Conveniently Wed To The Prince
Nina Milne
This royal wedding is strictly business…When Prince Stefan learns he might inherit land from his estranged family, he sees a chance to honour his late mother. However, Holly Romano, is also named in the will – and the land goes to whomever marries first. But are they ready join forces and marry each other?
This royal wedding is strictly business...
Or is it?
When Prince Stefan learns he might inherit land in his estranged principality, he sees a chance to honor his late mother. However, beguiling Holly Romano, whose family works the estate, is also named in the will—and the land goes to whomever marries first... So they join forces and marry each other! As romance blossoms, is Holly and Stefan’s arrangement truly just a matter of convenience?
NINA MILNE has always dreamed of writing for Mills & Boon—ever since she played libraries with her mother’s stacks of Mills & Boon romances as a child. On her way to this dream Nina acquired an English degree, a hero of her own, three gorgeous children and—somehow!—an accountancy qualification. She lives in Brighton and has filled her house with stacks of books—her very own real library.
Also by Nina Milne (#uc12d64b0-4620-5973-a65c-20aa59a01404)
Christmas Kisses with Her Boss
Claiming His Secret Royal Heir
Marooned with the Millionaire
The Derwent Family miniseries
Rafael’s Contract Bride
The Earl’s Snow-Kissed Proposal
Claimed by the Wealthy Magnate
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
Conveniently Wed to the Prince
Nina Milne
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07810-8
CONVENIENTLY WED TO THE PRINCE
© 2018 Nina Milne
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is for my lovely parents,
who made my childhood a happy place.
Thank you!
Contents
Cover (#ub73a6e04-2597-51fe-8d2c-8749cc486f8f)
Back Cover Text (#ua4fa94c0-7a1e-5732-b496-e283145f60c7)
About the Author (#u3146bf21-921d-5d7b-b411-f22016e275fb)
Booklist (#u2487b3da-5236-51df-97e4-9a98a98c207b)
Title Page (#u87ff15eb-9d53-56af-8e3b-658e45430346)
Copyright (#u5fa5bdf2-b6f1-5026-a5ec-1ecc579697a3)
Dedication (#udd5b0fa5-287a-5435-969a-ae2d3c0d4ab3)
PROLOGUE (#uc77aabd1-87f1-5640-9a9f-f7c2fa70dcf1)
CHAPTER ONE (#u51514c01-53ee-5ba7-9031-3f8d12ff7c60)
CHAPTER TWO (#uea93460e-70d0-5f2e-9410-8c907d66921e)
CHAPTER THREE (#ua8011c39-cd25-5dd0-9acf-45c07d90e98c)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#uc12d64b0-4620-5973-a65c-20aa59a01404)
Eighteen months ago, Il Boschetto di Sole—a lemon grove situated in the mountains of Lycander
HOLLY ROMANO STARED at her reflection. The dress was ivory perfection, a bridal confection of froth and lace, beauty and elegance, and she loved it. Happiness bubbled inside her—this was the fairy tale she’d dreamed of, the happy-ever-after she’d vowed would be hers. She and Graham were about to embark on a marriage as unlike her parents’ as possible—a partnership of mutual love.
Not for Holly the bitterness and constant recrimination—a union based on the drear of duty on her father’s part and the daily misery of unrequited love on her mother’s. Their marriage had eventually shattered, and in the final confetti shards of acrimony her mother had walked away and never come back. Leaving eight-year-old Holly behind without so much as a backward glance.
Holly pushed the images from her mind—she only wanted happy thoughts today, so she reminded herself of her father’s love. A love she valued with all her heart because, although he never spoke of it, she knew of his disappointment that Holly had not been the longed-for son. And yet he had never shown her anything but love. Unlike her mother, who had never got over the bitter let-down of her daughter’s gender and had never shown Holly even an iota of affection, let alone love.
Enough. Happy thoughts, remember?
Such as her additional joy that her father wholeheartedly approved of his soon-to-be son-in-law. Graham Salani was the perfect addition to the Romano family—a man who worked the land and would be an asset to Il Boschetto di Sole, the lemon grove the Romano family had worked on for generations. For over a century the job of overseer had passed from father to son, until Holly had broken the chain. But now Graham would be the son her father had always wanted.
It was all perfect.
Holly smiled at her reflection and half turned as the door opened and her best friend Rosa came in. It took her a second to register that Rosa wasn’t in her bridesmaid dress—which didn’t make sense as the horse-drawn carriage was at the door, ready to convey them to the chapel.
‘Rosa...?’
‘Holly, I’m sorry. I can’t go through with this. You need to know.’ Rosa’s face held compassion as she stepped forward.
‘I don’t understand.’
She didn’t want to understand as impending knowledge threatened to make her implode. Suddenly the dress felt weighted, each pearl bead filled with lead, and the smile on her face froze into a rictus.
‘What do I need to know?’
‘Graham is having an affair.’ Rosa stepped towards her, hand outstretched. ‘He has been for the past year.’
‘That’s not true.’
It couldn’t be. But why would Rosa lie? She was Graham’s sister—Holly’s best friend.
‘Ask your father.’
The door opened and Thomas Romano entered. Holly forced herself to meet her father’s eyes, saw the truth there and felt pain lance her.
‘Holly, it is true. I am sorry.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I have spoken with Graham myself. He claims it meant nothing, that he still loves you, still wants you to marry him.’
Holly tried to think, tried to cling to the crumbling, fading fairy tale.
‘I can’t do that.’
How could she possibly marry a man who had cheated on her? When she had spent years watching the ruins of a marriage brought down by infidelity? In thought and intent if not in deed. Holly closed her eyes. She had been such a fool—she hadn’t had an inkling, not a clue. Humiliation flushed her skin, seeped into her very soul.
Her father stepped towards her, placed an arm around her. ‘I am so sorry.’
She could hear the pain in his voice, the guilt.
‘I had no idea.’
‘I know you didn’t.’
Graham didn’t love her. The bleak thought spread through her system and she closed her eyes, braced herself. An image of the chapel, the carefully chosen flowers, the rows of people, family and friends happy in anticipation, flashed across her mind.
‘We need to cancel the wedding.’
CHAPTER ONE (#uc12d64b0-4620-5973-a65c-20aa59a01404)
Present day, Notting Hill, London
STEFAN PETRELLI, EXILED Prince of Lycander, pushed his half-eaten breakfast across the cherrywood table in an abrupt movement.
It was a lesson to him not to open his post whilst eating—though, to be fair, he could hardly have anticipated this letter. Sprinkled with legalese, it summoned him to a meeting at the London law offices of Simpson, Wright and Gallagher for the reading of a will.
The will of Roberto Bianchi, Count of Lycander.
Lycander—the place of Stefan’s birth, the backdrop of a childhood he’d rather forget. The place he’d consigned to oblivion when he’d left aged eighteen, with his father’s curses echoing in his ears.
‘If you leave Lycander you will not be coming back. I will take all your lands, your assets and privileges, and you will be an outcast.’
