She’d chosen to set off from Praiano much later in the day than most people because she knew the light would be so much better for taking photographs. And maybe she’d spent too much time down at the monastery halfway up the steps, taking photographs with her precious new camera and scribbling notes in her pristine journal.

How long would it be before it got dark?

‘Help...’ She tried English this time instead of Italian. ‘Can anyone hear me?’

Her voice wavered and tears stung as they gathered behind her eyelids. This recognition of a despair she hadn’t felt since she’d been too young to protect herself had to be the worst moment of her adult life.

‘I’m coming... Hold on...’

She wasn’t alone. There was hope to be found now. A glowing light in the darkness of that despair. It was a male voice she’d heard, the words short, as if he was out of breath, and in the space after those words Mika could hear the sound of shoes crunching on the sparse gravel of the track.

He was running?

When there were only a few feet between the steep wall of the cliff above and that appalling drop into nothingness below?

The speed of the footsteps slowed and then stopped.

‘What is it?’ A deep voice with a faint accent that she couldn’t place. ‘Are you hurt?’

Mika shook her head, her eyes still tightly closed. The overwhelming relief at not being alone any more made speech impossible for several breaths.

‘Vertigo,’ she managed finally, hating how pathetic her voice sounded. ‘I... I can’t move...’

‘You’re safe,’ the man said. ‘I’ll keep you safe.’

Dear Lord...had anybody ever said that to her? Being so helpless had made her feel like a small child again, so it was too easy to imagine how it would feel to have somebody say those words to that frightened little girl. To feel fear and desolation start to drain away as if a plug had been pulled. To have an insight into how different her life might have been if somebody had said that to her, back then, and meant it. If somebody had been there to protect her. To love her...

How humiliating was it to have her outward breath sound like a child’s sob? She’d learned long ago that weakness was something to be hidden very deeply.

‘It’s okay,’ the man said. ‘You’re going to be fine. How long have you been stuck?’

‘I...don’t know.’ It felt like for ever.

‘Are you thirsty? I have water.’

She heard a shuffling sound and then a zip opening. She was thirsty but to accept a water bottle would mean opening her eyes, and what if the spinning started again? Sobbing in front of a stranger was bad enough. Imagine if she threw up?

‘It’s okay. I don’t need a drink.’

There was a moment’s silence. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Mika.’

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mika.’

This time her breath came out as a huff of something closer to laughter than tears. Her rescuer had very nice manners. He sounded as though they’d just been introduced at a cocktail party.

‘I’m Ra...um... Rafe.’

She had only been speaking to him for a minute or two, and she didn’t even have any idea what he looked like, but the hesitation seemed out of character. Did he not want her to know his real name? Was it possible that she was about to step from the frying pan into the fire and put her faith in an axe murderer? Or a...a rapist?

It might have been five years ago but the fear was always too close to the surface. If he hadn’t chosen that precise moment to touch her, she could have dealt with it. It wasn’t like the vertigo; she could persuade herself to think rationally and conquer it.

But he touched her arm and moving away from that touch was too instinctive to avoid. Mika let go of her tufts of grass with every intention of trying to run but her legs were still shaking and she lost her footing. Desperately trying to stop the skid, she reached for the grass again, but it slid through her fingers. Her foot made contact with something solid and she pushed against it but that, too, slid out of touch. She landed on her hands and knees, aware of a sound like rocks falling that provided a background to the soft but vehement curse that came from her rescuer.

And then silence.

Cautiously, Mika sat back on her heels as she tried to process what had just happened.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry. I... I slipped.’

‘Hmm...’

She could feel him watching her. ‘Did I...um...kick you?’

‘No. You kicked my backpack. It went over the cliff.’

Mika’s eyes opened smartly. ‘What? Oh, no... I’m so sorry...’

‘Better the pack than you.’

It seemed extraordinary but he was smiling at her. A smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. Dark eyes. Dark, shaggy hair and a dark jaw that had gone well past designer stubble but wasn’t quite a beard. And he was big. Even crouching he seemed to tower over her.

Weird that the fear that had prompted this unfortunate development was ebbing away instead of increasing. Maybe it was those eyes. This man might be in a position of power over her right now but he wasn’t any kind of predator. He looked...nice. Kind?

You’re safe. I’ll keep you safe.

‘Did it have anything important in it? Like your wallet?’ A churning in her stomach reminded her not to try looking over the edge of the cliff.

‘There’s no point worrying about that right now. The light’s going to fade before long, Mika. I need to get you off this track.’

Mika nodded. She scrambled to her feet, her own light pack still secure on her back. If she didn’t look into the chasm, maybe she would be okay. She looked towards the solid side of the cliff, reaching out her hand to touch it as well.

‘I’m trying to decide which way would be best. You’ve come a long way onto the open part of the track already. It’s probably better to keep going towards Positano rather than go down all those steps when it’s getting darker.’

Mika swallowed hard and then nodded again. ‘That’s where I’m living at the moment. In Positano.’

‘The track is quite narrow. Do you want me to walk ahead of you or behind?’

‘Ahead, I think... I can watch your feet. If I don’t look at the drop, maybe the dizziness won’t come back.’

It worked...for a little while...but, try as she might, Mika became more and more aware of the emptiness on the left side in her peripheral vision. Using her free hand to provide a kind of blinker also helped for a while but it wasn’t enough. Her stomach began to fold itself into spasms of distress and her brain began a slow, sickening spin. She tried to focus on the boots in front of her: smart, expensive-looking leather hiking boots. Thick socks were rolled down above them and then there were bare legs, muscles under olive skin outlined with every step.

‘How’s it going?’

Mika dropped the hand she was using as a shield to look up as Raoul turned his head when she didn’t respond immediately. She tried to smile but changing the focus of her vision seemed to have made the spinning sensation worse.

‘Here... It might help to hold my hand.’

It was there, right in front of her, palm downwards and fingers outstretched in invitation.

And it was huge.

