Cinderella's Secret Royal Fling Read online

  ‘Did you design the garden yourself?’ Emilia asked as she followed him along the gravel path, pausing to touch one of the ripening lemons hanging enticingly at head height.

  ‘No, my grandmother did,’ he said. ‘She was Austrian, descended from royalty on both sides and rich with it. The perfect Archduchess for a small impoverished country. But she was never comfortable in the spotlight. She told me once her dream was to live in a small village and be a housewife, maybe run a shop. Instead she spent her days entertaining diplomats and opening buildings.’

  ‘How sad.’

  ‘She didn’t see it that way. She knew it was her heritage, her duty to marry well; she’d been raised to it. But she adored nature and the outdoors—the walled garden was her sanctuary in the castle, this villa her escape from it. She left both to me.’ He smiled, remembering how his grandmother, always so regal and proper, came to life in her garden, wearing old slacks, her hair falling out of its chignon, her elegant hands covered in dirt. ‘She was always happiest when she was out here, weeding or planting or pruning.’

  Emilia turned slowly, her keen gaze taking in every detail. ‘My mother was a keen gardener. Keen but not as talented as your grandmother. To be honest, I don’t think she had much luck at all but it didn’t stop her trying. She was French and so she blamed the English weather, said it was too damp and unreliable!’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘She died when I was twelve.’ Emilia swallowed, looking for a moment like the grief-stricken child she must have been.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Laurent said. ‘I know what it’s like to lose a parent when you’re too young to make sense of it.’

  ‘Of course you do. You were even younger when your father died.’ Her voice was soft with an understanding few could really comprehend.

  ‘Seven,’ he confirmed. ‘I think that’s why I was so close to my grandmother. She, of course, had lost her son, and I think she found some comfort in me. But also my mother had to step up, to become regent, and everyone told me I was the Archduke now, that I had to be brave and grown-up. It was only here, with my grandmother, that I got to be a little boy and just run around and play.’

  Emilia smiled at him then, with an infinite tenderness that warmed his heart and his soul. ‘Thank you for bringing me here.’

  ‘How about you?’ They resumed walking, a slow amble down the path, Emilia stopping frequently to examine a plant or a statue or to smell a flower. ‘Are you and your father close? It couldn’t have been easy for either of you.’

  She didn’t answer for a long while, blinking slowly, the shimmer in her eyes a tell-tale answer to his question. ‘We were close once. It’s easy to forget that, because we aren’t now. I sometimes wonder if I made up my memories of him from books, because I remember a happy home and a father who carried me on his shoulders and a mother who was always singing and a dog I adored...’

  ‘And your mother’s death changed all that?’

  ‘No, it changed long before. My father moved out when I was six. He’d met someone else. She had a daughter, a year older than me, and it seemed like, felt like he had a whole new family and just didn’t want the old one any more. My mum stopped singing and gardening; she was so bitter and angry. And Dad, well, I suppose he didn’t want to face up to what he’d done so he stayed away from her, and that meant staying away from me. Of course, I thought it was my fault. That he’d left me because I had done something wrong. Part of me still thinks that...’

  ‘That’s nonsense,’ he said quickly and she shrugged.

  ‘I know. I told myself that then, I tell myself that now, but it just didn’t seem possible for my dad, the man I absolutely adored, to just not be in my life for no reason. And the only reason I could think of was that I had said or done something to push him away. Or that Maman had. Anyway, Dad kept the London flat we’d lived in and bought a huge new house out in Surrey as well for his new family. Meanwhile, my mother and I moved to a poky area on the outskirts of London. He was—is—well-off, but Maman was determined to be independent, so we had a little flat with no garden and she got a job teaching French. The worst part was when she gave my dog to a friend who didn’t work. She said it was fairer for him, that he couldn’t be alone all day, and she was probably right but I missed him more than my dad—does that sound silly?’ The wistfulness in her smile tore at his heart and all Laurent wanted to do was try and fix all her hurts.

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘It was hard at first. I was sulky and resentful and she was so angry all the time, but after a while the new became normal and we settled in. She liked her job and made new friends and I got used to the fact that Dad would cancel our weekends together and on the few occasions I did see him we never got time alone; instead he expected me to make a happy family with his new wife and daughter. His wife never seemed keen on having me around and I was really resentful of her daughter, because she got to live with my father, have inside jokes with him, see him every day. I wasn’t very nice to her, I’m ashamed to say. But then Maman got sick and she just didn’t get better. Next thing I knew, I was living with the man who walked out on me and the people he’d left me for. I was so angry and so grief-stricken.’

  ‘I’m sure they understood.’

  She shook her head. ‘I felt like my presence was an inconvenience. They just didn’t know what to do with me, I suppose. I didn’t want to go to my stepsister’s fancy school; I wanted to stay where I was, even though it was a really long journey to get there. I didn’t want to be part of their family or adapt to their ways. It felt like betraying Maman. The truth is...’ she paused, taking in a long breath, her face unreadable ‘...the truth is, I suppose, if I’m honest, that I behaved very badly, rebelled every way I could. Made unsuitable friends, stayed out late and didn’t tell them where I was, missed school. I even shoplifted a couple of times, even though the one thing I had plenty of was money. I wore clothes they hated and dyed my hair any colour I could think of. The irony is Maman would have been appalled. She was so chic and French, she would have wept when I cut my own hair. I just wanted them all to feel as hurt and guilty and lonely as I did, but the more I rebelled, the more alone I was. The next few years were hell. So I left home at sixteen, after doing my best to tear us all apart. But all I did was isolate myself; they were closer than ever.’

  ‘You were a child who needed unconditional love and safety.’ It was hard to rein in his anger. What kind of family allowed a newly motherless girl to struggle on alone? At least Laurent had always known his mother loved him, even if she was so busy all the time, and he’d had his grandmother. Turned out he’d been lucky.