Just the mention of Lycander was sufficient to chase away his appetite and bring a scowl to his face—a grimace that deepened as he stared down at the document. The temptation to crumple it up and lob it into the recycling bin was childish at best, and at twenty-six he had thankfully long since left the horror of childhood behind.
What on earth could Roberto Bianchi have left him? And why? The Count had been his mother Eloise’s godfather and guardian—the man who had allowed his ward to marry Stefan’s father, Alphonse, for the status and privileges the marriage would bring.
What a disaster that had been. The union had been beyond miserable, and the ensuing divorce a medley of bitterness and humiliation with Stefan a hapless pawn. Alphonse might have been ruler of Lycander, but he had also been a first class, bona fide bastard, who had ground Eloise into the dust.
Enough. The memories of his childhood—the pain and misery of his father’s Toughen Stefan up and Make him a Prince Regime, the enduring ache of missing his mother, whom he had only been allowed to see on infrequent occasions, his guilt at the growing realisation that his mother’s plight was due to her love for him and the culminating pain of his mother’s exile—could not be changed.
Alphonse was dead—had been for three years—and Eloise had died long before that, in dismal poverty. Stefan would never forgive himself for her death, and now Stefan’s half-brother, Crown Prince Frederick, ruled Lycander.
Frederick. For a moment he dwelled on his older sibling. Alphonse had delighted in pitting his sons against each other, and as result there was little love lost between the brothers.
True, since he’d come to the throne Frederick had reached out to him—even offered to reinstate the lands, assets and rights Alphonse had stripped from him—but Stefan had refused. Forget it. No way. Stefan would never be beholden to a ruler of Lycander again and he would not return on his brother’s sufferance.
He’d built his own life—left Lycander with an utter determination to succeed, to show his father, show Lycander, show the world what Stefan Petrelli was made of. Now he was worth millions. He had built up a global property and construction firm. Technically, he could afford to buy up most of Lycander. In reality, though, he couldn’t purchase so much as an acre—his father had passed a decree that banned Stefan from buying land or property there.
Stefan shook his head to dislodge the bitter memories—that way lay nothing but misery. His life was good, and he’d long ago accepted that Lycander was closed to him, so there was no reason to get worked up over this letter. He’d go and see what bequest had been left to him and he’d donate it to his charitable foundation. End of.
Yet foreboding persisted in prickling his nerve-endings as instinct told him that it wouldn’t be that easy.
* * *
Holly Romano tucked a tendril of blonde hair behind her ear and stared at the impressive exterior of the offices that housed Simpson, Wright and Gallagher, a firm of lawyers renowned for their circumspection, discretion and the size of the fees they charged their often celebrity clientele.
Last chance to bottle it, and her feet threatened to swivel her around and head her straight back to the tube station.
No. There was nothing to be afraid of. Roberto Bianchi had owned Il Boschetto di Sole. The Romano family had been employed by the Bianchis for generations and therefore Roberto had decided to leave Holly something. Hence the letter that had summoned her here to be told details of the bequest.
But it didn’t make sense. Roberto Bianchi had been only a shadowy figure in Holly’s life. In childhood he had seemed all-powerful as the owner of the place her family lived in and loved—a man known to be old-fashioned in his values, strict but fair, and a great believer in tradition. Owner of many vast lands and estates in Lycander, he had had a soft spot for Il Boschetto di Sole—the crown jewel of his possessions.
As an employer he had been hands-off. He had trusted her father completely. And although he’d shown a polite interest in Holly he had never singled her out in any way. Plus she’d had no contact with him in the past eighteen months, since her decision to leave Lycander for a while.
The aftermath of her wedding fiasco had been too much—the humiliation, the looks of either pity or censure, and the nagging knowledge that her father was disappointed. Not because he questioned her decision to cancel the wedding, but because it was his dream to see her happily married, to have the prospect of grandsons and the knowledge Romano traditions and legacies were secured.
There had also been her need to escape Graham. At first he had been contrite, in pursuit of reconciliation, but when she had declined to marry him his justifications had become cruel. Because he had never loved her. And eventually, at their last meeting, he had admitted it.
‘I wooed you because I wanted promotion—wanted an in on the Romanos’ wealth and position. I never loved you. You are so young, so inexperienced. And Bianca...she is all-woman.’
That had been the cruellest cut of all. Because somehow, especially when she had seen Bianca, a tiny bit of Holly hadn’t blamed him. Bianca was not just beautiful, she seemed to radiate desirability, and seeing her had made Holly look back on her nights with Graham and cringe.
Even now, eighteen months later, standing on a London street with the autumn breeze blowing her hair any which way, a flush of humiliation threatened as she recalled what a fool she had made of herself with her expressions of love and devotion, her inept fumbling. And the whole time Graham would have been comparing her to Bianca, laughing his cotton socks off.
Come on, Holly. Focus on the here and now.
And right now she needed to walk through the revolving glass door.
Three minutes later she followed the receptionist into the office of Mr James Simpson. It was akin to stepping into the past. The atmosphere was nigh on Victorian. Heavy tomes lined three of the panelled walls, and a portrait hung above the huge mahogany desk of a jowly, bearded, whiskered man from a bygone era. And yet she noticed that atop the desk there was a sleek state-of-the-art computer that indicated the law firm had at least one foot firmly in the current century.
A pinstripe-suited man rose to greet her: thin, balding, with bright blue eyes that shone with innate shrewd intelligence.
Holly moved forward with a smile, and as she did so her attention snagged on the other occupant of the room—a man who stood by the window, fingers drumming his thigh in a staccato burst that exuded an edge of impatience.
He was not conventionally handsome, in the drop-dead gorgeous sense, although there was certainly nothing wrong with his looks. A shade under six feet tall, he had dark unruly hair with a hint of curl, a lean face, a nose that jutted with intent and intense dark grey eyes under strong brows that pulled together in a frown.
Unlike Holly, he hadn’t deemed the occasion worthy of formal wear and was dressed in faded jeans and a thick blue and green checked shirt over a white T-shirt. His build was lean and lithe, and whilst he wasn’t built like a power house he emitted strength, and an impression that he propelled his way through life fuelled by sheer force of personality.
The man behind the desk cleared his throat and heat tinged her cheeks as she realised she had stopped dead in her tracks to gawp. She further realised that the object of her gawping looked somewhat exasperated. An expression that morphed into something else as he returned her gaze, studied her face with a dawning of... Of what? Awareness? Arrest? Whatever it was, it sent a funny little fizz through her veins. Then his scowl deepened further, and quickly she turned away and resumed her progress towards the desk.
‘Mr Simpson? I’m Holly Romano. Apologies for being a little late.’ No need to explain the reason had been a sheer blue funk.
The lawyer looked at his watch, a courteous smile on his thin lips. ‘Not a problem. I’m sure His Highness will agree.’
His Highness?
As her brain joined the dots and his identity dawned on her ‘His Highness’—contrary to all probability—managed to look even grumpier as he pushed away from the wall.