Not the hand, although it had long, artistic-looking fingers. No. It was the idea of voluntarily putting her own into it that was so huge. Five years was a very long time not to have allowed the touch of a man’s skin against her own.

But the need to survive was an overwhelmingly strong motivation. Strong enough to break a protective barrier that was inappropriate in this moment. She put her hand in his and felt his fingers curl around hers. She could feel the strength of the arm attached to that hand. The solidness of the body attached to the arm. The confidence of each step that was being taken.

He was half a pace ahead of her, because there was no room to walk side by side, but the hand was all that mattered.

He was holding her.

And he would keep her safe.

* * *

She was a fighter, this Mika.

And there was something wild about her.

She was certainly unlike any woman he’d ever met before. For a start, she was out here all by herself, which advertised independence and courage, but she was tiny. Her head barely reached his shoulder, which probably made her look younger than she really was—an intriguing contrast to those big, dark eyes that made you think she’d seen far more than her age should have allowed for. She had spiky dark hair, which should have seemed unattractive to someone who’d always favoured long, blonde tresses, but he had to admit that it suited Mika. So did the clothes that looked more suitable for a walk on a beach than a mountain hike—denim shorts that were frayed at the bottom and a loose white singlet, the hem of which didn’t quite meet the waistband of the shorts.

The shoes weren’t exactly suitable either, being well-worn-looking trainers, and it looked as though her feet were bare inside them, but the surprise of that choice had been well and truly surpassed when Raoul had noticed her tattoo. The inked design looked tribal—like a series of peaked waves encircling her upper arm just below armpit level. No. Maybe even that observation had been trumped by spotting the tiny charm on the simple silver chain around her neck.

A dolphin...

The symbol of his homeland. What would she think if she knew that she was wearing something that gave her an instant connection to everything he held most dear in his life?

But it had been that instinctive flinch from a touch that had been intended as no more than reassurance that had really given him the sense of wildness about her. It wasn’t just the physical appearance that said she made her own choices or the fact that she was alone in a potentially dangerous place. It was that wariness of the touch, the hesitation in accepting contact from another human, that had been revealed by her body language when he’d offered to take her hand.

The trembling he’d felt when she’d finally accepted the offer.

Or perhaps it was the way she’d been doggedly following him even though it was clearly an enormous struggle. She’d been as white as a sheet when he’d turned to check on how she was doing. He could see that she was pushing herself beyond her limits but he could also see the determination that she wasn’t going to let it defeat her. Anger, almost, that she’d been beaten into submission. Like a wild creature that had been trapped?

Another hundred metres along this goat track of a path—past a rustic wooden sign with Praiano written on one side and Nocelle on the other—and Raoul could feel that the trembling in her hand had ebbed. The holding had all been on his part to begin with but now he could feel a return pressure from that small hand he was holding and it made him feel...good.

Protective. She hadn’t wanted him to touch her but she’d allowed it when she’d reached the end of her endurance.

She was trusting him and he wasn’t going to break that trust. He would look after this wild creature of a woman until he was absolutely sure she was okay.

‘Don’t worry,’ he told her. ‘It’ll wear off as soon as you don’t have that drop beside you.’

‘I know.’ It sounded like she was speaking through gritted teeth.

‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ he added. ‘Vertigo is like altitude sickness. It makes no difference how fit or strong you are. These things just happen.’

A tiny huff of sound suggested that Mika didn’t let things just happen to her and Raoul felt a flash of empathy. Imagine if it had happened to him. If he’d set out to discover the qualities in himself that would allow him to face his future with confidence and he’d been left helpless and totally dependent on the kindness of a stranger...

Oddly, he felt almost envious of Mika. Maybe it took something that dramatic to strip away every layer that life had cloaked you with. To face that kind of fear would certainly reveal any strengths or weaknesses. Maybe the kind of challenge he needed was something like Mika had just faced—something that you would never choose voluntarily.

But you couldn’t create one. Like the vertigo he’d told her about, it either happened or it didn’t.

He was facing an unexpected development, however—a small thing, compared to Mika’s challenge, but how on earth was he going to cope with losing that backpack? The clothing and toiletries didn’t matter but he’d lost his wallet, passport and phone. It would be easy enough to place a call from a public telephone to request help but, even if his grandmother said nothing, he would hear the subtext of ‘I told you so’. Going incognito to be a nobody in the real world was not something a prince should do. It wasn’t who he was.

Failure wasn’t an option. He just needed to come up with a new plan. Maybe he’d find inspiration by the time this walk was over.

The sigh he blocked after a few minutes of nothing remotely inspirational occurring seemed to transfer itself to Mika, as she pulled her hand from his.

‘I’m okay now.’

He’d been so lost in his thoughts that Raoul hadn’t noticed how the track had changed. They weren’t on a cliff edge any more. The path had widened and there were trees on either side.

A glance at Mika and the change he saw in her appearance was startling. She was still pale but the tension in her face and the panic in her eyes had gone. And, if that hadn’t made her look different enough, her mouthed curved into a grin that he could only describe as cheeky.

‘Stupid, huh?’

It was impossible not to grin back.

‘Not at all. Like I said, it can happen to anybody.’

‘It’s like a switch has been flicked off. Now that I can’t see the cliff, I’m fine.’ She ducked her head and when she looked up again there was something soft in her eyes. Something that made Raoul feel a flush of warmth like the tingle you got when you held cold hands out to a fire.

‘Thank you so much. I... I think you might have saved my life.’

‘It was my pleasure.’ The words were quiet but he meant every one of them. Oddly, he needed to clear his throat after he’d uttered them. ‘Let’s hope there are no more open parts to the track.’

‘I don’t think there are. We should get to the village of Nocelle soon and then it’s just a whole lot more steps down into Positano.’ Mika raised her eyebrows. ‘I wonder if the police station will still be open.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘So you can report the loss of your backpack. In case someone finds it.’

‘I think that’s highly unlikely. It didn’t look like the kind of cliff anyone would be climbing for fun.’

‘I can’t believe I did that. I feel awful.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Really...’

