Читать книгу Exclusive!: Hollywood Life or Royal Wife? / Marriage Scandal, Showbiz Baby! / Sex, Lies and a Security Tape - Jackie Braun, Fiona Hood-Stewart, Fiona Hood-Stewart - Страница 9

RUNNING A PRINCIPALITY WAS no different from running a large company, Rodolfo reflected, as he stepped out of the lift and headed towards the next event. The need to be present at a seemingly never-ending succession of social occasions such as the Cannes Film Festival bored him. Still, it was definitely bringing in the kind of business the island needed.

His grandfather, the late Prince, had ensured that life in the principality remained very closed and refined. While he was alive only the ancient aristocratic families that had centuries-old residences on the island had been allowed tax breaks. But his grandfather had been dead for three years now, and Rodolfo was doing his damnedest to help his small dominion develop into a modern, self-sufficient state.

Its people needed work which would allow them to stay on the island, instead of having to leave and seek jobs in neighbouring countries. Rodolfo was determined to offer them a better standard of living, and he was sure that it could be achieved by tapping in to the island’s tourist and residency potential. Already many wealthy business people and movie stars, seeking seclusion and privacy, were moving to the island, thanks to the new tax laws he’d had passed.

Hence his reason for attending the Cannes Film Festival. For, like it or not, he, as the Prince, was Malvarina’s best marketing spokesman.

Rodolfo had spent several years preparing for what he was now implementing. All the while he’d been at Oxford, and later when he was at Harvard, he’d known that he would never persuade his grandfather to change the old ways. Instead he’d bided his time, respecting his grandparent’s views, but knowing exactly what he would undertake when the opportunity finally arose. In the meantime he had gained experience by working with major companies in London and New York and through living life to the fullest, aware that one day he would be the ruler of the small principality. And when the moment had come the people of the island had watched suspiciously as Rodolfo implemented his reforms and passed new laws.

However, little by little, he had won them over. Now there was a top-line tourism and hotel school where the islanders could train. Language courses and the possibility of exchange programmes with other countries existed too. Rodolfo wanted the best for his people, but he also expected them to provide the best possible service to those he was inviting to make the island their primary residence.

Straightening his bow tie, Rodolfo glanced critically at his tanned reflection in the glinting mirror in the corridor. He’d aged in the last couple of years. New responsibilities had brought tiny crows’ feet around his dark eyes, and streaks of silver touched his temples. Par for the course, he reflected, fixing his cufflinks and wondering which film star he would be expected to be polite to tonight and how many ego trips he would have to endure.

Cannes and its glitz and glamour bored him. But it was here that potential clients hung out. People, it seemed, were drawn to royalty like bees to honey. His lips curved ironically. He’d lost count of the number of women who’d thrown themselves at him, hoping to share his bed and to be able to say that they’d had a fling with one of Europe’s most eligible bachelors. Some may even have dreamed of another fairy tale à la Grace Kelly. But he was uninterested in the blonde-and-silicone perfection that was presently on offer, bored with the vapid top models he’d dated with no strings attached, and the inevitable publicity that accompanied his numerous affairs.

Of course the future of the principality was something he now had to take into consideration. Hence his introduction to several aristocratic European women whom the council of the island considered suitable brides. He sighed. Just thinking about them made his heart sink. To have to spend the rest of his life with a woman he didn’t love seemed a lot to ask. On the other hand, since Giada had died in that plane accident seven years ago he’d never thought of giving away his heart again. So perhaps it would be easier simply to marry someone like the Spanish duquesa the council were so keen on, or that German countess, and forget about romance.

He glanced at the thin gold watch gracing his wrist. Time for the show to begin. On his way out of his suite his valet had handed him a white silk scarf which he threw casually around his neck. Another black-tie event. How many could they squeeze into the space of one festival? he wondered with a grimace.