‘I don’t use the title. Stefan is fine—or if you prefer to maintain formality go with Mr Petrelli.’ A definitive edge tinged his tone and indicated that Stefan Petrelli felt strongly on the matter.
Stefan Petrelli. A wave of sheer animosity surprised her with its intensity as she surveyed the son of Eloise, one-time Crown Princess of Lycander. The very same Eloise whom her father had once loved, with a love that had infused her parents’ marriage with bitterness and doomed it to joylessness.
As a child Holly had heard the name Eloise flung at her father in hatred time after time, until Eloise had haunted her dreams as the wicked witch of the Romano household, her shadowy ghostly presence a third person in her parents’ marriage.
Of course she knew that this was not the fault of Stefan Petrelli, and furthermore Eloise was no longer a threat. The former Princess had died years before. Yet as she looked at him an instinctive visceral hostility still sparked. Her mother’s words, screamed at her father, were still fresh in her head as they echoed down the tunnel of memories.
‘Your precious Eloise with her son—something else she could have given you that I can’t. That is what you want more than anything—a Stefan of your own.’
Those words had imbued her three-year-old self with an irrational jealousy of a boy she’d never met. Holly had wanted to be a boy so much she had ached with it. She had known how much both her parents had prayed for a boy, how bitterly disappointed they had been with a girl.
Her mother had never got over it, never forgiven her for her gender, and that knowledge was a bleak one that right now, rationally or not, added to the linger of a stupid jealousy of this man. It prompted her to duck down in a curtsey that she hoped conveyed irony. ‘Your Highness,’ she said, with deliberate emphasis.
His eyebrows rose and his eyes narrowed. ‘Ms Romano,’ he returned.
His deep voice ran over her skin, and before she could prevent it his hand had clasped hers to pull her up.
‘You must have missed what I told Mr Simpson. I prefer not to use my title.’
Holly would have loved to have thought of a witty retort, but unfortunately her brain seemed unable to put together even a single syllable. Because her central nervous system seemed to have short-circuited as a result of his touch. Which was, of course, insane. Even with Graham this hadn’t happened, so until now she would have pooh-poohed the idea of sparks and electric shocks as ridiculous figments of an overwrought imagination.
And yet the best her vocal cords could eventually manage was, ‘Okey-dokey.’
Okey-dokey? For real, Holly?
With an immense effort she tugged her hand free and hauled herself together. ‘Right. Um... Now introductions are over perhaps we could...?’
‘Get down to business,’ James Simpson interpolated. ‘Of course. Please have a seat, both of you.’
In truth it was a relief to sink onto the surprisingly comfortable straight-backed chair. Focus.
James Simpson cleared his throat. ‘Thank you for coming. Count Roberto wrote his will with both of you in mind. As you may or may not know, the bulk of his vast estate has gone to a distant Bianchi cousin, who will also inherit the title. However, I wish to speak to you about Count Bianchi’s wishes with regards to Il Boschetto di Sole—the lemon grove he loved so much and where he spent a lot of the later years of his life. Holly’s family, the Romanos, have lived on the grove for many generations, working the land. And Crown Princess Eloise spent many happy times there before her marriage.’
Next to her Holly felt Stefan’s body tense, almost as if that fact was news to him. She leant forward, her mind racing with curiosity.
James steepled his fingers together. ‘In a nutshell, the terms of Roberto’s will state that Il Boschetto di Sole will go to either one of you, dependent on which of you marries first and remains married for a year.’
Say what?
Holly blinked as her brain attempted to decode the words. Even as blind primitive instinct kicked in an image of the beauty of the land, the touch of the soil, the scent of lemons pervaded her brain. The Romanos had given heart and soul, blood and sweat to the land for generations. Stefan Petrelli had turned his back on Lycander. And yet if he married the grove would go to him, to Eloise’s son. No.
Before she could speak, the dry voice of the lawyer continued.
‘If neither of you has succeeded in meeting the criteria of the will in three years from this date Il Boschetto di Solewill go to the Crown—to Crown Prince Frederick of Lycander or whoever is then ruler.’
There was a silence, broken eventually by Stefan Petrelli. ‘That is a somewhat unusual provision.’
Was that all he could say? ‘“Unusual”?’ Holly echoed. ‘It’s ridiculous!’
The lawyer looked unmoved by her comment. ‘The Count has left you each a letter, wherein I assume he explains his decision. Can I suggest a short break? Mr Petrelli, if you’d care to read your letter in the annexe room to your left. Ms Romano, you can remain here.’
Reaching into his desk drawer, he pulled out two envelopes sealed with the Bianchi crest.
Stefan accepted his document and strode towards the door indicated by the lawyer. James Simpson then handed Holly hers and she waited until he left the room before she tugged it open with impatient fingers.
Dear Holly
You are no doubt wondering if I have lost my mind. Rest assured I have not. Il Boschetto di Sole is dear to my old-fashioned heart, and I want it to continue as it has for generations as an independent business.
The Bianchi heir is not a man I approve of, but I have little choice but to leave a vast amount of my estates to him. However, the grove is unentailed, and as he has made it clear to me that he would sell it to a corporation I feel no compunction in leaving Il Boschetto di Sole elsewhere.
But where? I have no children of my own and it is time to find a new family. I wish for Il Boschetto di Sole to pass from father and mother to son or daughter, for tradition to continue. So of course my mind goes to the Romanos, who have given so much to the land over the years.
You may be wondering why I have not simply left the grove to your father. Why I have involved Prince Stefan. To be blunt, your father is getting on, and his good health is in question. Once he is no longer on this earth Il Boschetto di Sole would go to you, and I do not know if that is what you wish for.
You have chosen to live in London and make a life there. Now I need you to look into your heart. If you decide that you wish for ownership of Il Boschetto di Sole then I need some indication that this wish is real—that you are willing to settle down.If you have no wish for this I would not burden you.
Whatever you decide, I wish you well in life.
Yours with affection,
Roberto Bianchi
The letter was so typical of Count Roberto that Holly could almost hear his baritone voice speaking the words. He wanted the land he loved to go to someone who held his own values and shared his vision. He knew her father did, but he didn’t know if Holly did or not. In truth, she wasn’t sure herself. But she also knew that in this case it didn’t matter. Her father loved Il Boschetto di Sole—it was the land of his heart—and to own it would give him pure, sheer joy. She loved her father, and therefore she would fight for Il Boschetto di Sole with all her might.
Simple.
Holly clenched her hands into fists and stared at the door to await the return of the exiled Prince of Lycander.
CHAPTER TWO (#uc12d64b0-4620-5973-a65c-20aa59a01404)
STEFAN SEATED HIMSELF in the small annexe room and glared down at the letter, distaste already curdling inside him. The whole thing was reminiscent of the manipulative ploys and stratagems his father had favoured. Alphonse had delighted in the pulling of strings and the resultant antics of those whom he controlled.