For a few moments they walked in silence. Dusk was really gathering now, and it was darker amongst the trees, so coming across a small herd of goats startled them both. The goats were even more startled and leapt off the track to scramble up through the forest, the sound of their bleating and bells astonishingly loud in the evening stillness.

‘Sorry, goats,’ Mika called, but she was laughing. She even had some colour in her cheeks when she turned towards Raoul. ‘I love Italy,’ she told him. ‘I might live here for ever.’

‘Oh? You’re not Italian, then?’

‘Huh? We’ve been talking English since we met. What makes you think I’m Italian?’

‘When I first heard you call for help, you spoke in Italian. And you’ve got a funny accent when you speak English.’

‘I do not.’ Mika sounded offended. ‘I can get by in Italian pretty well but English is my first language.’

‘So you are from England?’

‘No. I’m half-Maori, half-Scottish.’

‘You don’t sound Scottish.’

‘I’m not. I’m a Kiwi.’

Raoul shook his head. She was talking in riddles. Her smile suggested she was taking pity on him.

‘I come from New Zealand. Little country? At the bottom of the world?’

‘Oh...of course. I know it. I’ve seen the Lord of the Rings movies. It’s very beautiful.’

‘It is. What about you, Rafe?’

‘What about me?’ He was suddenly wary.

‘Rafe isn’t your real name, is it?’

The wariness kicked up a notch. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘You sounded like you were going to say something else when you introduced yourself, that’s all. Do you have a weird name or something?’ That cheeky grin flashed again. ‘Is Rafe short for Raphael?’

Relief that he hadn’t been unexpectedly recognised made him chuckle. ‘Um...something like that.’

‘Rafe it is, then. Are you Italian?’

‘No.’

‘How come you speak English with a funny accent, then?’

He had to laugh again. ‘I’m European. I speak several languages. My accent is never perfect.’

‘It’s actually pretty good.’ The concession felt like high praise. ‘Are you here on holiday?’

‘Yes. You?’

‘No, I’m working. I’m doing my OE.’

‘Oh-ee?’ The word was unfamiliar.

‘Overseas Experience. It’s a rite of passage for young New Zealanders.’

‘Oh...and is it something you have to do alone?’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘But you are doing it alone?’

‘Yep.’ Her tone suggested she wouldn’t welcome any further questions about her personal life. ‘Oh, look—civilisation.’

Sure enough, they had reached the outskirts of the mountain village. There was no real reason to stay with Mika any longer. She had completely recovered and she was safe. But Raoul was enjoying her company now and he had to admit he was curious. Mika was a world away from her homeland and she was alone.

Why?

They walked in silence for a while as they entered the village of Nocelle. Raoul’s eye was caught by big terracotta pots with red geraniums beneath a wooden sign hanging from a wrought-iron bar advertising this to be the Santa Croce ristorante and bar. Extending an invitation was automatic.

‘Can I buy you a coffee or something to eat? I don’t know about you, but I’m starving after that hike. We could get a bus down to Positano if it’s too dark to use the steps later.’

The invitation had been impulsive—a polite thing for a gentleman to do. It was only after he’d voiced it that Raoul realised how much he actually wanted Mika to agree.

He wanted to offer her food, not just because he was reluctant to give up her company—he wanted to look after her for a little while longer. To recapture that heart-warming sensation of winning the trust of somebody who needed his help although they would have preferred not to accept it.

It was just to make absolutely sure she was okay, of course. Nothing more. Hooking up with any young woman on this trip was an absolute no-no and, besides, he’d never be physically attracted to somebody like Mika. She was a tomboy, possibly the complete opposite to any woman he’d ever invited into his life or his bed—those picture-perfect blondes that knew how to pose for an unexpected photograph. Maybe that explained the fascination.

She was looking almost as wary as she had when he’d offered his hand to help her along the track and suddenly—to his horror—Raoul realised it might be better if she declined the invitation. He could feel the smile on his face freeze as he discreetly tried to pat the pocket on his shorts. He might have enough loose change to cover a bus fare for them both but it was highly unlikely that he could pay for a meal.

He was still smiling but Mika seemed to be reading his mind. A furrow appeared on her forehead.

‘Your wallet was in your backpack, wasn’t it? You don’t have any money, do you?’

‘Ah...’

‘What about your passport? And do you even have a place to stay?’

‘Um...’ The echo of the ‘I told you so’ vibe that he would very much prefer to avoid made him straighten his spine. ‘I’ll find somewhere.’

He found himself nodding. A short, decisive movement. Maybe this unfortunate occurrence was actually a blessing in disguise. Exactly the kind of challenge he needed to find out what he was made of. Whether he could cope with a bit of genuine adversity.

‘Do you have any friends around here?’

The nod morphed into a subtle shake, more of a head tilt, as the question unexpectedly captured Raoul on a deeper level. He’d never lacked for people desperate to be his friends but experience had taught him that it was all too often due to his position in life rather than any genuine personal connection. He was probably as wary of making friends as Mika was about letting someone offer her assistance. Of letting someone touch her. It was impossible to know, in fact, whether he had any real friends at all because he’d never been in this position before.

Being ordinary.

Meeting someone who was judging him on who he really was—as a man and not as a prince.

‘Doesn’t matter. You’ve got one now.’ Mika’s face lit up with that impish grin but it faded quickly to a much more serious expression. ‘You saved my life, mate.’ There was still a gleam in her eyes that didn’t match her sombre expression. ‘I’m afraid I can’t subscribe to the Chinese tradition of becoming your slave for life to repay the debt but...’ Her face scrunched into lines that suggested serious thought. ‘But I can buy you dinner.’ The grin flashed again. ‘I might even splash out on a cold beer.’

Raoul couldn’t take his eyes off Mika. Witnessing the confidence that was returning now that her frightening experience was over was like seeing a butterfly emerge from its chrysalis. The way her expressions changed so quickly, and the lilt of her voice with that unusual accent was enchanting, but perhaps the most extraordinary thing was the effect that smile had on him.

