THE SANTINA CROWN

Royalty has never been so scandalous!

STOP PRESS—Crown Prince in shock marriage

The tabloid headlines … When HRH Crown Prince Alessandro of Santina proposes to paparazzi favourite Allegra Jackson it promises to be the social event of the decade —outrageous headlines guaranteed! The salacious gossip … Mills & Boon invites you to rub shoulders with royalty, sheikhs and glamorous socialites. Step into the decadent playground of the world’s rich and famous …

THE SANTINA CROWN THE PRICE OF ROYAL DUTY – Penny Jordan THE SHEIKH’S HEIR – Sharon Kendrick THE SCANDALOUS PRINCESS – Kate Hewitt THE MAN BEHIND THE SCARS – Caitlin Crews DEFYING THE PRINCE – Sarah Morgan PRINCESS FROM THE SHADOWS – Maisey Yates THE GIRL NOBODY WANTED – Lynn Raye Harris PLAYING THE ROYAL GAME – Carol Marinelli

‘Get out of the fountain. Now.’

‘If you want me out, you’ll have to come and get me.’ Izzy’s smile didn’t slip but there was a challenge in her eyes and Matteo resisted the temptation to do exactly as she’d suggested. She’d feel—

Incredible.

Her fingers skimmed the surface of the water and her eyes met his. Something wicked gleamed there. ‘Now you’re in trouble, Your Highness.’

Reading her mind he breathed in sharply. ‘Don’t you dare.’ There was no way she’d—

The shower of cold water splattered his hair, his jacket and the front of his shirt, which promptly welded itself to his skin. ‘Maledezione—’ he swore fluently in Italian and wiped the water from his eyes. ‘Are you crazy? This suit is silk.’

‘Better take it off then, before it’s ruined.’

He did just that, shrugging the jacket from his shoulders in a violent movement and saw her gaze slide to his damp shirt.

Her lips parted and her eyelids lowered slightly. ‘Nice body, Your Highness.’

About the Author

USA TODAY bestselling author SARAH MORGAN writes lively, sexy stories for both Mills & Boon® Modern™ romance and Medical™ romance.

As a child Sarah dreamed of being a writer and, although she took a few interesting detours on the way, she is now living that dream. With her writing career she has successfully combined business with pleasure, and she firmly believes that reading romance is one of the most satisfying and fat-free escapist pleasures available. Her stories are unashamedly optimistic, and she is always pleased when she receives letters from readers saying that her books have helped them through hard times.

Romantic Times has described her writing as ‘action-packed and sexy’, and nominated her books for their Reviewer’s Choice Awards and their ‘Top Pick’ slot.

Sarah lives near London with her husband and two children, who innocently provide an endless supply of authentic dialogue. When she isn’t writing or reading Sarah enjoys music, movies and any activity that takes her outdoors.

Readers can find out more about Sarah and her books from her website: www.sarahmorgan.com. She can also be found on Facebook and Twitter.

The Santina Crown

Defying the Prince

Sarah Morgan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Carol Marinelli—every girl should have

a friend like you.

CHAPTER ONE

SHE was a shameless exhibitionist.

Prince Matteo, second in line to the throne of Santina and hardened cynic, watched in grim-faced silence as a girl with a rippling mane of streaky blonde hair flirted outrageously with the lead singer of the local band which had been carefully vetted and approved as ‘suitable’ entertainment by palace officials.

This was a royal engagement party but apparently she hadn’t let the dress code printed clearly on her invitation inhibit her choice of outfit for the evening. Wearing a dress of sparkling scarlet sequins, she stood out like a single slender poppy in a bouquet of white roses. Her appearance was sending out myriad messages to the stunned onlookers. Her towering peep-toed shoe-boots said naughty, the daring strapless dress cried look at me, her scarlet mouth shouted take me.

As her hair slid back to reveal smooth, bare shoulders, Matteo could almost feel the texture against his palms and taste the smoothness of her throat under his lips. Everything about her made him think of strawberries: that endless ripple of long blonde hair with its faint suggestion of pink; those rounded breasts pushing happily against that scarlet sequined dress; and those lips, those lips made him think of ripe, sweet, juicy fruit. Not the cultivated variety that were heaped into bowls for palace garden parties but the small wild strawberries that grew in abundance in the rich soil around his palazzo on the rugged west coast of the island.

Wild.

The word summed her up perfectly.

As he watched, those lips curved into a wickedly sexy smile. An explosion of raw sexual heat burned through his body and the intensity of that reaction shocked him because he considered himself not just discerning when it came to the female sex but impervious to their tricks.

Matteo turned to his older brother. ‘I presume from the total lack of social graces, her surname is Jackson and she’s going to be another of your dubious relations.’

Alex lifted his glass. ‘She’s my future sister-in-law. Allegra’s half-sister.’

‘I thought the idea was to boost the reputation of the monarchy, not destroy it.’ Even without confirmation from his brother he would have known that she was yet another member of the notorious Jackson family, most of whom were currently grinding vampy stilettos through centuries of royal protocol. ‘Why are you doing this?’ Was it his imagination or was his brother drinking more than usual?

‘I’m in love with her.’ Alex’s gaze rested on his fiancée, Allegra Jackson, also resplendent in red, although her dress was considerably more restrained than her sister’s. ‘And she’s in love with me.’

‘Would she be “in love” with you if you weren’t a prince?’

Alex gave a twisted smile. ‘Ouch, that’s harsh.’

‘It’s honest.’ Matteo didn’t apologise. At a young age he’d learned in the most brutal way possible to be suspicious of human nature and the lesson hadn’t just been well learned. It had formed him.

Briefly, his gaze met his brother’s.

Alex frowned. ‘This is different.’

‘You’re sure?’ An unwanted memory uncurled in his subconscious, like a wisp of smoke from a fire long extinguished. Without thinking Matteo glanced down at his left hand, at the less than perfect alignment of his index finger and the silvery scar that was now no more than a faint line from his wrist to this knuckle. Similar scars crossed his ribs and the upper part of his back. His chest tightened and, just for a moment, he was back on the ground with his face pressed into the dirt, feeling the trickle of his own blood on the back of his neck. Right there, right then, choking on his mistakes, almost dying of them, he’d realised that his relationships would never be like other people’s. Did love even exist? He had no idea. He just knew it didn’t exist for him. And he doubted it existed for his brother. ‘I’ve yet to meet a woman who can separate the man from the title.’

‘And you’ve met plenty.’ Alex gave a faint smile. ‘You mock the Jackson reputation but your own isn’t exactly squeaky clean. Fast women, fast cars, fast jets.’

‘Not any more.’

‘Last time I looked you were still driving a sports car and escorting the delightful Katarina.’

‘I was talking about the jets.’ He missed it, he realised, more than he would have anticipated given the years that had passed. ‘And we were talking about your engagement—’

‘No, you were delivering dire warnings. Have you ever trusted a woman?’

Just the once. ‘Do I look like a fool?’

He knew that everyone he met had an agenda. He knew that those who spoke to him, approached him, flirted with him, all of them were interested in what he was and what he could do for them, not who he was. As a result, he trusted no one. And he especially didn’t trust the Jackson swaying seductively on the stage. She looked as if she’d just dragged herself from a wild night in someone’s bed and hadn’t even bothered to brush her hair. Her raw sex appeal jarred in the atmosphere of rigid restraint and Matteo wondered if he was the only person in the room with a sick feeling of foreboding. Yes, the king wanted his eldest son living in Santina and taking up his responsibilities as Crown Prince, but did he want it so badly he was prepared to sanction a liaison with a family like the Jacksons? On the surface the public was in love with the idea of a prince marrying a commoner, but how much would they love it when the whole thing came crashing down?

He wasn’t even aware of the tension in his shoulders until he felt the dull ache spread through his muscles.

This felt so wrong.

