Читать книгу Amber And The Rogue Prince - Элли Блейк, Ally Blake - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

HUGO TUGGED HIS cap lower over his eyes and hunched into his shoulders as he made his way up a gravel path winding through the quaint market town of Serenity. The kind of place where business hours varied daily and where as many animals sat behind counters as people.

Prospero—the bodyguard Hugo’s uncle had insisted upon—was not happy about it. He did not like being in the open. Or moving slowly. Or places with tall buildings. Or cars with open windows. He particularly didn’t like the fact that Hugo had ditched him in Vallemont a couple of months before and had only just made contact again, requesting his presence, now that he had been outed.

But for all the big guy’s efforts at keeping Hugo safe, Hugo blamed him for the sideways glances and double-takes. The size of a telephone box, dressed in head-to-toe black, a clean-shaven head and Men in Black sunglasses, he looked like a soccer hooligan on steroids.

Otherwise there was no way the locals would make the connection between the guy in the ripped jeans, Yankees cap and skateboard shoes and the Prince in the three-piece suit from the meeting the night before.

Though it wouldn’t take long for that to change. There was no doubt the story of Hugo’s public life was being shared and spread.

A prince, fifth in line to the throne of the principality of Vallemont. An Australian mother, a father who had died when his son was fifteen, having infamously run his car off a cliff with his young mistress at the wheel. Now he was the black sheep: independently wealthy and single.

The official palace statement was that Hugo was back at work, but after the wedding debacle he’d needed to escape. Eventually he’d found himself in Serenity. Where his mother had been born.

Days had dissolved into nights, a blur of time and quiet and nothingness; of exploring the empty, echoing house which seemed uninspired by his presence as if he too were a ghost.

Until he’d walked over the other side of the hill and found a hammock strung between two trees in the shade. He’d sat down, kicked off his shoes and fallen asleep.

Upon waking, he’d looked into a pair of whisky-brown eyes. And seen colour for the first time in as long as he could rightly remember.

“Alessandro!”

Hugo followed his name to find Councillor Pinkerton sitting at a colourful wrought-iron table inside a place calling itself “Tansy’s Tea Room”, which looked like a middle-eastern opium den.

She waved him in and, since he needed her support to be granted planning permission for his resort, he entered, leaving Prospero at the door with a, “Stay. Good boy.”

“Sit,” said the councillor. “Have some tea. You look tired. A man as rich and good-looking as you should never look tired. It gives the rest of us nothing to aspire to.” She clicked her fingers, called out, “A top-up on my ‘Just Do It’, and a ‘Resurrection’ for my friend, please.”

“Should I be afraid?” he asked.

“It’s just tea. Mostly chamomile. I’m on your side.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m on Ms Hartley’s side too.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“You want what is best for Serenity.”

“I do.”

“Councillor?”

“Paulina, please.”

“Paulina. Before the town meeting last night, your council had seemed extremely positive about my proposal.”

“They were.”

“And now? Is a green light still assured, or are we now leaning towards...khaki?”

The councillor smiled. “I can see that the resort would be good for us. An influx of tourists means an influx of the kind of money which cannot be sneezed at for a town of our size. But Ms Hartley had a point. The beauty of Serenity is its way of living. The openness, the quiet, the kindness and, most of all, the community. We are self-sufficient in the most important ways, in a great part thanks to the commune.”

“I would have thought the presence of a commune has negative connotations in this day and age.”

“Which is why we call it an ‘Inclusive Community’ on the brochures.”

Two pots of tea landed on their table, slopping towards the rims as the unsteady table rocked.

Paulina poured. “So how is your mother?”

Hugo stilled at the unexpected turn of conversation. “My mother?”

“Anna. Yes. I knew her, you know. Before.” She waggled her fingers as if about to go back in time. “We were good mates, in fact. Went through school together, met boys together. So how is she?”

Hugo went to say Fine, but something about this woman, her bluntness, the intelligence in her eyes, the fact she’d known Hugo’s mother in the before, had him saying, “I think she’s lonely.”