He wanted to see it again. To make her laugh, even...

And she’d declared herself to be his friend. Without having the faintest idea who he really was.

Oddly, that made him feel humble. It gave him a bit of lump in his throat, if he were honest.

‘Come on, Raphael.’ The pocket rocket that was his newest friend was already heading down the cobbled street towards the arched entrance to the restaurant. ‘We’ll eat and then we’ll figure out what you’re going to do. If you’re starving, it’s impossible to think about anything but food, don’t you think?’

‘Mmm...’ But the lopsided grin—almost a wink—that had accompanied her use of what she thought was his real name made Raoul smile inwardly.

It was a rare experience indeed for him to be teased. He had no siblings, and apparently it hadn’t been the done thing for others to tease a prince, even in childhood.

He liked it, he decided.

He liked Mika, too.

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS ONE of the things that Mika loved about Italian villages—that she could rock up to a place like this, in shorts and a singlet top, probably looking as weary and in need of a shower as she felt, and still be welcomed with a smile and gestures that suggested they had been waiting for her arrival.

The change when Raoul entered the restaurant behind her was subtle but unmistakable. Instead of a welcome guest, Mika suddenly felt like a...a princess?

‘This way, sir, please; this is the best seat in the house. And you’re lucky. You get to catch the last of this magnificent sunset.’

The whole wall of the restaurant was glass and the building seemed to be perched on the side of the mountain. It was the same view they’d had from the top of the Footpath of the Gods, only now the Mediterranean was on fire with red and gold light, and the islands way up the coast were dark, mysterious humps. It was a similar drop over a cliff right beside them, too, with no more than a low, railed fence outside the window and a roof or two of houses well below on the steep slope.

The slight quirk of Rafe’s eyebrow along with the expression in those dark eyes was remarkably eloquent. He wanted to know if she was okay to be sitting, overlooking the drop. He would be more than happy to forgo the view if she wasn’t and he would request a change without embarrassing her by referring to her recent disability in public.

It made Mika feel even more like a princess.

No. It made her feel the same way that taking hold of his hand on the track had made her feel.

Protected.

Safe.

She had to clear her throat to get rid of an odd lumpy sensation before she spoke.

‘This is gorgeous,’ she said. ‘Perfect.’

The white linen tablecloth was more of a worry than the view, in fact. Along with the silver cutlery, and the way their host flicked open a huge napkin and let it drape over her bare legs told Mika that this was nothing like the café she currently worked in. Was it going to be horrendously expensive? She remembered those nice boots Rafe was wearing. How well he spoke English when his accent advertised that it wasn’t his first language. How the maître d’ had instantly recognised somebody that deserved respect. Mika suspected that Rafe had come from a far more privileged background than hers. He was probably quite used to eating in restaurants that had linen tablecloths and silver cutlery.

Thank goodness she’d been paid yesterday.

‘I will bring you the menu,’ the maître d’ said, reaching out to light the candle on their table. ‘For drinks, also? We have a wide selection of the finest wines.’

It was Mika’s turn to raise an eyebrow in Rafe’s direction. At least, that was what she intended to do, but as soon as her gaze met his she completely forgot and found herself smiling instead. Was he as amused by this as she was? Here they were, looking like scruffy tourists, and they were being offered a selection of the finest wines.

‘A glass of your house red, perhaps,’ Rafe said.

‘I’ll have a beer, please,’ Mika added. ‘A really cold lager.’

With a nod, their waiter turned away. Mika glanced back at Rafe and this time her eyebrows did rise. He looked as though he was assessing something important. Something to do with herself? His face looked quite serious as he turned his head.

‘Excuse me,’ he called. ‘I’ve changed my mind. Can you bring me a beer, too, please?’

It was a bit silly to feel so pleased about a simple change of drinks but it was as if Rafe was sealing their friendship in some way. Telling her that he liked her choice and was prepared to follow it.

She liked him, she decided. It was a bit disconcerting that merely his presence could alter an atmosphere in a room, as if he had an aura of some invisible power, but she didn’t feel threatened by him in any way. Quite the opposite—and that was probably as disconcerting as how ridiculously good-looking that glow from the sunset through the window was making him seem.

Nobody was that perfect.

To cover the tumble of thoughts she had no intention of exploring, Mika opened her bag to take out her camera.

‘I’ve got to get a photo of this sunset,’ she told Rafe. ‘How stunning is that?’

‘It’s amazing,’ he agreed. ‘I bet we could see as far as Capri in the day time.’

Mika wished she’d read more of the instruction booklet for her camera last night. She had to hope the settings were appropriate for the level of contrast out there.

‘Nice camera,’ Rafe said when she’d finished snapping.

‘I know.’ Mika sighed happily. ‘It’s a Nikon D4. Sixteen-point-two megapixels. It’s my new baby,’ she added quietly. ‘I’ve been waiting a long time for this.’ The first step to a new career. A new life.

‘You’re keen on photography?’

‘Mmm.’ Mika was scrolling through the photos she’d just taken. The dream of becoming a travel writer and supplying great photos to accompany her stories was too new and private to share. ‘Look...’ She tilted the screen of the camera towards Rafe. ‘These are the ones I took of the monastery on the way up the mountain.’

He leaned forward and reached out to hold the other side of the camera as she kept scrolling.

‘These are great. I just stopped long enough to look at the view but you’ve captured so much more. That close-up of the stonework in the arch... And that hand-painted sign: Convento San Domenico,’ he read aloud. ‘Sentiero Degli Dei.’

‘Ah...you’ve walked our famous path.’ The waiter delivered tall, frosty glasses filled with amber liquid. ‘Sentiero Degli Dei—Footpath of the Gods. It is beautiful, isn’t it?’

‘An experience I will remember for ever,’ Mika answered truthfully.

Was the touch of Rafe’s foot against hers under the table accidental? No. Judging by the gleam of mirth in his eyes, he was sharing a private understanding that the experience was not what the waiter might be assuming. It had been the lightest of touches...how come she could feel it all the way up her leg? Into an almost forgotten spot deep in her belly, even.