Experience told him that the girl on the stage was the worst kind of opportunist. ‘She is loud and attention seeking. She looks like a ripe plum that’s going to burst out of its skin at any minute.’ He switched from strawberries to plums because he disliked plums. It was a more comfortable analogy.

‘But very sexy.’

It seemed like an odd comment from a man at his own engagement party and Matteo would have said more but at that moment he saw a group of Jacksons gathered round a priceless portrait and winced as he heard the oohs and aahs.

‘They’re trying to guess the price of the Holbein.’

As one of them commented in a loud voice that the colours were a bit dull, he closed his eyes briefly, wondering whether there was any way of stopping this before it exploded. ‘They don’t know Michelangelo from Michael Jackson. Is she really going to be your mother-in-law?’ Watching Chantelle Jackson peer at a priceless vase, Matteo shook his head in disbelief. ‘Any moment now she is going to drop it into her bag. And no doubt it will be for sale on the internet on Monday.’ Suddenly he wished he had a closer relationship with Alex. ‘You were supposed to be marrying Anna. What happened?’

‘I fell in love.’

Something about that bland response didn’t ring true and Matteo wondered whether this engagement was an act of rebellion on Alex’s part. ‘Perhaps you should take more time?’

‘I know exactly what I’m doing.’ He paused. ‘And Chantelle won’t be my mother-in-law. She is Allegra’s stepmother.’

It seemed like an odd comment. Matteo was about to ask a few probing questions when he saw that the strawberry girl was now centre stage.

And suddenly those knowing eyes were fixed on him as she started singing a song she dedicated to her sister, a song about getting your guy, which was all too appropriate, Matteo thought.

In the world of social climbing his brother had to be the equivalent of Mount Everest.

No wonder the Jacksons were celebrating.

As she leaned forward and sang cheekily into the microphone he saw movement out of the corner of his eye as Bobby Jackson, an ex-footballer whose colourful and varied love life was catalogued by the tabloids, tried to remove his daughter from the limelight.

Matteo watched with mixed feelings.

It was definitely time someone prised her away from the microphone, but the fact that it was the flamboyant, scandal-ridden Bobby simply magnified the transgression.

‘Come on, love.’ Bobby Jackson made a clumsy grab for his daughter’s arm but she shrugged him off and he almost lost his balance. ‘Give the microphone back, there’s a good girl.’ His face was the colour of a Santina sunset. The deep hue could have been the result of intense embarrassment but Matteo suspected it was more likely to have been caused by an overindulgence of the very best champagne. Bobby Jackson was too thick-skinned to suffer from embarrassment. Matteo knew he’d dragged himself up from nothing and was determined that his family should do the same, although apparently that ambition didn’t stretch to encouraging his daughter to sing.

Matteo glanced at his own father and saw that the king’s features were as rigid and inflexible as one of Michelangelo’s statues.

‘Izzy!’ Bobby made another abortive grab for his daughter. ‘Not now. Best behaviour and all that.’

Izzy.

Of course.

Matteo realised where he’d seen her before. He recognised her now as the five-minute wonder who had exploded onto the manufactured pop scene after appearing on a reality TV singing show. Izzy Jackson. Hadn’t she hit the headlines for wearing a bikini on stage? Basically for doing everything but singing. Presumably she had a voice like a crow with a throat infection, like most of the wannabes that warbled and croaked their way onto people’s TV screens, which was why he remembered nothing about her singing.

Even her own family didn’t want her to sing in public, he thought, watching as her father tried to drag her from the stage.

It was like pulling a mule. She dug her legs in and stood, chin raised, eyes flashing as she carried on belting out the tune.

It was clear that she thought this was her opportunity to shine and she wasn’t going to relinquish it easily, a fact that raised Matteo’s radar for trouble to full alert status.

‘Maybe we should turn this whole farce into a reality TV show,’ he drawled to his brother. ‘Celebrity Love Palace? I’m a Prince, Get Me Out of Here?’

‘Do me a favour? Get her out of here. The focus of attention has to be on my engagement.’ Alex spoke with an urgency that rang alarm bells in Matteo’s brain.

‘Are you going to tell me why?’

‘Just do it, Matt. Please.’

Without further question Matteo handed his champagne to a passing footman.

‘You owe me. And I will be calling in the favour.’

With that he strode across the room to separate trouble from the microphone.

‘He’s the only one for yooooou …’ sang Izzy in her rich alto voice, pleased with herself for hitting a fiendishly difficult note right at the top of her range and furious when her father tried to prise her away from the microphone.

Wasn’t he the one who was always telling her that it was up to her to make the most of opportunities? Well, this was a massive opportunity. She’d planned it carefully. Her Goal of the Day was to sing the song she’d written to the prince. Not the smiling, charming heir to the throne that her sister had snagged, but his brother, Matteo Santina, the Dark Prince, otherwise known to a fascinated public as Moody Matteo because he was so deadly serious. Deadly serious and deadly sexy, Izzy thought dreamily. He was tall, dark, gorgeous and very, very rich. But she wasn’t interested in any of those attributes. She wasn’t interested in his spectacular bone structure or his royal heritage. Nor did she care about his hard athletic body or his reputed skills as a pilot. And although the romantic side of her was mildly jealous of her sister’s whirlwind romance, she wasn’t the least interested in the whole marry-a-prince fantasy. No, there was just one thing she cared about and that was the extent of his influence—in particular, his role as president of the Prince’s Fund. In that role he had overall responsibility for the famous Rock ‘n’ Royal concert, a globally televised live fundraising event that was only weeks away.

Singing at that concert would be all her dreams rolled into one. It would kick-start her dead career.

Which was why today’s goal was to make sure he heard her.

Shaking off her father, she increased the volume, but the prince was now in conversation with his brother, the heir to the throne and her sister’s fiancé.

Izzy felt a frantic moment of desperation followed by a sharp thud of disappointment. She’d been so sure that this would be her big moment. She’d glugged down the champagne to give herself the courage to take over the stage. She’d imagined heads turning and jaws dropping as people heard her voice. She’d imagined her whole life changing in an instant. Hard work and perseverance was going to finally pay off.

Heads were turning. Jaws were dropping. But Izzy hadn’t drunk so much champagne that she didn’t realise her being the centre of attention had nothing to do with her voice.

They were looking at her because she’d made a fool of herself. Again.

They were mocking her.

So, in fact, her life hadn’t changed at all because, as usual, she was on the receiving end of ridicule. Each time she dragged herself back onto her feet she was knocked over again, and each time she emerged just a little more bruised and battered.

The confidence-boosting buzz from the champagne was morphing into a horrid spinning feeling.

Aware of the unsmiling disapproval on the aristocratic faces around her, she decided that Allegra had to be seriously in love if she was prepared to put up with this. As far as Izzy could see, marrying a prince promised about as interesting a future as being stuffed and put in a glass case in a museum for everyone to stare at. What was that called? Taxi-something or other. And she was so hungry, and she could never think properly when she was hungry. Why on earth weren’t they serving proper food? She would have killed for a bacon roll and all they’d given her since she’d arrived was champagne, champagne and more champagne.

The royals certainly knew how to drink. Unfortunately they didn’t seem to eat which probably explained why they were all so thin. And why she’d broken her golden rule and drunk too much.

‘Just one love—’ she hollered happily, beaming at a group of women who were gazing at her in disapproval and ignoring her father’s less than subtle attempts to tempt her from the stage.

The fact that even her family didn’t listen added a sting to the already sharp pain of humiliation. Weren’t families supposed to support you no matter what? She adored them but they patted her on the head and patronized her as if she was singing drunk at a karaoke machine rather than giving her all. She knew she had a good voice. And even if they didn’t like the song and thought she was foolish trying to make a career from what should have been a hobby, they ought to be grateful to her for trying to liven up a totally boring evening.

‘Enough!’ Her father’s loud voice boomed around the ornate room, his East London accent jarring with the cultured tones around him confirming the one thing everyone already knew—that no amount of money could buy class. Izzy already knew that. She knew exactly how people felt about her family. ‘Save the singing for when you’re in the shower. You’re embarrassing yourself, luv.’