VICTORIA FIDDLED with the stem of her champagne flute and forced herself to appear interested in the dull story that a fellow actor was recounting about himself and his exploits in some obscure film which, he told her, was bound to win a prize at next year’s festival in Sundance, even though it was not making waves in Cannes. She made all the right noises and caught Anne’s eye, hoping she might be rescued.

It was only the beginning of what promised to be an interminable evening. Mercifully dinner was announced and she was able to escape.

‘Mademoiselle Woodward…’

The elegant MC showed her to her place at the central table. Why did she always have to be stuck in the most conspicuous place? she wondered, thanking him. The tables were filling up. The large room was decorated with a sylvan theme: glistening silver leaves and branches were entwined with fairylights under glittering chandeliers. The effect was rather special. A woodland fragrance had been sprayed to give the room more atmosphere. They’d even managed a soundtrack of birds twittering in the background. She sat down, along with the other bejewelled women, and plastered on a plastic smile, her mind wandering. Behind the seated diners hawk-eyed bodyguards hovered, just out of sight of the ever-rolling cameras…

‘Signorina.’ A deep masculine voice to her right made her nearly jump from her reverie. She looked up. Next to her stood a dark, handsome man with the ghost of a smile hovering about his lips.

Victoria blushed. It was as if he’d read her thoughts, knew she’d been off in a world of her own.

‘Good evening, signorina. May I?’ He raised a quizzical brow, then prepared to sit next to her.

‘Oh, please,’ she murmured, realising that she hadn’t checked the place card of her neighbour.

‘Thank you.’ He slid into the chair with a brief smile. ‘Good evening. I am Rodolfo Fragottini,’ he said casually.

‘Hi. I’m Victoria Woodward,’ she replied.

‘Of that I am well aware,’ he said smoothly. ‘In fact the whole world is aware of your presence here tonight, signorina. May I congratulate you on your success? I have not had the pleasure of seeing your movie yet, but I gather that your performance is spellbinding.’

‘Uh, thanks.’ She flashed the ritual demure smile. Why had she not created a formulated reply for these compliments that she was so bad at receiving?

‘You do not feel your performance was that great?’ he queried.

She turned, caught a swift flash of humour in his eyes and lowered hers. ‘Actually, I—Oh, I really don’t know,’ she muttered, embarrassed.

‘You didn’t seem to agree with me, that’s all,’ he said, eyes laughing as she looked up once more.

Despite her nervousness, Victoria smiled back. ‘It’s difficult to judge one’s own performance. People say it was good. I always feel it could have been better.’

‘Ah! You are a perfectionist?’ he teased.

‘No,’ she responded. ‘It’s my job. I want to do my best. I just don’t see what all the fuss is about. Oops.’ She bit her lip, realising she shouldn’t have said that.

‘How refreshing,’ he murmured, glancing at her with new interest. Here was a superstar not obsessed with her own fame and glory. A novelty by any standard. Also, she reminded him of someone. ‘Do I take it that you are not enchanted with having to keep up appearances on a permanent basis, Miss Woodward?’ he asked, placing his white linen napkin on his knee.

‘Well…’ She shrugged, glanced at him sideways and caught the flicker of mischief in his eyes. ‘It does become a bit heavy going after a while.’

‘You amaze me. I thought this was what all actors and actresses dreamed of—fame and recognition. It does not please you?’

‘Of course it does. It’s just that…’ She caught Anne’s eye and quickly stared at her plate, hoping the pill she’d taken beforehand would keep up its effect for long enough to get her through the evening.

‘Just that you don’t feel at ease in this role?’ he asked searchingly. There was something about her that struck a chord.

Their eyes met and her pulse missed a beat. ‘How can you tell?’

It was his turn to shrug. ‘I observe people. Like you, I am often subjected to the stares and curiosity of others. It can become extremely trying,’ he finished dryly.

‘Oh, my goodness, Your Royal Highness!’ An elderly woman decked in diamonds and with several obvious facelifts in her wake cooed across the table at him.