“Hmm. She is remarried, no?”

“Yes.”

“To a French businessman, I hear?”

“An importer, yes. He travels a great deal.”

“Ah.” The councillor nodded again. “Handsome though, I expect. Your father was a very handsome man. I might even go so far as to say, devastatingly so. Add the Giordano charm and...” Paulina pursed her lips and blew out a long, slow stream of air.

“So I have heard.”

Paulina’s eyes hardened. Then she slapped herself on the hand. “Sorry. Insensitive.”

Hugo waved a hand, releasing her of any apology.

His father had been charming, famously so. His mother was only one of the women who’d loved him for it. The mistress who’d been driving the car that had killed him was another.

“I was there the day they met. Your mother and father. Would you care to hear the tale?”

Since Hinterland House, with its air of quiet slumber, had not yet given up any secrets, he found he cared a great deal.

“Your father was ostensibly in Australia to see the reef and the rock and forge relationships on behalf of his little-known country—but mostly to watch sports and try his fair share of our local beers. He came to our small corner to pick peaches. Your mother and I were working at the orchard that summer, handing out lemonade to the tourists. I remember so many long-limbed Germans, sweet-talking French, Americans full of bravado. And there was your father—the brooding Prince.

“A good girl, your mother. Seriously shy, she ignored his flirtation, which was a good part of why he kept it up. He could have offered diamonds, played up his natural charisma, but he was cleverer than that. He brought her hand-picked wild flowers, notes scratched into sheaves of paper bark, the very best peach he picked every day. It took three days. When she fell, she fell hard. And I was glad to see his adoration didn’t diminish for having her. They were so very much in love.

“He left for Sydney a week later. A week after that he came back for her with a ring and a proposal. And I never saw her again.”

Paulina smiled. “I was sorry to hear of his passing, not only for your mother’s sake. How old were you?”

“Fifteen,” Hugo said without having to think about it. His headmaster had been the one to inform him, having been instructed by his uncle to wait until after the funeral. A decision had been made not to send Hugo home to keep him away from the scandal.

“Ah. A trying period in the life of a boy, at the best of times.”

Hugo merely nodded.

“Ah,” said the councillor, looking over Hugo’s shoulder, a smile creasing the edges of her eyes as someone approached their table.

Hugo knew who it was before a word was said. The wild energy snapping at the air behind him disturbed the hairs on the back of his neck.

He let his voice travel as he said, “Now, Paulina, about that woman who stood up in front of the council last night—shall I buy the bag of lime and shovel or simply pay you back?”

The councillor’s eyes widened in surprise before a smile creased her face. “Good morning, Ms Hartley.”

A beat, then, “Good morning, Councillor Pinkerton.”

“Paulina, please.”

Hugo pressed back his chair and stood. Amber wore a short summer dress that hung from her tanned shoulders by thin ribbons tied at her shoulders. A battered pork-pie hat sat atop her head, leaving her long honey-blonde hair to hang in waves over one shoulder.

But it was the eyes that got him every time. They were devastating. Fierce, wanton bedroom eyes that could lay civilisations to waste.

“Well, if it isn’t my worthy adversary,” he said.

Amber tilted her chin and looked only at Hugo’s companion. “I’m so glad to have run into you, Paulina. I was hoping to have a word.”

“Any time. Won’t you join us?”

Amber’s chin lifted. “Considering the subject, I don’t think that’s wise.”

“I think quite the opposite. Did the two of you manage to meet properly last night?”

Hugo looked to Amber with a smile, allowing her to respond.

She gaped like a fish out of water before saying, slowly, “We did not meet last night.”

“Then allow me. Amber, this is Prince Alessandro Giordano of Vallemont. Prince Alessandro, this is our supplier of all things sweet and honeyed, Amber Hartley.”

“A pleasure to meet you.” Hugo held out a hand. Amber’s face was a concerto of emotion as she fought against the need to play nice, at least in front of others, so she didn’t look like an ass.