No, I’m not, Izzy thought. I’m embarrassing you. And the hypocrisy of it stung. She loved her father, but even she knew his behaviour was often questionable. And now they were laughing at her, and the sharp sting of their mockery was all the more acute because Izzy had been so desperate for them to take her seriously.

It was partly her fault, she acknowledged miserably. She should never have entered that stupid reality show Singing Star. She’d done it because she’d thought that finally someone would hear her voice but the producers had been less interested in the sound she could belt out than in the picture she’d made on the stage and the gimmick factor of having tabloid-favourite Bobby Jackson’s daughter on the show. They’d made her do all sorts of dubious things to raise the ratings, none of which had focused on her singing. And she’d been too wrapped up in her own fleeting moment of fame to see the truth.

Until it was too late.

Until she’d become a national joke.

The fame had vanished faster than water down the drain, and with it her reputation. Forever more she was going to be ‘that awful girl from Singing Star.’

Unable to think about that without squirming, Izzy turned away, closed her eyes and sang, pouring out the notes and losing herself in the music until her concentration was shattered by someone closing a cold, hard handcuff around her wrist.

She was being arrested for crimes against music.

Her eyes flew open in shock and she realised it wasn’t a handcuff, but someone’s fingers, brutally hard and as cold and unyielding as metal. Her startled gaze collided with unfriendly dark eyes and the sound died in her throat.

It was the prince.

Raw sexual attraction ripped through her because close up he was quite simply the most spectacular man she’d ever met, even more incredible to look at than all the photographs had led her to believe. A television camera might hint at the thickness of those dark lashes and the perfect shape of his mouth but no lens, however powerful, could capture the innate masculinity that set him apart from others.

‘Enough.’ He spoke through his teeth, his tone so abrupt that even the normally buoyant and resilient Izzy felt herself shrivel.

The Prince and the Pauper, she thought, struggling to keep her balance on her towering platform shoe-boots as he all but yanked her from the stage.

Clearly he had no intention of formally introducing himself—presumably because he didn’t see the need. Everyone knew who he was. And he was living up to his formidable reputation, his spectacular features set and severe as he bodily removed her from her position by the musicians.

So that was that then—

Watching her dream of stardom fizzle out and realising that the last glass of champagne she’d downed had pushed her over the edge from tipsy to drunk, Izzy stumbled as she attempted to twist her wrist from his grip. ‘Ouch! What are you doing? I was just singing, that’s all. Do you mind not gripping so hard? I have a very low pain threshold and don’t drag me because these shoes definitely aren’t made for walking.’ Swamped by the wave of disapproval flowing from the other guests, she was grateful for the anaesthetising effects of the alcohol.

‘Off with her head,’ she whispered dramatically, smiling sweetly as he sent a black glare in her direction. ‘Oops—we are definitely not amused.’ Her heart sank.

So much for hoping he might be able to relaunch her stalled singing career.

It was clear from his body language that he wouldn’t be likely to give her a job cleaning the toilets at the palace let alone a role in the upcoming concert.

Izzy Jackson wasn’t going to feature on his list of headline acts. And she couldn’t even blame him because she knew she hadn’t sung her best. She’d tried too hard. Forced her voice.

As he towed her across the room he spoke in a low, driven voice intended only for her. ‘You are a guest, not the entertainment. And you’re drunk.’ Although it wasn’t his first language, he spoke English as fluently as she did but that was where the similarity ended. His aristocratic demeanour had been bred into him and polished by the best education money could buy. His mother was a monarch. Hers was a market stall trader. His accent was cut glass. Hers was shatterproof plastic tableware.

‘Actually I’m not drunk.’ Izzy was swamped by disappointment that her plans had gone so badly wrong. ‘At least, not very. And even if I am then it’s your fault for serving buckets of alcohol and no food.’ She glanced desperately around for a friendly face and caught sight of her sister, but Allegra wasn’t looking at her either, clearly trying to distance herself from Izzy’s behaviour. Stung by that betrayal and mortified her surprise song that she’d been working on for weeks had been received with the same enthusiasm as a virus, she momentarily lost her bounce. What did she have to do to make people listen?

‘All right, you’ve made your point. I messed up. Let me go, and I promise to be boringly appropriate. I’ll stand still and talk about the weather or whatever it is that these people talk about without moving their faces.’ Hoping to end it there, she pulled and struggled but he ignored her attempts to free herself and propelled her past an astonished-looking footman, through a door into a panelled anteroom lined with portraits.

‘Stop dragging me! I can’t walk fast in these heels.’

‘Then why wear such ridiculous shoes?’

‘I’m small.’ Izzy tried desperately to keep her balance. ‘If I don’t wear heels people just look over the top of my head. I’m trying to make an impression.’

‘Congratulations, you succeeded.’ His tone left her in no doubt as to what sort of impression she had made.

Rows of his ancestors glared down at her from large gilt frames and Izzy scowled back at their stony faces.

‘Why do they all look so miserable? Isn’t anyone in your family happy? I wish I’d never come.’

‘We all share that sentiment.’ He sent a single glance towards the uniformed footman and the door was closed. They were alone.

‘Another door closes,’ Izzy whispered dramatically, and his fingers tightened on her wrist. She could feel the leashed strength and the flow of tension through his hard frame. His superior height meant that she had to tilt her head to look at him and doing so made her head swim.

‘Er, do you think you could stop gripping me?’ He smelt good, she thought absently. Really good. ‘It’s not like I’m going to run off. I can barely walk in these shoes, let alone sprint.’

He released her instantly, the contempt in his eyes adding a few more bruises to her already battered confidence.

Much as she hated to admit it, she found him horribly intimidating.

He was so sure of himself. This man had never been beaten to the ground and had to pull himself up again. He positively throbbed power and authority and he made her feel as insignificant as a spec of dust. And then there were the other feelings. The feelings she didn’t want to think about. Like the dangerous crawl of lust deep in her belly and the burn of heat where the press of his strong fingers had branded her skin.

Rejecting those feelings instantly, Izzy took a step backwards. ‘I was just singing. I wasn’t naked, or using bad language or telling awful jokes. I wanted you to notice me.’

His eyes flared with shock. ‘You treated my brother’s engagement party as a way of targeting me? How brazen can you get?’

‘Pretty brazen. You don’t get anywhere in life by holding yourself back.’ Izzy put her weight on one leg to try and relieve the throbbing pain in her feet. ‘I know what I want and I go after it.’

‘I have had women throw themselves at me at the most inopportune moments but your performance has eclipsed everything that has gone before.’

‘Eclipsed in a good way?’ The sudden hopeful lift in her spirits was immediately squashed by his condescending glare. ‘Obviously not in a good way. So you’re not interested. Never mind. It’s not the first time I’ve tried and failed. I’ll get over it.’

She wondered why he was so angry. It wasn’t as if she’d hurt anyone. As he prowled around the room Izzy’s eyes followed him in reluctant fascination. The man was a global sex symbol and up close it was all too easy to see why.

‘Do you think you could stop moving? I’m feeling a bit weird and watching you is making me dizzy.’ Or maybe it wasn’t the movement, she thought. Maybe it was the way his undoubtedly super-expensive jacket failed to conceal the power of the body underneath.

‘How much have you drunk?’ The snap of his tone should have shredded the tension but instead it seemed to intensify the lethal, suffocating heat.

Finding it difficult to breathe, Izzy gripped the back of the chair tightly. ‘I haven’t drunk enough to get me through a night like this, believe me. And it’s not my fault that those people in uniform—’

‘They’re called footmen—’

‘—yes, them—they kept filling up my glass and I didn’t like to say no and offend anyone.’ The words tumbled out of her like water in a fast-flowing stream. ‘And anyway, I was thirsty because it’s hot in there but there was no food to mop up the alcohol, just those tiny canapé things that get stuck in your teeth and don’t fill you up. And, might I remind you, this is supposed to be a party. I was trying to lighten the atmosphere. It’s like a funeral in there, not an engagement. If this is the life my sister can expect when she marries your brother then I feel sorry for her.’ She stopped, distracted by a masculine face so impossibly handsome that it almost hurt to look at him.

