Читать книгу Defying the Prince - Sarah Morgan - Страница 7

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.’