Mika put her camera down to pick up the menu that had come with the drinks. ‘At least I got some good photos before it hit me. And I have my notes.’

‘You took notes? What kind of notes?’

Oh, help... Mika had spotted the prices beside some of the dishes, like the pesce del giorno. Had they sent out their own boat to select the best fish the Mediterranean had to offer?

‘Um, oh, interesting things. Like, there’s a bit of confusion over whether that’s a monastery or a convent. The church, Santa Maria a Castro, was there first. It was donated to the Dominican Friars in 1599 and they were the ones who built the convent. And...um...’ She turned a page in the menu, distracted by the rumbling in her stomach. ‘What are you going to have to eat?’

‘Do you like pizza?’

‘Of course.’ Mika bit her lip. Did he really want to eat street food when there was so much more on offer? Or was he choosing the least expensive option because she had revealed too much when she’d said she’d waited a long time to get her flash camera? Had he guessed that she’d had to put so much effort into saving up for it? She could feel herself prickling defensively. She didn’t need looking after financially. She didn’t need looking after at all, in fact. Today had been an anomaly and it wasn’t going to happen again.

‘It goes with beer,’ Rafe said smoothly. ‘And they’re usually so big I don’t think I could eat one on my own.’ He shrugged. ‘I just thought that maybe we could share. How about this one? It’s got wild mushrooms, asparagus, caramelised onion and scamorza. Do you know what scamorza is?’

‘It’s a cheese. Similar to mozzarella.’

‘Sounds delicious.’

It did. And suddenly it was what Mika wanted to eat more than anything else on the menu. That the shared meal would be so affordable was merely a bonus.

Were they being watched by the staff? That might explain why—despite other tables being occupied—Rafe only had to glance up to have the waiter coming to take their order. But Mika couldn’t help the feeling that this man was used to having control of his life. That he was one of that golden breed of people for whom things happened easily.

He had a problem now, though, didn’t he?

He’d lost everything, she reminded herself.

And it was her fault.

* * *

Raoul could feel himself relaxing.

There’d been a moment when he’d thought the game was up because the maître d’ had recognised him when he’d followed Mika into this small restaurant, but it seemed that it had simply been deference to his being Mika’s male companion—an outdated assumption that he was in charge?

Whatever. It wasn’t lost on Raoul that being in Mika’s company, with people assuming they were a couple, was actually a layer of going incognito that he could never achieve on his own. Not that he would ever use someone like that, but it was an unexpected bonus. Like her company. Not only was she so easy to talk to, but every new snippet he was learning about her was adding to an impression that he was with a rather extraordinary person.

He didn’t even have to say anything to communicate with her. Just a glance from those dark eyes, that seemed too big for the small face that framed them, had been enough to answer his concern that she might not want to sit beside a window that looked out over the kind of drop that had triggered her vertigo. The deliberate nudge of her foot had rewarded him with another glance and that one had cemented a bond. They were the only people in the world who knew about Mika’s unfortunate experience up on that mountain track and it was going to stay that way. As far as anyone else was concerned, the journey would be memorable for ever because of the extraordinary view or the accomplishment of a not inconsiderable physical challenge.

How often did you find somebody that you could communicate with like that?

He’d seen it—between people like his grandparents, for instance—but they’d been together for decades and adored each other.

He and Mika were complete strangers.

Although, that strangeness was wearing off with every passing minute as he got to know more about her.

He’d glimpsed a dream by the way she handled that camera and a note in her voice when she’d told him that owning it had been a long time coming. Was she planning a new career as a photographer, perhaps? He already knew how determined she was by the way she’d handled her desperation at being in the clutches of vertigo, so he was quite confident that she would find a way to achieve any dreams she had.

Weirdly, it made him feel proud of her...

He’d also seen her pride. He’d deliberately searched for the least expensive item on the menu because it was obvious that Mika didn’t have unlimited funds. He’d picked up on that, when she’d said she had waited a long time to own that precious camera, as easily as he’d been able to absorb communication from a glance. And he’d seen the way she’d reacted. It had reminded him of that curious little creature he’d come across for the first time when he’d been at his English boarding school—a hedgehog that curled itself into a ball to protect itself so that all you could see were prickles.

But Mika had relaxed again now. And she could eat... There was real pleasure to be found in the company of a female who actually tackled food like a boy. There was no picking at a low-calorie salad for Mika. She was attacking her big slices of pizza with so much enthusiasm, she had a big streak of tomato sauce on one cheek.

This was so different from anything he’d ever experienced. The only note of familiarity was the offer of the best table the restaurant had to offer—and another table would have been found, of course, for the discreet security personnel who were never far away. Photographers would have been shut outside for the moment but his female companion would have excused herself possibly more than once, to make sure she was ready for them later, to touch up her make-up and check that there were no stains on the figure-hugging evening gown she was wearing.

Imagining any of those elegant women he’d dined with in the past with food on her face made it virtually impossible to hide a smile. Raoul also had to resist the urge to reach out and wipe it clean with his napkin. Or maybe just his thumb. He could imagine how the prickles would appear again if he did, though. He already knew Mika quite well enough to know that she would not appreciate being treated like a child.

‘It’s good, isn’t it?’

‘So good.’ Mika eyed the remaining slices of the pizza but reached for her beer first. She frowned at Raoul when she put her glass down. ‘What’s funny?’

The smile had escaped. ‘You’ve got a moustache.’

‘Oh...’ With the back of her hand, Mika erased the foam above her lip. The gesture captured the streak of tomato sauce as well. ‘Better?’

‘Mmm.’ But Raoul was still smiling. He’d never sat a table with a woman who would use her hand rather than a napkin and it was quite possible he’d never enjoyed a meal quite this much, either.

‘Tell me more about this OE you’re on... Do you have an itinerary?’

‘Not really. I find a place and a job and work until I’ve saved enough to go somewhere else. I’ll be here for a while longer after investing in that camera, but it’s a good job and I love it here, so that’s okay.’