During the custody battle he had stripped Eloise of everything—material possessions and every last vestige of dignity—and relished her humiliation. He had smeared her name, branded her a harlot and a tramp, an unfit mother and a gold-digger. All because he had held the trump card at every negotiation. He’d had physical possession of Stefan, and under Lycandrian law, as ruler, he had the final say in court. So, under threat of never seeing her son again, Eloise had accepted whatever terms Alphonse offered, all through her love for Stefan.
She had given up everything, allowed herself to be vilified simply in order to be granted an occasional visit with her son at Alphonse’s whim.
In the end even those had been taken from her. Alphonse had decided that the visits ‘weakened’ his son, and that his attachment to his mother was ‘bad’ for him. That he could never be tough enough, princely enough, whilst he still saw his mother. So he had rescinded her visitation rights and cast Eloise from Lycander.
Once in London Eloise had suffered a breakdown, followed by a mercifully short but terminal illness.
Guilt twisted his insides anew—he had failed her.
Enough. He would not walk that bleak memory-lined road now. Because the past could not be changed. Right now he needed to read this letter and figure out what to do about this unexpected curveball.
Distasteful and manipulative it might be, but it was an opportunity to win possession of some important land in Lycander in his own right. The idea brought him a surge of satisfaction—his father had not prohibited him from inheriting land. So this would allow him to return to Lycander on his terms. But it was more than that... The idea of owning a place his mother had loved touched him with a warmth he couldn’t fully understand. Perhaps on Il Boschetto di Sole he could feel close to her again.
So all he needed to do was beat Holly Romano.
Holly Romano... Curiosity surfaced. The look she had cast him when she’d learned his identity had held more than a hint of animosity, and that had been before they’d heard the terms of the will. Perhaps she had simply suspected that they were destined to be cast as adversaries, but instinct told him it was more than that. There had been something personal in that look of deep dislike, and yet he was positive they had never met.
No way would he have forgotten. Her beauty was unquestionable—corn-blonde hair cascaded halfway down her back, eyes of cerulean blue shone under strong brows, and she had a retroussé nose, a generous mouth...and a body that Stefan suspected would haunt his dreams. Whoa. No need to go over the top. After all, he was no stranger to beautiful women—the combination of his royal status and his wealth made him a constant target for women on the catch, sure they could ensnare him into marriage.
Stefan had little or no compunction in disillusioning them.
Enough. Open the damn letter, Petrelli.
The handwriting was curved and loopy, but strong, Roberto Bianchi might have been ill but he had been firm of purpose.
Dear Stefan
I am sure you are surprised by the terms of my will. Let me explain.
Your mother was like a daughter to me. I was her godfather, and after her parents’ death I became her guardian. As she grew up she spent a lot of her time at Il Boschetto di Soleand I believe she was happy there, on that beautiful, fragrant land.
It was a happiness that ceased very soon after her marriage to your father—a marriage I deeply regret I encouraged her to go through with.
In my—poor—defence I was dazzled by the idea of a royal alliance, and Alphonse could be charming when he chose. I believed he would care for your mother and that she would be able to do good as ruler of Lycander.
I also did not wish to encourage her relationship with Thomas Romano—a man of indifferent social status who was already engaged.
Stefan stopped reading as his mind assimilated that information. His mother and Thomas Romano had been an item. A pang of sorrow hit him. There was so much he didn’t know about Eloise—so much he wished he could have had time to find out.
As you know, your parents’ marriage was destined for disaster, and by the time I realised my mistake there was nothing I could do.
Your father forbade Eloise from seeing me, and not even my influence could change that. In the end he made it a part of the custody agreement that if Eloise saw me she would be denied even the very few visits she was allowed with you.
Stefan stopped reading as white-hot anger burned inside him. There had been no end to Alphonse’s vindictiveness. Familiar guilt intensified within him. Eloise had given up so very much for him, and had had no redress in a court in a land where the ruler’s word was law.
When Eloise left Lycander I was unable to find her—I promise you, I tried. I wish with all my heart she had contacted me—I believe and I hope she would have if illness hadn’t overcome her.
If Eloise were alive I would leave Il Boschetto di Sole to her. Instead I have decided to give you, her son, a chance to own it. In this way I hope I can make up to you the wrong I did your mother. I want to give you the opportunity to return to Lycander as I believe your mother would have wished.
Eloise was happy at Il Boschetto di Sole, and I truly believe that if she is looking down it will give her peace to see you settled on the land she loved. Land you could pass on to your children, allowing the grove to continue as it has for generations—as an independent business that passes from father and mother to son or daughter.
If you wish this, then I wish you luck.
Yours sincerely,
Roberto Bianchi
Stefan let the letter fall onto his knees as he considered its contents. He hadn’t set foot in Lycander for eight years. The idea of a return to his birthplace was an impossibility unless he accepted his brother’s charity. But now he had an opportunity to return under his own steam, to own land in his own right, defy his father’s edict and win the place his mother had loved—a place she would have wanted him to have.
He closed his eyes and could almost see her, her delicate face framed with dark hair, her gentle smile.
But what about the Romano claim?
Not his concern—he hadn’t made this will. Roberto Bianchi had decided that the grove should go either to Holly Romano or himself. So be it. This was his way back to Lycander and he would take it. But he was damned if he’d jump to Roberto Bianchi’s tune.
* * *
Holly watched as Stefan re-entered the room, his stride full of purpose as he faced the lawyer.
‘I’ll need a copy of the will to be sent to my lawyers asap.’
James Simpson rose from behind his desk. ‘Not a problem. Can I ask why?’
‘Because I plan to overturn the terms of the will.’
The lawyer shook his head and a small smile touched his thin lips. ‘With all due respect, you can try but you will not succeed. Roberto Bianchi was no fool and neither am I. You will not be able to do it.’
‘That remains to be seen,’ Stefan said, a stubborn tilt to the square of his jaw. ‘But in the meantime perhaps it would be better for you to tell us any other provisions the Count saw fit to insert.’
‘No matter what the outcome, Thomas Romano retains the right to live in the house he currently occupies until his death, and an amount of three times his current annual salary will be paid to him every year, regardless of his job status.’
Holly frowned. ‘So in other words the new owner can sack him but he will still have to pay him and he can keep his house?’
She could see that sounded fair enough, but she knew that her father would dwindle away if his job was taken from him—if he had to watch someone else manage Il Boschetto di Sole. Especially Stefan Petrelli—the son of the woman he had once loved, the woman who had rejected him and broken his heart.
‘Correct.’ James Simpson inclined his head. ‘There are no other provisions.’
Stefan leant forward. ‘In that case I would appreciate a chance to speak with Ms Romano in private.’
Suspicion sparked—perhaps Stefan Petrelli thought he could buy her off? But alongside her wariness was a flicker of anticipation at the idea of being alone with him. How stupid was that? Hard to believe her hormones hadn’t caught up with the message—this man was the enemy. Although perhaps it didn’t have to be like that. Perhaps she could persuade him to cede his claim. After all, he hadn’t set foot in Lycander in years—why on earth did he even want Il Boschetto di Sole?
‘Agreed.’