Despite his almost unnatural stillness, she knew he was angry. She could feel the anger in him beneath that sophisticated, polished veneer. Izzy was wondering whether it would make him even angrier if she removed her shoes before they cut off her blood supply when those dark eyes burned into hers.

‘You planned this whole thing, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I did.’ Hadn’t she just told him that? ‘Every day I set a goal. It helps me stay focused. Today you were my goal.’

‘Cristo. You admit it?’

‘Of course.’ What was wrong with having goals? ‘I confess to the crime, Your Honour.’ She gave a little salute and almost lost her balance.

‘Is everything a joke to you?’

‘I try and laugh at life when I can.’ And her career was definitely a joke, she thought gloomily. A big, fat joke.

‘You are loud and indiscreet. If you’re going to be linked with our family you need to learn to filter what you say.’

Izzy thought about all the times people had said one thing to her and meant another.

Dress like this and you’ll be a star, Izzy.

I love you, Izzy.

Her insides lurched. She wasn’t going to think about that now. Or later. ‘By “filter,” you mean lie? You want me to be like those women out there with frozen smiles and non-existent expressions who don’t actually say anything they mean? Sorry, but that’s just not me.’

‘I’m sorry too. The fact that your sister is marrying the future king makes you of interest to the public.’

‘Really?’ Izzy brightened at the prospect that someone might actually be interested in her. ‘Now that’s what I call a happy ending.’

Disapproval throbbed from every inch of his powerful frame. ‘If this marriage has a chance of being accepted by the public then you will need to be kept out of the public eye. We cannot afford the negative publicity. The focus needs to be on Alex and Allegra. And if your sister is marrying the future king you need to learn how to behave. And how to dress.’ That gaze skimmed her body and she felt as if she’d been singed by the flame of a blowtorch.

Either he was giving off mixed messages or her emotional radar was jammed. There was disapproval there, yes, but there was also something else. A dangerous undercurrent that she couldn’t read properly.

‘It’s not my dress that’s wrong, it’s your party. No one in this place knows how to laugh, dance or have a good time. Those chandeliers are all very well but you could have done with a few disco balls to liven things up.’

‘This is a royal palace, not a nightclub. Your behaviour should reflect that.’

‘So I’m supposed to curtsey?’ Her flippant tone was met with derision.

‘Yes.’ His voice was silky smooth, his manner dangerously cool and his temper ruthlessly controlled. Everything about him was restrained. ‘And the correct mode of address is “Your Royal Highness.”‘

She barely heard him. Her mind had ripped itself free of her control and her thoughts flew free as her eyes drifted to the strong lines of his jaw and from there to the sensual shape of his mouth. Something about that mouth told her that he’d know exactly how to kiss a woman. Heat flashed through her and suddenly all she could think of was sex, which shocked her because after her own disastrous experience and the permanent example of her parents’ highly dysfunctional marriage, getting involved with a man definitely wasn’t one of her goals.

For a moment they just stared at each other and then he frowned. ‘After the first time you can call me “Sir.”‘

‘The first time’?’ Her heart was hammering and her mouth was so dry that she could barely form the words. ‘There’s never going to be a “first time.” I wouldn’t sleep with you if I was desperate which, by the way, I absolutely am not. I’m not like that. I’m a really romantic person.’

Exasperation flickered across his face. ‘Were desperate,’ he breathed. ‘The correct grammar is “were” not “was.” You use the past subjunctive when stating conditions that are contrary to fact. And I was talking about the correct manner of address the first time you meet me. Nothing else.’

Izzy, who had never heard of the subjunctive and whose only interest in English was its use in writing song lyrics, felt her face burn. ‘Right. Well, it’s excellent to have that cleared up so early in a relationship.’ Utterly mortified by the misunderstanding, which she could see now was entirely her doing and had been caused by the fact that she’d been thinking about sex with him, she ploughed on. ‘Do I seriously have to call you “Sir”? It’s just that the only person I ever called “Sir” is my old headmaster and thinking about him brings back a lot of memories I usually try and forget.’

‘The man has my deepest sympathy. Teaching you must have been a challenge to exceed all others.’ He stood directly in front of the largest painting in the room and Izzy saw the similarities immediately. The same cropped black hair. The same dark, dangerous looks. The same aristocratic lineage.

No wonder he was arrogant, she thought numbly. His breeding went back centuries whereas she was just a mongrel. The product of two people who had each wanted something from the other.

To make herself feel better she wanted to dismiss him but there was no ignoring the width and power of those shoulders. She didn’t want to find him attractive, but what woman wouldn’t? Her insides squirmed and a slow, dangerous heat spread through her pelvis.

It had to be the champagne, she thought. It was intensifying everything she felt. ‘Doesn’t the formality drive you mad? No one actually smiles or moves their faces. It’s like being in a room of those stone statue things we passed on the way in.’

‘Those priceless marble statues date back to the fifteenth century.’

‘That’s a long time to keep your face in one position. And I’m not surprised they’re priceless. Who the hell would want to pay money to have something that miserable staring at you? Sir.’ She added it as an afterthought, seriously worried by how fast the room was spinning. ‘I would curtsey but honestly these shoes are completely killing me so right now I’m trying not to move. If you were a girl, you’d understand.’

He growled deep in his throat. ‘You are the most frivolous, pointless woman I’ve ever met. Your behaviour is appalling and the damage that someone like you could do to the reputation of my family is monumental.’

Izzy, who had been called many things in her life but never ‘pointless,’ was deeply hurt but at the same time oddly grateful because surely she could never truly fall for a man who was so horribly insulting? ‘I happen to think it’s your behaviour that’s appalling. Why is it good behaviour to make someone feel small and inferior? You think you’re better than me, but if someone comes into my house I smile at them and make them feel welcome whereas you look down on everyone. I’ve had more impressive hospitality in a burger bar. You may be a prince and actually far too sexy for your own good, but you don’t know anything about manners.’ Lifting her nose in the air she was about to say something else when the door opened and a white-faced member of the palace staff stood there.

‘The microphone, Your Royal Highness,’ he said in a strangled voice, addressing himself to the stony-faced prince. ‘It’s still switched on. Everything you’re saying can be heard in the ballroom. On high volume.’

CHAPTER TWO

APPALLED by the realisation that his family and guests had overheard their exchange, Matteo froze. He, who prided himself on his self-control, had lost it. Publicly.

As he re-ran the conversation in his head, he wanted to groan.

Sex …

How had the conversation turned to sex?

He couldn’t remember when he’d last allowed his emotions to dictate his behaviour but from the moment he’d laid eyes on those strawberry-red lips and that enticing dress he’d felt his grip on control slipping. He prided himself on his focus. He’d flown jets faster than the speed of sound, negotiated sensitive deals with foreign governments, raised millions for charity and yet he hadn’t managed to control the behaviour of one aggravating young woman.

The best he could hope for now was damage limitation.

With an authoritative nod he dismissed the palace footman and pointedly removed the microphone from Izzy’s hand.

This time she didn’t resist and Matteo switched it off, his mouth tightening as he reflected on the awkwardness of their current situation. Having finally secured their privacy he looked at her, expecting to see a similar degree of mortification reflected in those over-made-up eyes, but Izzy Jackson hadn’t finished surprising him.

Instead of shrinking with horror at her public exposure, she gave a gurgle of laughter.

Infuriated by that entirely inappropriate response, Matteo’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘This is not funny.’