‘Good evening, Madame Jensen.’ He bowed his head in greeting.

Victoria blinked. Royal Highness? He’d said his name was Fragottini and, being her usual distracted self, she hadn’t bothered to glance at the place cards. Now she really had put her foot in it. Anne would have wanted her glittering for royalty, she reflected wryly, eyeing her lobster cocktail with a glint of humour. She looked at it and sighed. She was so sick of all this rich food, of the wining and dining. What she wouldn’t give for a good old steak and kidney pie at the Bells pub in Hetherington.

‘You do not like lobster, signorina?’

Realising Rodolfo Fragottini was politely waiting for her to start, Victoria picked up her fork and smiled briefly. ‘I’m sure it’s delicious,’ she replied, forcing herself to slip a forkful into her mouth.

‘I doubt it. These large dinners rarely are. Would you consider me very pushy if I said I think you are lying?’

Victoria nearly choked. She hastily grabbed her water glass and took a long sip to quell her laughter.

‘Better?’ he enquired solicitously.

‘Fine. Sorry.’ She cast him an apologetic glance tinged with a smile. ‘It’s just I seem to have had so many different cocktails lately I’m a bit saturated.’

‘I can understand that,’ he sympathised, rolling his eyes expressively. ‘Lobster cocktail, foie gras, quenelles. I too have to admit that I’ve had my share of rich food for a while to come.’

‘But surely you eat things like this the whole time? I mean, you’re a prince or a king or something, so I suppose you live in a palace and eat off gold plate?’ she challenged.

‘Not quite. Even we royals have had to adapt to modern times,’ he replied, tongue in cheek, enjoying the banter. ‘Actually, I rather like going to the supermarket, choosing ingredients and cooking myself.’

‘Gosh, in the royal kitchen?’

‘No. I have an apartment in the castle where I live, and I try to prepare my own dishes as much as possible. Nothing like a nice plate of spag bog,’ he added with a wink.

‘Spag bog?’ she exclaimed, spluttering with laughter and trying to remember that he was a royal. She pressed the napkin to her lips to suppress a giggle. ‘Where did someone like you learn to eat spaghetti Bolognese?’

‘At Oxford. I’m really rather good at pasta, though I say it myself. You should come and try it some time. Do you cook? Or does your Hollywood schedule not allow for such personal indulgences?’

‘You’re right,’ she sighed, ‘it doesn’t. But actually I love to cook. Or used to, until all this came down.’ She raised her hand, then let it drop in her lap.

‘And where was that?’ he asked curious about this girl who jogged his memory.

‘Oh, back in Hetherington. That’s the village where my mother lives. I do quite a lot of baking too.’

‘Where is this village?’ he asked, picking up his fork once more.

‘In England—Sussex. It’s very pretty—cottages with thatched roofs and no lighting on the streets at night. We live in a manor house just outside.’

‘It sounds wonderfully quaint. I can understand why you would want to return there.’

‘Can you? I thought people like you were trying to transform their countries into havens for the rich and glitzy.’

‘Really? Is that what you’ve heard?’ She caught the edge to his voice.

‘My agent has some idea that I ought to move to a principality called Malvarina. Apparently they have very attractive tax laws. Maybe you’ve heard of it?’ she responded.

‘Actually, I know it quite well. What have you heard about Malvarina?’ He arched a brow thoughtfully.

‘That it’s another Monte Carlo—filled with rich tycoons flitting about on glitzy yachts. I suppose the local potentate is luring them in by the dozen. Personally I think it’s criminal to spoil somewhere which up until now seems to have been preserved from an invasion by the outside world just for the sake of money. It sounds a bit like a theme park to me.’

‘You don’t say?’ He raised an amused, quizzical brow and leaned back in his gilt dining chair, the better to observe her. Quite the little spitfire, Miss Woodward, if her conversation up until now was anything to go by. ‘Let me get this right. You think that the Prince of Malvarina is some sort of exotic dictator, making a theme park out of what was once a beautiful, unspoiled Mediterranean retreat?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Maybe you should go and take a look at it yourself before forming such a cast-iron opinion. You never know. You might be agreeably surprised.’