The lawyer inclined his head. ‘There is a meeting room down the hall.’
Minutes later they were in a room full of gleaming chrome and glass, where modern art splashed bright white walls and vast windows overlooked the City and proclaimed that Simpson, Wright and Gallagher were undoubtedly prime players in the world of law.
‘So,’ Stefan said. ‘This isn’t what I was expecting when I woke up this morning.’
‘That’s an understatement.’
His gaze assessed her. ‘Surely this can’t be a surprise to you? You knew Roberto Bianchi, and it sounds like the Romanos have been an integral part of Il Boschetto di Sole for centuries.’
‘Roberto Bianchi was a man who believed in duty above all else. I thought he would leave his estate intact. Turns out he couldn’t bear the thought of the grove being sucked up by a corporation.’
‘Why?’
Holly stared at him. He looked genuinely bemused. ‘Because to Count Roberto Il Boschetto di Sole truly was a place of sunshine—he loved it, heart and soul. As my father does.’ She gave a heartbeat of hesitation. ‘As I do.’
Something flashed across his eyes—something she couldn’t fathom. But whatever it was it hardened his expression.
‘Yet you live and work in London?’
‘How do you know where I work or live? Did you check me out?’
‘I checked out your public profiles. That is the point of them—they are public.’
‘Yes. But...’ Though really there were no ‘buts’—he was correct, and yet irrationally she was still outraged.
‘I did a basic social media search—you work for Lamberts Marketing, as part of their admin team. That doesn’t sound like someone whose heart and soul are linked to a lemon grove in Lycander.’
‘It’s temporary. I thought working for a marketing company for a short time would give me some useful insights and skills which will be transferrable to Il Boschetto di Sole. My plan is to return in six months.’
Yes, she loved London, but she had always known it was a short-term stay. Her father would be devastated if she decided not to return to Lycander, to her life on Il Boschetto di Sole. She was a Romano, and that was where she belonged. Of course he wouldn’t force her return—but he needed her.
Ever since her mother had left Holly had vowed she would look after him—especially since he’d been diagnosed with a long-term heart condition. There was no immediate danger, and provided he looked after himself he should be fine. But that wasn’t his forte. He was a workaholic and the extent of his cooking ability was to dial for a take away.
Guilt panged anew—she shouldn’t have left in the first place. The least she could have done for the man who had brought her up singlehandedly from the age of eight was not abandon him. But she visited regularly, checked up nearly daily, and she would be home soon.
Stefan stepped a little closer to her—not into her space, but close enough that for a stupid moment she caught a whiff of his scent, a citrus woodsy smell that sent her absurdly dizzy.
For a second his body tensed, and she would have sworn he caught his breath, and then he frowned—as though he’d lost track of the conversational thread just as she had.
Focus.
‘I’d like to discuss a deal,’ he said eventually, as the frown deepened into what she was coming to think of as his trademark scowl. ‘What will it take for you to walk away from this? I understand that you are worried about your father—but I would guarantee that his job is safe, that nothing will change for him. If anything, he would have more autonomy to do as he wishes with the grove. And you can name your price—what do you want?’
Holly’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t want anything.’
‘You don’t even want to think about it?’ Disbelief tinged each syllable.
‘Nope.’
‘Why not?’ The question was genuine, but lined with an edge—this was a man used to getting his own way.
‘Because the Romanos have toiled on that land for generations—now we have a chance to own the land in our own right. Nothing is worth more than that. Nothing. Surely you see that?’
‘No, I don’t. It is just soil and fruit and land—the same as any other on Lycander. Take the money and buy another lemon grove—a new one that can belong to the Romanos from the start.’
His tone implied that he genuinely believed this to be a viable solution. ‘It doesn’t work like that. We have a history with Il Boschetto di Sole—a connection, a bond. You don’t.’
His frown deepened but he remained silent; it was impossible to tell his thoughts.
‘So why don’t you take your own advice? You have more than enough money to buy a score of lemon groves. Why do you want this one?’
‘That’s my business,’ he said. ‘The point is I am willing to pay you well over the market price. I suggest you think carefully about my offer. Because I am also willing to fight it out, and if I win then you will have nothing. No money and no guarantee that your father will keep his job.’
For a second her blood chilled and anger soared. ‘So if you win you would take his job from him?’
‘Perhaps. If I win the grove it will be mine to do with as I wish.’
For a second a small doubt trickled through her—what if she lost and was left with nothing? But this wasn’t about money; this was about the land of her father’s heart. This was her opportunity to give her father something infinitely precious, and she had no intention of rolling over and conceding.
‘No deal. If you want a fight, bring it on. This meeting is over.’
Before she could head around the immense table he moved to intercept her. ‘Where are you going? To marry the first man you find?’
‘Perhaps I am. Or perhaps I already have a boyfriend ready and eager to walk me to the altar.’
As if. Post-Graham she had decided to eschew boyfriends and to run away screaming from any altar in sight.
‘Equally, I’m sure there will be women queuing round the block to marry you.’
He gusted out a sigh, looking less than enamoured at the thought. ‘For a start, I’m pretty sure it’s not that easy to just get married—there will be plenty of red tape and bureaucracy to get through. Secondly, I have a better idea than instant matrimony, even if it were possible. Let’s call a truce on the race to the altar whilst my lawyers look at the will and see if this whole marriage stipulation can be overturned. There has to be a better way to settle this.’
‘No argument here—that makes sense.’ Caution kicked in. ‘In theory...’ Because it could be a trick—why should she believe anything Stefan Petrelli said? ‘But what’s to stop you from marrying someone during our ‘truce’ as a back-up plan?’
Call her cynical, but she had little doubt that a millionaire prince could find a way to obliterate all red tape and bureaucracy.
‘The fact that even the thought of marriage makes me come out in hives.’
‘Hives may be a worthwhile price to pay for Il Boschetto di Sole.’
‘Point taken. In truth there is nothing to stop either of us reneging on a truce—and it would be foolish for either of us to trust the other.’ Rubbing the back of his neck, he looked at her. ‘The lawyers will work fast—that’s what I pay them for. We’re probably only talking twenty-four hours—two days, tops. We’ll need to stick together until they get back to us.’
Stick together. The words resonated in the echoey confines of the meeting room, pinged into the sudden silence, bounced off the chrome and glass and writhed into images that brought heat to her cheeks.
Something sparked in his grey eyes, calling to her to close the gap between them and plaster herself to his chest.
‘No way.’ The words fell from her lips with vehemence, though whether it was directed at herself or him she wasn’t sure.
In truth, he looked a little poleaxed himself, and in that instant Holly wondered if this attraction could be mutual.
Then, as if with an effort, he shrugged. ‘What’s the alternative? Seems to me it’s a good idea to spend one weekend together in the hope that we can avoid a year of marriage.’
Deep breath, Holly. His words held reason, and no way would she actually succumb to this insane attraction—she’d steered clear of the opposite sex for eighteen months now, without regret. Yet the whole idea of sticking to Stefan Petrelli caused her lungs to constrict. Go figure.