‘What’s your job?’

‘I’m in hospo.’

Raoul blinked. Maybe his English wasn’t as good as he’d thought. It took only as long as that blink for Mika to realise his lack of comprehension and rescue him.

‘Hospitality. I’m a waitress in a café down in Positano.’

‘And that’s a good job?’

‘It is when you’re travelling. It’s easy to get work and nobody’s too bothered about permits or anything. You can get paid in cash, too. It’s what most people do on their OE. Part of the rite of passage, even. Everybody should work in hospo at least once.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it changes the way you see the world. You get to see the best and worst of people in ways you wouldn’t believe. And it changes how you see people who work in the kind of jobs that usually make them invisible—you know what I mean?’

Raoul nodded slowly but his interest had been piqued. How many people were there in his world that quietly came and went, making life easier for himself and his family? Advisors and bodyguards. Cooks and cleaners. He’d never served anyone so he had no idea what life would look like from that kind of perspective. He was ashamed to realise he hadn’t even given it much thought.

Until now...

So that kind of job could change the way you saw the world... Was that what he needed to do?

There was only one slice of pizza left.

‘You have it,’ Raoul said.

‘No, it’s all yours. You’re a boy. You need to eat more.’

‘How about we go halves?’

Mika’s face lit up. ‘Okay.’ She tore the big triangle into two pieces and then eyed them up.

‘That one is bigger,’ Raoul pointed out. ‘You have it.’

Mika hesitated for a moment then she picked up the larger piece and took a big bite out of it before putting it down again.

Raoul snorted with laughter. ‘Okay, now they’re the same. I choose this one.’ He picked up the piece that now had a semicircle of tooth marks where the point of the triangle had been, his hand grazing hers as it passed. Or maybe it hadn’t actually touched her skin—it just felt like it had—because she didn’t move hers further away. His gaze met Mika’s over the slice as he bit into it...and there it was again...

That feeling of a connection he’d never felt before.

Was this what having a real friend was like?

Oddly, it was as exciting as that first flutter of physical attraction could be.

Mika washed down the last of her pizza with the last swallow of her beer. She sighed with contentment and then leaned back in her chair.

‘Right, mister. What are we going to do with you?’

The expression on her face was a mix of concern and a determination to fix things. She was fiddling with the charm on her necklace in a way that suggested it was an automatic accompaniment to a process of deep thought.

The irony wasn’t lost on Raoul.

‘Why do you wear a dolphin charm?’

Mika’s fingers stilled. She was staring at him with those huge eyes and Raoul felt that he’d stepped over a boundary of some kind. He’d asked a question that had personal significance and, right now, she was weighing up whether or not to trust him with an honest response.

‘It’s a symbol,’ she finally said softly. ‘Of being wild and free. And...and happy.’

The wistful note in her voice went straight to Raoul’s heart and struck a very unexpected chord.

Mika was searching for happiness, as everybody did, but she was already almost as wild and free as one of the beautiful creatures his homeland had been named for. She didn’t have to step into a life that was pretty much set in stone—a life that meant personal happiness was unimportant compared to the greater good. If happiness was there, as it had been for most of his life, it was a bonus.

Raoul envied her. Okay, there was a twinge of sympathy that she hadn’t yet found her ultimate happiness, but she was free to create it. To go anywhere and do anything that might help her reach her goal.

As if she knew she might have revealed too much, Mika lifted her hand away from the charm and pushed her fingers through her already spiky hair.

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked bluntly. ‘I can’t go home and leave you out on the streets. Not when it’s my fault you’re in this predicament.’

‘What would you do, if you were me?’

She probably didn’t notice that her fingers strayed back to the dolphin charm. ‘I guess I’d find somewhere to stay and then I’d find a job. If you can get one like mine, you get at least one meal a day thrown in as well. It all helps.’

Raoul nodded. Something was falling into place in his head. Impressions and ideas that had been accumulating over the course of this dinner. He’d set out on this private journey to learn about himself but what if he was approaching his quest from the wrong angle? What if he actually needed to learn about other people? The invisible kind, like those in service? Or the individuals amongst a mass like the people he would very soon be ruling?

He could get himself out of his predicament with a simple phone call.

Or, he could embrace his situation by deciding that fate had provided an opportunity that would have been unthinkable even a few hours ago. He could see if he had the personal fortitude to face being homeless. Penniless and without even the prospect of a job. How many of his own people had faced a challenge like this at some time in their lives?

He’d been silent for so long that Mika was chewing her lip and frowning, as if she was trying to solve the problem of world peace rather than his own immediate future.

‘Have you ever worked in hospo?’

He shook his head. ‘Never.’

‘Oh...it’s just that our café is really busy with the start of the high season. I reckon you could get a job there too.’

‘I could try.’

‘You wouldn’t cope if you’ve never done it before. With no experience, probably the only job you’d get would be washing dishes.’ Her eyes widened. ‘The dishie we’ve got was talking about moving on yesterday. I’ll bet Marco hasn’t found a replacement yet.’

Washing dishes. Had he ever had to wash dishes? Meals away from his residential apartment at university had always been in restaurants, like meals away from the mess during his time with the military. As for the palace...he hadn’t even been near the kitchens since he’d been a small child in search of an extra treat.

Dishwashing was possibly one of the most ordinary jobs there was out here in the real world. And wasn’t ‘ordinary’ exactly what he’d set out to be in this time away from his real world?

‘I... I wouldn’t mind washing dishes.’

Mika’s nod was solemn. It was her turn to be silent for a while now. At last she spoke, and he could see by the way her throat moved as she swallowed first that she was making a huge effort.

‘I owe you one, Rafe...for today. There’s a couch in my room that you can sleep on tonight...as long as...’

She wouldn’t meet his gaze. There was something important that she didn’t want to say. Something about her body language reminded him of the hedgehog again. She was poised to curl into a ball to protect herself. With a flash, he realised what it could be and the thought was horrific. Had she been hurt by a man? Did that explain the way she’d reacted when he’d touched her? How hesitant she’d been to take his hand even when she’d been desperate?