‘No, it isn’t.’ Clearly aware that she wasn’t supposed to be laughing, she pressed her lips together but still the sound escaped, so she lifted first one hand and then the other and covered her mouth. But that didn’t work either because her eyes swam with tears of laughter, and in the end she gave up the fight and allowed it to escape. Doubling over, she laughed and laughed, apparently highly amused by an incident that had left him cold with horror. And she didn’t just laugh with her mouth she laughed with her whole body.

‘Sorry. I’m really sorry—you’re right, of course, it’s absolutely not funny—’ But she was laughing so hard she could barely speak and neither could Matteo because his eyes were on the seams of her dress which were severely threatened by the unaccustomed strain being placed on them. Her body was lush and ripe and dangerously close to revealing itself.

As if to confirm his fears a single red sequin pinged onto the floor and his loins tightened. The white heat of sexual desire threatened to burn him up and the fact that she was the last woman in the world he would have wanted to feel anything for just made his response all the more exasperating.

Struggling for control, she wiped her eyes with her palm. ‘You have to see the funny side. I expect you’ll be taking orders for a Quarter Pounder with cheese any minute. With extra fries.’

Matteo somehow held his temper in check, his unfavourable impression of her deepening with each passing second. Any dignified woman would be appalled by what had happened. Not Izzy Jackson. She didn’t even bother trying to hide how funny she found the whole episode. In fact she made laughter a physical workout, apparently unaware that leaning forward gave him a prime view of her cleavage. ‘You are a one-woman disaster zone.’ But he noticed that his icy censorship appeared to have no impact on her mood.

‘I know. I’m sorry.’ But she wasn’t sorry enough to stop laughing. ‘Look on the bright side—it could have been worse. What if we’d sneaked in here to have hot sex and we’d left the microphone switched on? What if you’d grabbed me and said “Izzy, I want you”?’ She delivered that dramatic statement complete with hand gestures which rocked her off balance and she swayed into him. ‘Oops.’

With a soft curse he closed his hands around her arms and steadied her. He expected her to immediately regain her balance and pull away but instead she plopped her head against his chest.

‘It’s nice to rest for a moment. I wish I hadn’t drunk that champagne.’

Her hair smelt of wild flowers and reminded him of the summers he’d spent at the palazzo when he was a child. The memory almost suffocated him. ‘I wish you hadn’t drunk it either.’ Her arms were bare and her skin was smooth and soft under his fingers. He needed to let her go. Right now.

But if he let her go, she’d fall over.

As if confirming that, she nestled closer. ‘I really am sorry. I totally and utterly messed up and you deserve to feel very, very cross. But it would be great if you could be cross quietly because I don’t feel too good, Your Highness—Sir.’

‘You don’t deserve to feel good after what you just did.’ But there was something about that apology and the way her slim fingers clutched the front of his shirt that touched him and the feeling unsettled him even more than the raw stab of lust because he always remained emotionally detached in his dealings with women. Especially women blatant enough to admit their ‘goal’ was to marry a prince. ‘You’re a disaster, Izzy Jackson.’

‘I know.’ Her voice was muffled against his chest. ‘The crazy thing is I don’t mean to be a disaster. I start every day with a goal.’

‘So you keep telling me.’ He tried to unpeel her fingers but her grip tightened.

‘I just wanted to impress you.’

‘Did you seriously expect your plan to work?’ Even the roughness of his voice didn’t tempt her to move.

‘I hoped you’d take one look at me and just think wow. But I think I might have chosen the wrong dress. I didn’t get my image right. I need to try again.’

Matteo inhaled deeply. ‘Please do not. Please give up that goal right now.’

‘I never give up. I just wish I could put the clock back and do it all again.’

He contemplated telling her that he wouldn’t have been interested no matter what she was wearing but the feel of her snuggling closer drove the blood from his brain to a different part of his anatomy.

‘Hasn’t that ever happened to you?’ Her words were slightly slurred. ‘Haven’t you ever wished you could put the clock back?’

Everyone was scrupulously careful in the way they dealt with him. People tiptoed around him. Men were universally respectful. Women fawned, flattered and flirted. They certainly didn’t ask him intimate questions about his thoughts and feelings.

Maybe he was finally getting his comeuppance, Matteo thought. He’d occasionally wished that there was one person in his life who would behave naturally around him, but now that he was faced with the reality he was fast rethinking the perceived benefits. ‘Miss Jackson—’ his attempt at formality seemed ridiculous given the circumstances ‘—Izzy.’

‘What?’ Reluctantly she lifted her head and huge eyes heavily outlined in kohl stared up at him. Sky-blue eyes were fringed by long, thick eyelashes that surely had to be false.

The scent of her perfume curled itself round his senses and for a moment his brain refused to work. She smelt of a summer’s day and suddenly he could see her naked and lush lying in a carpet of bluebells, all that strawberry hair tangled around her flushed cheeks.

‘I truly didn’t mean to ruin the party.’ Her words were slightly slurred. ‘Are you very, very angry? Are you going to lock me in the dungeon and throw away the key?’

Matteo had never found it so hard to concentrate. ‘Right now I can’t decide whether to shake you or throw a bucket of cold water over you.’

She pulled a face. ‘That doesn’t sound nice. For me or your carpet. Can’t you think of something else to do with me?’

Crush his mouth to hers and kiss her until they were both crazy with it?

Strip off that outrageous dress and find out if the rest of her was as soft as her arms?

His gaze dropped from hazy blue eyes to the perfect curve of her soft, pink lips.

His mouth had moved dangerously close to hers when the door opened.

Matteo released her instantly, but not before he’d seen the surprise in her eyes—surprise he was fairly sure was mirrored by his own expression.

Fury mingling with exasperation, he turned.

His brother’s fiancée, Allegra, stood there, her face pale.

Struggling to balance without Matteo holding her, Izzy took a wobbly step backwards, her expression concerned. ‘Ally, are you all right?’

‘Izzy, how could you?’ Allegra kept her voice low but if anything that show of restraint intensified the emotion behind her words. ‘What did you think you were doing?’

Matteo was asking himself the same question.

What had he been doing?

Half a minute later and he would have done something both parties would have lived to regret.

Relieved to have been rescued from a course of action that was not only uncharacteristic but would have ended badly, Matteo watched as a shocked flush spread over Izzy’s rounded cheeks.

‘I was going to sing you a song.’ Her tone was defensive and hurt. ‘It was something that I—’

‘I wasn’t talking about the song, although that was embarrassing enough because normal people don’t just walk up to someone and grab the microphone. I’m talking about the way you spoke to His Royal Highness.’ Allegra’s mortified gaze slid to Matteo and she sank into a respectful curtsey. ‘I beg your pardon, Sir. My sister isn’t used to being around royalty.’

‘So I gathered.’ He tried to ignore the thought that it was precisely her freshness and lack of stilted conversation that made Allegra’s sister so dangerously attractive.

Izzy’s heavily made-up features were stiff. ‘Don’t apologise for me,’ she said flatly. ‘If there’s any apologising to do, I’ll do it myself.’

‘If?’ Allegra breathed deeply. ‘Of course you should apologise. In fact, if the story in the press tomorrow is about you then you’d probably better make a public apology.’

Matteo watched as Izzy wrapped her arms around herself in a protective gesture that was too much for the dress and another scarlet sequin sprang loose and landed on the priceless Aubusson carpet.

‘They say whatever they like, regardless of whether it’s true. I don’t care. And normally you don’t care either.’

‘Well, I care now! It will be another bad story about the Jacksons. It’s always awful but this time it’s doubly embarrassing because you’ve dragged the royal family into it. This engagement party was supposed to introduce the Jackson family to the people of Santina. It was supposed to be about Alex and me. The headlines were supposed to be Prince in Love but now they’re more likely to be Hospitality Better at Burger Bar.’ Allegra threw a mortified look of apology to Matteo before turning back to her sister. The girl stood rigid as a flagpole.

‘I was just singing. Not the greatest crime known to mankind.’

‘They had a singer! And you pushed him out of the way because you just had to be the one in the limelight. You need to stop this stupid singing obsession and get a proper job!’