Finally, Amber’s eyes turned his way. “Prince Alessandro, was it?”

He nodded. “My friends call me Hugo.”

“How nice for them.” Then she took his hand, grabbed a hunk of skirt and curtseyed. Deeply. “Your Highness.”

Until that moment Hugo hadn’t realised a curtsey could be ironic. Laughter knocked against his windpipe, desperate to escape. Only years of maintaining a neutral countenance in affairs of state made it possible to swallow it down.

“Amber, sit,” said Paulina. “I insist. Talk to the man. Work out your grievances. At least attempt to come up with a workable plan, for your sake and for the sake of the town. If you can’t, well, you can tick ‘having tea with a prince’ off your bucket list.”

Councillor Pinkerton pushed back her chair and stood. Hugo reached for his wallet.

“No,” said the older woman. “My treat. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’d bribed me with a pot of tea, now, would we?”

Then she held out her hand, offering the seat to Amber.

“No,” said Amber, waving both hands to make it clear she meant it. “Thank you. But I couldn’t.”

“Your loss,” said the councillor. Then, at the door she called, “She’s got mettle, this one. Might take more than a peach.”

Hugo’s laugh left his throat before he even felt it coming. Then he ran a hand up the back of his neck, settling the hairs that were still on edge.

Amber continued to glare.

“Please join me. At the very least so that I don’t have to stand here all day.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Prince Alessandro? Get some paparazzi shots of us hanging together so as to muddy the waters regarding my side of the case.”

“It’s Hugo. Paparazzi a fixture here in downtown Serenity?”

“Well, no. But now word is out that you are here I’m sure it won’t be long.”

Hugo was sure of it too, meaning his blissful few weeks of anonymity truly were over. And the time to get the plans put to bed was ticking down.

“I’m going to sit,” he said. “The chair is yours if you want it.”

Amber glanced around, found the table beside his was empty, and sat there instead. With her back to him.

She turned her head ever so slightly. “This isn’t the first time for you, is it?”

“Hmm? I didn’t catch that with you sitting all the way over there.” First time for what? he wondered. Drinking tea that smelled like feet? Or locking horns with a stubborn woman he couldn’t get out of his head? “First time for what?”

“Tearing the heart and soul out of a town and turning it into some fancy, homogenised getaway for the idle rich.”

“Ah. I probably won’t use that as the tagline of any future advertising, but yes, I have experience in this area. This will be my...seventh such resort.” A beat, then, “Have you been Googling me, Amber?”

Her shoulders rolled. “It was a stab in the dark. The only semi-decent Wi-Fi around here is at Herb’s Shiatsu Parlour. You can go grey waiting for a picture to load.”

“But at least you’d feel relaxed while doing so.”

Her mouth twitched before she turned her back on him again. He spotted the edge of the dandelion tattoo that curled delicately over her shoulder blade. He remembered the slight rise of it as he’d run a thumb over the area once. The way her muscles reacted, contracting under his touch.

“I’ve come up against people like you before,” she said, “privileged, successful, glowing with an aura that says don’t worry, I’ve done this before, you’re in good hands. But just because you think you’re in the right, doesn’t mean that you are.”

“I could say the same for you.”

“I live in a shack, Your Highness. I collect and sell honey for a living. You and are I are not on the same playing field. But the biggest difference is that, while you think you are in the right, I know I am.”

Hugo could have argued relativism till the cows came home. In fact, if they’d been rugged up in her bed, limbs curled around one another, it might even have been fun.

“What were you telling Councillor Pinkerton about me?” Amber asked, and Hugo gave up pretending he could focus on anything else while she was near.

He pushed his tea aside and turned back to face her. “Until the moment you arrived your name did not come up.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Are you a subject of much chatter around these parts?”

A pause. “No. Maybe. At one time. I was a newcomer too once.”

“The councillor and I weren’t talking about my plans at all. It turns out she knew my mother. And my father.”