‘Mika...’ He waited until she looked up and, yes, he could see uncertainty. It wasn’t fear, exactly, because there was a fierceness that told him she was well practised in defending herself. But she was clearly offering him something that was well out of her comfort zone.

He resisted the urge to touch her hand. Eye contact was more than enough, and even that he kept as gentle as he could. ‘We’re friends now, yes?’

Mika nodded but she wasn’t quite meeting his gaze.

‘You’re safe with me. I give you my word.’

She looked straight at him, then, and for a heartbeat, and then another, she held his gaze, as if she was searching for confirmation that his word was trustworthy.

That she found what she was looking for was revealed by no more than a softening of her face but Raoul could feel the gift of her trust as if it was solid enough to hold in his hands.

His vow was equally silent.

He would not drop that gift and break it.

CHAPTER THREE

WHO KNEW THAT military training would end up being so useful in the daily life of an ordinary person?

It meant that Raoul de Poitier was conditioned well enough that yesterday’s strenuous exercise had been no more than a good workout. It also meant that he’d been able to sleep on a lumpy old couch that was actually a lot more comfortable than sleeping on the ground.

He’d tapped into a bit of initiative in making the best use of available resources, too. Mika had a laptop computer and he’d borrowed it for long enough to send an email to his grandmother to let her know he was safe but not to expect to hear from him for a little while.

Mika had been busy with her technology for a while after that, downloading photographs she had taken that day, her busy tapping suggesting she was adding notes to the images. Her frequent glances away from the screen told him that she wasn’t entirely comfortable having him share this small space; the idea to turn the couch around so that the back of it faced into the small room came to him in a flash of inspiration. The effect of the change had been to create the illusion of a wall and, once he was lying down—with his legs bent and his knees propped on the wall—he couldn’t see Mika in the single bed that was only a few feet away. Any tension ebbed as it became apparent that the arrangement would give her more privacy as she worked and then slept.

The bathroom facilities were shared with all the other occupants of the rooms on that floor of the old boarding house. That had been more of a shock than Raoul had expected after a lifetime of a sparkling clean, private en suite bathroom always having been available but, on the plus side, there was no queue at this early hour of the morning.

Mika wasn’t due to start her shift in the café until eight a.m. but it opened at six a.m. and she was taking him in to meet the owner, Marco, in the hope that there might be some work available for a new dish-washer. She’d used the bathroom first and came out in her uniform of a short black skirt and a fitted short-sleeved black shirt. It was an outfit designed to cloak a member of the army of invisible people and, when Mika tied on a pretty white apron with a frill around its edge, he realised the uniform was probably also intended to make her look demure.

The shirt certainly covered the tattoo on her arm but Raoul doubted that anything would make Mika look demure—not with that aura of feistiness, combined with the impression of intelligence that one glance at her face was enough to discern.

‘It’s a horrible job,’ she warned Raoul. ‘A dishie has to be a food-hand as well and help with the food prep to start the day, with jobs like chopping onions and making sauce, and then he has to keep up with all the dishes as soon as service starts, and that’s not easy.’

‘I’m sure I could get up to speed.’ How hard could it be to do such menial work? This was the twenty-first century. Even a small establishment would have commercial dishwashing machines, surely?

Mika turned a corner as they headed downhill towards the beach. They walked past a series of shops still shuttered and sleeping in the soft light of a new day.

‘Dishies get yelled at by the chefs if they get behind,’ Mika continued. ‘The waitresses hate finding they’ve suddenly run out of cutlery or something and the barista will have a tantrum if he runs out of coffee cups.’

‘Who’s in charge?’

Mika looked up to grin at him. ‘Marco thinks he is but everybody has to keep the head chef happy. A dishie is right at the bottom of the pecking order, though. He has to keep everybody happy.’

Raoul wondered where the waitresses fitted into the pecking order. He would do his best to keep Mika happy if he got this job.

It was a surprise to realise how much he wanted to get this job. It wasn’t simply the opportunity of gaining a different perspective on life—the idea of it was beginning to tap into a yearning that went way back.

Didn’t every kid dream of being invisible at some time? And maybe that fantasy had more meaning to those who grew up under a very public spotlight. He would be visible to the people he worked with here, of course, but it felt like he would be stepping into an alternative reality. Nobody who knew him would expect to see him in this kind of work and that would be enough to make him blend into the background, even if they took notice of the people who spent their lives in service of some kind.

‘Here it is.’ Mika began to cross the cobbled street to a shop front that had canvas awnings over the footpath. The name of the café was printed on the dark terracotta canvas in big, white, cursive letters—Pane Quotidiano—the ‘Daily Bread’.

A short, middle-aged man with a long, white apron tied around an ample waist was lifting wrought-iron chairs from a stack to position around small tables. ‘Buongiorno, Marco.’

‘Buongiorno, Mika. Why are you so early?’

‘I’ve brought a friend—Rafe. He needs a job. Is Pierre still here?’

Marco threw his hands in the air and his huff of breath was exasperated. ‘He walked out yesterday, would you believe? Demanded his money and that was that.’ Raoul was receiving a shrewd glance. ‘You got any experience?’

‘I learn fast,’ Raoul replied in Italian—the language Mika was speaking with impressive fluency. ‘Try me.’

Marco had his hands on his hips now as he assessed Raoul.

‘He speaks English,’ Mika put in.

‘And French,’ Raoul added. And Dauphinesque, but that was hardly likely to be useful to the majority of tourists this café served, and he had no intention of giving anybody such a clue to his nationality.

‘Makes no difference.’ Marco shrugged. ‘All he needs to know is how to follow orders and work hard.’

‘Try me,’ Raoul said again. He should probably have added ‘please’ but, curiously, it rankled that he was being assessed and possibly found wanting. Not something he was used to, that was for sure.

‘One day,’ Marco said grudgingly. ‘You do a good job, I will hire you. Mess up and you won’t get paid for today.’