‘Singing can be a job.’

‘Singing is a dream and dreams don’t pay the bills.’

The only sound in the wood panelled room was the deep, resonant tick-tock that came from the eighteenth century clock dominating the ornate mantelpiece.

Pale as milk, Izzy picked at her nails. ‘Some people turn a dream into their job.’

‘How many? How many people manage that? Thousands, millions, of people try and only a handful make it. Stop kidding yourself. Look around you. See the competition.’

Her sister’s chin lifted. ‘It’s only over when you give up. And I won’t give up.’

‘So you’re going to throw away your whole life? You’re deluded, Izzy. Ruin your own life if you have to, but I beg you, don’t ruin mine.’

Izzy looked shattered, like a delicate vase that had been dropped onto concrete. ‘It’s not my fault that the press follow me around. It’s not like I ask them to.’

Her voice sounded strange and Matteo felt a flicker of concern because he’d never seen anyone look quite so fragile. Standing in those towering heels she swayed like a reed in the wind and he instinctively shifted his weight, ready to catch her if she fell.

Was it the drink causing her balance problems or those ridiculous shoes she’d insisted on wearing?

Either way, she was as white as the marble statue she’d mocked and it was obvious that she was seriously upset.

Matteo took control. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll sort it out.’

Relief spread over Allegra’s face but Izzy’s expression shifted from miserable to mutinous.

‘I’m not an “it” and I don’t need “sorting out.” I’m more than capable of sorting myself out, thank you very much! And if what you want is for me to avoid the press then that’s what I’ll do.’

Remembering the urgency in his brother’s voice, Matteo walked Allegra to the door. ‘This is your week. The press should be focusing on you and Alex. That’s what we all want. If I take your sister back to the hotel, they’ll be staking her out, so I’ll get her out of here in my car.’ And if part of him knew it was madness to put himself in a position where he’d be spending more time in the company of the most disturbing woman he’d met for a long time then he ignored it. He was a man who prided himself on his self-control. He’d exercise it. The priority was to see his brother safely married and fulfilling the role of Crown Prince. ‘My palazzo is heavily guarded and the grounds run straight to steep cliffs and a private beach. No press.’ He’d made sure of it. The place was like a fortress. ‘It’s isolated.’

Allegra’s face relaxed with relief as she pondered that solution. ‘It sounds perfect. It will give Alex and me a chance to … be together.’

‘It sounds like hell!’ Izzy’s face was white as a bride’s veil. ‘So I’m just going to move in with you? Well, that’s cosy. Lucky me. I just know we’re going to live happily ever after. It’ll be like a perfect fairy tale.’

Matteo ignored her and addressed his remarks to Allegra. ‘Go back to Alex.’

‘Hello!’ Izzy’s voice was high-pitched. ‘I’m here too, remember?’

‘A fact I am unlikely to forget.’ The chill in his tone earned him a wounded look from Izzy and a relieved smile from Allegra.

‘Thank you so much.’

A sound emerged from Izzy’s throat—it might have been protest, but her sister had already gone, closing the door firmly behind her.

Izzy was staring at the closed door, those black-rimmed eyes huge, as if she couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. ‘I need to talk to her—she’s not behaving like herself….’

Given his own suspicions about the engagement that comment might have been worth exploring further, but Matteo decided that his brother needed to sort out his own problems. The limit of his intervention was going to be removing this girl from the scene.

Knowing that the press wouldn’t expect anyone to leave the party early, Matteo pulled his phone out of his pocket. ‘We’re leaving right now.’

She stood rigid. ‘I don’t want to spend another minute with you. Why you’re the world’s most eligible bachelor I have no idea but I certainly don’t want to meet anyone else on that list.’

‘Next time you make me your “goal” perhaps you’d better carry out a little more in-depth research,’ he advised in a silky tone. ‘Did you bring a coat?’

‘I don’t need a coat. I’m not going with you.’

‘You can come willingly or I can carry you out of here. Your choice.’

‘I’m absolutely not going—oh—’ She gave an astonished squeak as he scooped her into his arms and carried her towards the door on the opposite side of the room that led to a private exit. ‘Ugh. Don’t jiggle me around—I get travel sick. Put me down! It will serve you right if you put your back out.’

‘You weigh nothing.’ And acknowledging that cost him because it made him more aware of the feel of her in his arms, of the softness of her skin and the way her hair brushed against his jaw.

‘I’d weigh more if you fed me. I’ve lost several kilos since I arrived. Why on earth would you want me to come with you? You hate me.’

If only.

He wondered what she’d say if she knew his feelings towards her were far, far more complex than that. She was so black and white, he thought. So extreme about everything. A small, lethal grenade of passion just waiting to explode at the wrong moment. All the more reason to isolate her somewhere she could do no harm.

Ignoring the astonished glances of the staff, Matteo strode down a set of steps and into a private courtyard at the rear of the palace.

He was just congratulating himself on being back in control of the situation when he felt the warmth of her mouth against his neck. Fire flashed through his veins and heated his body.

‘What are you doing?’ His voice was hoarse and he lowered her abruptly to the ground.

‘I asked you nicely to put me down—’ she looked as unsteady as she sounded ‘—but you didn’t listen to reason so I’m trying alternative tactics. Flattered though I am that you see someone as small and insignificant as me as some sort of monarchy wrecker, I’m afraid I must refuse your kind invitation to stay at your palazzo. Firstly because I have a suspicion that you’re not a very nice person. Secondly because if tonight is anything to go by the hospitality probably isn’t up to much, and fourthly—’

‘Thirdly,’ he corrected her smoothly, and she blinked.

‘Whatever. I really liked my hotel room. It came with a big fluffy dressing gown. For one week of my life I was going to live in luxury. I was going to have the whole princess lifestyle without the inconvenience of a prince.’

He was now standing a safe distance from her but he could still feel the touch of her mouth against his skin. ‘Your hotel is now a no-go zone. You’re coming with me and that isn’t an invitation, it’s a command.’

‘I like to make my own choices, thank you very much.’

‘Fine. Here are your choices. You can get in the car yourself, or I can put you there. Move.’ With a discreet flick of his wrist Matteo unlocked the sports car. ‘And don’t you dare be sick.’

At any other time she would have danced with excitement at the prospect of being given another chance to impress him, but Izzy was feeling hideous. And it wasn’t all down to the champagne she’d drunk.

She couldn’t believe the evening had gone so badly wrong. She needed to regroup. To plan. But she didn’t feel well enough.

As she slid into the deep leather seat of the super car, a nasty mixture of misery and humiliation sloshed around her brain mingling with a massive dollop of disappointment. When she’d envisaged the end of the evening none of her daydreams had included her being whisked away under the cover of darkness from a discreet private entrance hidden in the depths of the palace grounds.

She felt like a criminal being removed from the scene of the crime. And the fact that it was just the two of them in the car was deeply unsettling.

‘You’re a prince. I thought you’d have a bulletproof limo and armed police.’

‘I drive myself.’ The engine started with a throaty growl and he pressed his foot to the floor. ‘I prefer to be responsible for my own security rather than trusting it to other people.’

‘That must be quite a job because after half an hour in your company I’m willing to believe that there must be a million women out there just dying to shoot you through the head.’ Izzy had the satisfaction of seeing his knuckles whiten on the wheel. ‘You’re the one who wanted to kidnap me. Your punishment is being stuck with me.’ And her punishment? Her punishment was the dangerous sizzle that made it difficult to breathe.

He shifted gears with a smooth, expert movement and the car shot forward with a throaty growl. ‘Feel free to sulk over my appalling treatment of you. I would welcome the silence.’

‘I never sulk.’ But deep down she was bitterly disappointed that he’d mocked her voice. She’d been so excited about meeting him. She’d planned it carefully, worked long into the night to perfect the song she was going to sing. She’d picked a dress that she’d thought made her look like a star. But he’d taken one look at her and made the same judgements as the rest of the guests at the palace party. They’d all dismissed her as some cheap, ex-footballer’s daughter with nothing to offer musically.