Talk of family? Talk of something personal? He half expected Amber to leap over the table and bolt. But her head turned a little further, giving Hugo a view of her profile. Full lips, neat nose, and a fine jaw disappearing into swathes of golden hair. When she lowered her eyes he was hit with the memory of her sleeping; hands curled under her ear, lips softly parted, lashes creating smudges of shadow against her cheeks.

She asked, “Was that a surprise?”

“It was. A good one, though.”

She turned a fraction more on her chair, until her eyes found his. Big, brazen pools of whisky that he knew, from experience, darkened with desire and brightened when she laughed. “Prince Alessandro—”

“Don’t do that.” Hugo’s voice dropped so that only she could hear. “Amber, I am still the same man you found sleeping in your hammock and took into your home. Into your bed. I am still Hugo.”

Amber’s throat worked as she swallowed. “Ah. But that’s the name your friends call you. And I am not your friend.”

“You could be.” Hugo called upon years of royal conditioning to keep his messier emotions at bay, to keep himself apart. He leant towards her, close enough to see the creases now furrowing her brow, the single freckle on her neck, the way her lashes tangled as they curled. “I’d like it very much if you were.”

Her chest rose and fell as her eyes darted between his. She licked her lips then glanced away. “You have history here, I understand that. But you’re not the only one. Think on that as you sit in your big house, poring over your Machiavellian scheme to destroy this community.”

“You paint quite the picture. You must have spent a great deal of time imagining what I’ve been up to since you threw me out.”

Pink raced up her cheeks as her jaw clenched. “I can assure you, Prince Alessandro, the amount of time I have spent wondering about you is entirely proportional to my desire to figure out how to make you walk away for good.”

“Hmm,” he said, not believing it for a second. The deep breaths, the darkness in her eyes—she was still as aware of him as he was of her. As much as she might want to switch off the fascination they had in one another, it was still alive and well.

“Amber?”

Amber blinked several times before they both turned towards a man with raging red hair gelled into painful-looking spikes. “Tansy. Hi. Sorry, I’m taking up a table. I...”

Amber stopped when she realised that was clearly not Tansy’s concern. For Tansy was staring at Hugo as if he were an alien who’d landed a spaceship inside his shop. And behind him Tansy had amassed a small crowd, a veritable sea of tie-dye and hemp.

“Is this...?” said Tansy. “Is he...?”

“Why, yes,” said Amber, her voice nice and loud. “Tansy, this is Prince Alessandro Giordano, the man who is planning on stripping our hill bare.”

Tansy shoved a hand between them. “So pleased to meet you, Your Highness.”

“Hugo, please. My friends call me Hugo.”

When the shake was done, Tansy’s heavily tattooed hands fluttered to his heart. “A prince. In my tea room. I honestly don’t know what to say.”

“How about Get out?” said Amber as she hopped out of the seat and melted into the crowd. “How about Leave our village be? How about We don’t want your type here?”

Hugo saw Prospero begin to head inside, clearly not liking the growing crowd. Hugo stayed him with a shake of the head.

“Will you be King?” asked a woman twirling her hair and looking at him as if he were a hot lunch.

Hugo searched the crowd until he saw Amber’s profile. She was whispering to someone in the back, no doubt working them to her favour.

“No,” said Hugo. “Vallemont is a principality, not a kingdom. It is protected and overseen by a royal family, the head of which is my uncle, the Sovereign Prince. There are several people between me and the crown.”

A ripple of disappointment swept through the small crowd.

Hugo bit back a laugh. He heard that. But since his chance at a possible shot at the crown had been ripped away from him at the age of fifteen, he’d had to find other uses for himself. Building resorts gave his life meaning.

“Now, who here loves a lagoon? Tennis courts? Who thinks this town could do with a yoga studio?”

He no longer kept looking for Amber, but he could feel her glaring at him just fine.

* * *

Dying sunlight poured tracks of gold over the stone floor of the tiny little shopfront in Serenity she had inherited along with the beehives when she’d first arrived in town.