A glance at Mika gave him another one of those lightning-fast, telepathic messages. This was a good deal and, if he wanted the job, he’d better grab the opportunity.

Marco was clearly confident he had an extra set of hands for the day, at least.

‘Finish putting these chairs out,’ he told Raoul. ‘And then come back into the kitchen. Mika? Seeing as you’re here so early, make me a coffee.’

‘One macchiato coming right up.’ Mika didn’t seem bothered by the crisp order. She was looking delighted, in fact, by the way this job interview had panned out. She gave Raoul a quick thumbs-up sign as she disappeared into the café behind her boss.

His boss, too, if he could prove himself today. Raoul lifted a couple of the heavy chairs and carried them to the table on the far side of the outdoor area. As he went back for more, he caught sight of himself in the windows that hadn’t yet been folded back to open up the café to catch the breeze and what he saw made him catch his breath and look again.

He’d had to comb his hair with his fingers this morning so it was more tousled than he’d ever seen before. He’d rinsed out his only set of clothes and hung them over the tiny line outside the window of Mika’s room, so they were clean enough, but so wrinkled it looked as if he’d slept in them for a week. He’d noticed that the stubble on his jaw had felt a lot smoother yesterday but now he could see that it was beginning to look like a proper beard.

Nobody was going to recognise him. He barely recognised himself.

He wasn’t a prince here. Nobody had even asked him for a surname. He was just an ordinary guy called Rafe. And Rafe was on the way to finding his first paid employment.

Maybe he was delighted as well.

* * *

The trickle of breakfast customers had grown into a steady stream of holiday makers who preferred a relaxed brunch. Mika’s section today covered all the street tables so she had the added hazard of stepping around dogs lying by their owners’ chairs as she delivered plates of hot food or trays laden with coffee orders. Tables were being taken as soon as people stood up to leave so they had to be wiped down fast, and a new carafe of chilled water along with glasses provided.

She was almost too busy to wonder how Rafe was coping out the back but he entered her thoughts every time she cleared a table, being careful to scrape the plates and put all the cutlery on the top. Carrying the piles to the kitchen, she found herself scanning shelves to see where they were running low on supplies.

‘We’re going to need more water glasses soon. And don’t forget the lemon slices and sprigs of mint in the carafes.’

‘Okay.’ Rafe had a huge apron on and a dish brush in his hand. He started to push a pile of plates further towards the sinks so that Mika had room to put hers down.

‘Careful...’ Without thinking, Mika caught his hand. ‘Margaret’s left cutlery between the plates. That whole pile could topple and smash on the floor.’ She could feel the heat of his skin beneath her fingers. Had it been soaking in hot water for too long to feel as if it was burning her? Hastily, she pulled her hand away and scooped up the knives and forks on her top plate to put them into the big, sudsy bucket on the floor. Pierre, the last dish-washer, had trained her not to drop them too fast and splash his legs.

‘Thanks.’ Rafe cast an eye over his shoulder and lowered his voice. ‘I don’t want to annoy him again. He had to show me how to run the dishwasher twice.’

Mika smiled. ‘Gianni’s bark is worse than his bite. He’s a pretty good chef.’

‘Service... Table eight.’

‘Oh, that’s me...’ Mika turned swiftly, uncomfortably aware that she’d been distracted. ‘Behind,’ she called in warning on her way to the pass, as one of the other waitresses backed through the swing door with another tray of dirty dishes. Would she have room to dump them on the bench? Rafe was going to have to work faster if he wanted to get this job. He might not even get a break, at the rate he was going.

There were plenty of water glasses on the shelf the next time she settled new customers and every carafe was decorated with mint and lemon. This was good. Rafe hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d promised Marco that he was a fast learner. Mika delivered another tray of coffees to the table where her boss was sitting—as usual—with a couple of his mates, right on the footpath, so he could greet anyone else he knew and keep an eye on how the whole café was functioning. If things got really crazy, he would pitch in to help, or sometimes he would just wander around to check that everybody was enjoying their time in Positano’s best café. He had the best job, which was fair enough, given that he was the owner of the establishment.

Poor Rafe had the worst job but he seemed to be managing. Mika stopped worrying about him as the day sped on. It wasn’t her problem if he didn’t like the work or didn’t get offered a paid job, was it? She’d repaid her debt by giving him dinner and a place to stay last night. Finding him work was just a bonus.

Except...

She liked him. And she liked having him around. Instead of grumpy Pierre, whom she had to be careful not to splash, she could look forward to a smile every time she carried dirty dishes out the back.

It was growing on her, that smile.

The other waitresses must be getting smiled at too, she decided. There was a faint undercurrent of something different amongst her colleagues today. They seemed to be putting more effort into being charming with the customers. Was it her imagination or was Margaret, the English girl who was here to improve her Italian, making more frequent trips to the kitchen than usual? She’d spotted Bianca reapplying her lipstick more than once and Alain, the gay barista, had even gone to collect clean coffee cups himself instead of calling for one of the waitresses to do it.

No surprises there. Hospitality workers were usually young, travelling and eager for any fun that came their way. Rafe was new.

And gorgeous...

It was his eyes even more than that smile. The warmth in them. And that wicked gleam of humour. Would she ever forget the way he’d looked at her over that slice of pizza that she’d already taken the huge bite out of? It had been a silly joke but he’d bought right into it and for a heartbeat, as she’d been caught in his gaze, she’d felt like she’d known him for ever.

Like he was her best friend. Or the brother she’d never had.

‘Sorry?’ Mika had to scrabble to retrieve her pad from the pocket of her apron. She pulled her pencil from behind her ear. ‘Was that one seafood risotto?’

‘Two.’ The customer glared at her. ‘And the linguine with lobster. And side salads. And we need some more water.’

‘No problem. Coming right up.’

Mika stepped over a sleeping poodle, dodged a small child and turned sideways to give Margaret room to carry a tray past her.

‘Thanks, hon.’

Margaret had a nice smile, too. And long blonde hair. And legs that went on for ever under that short skirt.

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