Look at me, I’m not who you see …

The words popped into her head along with a haunting melody and despite the tense situation Izzy felt the fizz of excitement she always experienced when words and notes came together. Relieved to have something to distract her, she hummed softly as it flowed into her head like magic.

Deep inside there’s someone else, longing to break free …

‘You ruin your sister’s evening and you’re still singing? Don’t you know when to be quiet?’

‘I did not ruin her evening.’ Or had she? Izzy felt her conscience prick and then felt a ripple of concern because even through the haze of alcohol she’d been aware that her half-sister was behaving oddly.

With a stab of regret, she tugged her phone out of her bag and texted one word to Allegra.

Sorry.

But her family should be sorry too, she thought. They never took her seriously. I’m not what you see, don’t turn away … Terrified that she might forget it, she closed her eyes and hummed it a few times, forcing it into her memory. The tune and the words blurred as her mind drifted. The deep purr of the engine became soothing background noise….

She awoke with a start and realised that they were driving along an avenue, the trees flanking the road providing a menacing guard of honour. Groggy, she turned her head. ‘I fell asleep.’

He pressed his foot to the accelerator. ‘Non c’è problema. You were silent. A vast improvement. And talking of silence, don’t use your phone while you’re with me.’

‘Now you’re telling me who I can call?’

‘No, I’m telling you not to call from your own phone.’ He spoke with exaggerated patience. ‘When we arrive at the palazzo, you can call anyone you like from a secure line. That’s if anyone is still speaking to you after tonight’s debacle.’

Izzy, who had no clue what a debacle was, decided that if it was linked to the engagement party it couldn’t possibly be anything she’d want to repeat. She made a mental note to load a dictionary app onto her phone later. ‘I sent one text to Allegra.’

‘Don’t send any more. You can call your mother from the palazzo.’

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘I assume she’ll be worried about you. Wondering where you’ve gone.’

‘She won’t even notice.’ Izzy spoke without thinking and then caught his searching glance. That was the danger of drink, she thought woozily. It brought your emotions right to the surface. ‘So all this “don’t use your mobile” stuff—you’re one of those people who believes in conspiracy theories?’

‘No, I’m one of those people who has had his phone tapped.’

‘Seriously? People listened in to your conversations? Were you saying something salacious at the time?’ Pleased with herself for having managed to worm such an impressive word into the conversation, she wriggled deeper into the luxurious seat. She’d show him that he wasn’t the only one who could use long words. ‘They can listen to my conversations if they want to. I hope they’re shocked. I don’t care what the media say about me.’

‘Of course you don’t.’ His derisory tone was a long way from complimentary. ‘You were created by the media. You depend on them for your survival. You obviously love the press and everything they can do for you.’

His biting assessment of her situation was like a hard slap, all the more painful because it was partly true. She didn’t love the press, that wasn’t true, but she was savvy enough to know that publicity made a difference. It had taken her a year of hard knocks to learn that the press was not her friend. She knew now that just because they called her ‘Izzy’ and acted as if they were on her side, they weren’t.

The notes faded from Izzy’s brain, as did the excitement of writing a new song.

It had been a crazy fantasy to think Prince Matteo, friend to rock stars and royalty, would listen to her singing and be impressed. ‘You’re entitled to your opinion about the press, but don’t ever think you know me.’

Look at me, I’m not who you see.

Suddenly she wished she hadn’t worn the strawberry sequin dress. She’d been so excited about it when she’d noticed it in the store. It had been the sexiest dress she’d seen and when she’d tried it on she’d thought she looked like a popstar. But when she thought about the elegant, restrained clothes everyone else had worn she realised that she’d got it wrong again. She’d stood out for all the wrong reasons.

Izzy blinked rapidly as she remembered the condescending glances and the barely concealed smirks. It would have taken more than the right dress to make her fit in. Her whole look was wrong. She didn’t have a slim, aristocratic face like so many of the women at the engagement party. Her cheeks were round and her nose turned up at the end. They had smooth, perfect hair. Hers insisted on curling. Theirs was golden or glossy brown—hers looked as if she’d rolled in a vat of strawberries. At school she’d been given a detention for colouring her hair and no amount of protestation on her part had convinced the headmistress that Izzy Jackson had developed pink streaks in her hair at the age of three. Apparently her grandmother’s hair had been the same.

Most of the time she told herself that she didn’t care. But creative, dreamy Izzy, for all her bounce and outgoing nature, was extremely sensitive.

Look at me, I’m not who you see,

Deep inside there’s someone else, longing to break free …

Maybe there were advantages to being forced to hide out at his palazzo, she mused.

She could just work on her song until it was perfect. She’d write something so amazing that people had to listen. And maybe, just maybe, she could persuade the Prince of Darkness to at least let her help with the final preparations for the Rock ‘n’ Royal concert. Perhaps he’d even get her a ticket!

Cheered by that thought, Izzy allowed herself a tiny dream where she was backstage chatting with her favourite stars.

Every year since she was a teenager she’d watched the concert live on TV. The event was giant, backed by his friend the famous music producer Hunter Capshaw, who was a genius at staging live events. She’d read that the two of them already had the biggest names in the industry signed up and willing to donate their time for such a good cause. Rock royalty. Not national jokes, like her.

Without thinking, Izzy slid her hand to her hem and tried to tug her dress a little further down her thighs.

The prince caught the movement and his head turned, his dark gaze flitting over her.

Their eyes met briefly.

Heart pounding, she found herself looking at the sensual curve of his mouth and for a fleeting, unsettling second she had a wild impulse to lean forward and kiss him just to see how it felt.

Shaken by the intensity of that sexual connection, she looked away quickly.

The man had no sense of fun and he was so maddeningly sure of himself she wanted to punch him. Having never before wanted to punch someone and kiss them at the same time, Izzy decided that she must be more drunk than she’d first thought.

She tried telling herself that arrogance wasn’t attractive but even so she was sneaking looks at the dusky shadow roughening his jaw and the width of those powerful shoulders.

Seriously disturbed by her own thoughts, Izzy wriggled to the furthest edge of her seat and hoped that her reaction was somehow linked with the volume of champagne she’d consumed because being stupid about a man definitely wasn’t one of her goals. She’d already made that mistake and she never, ever made the same mistake twice.

‘So is it always like that?’

‘Like what?’

‘Royal events.’ She thought about the frozen features, the restrained behaviour. ‘About as much fun as holding a party in a cemetery, although come to think of it lots of the women did look like skeletons. Why wasn’t there any proper food?’

‘There were canapés.’

‘Which no one was eating. No one was doing anything except standing around looking like wax models of themselves. What’s the point of a party if no one enjoys themselves? No one let themselves go.’

‘You more than compensated for the rest of the guests.’

She shot him a defiant look but shame oozed through the defiance because underneath the alcohol-induced high she knew she’d behaved badly. The crazy thing was, she hadn’t meant to.

‘I didn’t realise it was a crime to enjoy yourself at a party. So doesn’t anyone ever have a good time at a royal event? With your never-ending budget you ought to be throwing the best parties in town.’

‘Royal events are for other people.’

They were out of the city now, and speeding down a narrow road that started to climb.

Izzy realised she didn’t have a clue where they were going. This was her first visit to the small Mediterranean principality of Santina and she knew nothing about the geography.

‘What do you mean “for other people”?’

‘We don’t hold, or attend, events for our own entertainment. There’s always a reason. A state visit, to support a charity, to thank a section of the community, to show we’re interested—’ he shifted gear and accelerated out of a sharp bend ‘—there’s a never-ending list of reasons.’

‘And tonight was the engagement of your brother and my sister.’

‘Yes.’

Hearing something in his voice she leapt to the defence of her sister. ‘He’s lucky to have Allegra. She’s worth a hundred of those judgemental, stuck-up skinny women back at that party.’ She’d expected her hotheaded defence of her family to draw a sarcastic response but this time when he turned his head there was no sign of condescension or arrogance.