‘I suppose you could be right about that, but I doubt it,’ she confided. ‘I heard the Prince himself is here, flogging the place. That doesn’t bode well, does it?’

‘Definitely a bad sign,’ he agreed.

‘In fact, I was meant to be sitting next to him tonight. They must have changed the seating.’

‘Really?’ His laughing dark eyes met hers full on.

All at once Victoria’s stomach lurched. ‘Uh-oh,’ she murmured, turning bright red as she leaned forward and peered beyond his plate at the name card. Her worst expectations were fulfilled. Sitting back, she took a deep breath. ‘Look, I’m dreadfully sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. If I’d known it was you I never would have—Oh, dear, how embarrassing.’

‘Signorina,’ he said, slipping his hand over hers, ‘please don’t be upset. I assure you there is no need to be distressed. I’ve never been described as a potentate before, but it has a certain ring to it. I must remember to tell my PR people to slip it into the next brochure we do for Malvarina. In fact, the only bit I objected to was your certainty that I am trying to create a theme park.’

His hand was still laid over hers, warm and reassuring, and Victoria felt a delicious shiver run up her arm. She looked up at him. Their eyes met and she smiled apologetically. ‘I’m always putting my foot in it. I’m truly sorry.’

He gave her fingers a light squeeze. ‘The only way I shall forgive you is if you personally visit Malvarina and allow me to dispel what I truly believe to be your false image of the island. I certainly intend for it to be very different from what you describe.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said, drawing her hand away. ‘I suppose I should be fair and give the place a chance before judging it so arbitrarily. I’m sure it’s lovely. I just don’t want to move anywhere.’

‘I understand. But if you have to move, Malvarina may not be such a bad spot as you think. But then I’m prejudiced.’

AN HOUR LATER, VICTORIA was surprised at how quickly the dinner had gone by. Before she knew it, the guests were being ushered into the ballroom where an orchestra was striking up. The Prince was still at her side, and Victoria realised that she was far more at ease in his presence than she had been while meeting Hollywood moguls and stars. There was something easy and natural about him. Amazingly, he felt like the only real person she’d met here.

‘Would you like to dance?’ Rodolfo smiled down into her eyes, and for a moment Victoria’s pulse missed a beat. There was something very charming about this handsome man, she acknowledged.

She accepted the offer and accompanied him onto the floor. As his arms encircled her she felt a thrill course up her spine. She told herself to stop it immediately. He was just being polite, just trying to get people to go and live on his island—that was why he was being so nice to her. She must not lose sight of that. But it was hard not to feel light-headed as they twirled about the room and the musky scent of his aftershave reached her.

She could see Anne watching approvingly from the sidelines and groaned inwardly. She could imagine all the directives the woman would be giving her shortly. As the music subsided and they walked off the dance floor a flash went off in their faces and Victoria cringed involuntarily. At the same moment Rodolfo’s arm slipped protectively about her and she felt herself being guided quickly out of the ballroom and through the French doors that led onto the terrace.

‘Damn photographers,’ he exclaimed as they stepped outside. ‘They never give one any peace.’

‘No, they don’t,’ she murmured, shuddering.

‘I would have thought you would be used to that by now? Don’t all movie stars crave the limelight?’ He regarded her critically from under dark brows.

‘Not me,’ she replied with a half-smile, crossing her arms and staring out across the Croisette and the twinkling lights of the yachts beyond.

‘Victoria?’ Anne’s voice at the French window made her turn around. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ she said apologetically, smiling at the Prince, ‘but that top Paris magazine I told you about wants to interview you.’

‘Now?’ Victoria grimaced.

‘Right away, I’m afraid. It was the only available time.’ Anne flashed a quick smile at Rodolfo.