‘How would it work?’
‘I suggest a hotel. Neutral ground. We can get a suite. Two bedrooms and a living area.’
Had there been undue emphasis on the word ‘two’? A glance at his expression showed tension in his jaw—clearly he wasn’t overly keen on the logistics of them sticking together either. But she couldn’t come up with an alternative—couldn’t risk him heading to the altar, and definitely couldn’t trust him. And this was doable. A suite. Separate bedrooms.
So... ‘That could work.’
‘What are your plans for the weekend? We can do our best to incorporate them.’
‘Nothing I can’t reschedule.’
In fact her plans had been to work, chill out and continue her exploration of London—maybe meet up with a colleague for a quick drink or to catch a film. But such a programme made her sound like a complete Billy-no-mates. In truth she had kept herself to herself in London, because she’d figured there was no point getting too settled in a life she knew to be strictly temporary.
‘I do have some work to do, but I can do that anywhere with internet. What about you?’
‘I’ve got some meetings, but like you I should be able to reschedule. Though I do have one site visit I can’t postpone. I suggest we go there first, then find a hotel and swing by our respective houses for some clothes.’
‘Works for me.’
It would all be fine.
One weekend—how hard could it be?
CHAPTER THREE (#uc12d64b0-4620-5973-a65c-20aa59a01404)
STEFAN FIDGETED IN the incredibly comfortable Tudor-style seat that blended into the discreetly lavish décor of the Knightsbridge hotel. Gold fabrics adorned the lounge furniture, contrasting with the deep red of the thick curtains, and the walls were hung with paintings that depicted the Tudor era—Henry VIII in all his glory, surrounded by miniatures of all his wives.
The irony was not lost on Stefan—his own father was reminiscent of that monarch of centuries ago. Cruel, greedy, and with a propensity to get through wives. Alphonse’s tally had been four.
Stefan tugged his gaze from the jewelled pomp of Henry, fidgeted again, drummed his fingers on the ornamental desk, then realised he was doing so and gritted his teeth. What was wrong with him?
Don’t kid yourself.
He’d already identified the problem—he was distracted by the sheer proximity of Holly Romano. Had been all day. To be fair, it wasn’t her fault. Earlier, at his suggestion, she’d remained in the car whilst he conducted the site visit; now they were in the hotel and for the most part she was absorbed in her work. Her focus on the computer screen nearly absolute.
Nearly.
But every so often her gaze flickered to him and he’d hear a small intake of breath, glimpse the crossing and uncrossing of long, slender jean-clad legs and he’d know that Holly was every bit as aware of him as he was of her.
Dammit!
Attraction—mutual or otherwise—had no place here. Misplaced allure could not muddy the waters. He wanted Il Boschetto di Sole.
An afternoon of fact-finding had elicited the news that the lemon grove wasn’t just lucrative—a fact that meant nothing to him—but was also strategically important. Its produce was renowned. It generated a significant amount of employment and a large chunk of tax revenue for the crown.
Ownership of Il Boschetto di Sole would bring him influence in Lycander—give him back something that his father had taken from him and that his brother would grant only as a favour. For it to come from a place his mother had loved would add a poignancy that mattered more than he wanted to acknowledge. Perhaps there he could feel closer to her—less guilty, less tormented by the memory of his betrayal.
He could even move her urn of ashes from the anonymous London cemetery where her funeral service had taken place. For years he had done his best, made regular pilgrimage, laid flowers. He had had an expensive plaque made, donated money for a remembrance garden. But if he owned the grove he would be able to scatter her ashes in a place she had loved, a place where she could be at peace.
His gaze drifted to Holly Romano again. He wanted to come to a fair deal with her, despite her vehement repudiation of the idea. His father had never cared about fairness, simply about winning, crushing his opponent—Stefan had vowed never to be like that. Any deal he made would be a fair one. Yes, he’d win, but he’d do it fair and square and where possible he’d treat his adversary with respect.
He pushed thoughts of Alphonse from his mind, allowed himself instead to study Holly’s face. There was a small wrinkle to her brow as she surveyed the screen in front of her, her blonde head tilted to one side, the glorious curtain of golden hair piled over one shoulder. Every so often she’d raise her hand to push a tendril behind her ear, only for it to fall loose once more. There came that insidious tug of desire again—one he needed to dampen down.
As if sensing his scrutiny, she looked up.
Good one, Petrelli. Caught staring like an adolescent. ‘Just wondering what you’re working on. Admin isn’t usually so absorbing.’
There was a hesitation, and then she spun the screen round to show him. ‘It’s no big deal. One of the managers at work has offered to mentor me and she’s given me an assignment.’ She gave a hitch of her slender shoulders. ‘It’s just some research—no big deal.’
Only clearly it was—the repetition, her failed attempt to appear casual indicated that.
‘Maybe you should consider asking to move out of admin and into a marketing role.’
‘No point. I’m going back home in a few months.’
Then why bother to be mentored? he wondered.
As if in answer to his unspoken question she turned to face him, her arms folded. ‘I want to learn as much as I can whilst I’m here, to maximise how I can help when I get back.’
It made sense, and yet he intuited it was more than that. Perhaps he should file it away as potentially useful information. Perhaps he should make a push to find something he could bring to the negotiating table.
‘Fair enough.’ A glance outside showed the autumn dusk had settled in, which meant... ‘I’m ready for dinner—what about you?’
‘Um... I didn’t realise it was so late. I’m quite happy to grab a sandwich in my room. I bet Room Service is pretty spectacular here.’
‘I’m sure it is, but I’ve heard the restaurant is incredible.’
Blue eyes surveyed him for a moment. ‘So you’re suggesting we go and have dinner together in the restaurant?’
‘Sure. Why not? The reviews are fantastic.’
‘And you’re still hoping to convince me to cut a deal and cede my claim.’
‘Yes.’
‘It won’t work.’ There was steel in her voice.
‘That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try. Hell, don’t you want to convince me to do the same?’
‘Well, yes, but...’
‘Then we may as well pitch over a Michelin-starred meal, don’t you think?’
She chewed her bottom lip, blue eyes bright with suspicion, and then her tummy gave a less than discreet growl. She rolled her eyes, but her lips turned up in a sudden smile.
‘See? Your stomach is voting with me.’
‘Guess my brain is outvoted, then,’ she muttered, and she rose from the chair. ‘I’ll be five minutes.’
True to her word she emerged just a few moments later. She’d changed back into the charcoal skirt she’d worn earlier, topped now by a crimson blouse. Her hair was swept up in an artlessly elegant arrangement, with tendrils free to frame her face.
In that moment he wished with a strangely fierce yearn that this was a date—a casual, easy, get-to-know-you-dinner with the possibility of their attraction progressing. But it wasn’t and it couldn’t be. This was a fact-finding mission.
Suddenly his father’s words echoed in his ears with a discordant buzz.
‘Information is power, Stefan. Once you know what makes someone tick you can work out how to turn that tick to a tock.’