‘I hope you’re right because Alex can’t afford for this to go wrong. None of us can.’ He focused on the road again but the frown stayed on his face. ‘Did anything seem strange to you about the engagement?’

‘Apart from the fact my sister must be mad to marry a prince? No. Why?’

The pause was fractional. ‘No reason.’

‘Clearly there is a reason or you wouldn’t have asked the question.’ Although her head was spinning, Izzy felt a flash of unease. ‘Allegra would never marry him if she didn’t love him. And he must love her back or he wouldn’t marry her.’

‘You think love conquers all?’ This time his smile was sardonic. ‘How old are you?’

Stung by the mockery, Izzy gritted her teeth. It didn’t matter what she said or did, he still managed to make her feel small. ‘Old enough to know that you and I trapped together is a recipe for disaster. And just for the record I think love is the only reason to get married. There is no other reason.’ She thought about her parents and then immediately pushed the thought away because the reality of their marriage clashed so badly with her own ideals. If she ever reached the point when she was ready for another relationship then she was going to do everything differently.

The prince kept his eyes on the road. ‘So you believe in fairy tales?’

‘I didn’t say that. I said I believed in love, although just for the record I think it’s hard to find. Also for the record I’d like to say that you are the most cynical guy I’ve ever met and you have an unfortunate tendency to stereotype everyone at first glance. Now just drop me off in the next village and I’ll find myself somewhere to stay. That way we just might not kill each other.’

‘We just drove through the last village. There is nowhere to drop you.’

‘What village?’ Izzy turned her head to look over her shoulder and then wished she hadn’t as her brain suddenly felt fuzzy. ‘I saw two houses. Or was it one house and I have double vision?’

‘For the rest of your stay you are drinking water.’

‘Just as long as you have a nice slice of stale bread to go with it.’ But Izzy was starting to realise that her stay with the prince wasn’t likely to be diluted by the presence of other people. ‘When you said you lived miles from anywhere you weren’t joking.’

‘I rarely joke.’

She looked at his black dinner jacket. ‘I thought you were in the air force. Why aren’t you wearing a fancy uniform?’

‘I left active service five years ago. Now I advise the DD.’

‘DD?’ She tried to get her spinning brain round it. ‘Dear Daughter?’

His jaw tightened. ‘Defence Department.’

‘Oh. Cool.’ Izzy peered into the darkness and saw nothing but tall cypress trees and olive groves. ‘So do you spend a lot of time here?’

‘As much as I can. I value my privacy.’ His eyes glittered with a dark emotion that was alien to her. There were dark layers to the man that were hidden away, buried deep beneath a royal exterior that no observer was allowed to penetrate.

Izzy recognised instinctively how complex he was and the gulf between them widened because she knew that she wasn’t at all complex.

Her school report came to mind.

Isabelle is as shallow as a bird bath but is unlikely to provide even that useful service unless she gives up dreams of stardom and attempts to make something of her life.

She’d been determined to prove them wrong but so far she wasn’t making much progress.

‘Look, I’ll just phone a taxi or something when we get to your place,’ she muttered. ‘It would be better for both of us. I can take care of myself.’

‘You’ll stay at my palazzo until I’ve decided what to do with you.’

Like a piece of rubbish, Izzy thought, that needed recycling. Which bin do I throw her in? Plastics or green waste? ‘Right, because we both know I’m really going to fit in there. I can’t think of anything I’d love more than being trapped somewhere isolated with just you for company.’ Her singsong response was supposed to conceal how hurt she was but she saw his eyes narrow speculatively.

‘I wouldn’t have thought a woman who chose to wear a strapless dress made from nothing but sequins cared too much about fitting in.’

‘Well, that shows you know nothing about women.’

‘Funnily enough I thought I knew a great deal about women. Apparently I was wrong.’ His voice was a lazy masculine drawl and her spine tingled.

‘If the women there tonight are the sort you’ve been mixing with it’s no wonder you’re ignorant. They weren’t really women. They didn’t smile or laugh, except when they were laughing at me,’ she muttered, ‘and frankly I’m fed up with being the butt of everyone’s humour. That’s why I’d rather you dropped me off here. Let’s face it, we have nothing in common. I’ll just mess up your precious palazzo and although I’m pretty robust all this frowning disapproval is starting to get to me. I don’t want to leave the island with confidence issues.’

He shot her a look. ‘I cannot imagine you suffering from confidence issues.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ Izzy said darkly. ‘Sometimes I feel as though the whole world is frowning at me. Like now, for instance. You keep looking at my dress as if you can’t quite believe your eyes. You’re obviously deeply prejudiced towards sequins.’

‘They’re not exactly subtle.’

‘So? I love this dress.’ She refused to apologise for it. ‘And it’s hypocritical of you to be superior given all the bling you royals own.’

He shifted gears, that strong male hand alarmingly close to her knee. ‘I own “bling”?’

‘Did you see that sparkly tiara thing your mother was wearing this evening?’

‘That “tiara thing” was a gift from a sixteenth century British monarch.’

‘Well, it was sparklier than anything I own so it’s a bit hypocritical of everyone to turn their noses up at my love of shiny things just because some of us can’t afford the real thing. A party needs sparkle and yours didn’t have anywhere near enough. Talking of which, you do realise that I don’t have any luggage, don’t you? So unless you happen to own something that might fit me I’m going to be wearing this not-exactly-subtle dress every day I’m in captivity.’

‘You are not in captivity.’

‘So I can leave whenever I like?’

There was a brief pause. ‘No. The focus needs to be on my brother and your sister. Not you.’

‘So I am in captivity.’

‘Consider it a holiday. You were planning to stay in the hotel for a week. We’ve merely altered the destination and I can assure you that the coastline around my palazzo is stunning. My staff are currently in the process of transferring your luggage—please tell me you own something that doesn’t sparkle.’ His gaze flickered to hers and she felt as though all the oxygen had been sucked from the air because there was something in that look that made her stomach flip.

Even without a smile on his face he was indecently, impossibly sexy.

‘Do pyjamas count?’ It was a good job she could never fall for a man without a sense of humour, Izzy thought shakily, otherwise she’d be in deep trouble. And she’d thought she’d been too badly hurt to even look at a man again. It was the champagne. Surely it was the champagne.

‘Your pyjamas are the only clothes you own that don’t sparkle?’ His gaze skidded to hers and she turned scarlet, wishing she’d never mentioned pyjamas.

Tension throbbed between them and Izzy bit back a wild laugh because even she recognised that the attraction between them was beyond inconvenient. And she didn’t welcome it any more than he did. Her last relationship had been an utter disaster, the fallout from it played out across the world’s media. She had no intention of providing more relationship fodder for public entertainment.

What might have happened next she had no idea because a pair of enormous gates manned by armed security guards swung open and the car sped through the gates without slowing down. Impressed in spite of herself, Izzy sat tensely as they sped down a tree-lined avenue that eventually opened out into a magnificent courtyard dominated by an illuminated fountain.

Ahead of them, floodlit against the star-studded Mediterranean sky, stood the palazzo, centuries old and a vision of warm honey-coloured stone.

Izzy thought of her room in her parents’ mock Tudor house in England and gulped. ‘This is your home?’

‘Yes. Why?’

Because it was enormous. ‘It’s just a bit small and pokey, that’s all. I was expecting something a lot more magnificent. If you’re trying to impress the girls then you probably need to think about trading up.’ She could have sworn that his mouth finally flickered at the corners but maybe it was just wishful thinking because there was no humour in his response.

‘Endeavour to behave yourself in front of my staff.’

‘I thought you lived alone.’

‘I do, but I have a permanent staff of fifty.’

‘I hate to tell you this but a permanent staff of fifty doesn’t constitute “alone.” You seriously need fifty staff?’ She digested that fact in amazement. ‘I guessed you’d be hard work but not that

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