‘Okay. I guess I don’t have a choice. Goodnight,’ Victoria said, stretching her hand out towards the Prince.

‘Goodnight.’ He raised her fingers to his lips. ‘And, please, don’t forget your promise.’ Their eyes met, his full of laughter and challenge, hers tentative.

‘Right,’ Victoria mumbled, aware of Anne’s interested eyes upon her.

Seconds later the actress and the agent were hurrying down the corridor back to Victoria’s suite for the interview.

‘What was that all about?’ Anne enquired. ‘What did you promise? I hope it wasn’t a press interview, because I gave exclusive rights to the Parisian Magazine. You can’t negotiate these things on your own, you know, and—’

‘Oh, do stop it, Anne. Don’t you ever think of anything but business?’ Victoria complained, exasperated. ‘He only asked me to get in touch with him if I ever went to that wretched island of his. And, since you’re so keen for me to move there, I should have thought you’d be pleased.’

‘Oh. Okay,’ Anne muttered, taken aback. The Prince wanted to see Vic again. That could be great PR. Better not discourage her. On the contrary, the more she thought about it the more the idea appealed. By the time they’d reached the suite door she was forming a plan. ‘Right, you go ahead, and I’ll tell them you’re ready.’

‘Just a sec,’ Victoria said, feeling the capsule in her pocket. ‘I need to go to the loo.’

‘Okay, but don’t be long. They’re waiting, and we’re running late.’

Feeling like a prisoner, Victoria slipped into the marble bathroom. It was empty, and she leaned a moment against the sink and took a deep breath. How long would all this socialising go on? Why couldn’t she just get on with the next film instead of having to go through all this agony?

But there was no way out.

Taking out the pill, she popped it in her mouth and drank a glass of water, then closed her eyes and waited for it to take effect. Ah! There. A minute or two later she raised her head, dragged her fingers through her hair, checked her lipgloss and braced herself. It was show-time once more. Still, as she stepped out of the bathroom and headed for the salon where the interview was to take place, a vision of the Prince flashed before her. She’d felt strangely reassured in his company.

AFTER VICTORIA HAD DEPARTED, Rodolfo stood for a few more minutes on the terrace, contemplating the night. In the background he heard the buzz of the party, the music, the laughter, the exaggerated exclamations and the smooth conversation. He had no desire to return inside. Something about Victoria had left him thoughtful, intrigued. Not just her ethereal beauty, which was without a doubt staggering, but the natural way in which she responded. There was no artifice in her manner, no guile. It was deliciously refreshing.

He must make a point of seeing her movie. Was she as good as was being made out? Perhaps. There was definitely something special about her. He thought of her now, upstairs, answering a battery of questions from journalists, and wished he could have helped prevent it, detained her longer.

Then, all at once, he caught his breath as finally his memory jolted and he remembered who she reminded him of. How could he have forgotten or even hesitated? How had he not caught the likeness at once?

As Giada’s face materialised before him he closed his eyes. When would it ever fade? Seven years had passed, and he’d had so many women since. But Giada’s image and all she’d represented in his life remained firmly imprinted in his mind. And tonight, for the first time, he’d met someone who reminded him of her as never before.

Banishing the memory and turning on his heel, the Prince quickly reminded himself why he was there and returned to the ballroom, where he was immediately accosted by a fat lady who glittered with jewels and who owned a huge fortune in oil. She was interested in learning more about Malvarina.

Rodolfo replied politely, but recalled Victoria’s words. Was he turning the principality into a theme park for the nouveau riche? He had wanted to preserve it as naturally and beautifully as possible. He needed to think about this initiative further.

After being buttonholed for twenty minutes he managed to make his escape and make his way upstairs. For a moment he hesitated, thought of phoning Victoria and seeing if she would like to have a drink with him. Then, realising she was probably exhausted, with a gruelling day ahead of her tomorrow, he decided against it and went to his suite.