That was what he needed to focus on—gaining information. Not to penalise her but so that he could work out a fair deal.
Resolutely turning his gaze away from her, he made for the door. But as they headed down plush carpeted corridors and polished wooden stairs it was difficult to remain resolute. Somehow the glimpse of her hand as it slid down the gleaming oak banister, the elusive drift of her scent, the way she smoothed down her skirt all combined to add to the desire that tugged in his gut.
She paused on the threshold of the buzzing restaurant, a look of slight dismay on her face. ‘I don’t think I’m exactly dressed for this.’
‘You look...’ Beautiful. Gorgeous. Way better than any of the women sitting in white cushioned chairs braided with gold, around circular tables illuminated by candles atop them and chandeliers above. ‘Fine,’ he settled on.
Smooth, Petrelli, very smooth.
But oddly enough it seemed to do the trick. She looked up at him and a small smile tugged her lips upwards. ‘Thank you. I know clothes shouldn’t matter, but I am feeling a little inadequate in the designer department.’
‘I’m hardly up to standard either,’ he pointed out. ‘I’m channelling the lumberjack look—the whole jeans and checked shirt image.’
The maître d’ approached, a slightly pained expression on his face until he realised who Stefan was and his expression morphed to ingratiating. ‘Mr Petrelli. This way, please.’
‘People are wondering why we’ve been allowed in,’ Holly whispered. ‘They’re all looking at us.’
‘Let them look. In a minute George here will have discreetly spread the word as to who I am and that should do it. Royal entrepreneurial millionaire status transcends dress code. Especially when accompanied by a mystery guest.’
‘Dressed from the High Street.’ Her tone sounded panicked. ‘Oh, God. They won’t call the press or anything, will they?’
‘Not if they know what’s good for them.’
She glanced over the menu at him. ‘You don’t like publicity, do you?’
In fact he loathed it—because no matter what he did, how many millions he’d made, whatever point he tried to get across, the press all wanted to talk about Lycander and he didn’t. Period.
‘Nope. So I think we’re safe. Let’s choose.’
After a moment of careful perusal he leant back.
‘Hmm... What do you think? The duck sounds amazing—especially with the crushed pink peppercorns—but I’m not sure about adding cilantro in as well. But it could work. The starters look good too—though, again, I’m still not sure about fusion recipes.’
A small gurgle of laughter interrupted him and he glanced across at her.
‘What?’
‘I didn’t have you down as a food buff. The lumberjack look didn’t make me think gourmet.’
‘I’m a man of many surprises.’
In truth, food was important to him—a result of his childhood. Alphonse’s toughening up regime had meant rationed food, and the clichéd bread and water diet had been a regular feature. His stomach panged in sudden memory of the gnaw of hunger, the doughy texture of the bread on his tongue as he tried to savour each nibble. He’d summoned up imaginary feasts, used his mind to conjure a cacophony of tastes and smells and textures. Vowed that one day he’d make those banquets real.
Whoa. Time to turn the memory tap off. Clearly his repressed memory banks had sprung a leak—one he intended to dam up right now.
The arrival of the waiter was a welcome distraction, and once they’d both ordered he focused on Holly. Her cerulean eyes were fringed by impossibly long dark lashes that contrasted with the corn-gold of her hair.
‘And do you cook? Or just appreciate others’ cooking?’ she asked.
‘I can cook, but I’m not an expert. When I have time I enjoy it. What about you?’
Holly grimaced. ‘I can cook too, but I’m not inspired at all. I am a strict by-the-recipe girl. I wish I enjoyed it more, but I’ve always found it quite stressful.’ Discomfort creased her forehead for a second, as if she regretted the words, and she looked down. ‘Anyway, today I don’t need to cook.’
For a stupid moment he wanted to probe, wanted to question the reason for that sudden flitting of sadness across her face.
Focus on the goal here, Petrelli.
He leant forward. ‘If you accept my offer of a deal you could eat out every day. You need never touch a saucepan again.’
‘Nice try, but no thanks. I’ll soldier on. Truly, Stefan, nothing you offer me can top the idea of presenting Il Boschetto di Sole to my father.’
‘That’s the plan?’
‘Yup.’
‘You’ll sign it over lock, stock and barrel?’
‘Yup.’
‘But that’s nuts. Why hand over control?’ The very idea gave him a sense of queasiness.
‘Because it’s the right thing to do.’
‘If Roberto Bianchi had wanted your father to have the grove he’d have left it to him.’
Something that looked remarkably like guilt crossed her face as she shook her head. ‘My father has given his life to Il Boschetto di Sole—I could never ask him to work for me. I respect him too much. If the Romanos are to own the grove then it will be done properly. Traditionally.’
‘Pah!’ The noise he’d emitted hopefully conveyed his feelings. ‘Tradition? You will hand over control because of tradition?’
‘What is so wrong with that? Just because you have decided to turn your back on tradition it doesn’t mean that’s the right thing to do.’
His turn to hide the physical impact he felt at her words—at the knowledge that Holly, like the rest of Lycander, had judged him and found him wanting.
No doubt she believed the propaganda and lies Alphonse had spread and Stefan hadn’t refuted. Because in truth he’d welcomed it all. To him it had put him in the same camp as his mother, had made the guilt at his failure a little less.
‘So you believe that just because something is traditional it is right?’
‘I didn’t say that. But I believe history and tradition are important.’
‘History is a great thing to learn from, but it doesn’t have to be repeated. It is progress that is important—and if you don’t change you can’t progress. What if the inventor of the wheel had decided not to bother because traditionally people travelled by foot or on horseback? What about appalling traditions like slavery?’
‘So do you believe monarchy is an appalling or outdated tradition? Do you believe Lycander should be a democracy?’
‘I believe that is a debatable point. I do not believe that just because there has been a monarch for centuries there needs to be one for the next century. My point is that if the crown headed my way I would refuse it. Not on democratic principles but for personal reasons. I don’t want to rule and I wouldn’t change my whole life for the sake of tradition. Or duty.’
‘So if Frederick had decided not to take the throne you would have refused it?’
‘Yup.’
Stefan had no doubt of that. In truth he’d been surprised that Frederick had agreed. Their older half-brother Axel, Lycander’s ‘Golden Prince’, had been destined to rule, and from all accounts would have made a great ruler.
As a child Stefan hadn’t known Axel well—he had been at boarding school, a distant figure, though he had always shown Stefan kindness when he’d seen him. Enough so that when Axel had died in a tragic car accident Stefan had felt grief and would have attended the funeral if his father had let him. But Alphonse had refused to allow Stefan to set foot on Lycandrian soil.
Axel’s death had left Frederick next in line and his brother had stepped up. More fool him.
‘My younger brothers would be welcome to it.’
‘You’d have handed over the Lycandrian crown to one of the “Truly Terrible Twins”?’
An image of his half-brothers splashed on the front page of the tabloids crossed his mind. Emerson and Barrett rarely set foot in Lycander, but their exploits sold any number of scurrilous rags.
‘Yes,’ he stated—though even he could hear that his voice lacked total conviction.
Holly surveyed him through narrowed eyes. ‘Forget tradition. What about duty? Wouldn’t you have felt a duty to rule? A duty to your country?’
‘Nope. I think Frederick’s a first-class nutcase to take it on. I have one life, Holly, and I intend to live it for myself.’ Exactly as he so wished his mother had done. ‘I don’t see anything wrong with that as long as I don’t hurt anyone.’
She leaned across the table and her blue eyes sparkled, her face animated by the discourse. ‘You could argue that by not taking the throne Frederick would have been hurting a whole country.’
Stefan surveyed her across the table and she nodded for emphasis, her lips parted in a small ‘hah’ of triumph at the point she’d made, and his gaze snagged on her mouth. Hard to remember the last time a date had sparked this level of discussion, had been happy to flat-out contradict him. Not that Holly was a date...
As the silence stretched a fraction too long her lips tipped in a small smirk. ‘No answer to that?’
‘Actually, I do. I just got distracted.’
For a moment confusion replaced the smirk. ‘By wh—?’ And then she realised, and a small flush climbed her cheekbones.
Now the silence shimmered. Her eyes dropped, skimmed over his chest, and then she rallied.
‘Good excuse, Mr Petrelli, but I’m not buying it. You have no answer.’
For a moment he couldn’t even remember the question. Think. They had been talking about Frederick. What might have happened if he had refused the throne...
‘I have an answer. It could be that Emerson or Barrett would turn into a great ruler. Or Lycander would become a successful democracy.’
‘And you would be fine with that?’
‘Sure. It doesn’t mean I don’t care about Lycander—I’m just not willing to give up my whole life for it, for the sake of tradition or because I “should”. One life. One chance.’
His mother’s life had been so short, so tragic, because of the decisions she’d made—decisions triggered by duty and love.
‘Don’t you agree?’
‘No. Sometimes you have to do what you “should” do because it is the right thing to do. And that is more important than what you want to do.’
Stefan frowned, suspecting that she was speaking in specific terms rather than general. ‘So what are your dreams? Your plans for life. Let’s say you win Il Boschetto di Sole and give it to your father—what then?’
‘Then I will help him—work the land, have kids...’ Her voice was even; the animation had vanished.
‘And if you don’t win?’
‘I will win.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Humour me. It’s a hypothetical question.’
‘I don’t know... I would have to see what my father wished to do—whether he wanted to stay on at Il Boschetto di Sole, what your plans for the grove would be.’
‘OK. So let’s say your father decides to retire, live out the rest of his life peacefully in his home or elsewhere in Lycander.’ A memory of her utter focus on her work earlier came to him. ‘What about marketing? Would you like to give that a go? Build a career?’
There was a flash in her blue eyes; he blinked and it was gone.
‘My career is on Il Boschetto di Sole.’
‘What is your job there?’
‘I’ve helped out with most things, but I was working in admin before...before I came to London.’
‘Tell me about what you were working on earlier today. In the suite.’
A hesitation and then a shrug. A pause as the waiter arrived with their starters. She thanked him, speared a king prawn and then started to speak.
‘Lamberts have a pretty major client in the publishing field and they’re looking to rebrand their crime line. I’ve been working on that.’
Her voice started out matter-of-fact, but as she talked her features lit up and her gestures were expressive of the sheer enthusiasm the project had ignited in her.
‘I’ve helped put a survey together—you know, a sort of list of twenty questions about what makes a reader choose a new book or author, what sort of cover would inspire them to give something a try... Blood and gore versus a good-looking protagonist. Also, do people prefer series or stand-alones? We’ll need to analyse all the data and come up with some options and then get reader opinion across a broad spectrum. Because we also want to attract readers who don’t usually read that genre. Then we need some social media, some—’
She broke off.
‘Oh, God. How long have I been talking for? You should have stopped me before you went comatose with boredom.’
‘Impossible.’
‘To stop me?’
Her stricken look made him smile. ‘No! I meant it would have been impossible for me to have been bored. When you speak of this project you light up with sheer passion.’
The word caused him to pause, conjuring up other types of passion, and he wondered if her thoughts had gone the same way.
Unable to stop himself, he reached out, gently stroked her cheek. ‘You are flushed with enthusiasm...your eyes are alight, your whole body is engaged.’
Stop right there. Move your hand away.
Yet that was nigh on impossible. The softness of her skin, her small gasp, the way her teeth had caught her under lip as her eyes widened... All he wanted to do was kiss her.
Cool it, Petrelli.
Failing finding a handy waiter with an ice bucket, he was going to have to find some inner ice.
Leaning back, he forced his voice into objective mode. ‘Sounds to me as though what you want to do is pursue a career in marketing. Not take up a job on Il Boschetto di Sole.’
She blinked, as if his words had broken a spell, and her lips pressed together and her eyes narrowed as she shook her head. Shook it hard enough that tendrils of hair fell loose from her strategically messy bun.
‘That is not for me. I couldn’t do what you did. Walk away from my duty to pursue a career.’
Her words served as effectively as an ice bucket could have and he couldn’t hold back an instinctive sound of denial. ‘That’s not exactly how it went down.’
‘So how did it go down? As I remember it, you decided to renounce Lycander and your royal duties to live your own life—away from a country you felt you had no allegiance to. But you were happy to accept a severance hand-out from Alphonse to help set you up in the property business.’
Gall twisted his insides that she should believe that.
‘Alphonse gave me nothing.’
And Stefan wouldn’t have taken it if he had tried.
‘I ended up in property because it was the only job I could find.’
He could still taste the bitter tang of grief, fear and desperation. He’d arrived in London buoyed up by a sense of freedom and relief that he’d finally escaped his father, determined to find out what had happened to his mother. His discoveries had caused a cold anger to burn inside him alongside a raging inferno of guilt.
His mother had suffered a serious mental breakdown. The staff at the hostel that had taken her in had had no idea of her identity, but to Stefan’s eternal gratitude they had looked after her. Though Eloise had never really recovered, relapsing and lurching from periods of depression to episodes of relative calm until illness had overtaken her.
In his anger and grief he had started his search for a job under an assumed name, changed his surname by deed poll and got himself new documentation, determined to prove himself without any reference to his royal status.
It hadn’t been easy. And he would be grateful for ever to the small independent estate agent who’d taken pity on him. His need for commission had honed his hitherto non-existent sales skills and negotiating had come naturally to him.
‘Luckily I was a natural and it piqued my interest.’
Holly tipped her head to one side. ‘But how did you go from that job to a multibillion-pound business?’
Was that suspicion in her voice? The idea that she still believed Alphonse had funded him shouldn’t matter but it did.
‘I worked hard and I saved hard. I worked multiple jobs, I persuaded a bank to take a chance on me, I studied the market and invested in properties until I had a diverse portfolio. Some properties I bought, did up and sold, others I rented out. Once my portfolio became big enough I set up a company. It all spiralled from there.’
And when it had he had resumed his own identity, wanting the world to know what he had made of himself.
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