  Emilia sighed and it was the loneliest sound he’d ever heard; his heart ached to hear it. ‘Now I barely see him. I lost both parents. That’s what hurts so much. It took a long time to come to terms with that.’

  ‘And have you come to terms with it?’

  ‘In some ways. It helps that I made my own family.’

  Surprised, he glanced at her bare left hand and she laughed. ‘Not a conventional one. I don’t think convention and I work too well. No, I made three very dear friends and we set up our own business. I know, no matter where they are, what they do and who they’re with that they have my back and I have theirs. They understand, you see.’

  ‘Understand what?’

  ‘What it’s like to have no one.’

  The words were uttered so simply, with no self-pity or despair, just a matter-of-fact statement but one that chilled Laurent through. Without thinking, without giving himself time to second guess, Laurent put his arms around Emilia and held her close. He had no thought beyond offering comfort, although he couldn’t help but be aware of the floral scent of her hair, of the softness of her breasts and the way she fitted against him, but he made no attempt to tighten his hold, to do anything but give her the warmth and support of another human being. To show her that she wasn’t alone. And to
realise that, for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t alone either.

  CHAPTER SIX

  EMILIA EXTRICATED HERSELF from Laurent’s embrace, unable to look at him. What on earth was she thinking? Why had she said all that? She had never opened up this much before, not even to Alex, Harriet and Amber. They knew part of the story, of course, but not the whole sordid tale.

  Not only had she ended up confiding in him, but she had allowed him to comfort her as well, to hold her as if she were in need of looking after, of rescue. And Emilia knew better than to trust any of her happiness to others.

  Only right now, standing on a shady terrace, the scent of lemons permeating the air, the sound of the sea crashing against the cliff creating an oddly musical backdrop, the evening sun shining down, the memory of his touch buzzing through every vein, it was almost easy to forget that she didn’t believe in fairy tales—or in handsome princes. Easy to forget when a pair of blue eyes regarded her with such intensity, eyes belonging to a man with shoulders broad enough to lean against and the kind of mouth a girl could fantasise about, if she was the kind to fantasise, that was.

  The silence stretched until she could almost feel it, tension strumming the air. She wanted to say something—anything to break it, but found she couldn’t, held in his gaze. He was making a decision, she knew that. But what that was she had no idea. To kiss her? Like he almost had back at the crossroads? Emilia shivered, imagining how it would feel, that hard yet elegant mouth on hers, his tall body holding her close, maybe backing her against one of the lemon trees, the bark rough against her skin. Her whole body goosebumped at the thought and she swayed slightly, closing the distance between them with the movement of her body.

  ‘Ready to continue? We’re nearly at the clifftop,’ Laurent said at last, his voice hoarse and a heat in his eyes that burned straight through her, lighting a trail that ran right down her body, liquid fire in every vein. Was this desire? Lust? She’d never allowed herself to feel like this before. Not with furtive kisses in the park in her teens, or her desperately needy kisses with her one and only proper boyfriend. Emilia knew better now; she didn’t trust, not with her heart or her body.

  Or she didn’t usually. But right now her body was ignoring her bruised heart, her pulse racing with need, stirring up every nerve with its relentless thrum. She wanted and she needed. Had from the moment she’d been disturbed in the walled garden, had in every second since, every evening they sat together deliberately not touching until the air between them hummed with desire. She didn’t believe in love at first sight and wasn’t fool enough to believe this, whatever it was, was love. But that didn’t make it less powerful, and stronger women than she had fallen under its thrall. She swayed again and felt Laurent’s gaze follow every tiny movement, the roll of her hips and the curve of her breast and, with deep feminine satisfaction, she watched him swallow, her eyes following the working of his throat, taking in the dark blond stubble covering his jaw, the vee of hard chest exposed by his shirt, at once vulnerable and strong.

  She spent her life working hard, as if that made up for never really feeling, never really needing. She didn’t so much as live her life as make sure she was always far too busy to think. She didn’t want to start thinking now. Think about why her next words might be a huge mistake. ‘We could walk on. Or we could stay here. For a little while longer.’

  His eyes narrowed as he seemed to take in every word and examine it. ‘We could stay; it’s a pretty spot,’ he agreed. ‘I could go back to the villa and get some wine if you wanted to stop here for an aperitif?’

  ‘That sounds nice.’ But she didn’t need Dutch courage—nor could she allow any time to elapse, not even the five minutes it would take to collect wine and glasses, otherwise she knew she would change her mind. No. She needed to act while she was still under this spell. It was Emilia’s turn to swallow, with nerves, with anticipation, as she stepped towards him. ‘Maybe later.’

  He didn’t reply, his mouth curving appreciatively although she thought she noted a hint of doubt cloud his expression, even as he visibly inhaled. She was affecting him. She was responsible for his preternatural stillness, for the way he watched her every move, half like a hunter, half like prey.

  No, she amended as she looked straight at him and saw the way he seemed to be holding himself in check, the hunger in his eyes thrilling her even as part of her wanted to turn and run. She wasn’t kidding anyone. He was all hunter.

  But she wasn’t anyone’s prey.

  She stepped again and then she was right next to him, almost within touching distance. She hadn’t fully appreciated quite how tall Laurent was, how strong, despite his deceptive slenderness; every muscle was clearly defined. She was slim to the point of thinness and always felt angular, all corners, taller than her friends, yet looking up at Laurent she felt petite, delicate. Her jeans and shirt seemed girlish, feminine, she felt girlish in a way she had never felt before. If she’d been from a previous era she would be waving a fan right now in a deliberately provocative way.

  As she stood there, mind for once at the urge of her body, Emilia remembered what Harriet had said about the moment she had thrown caution to the wind and kissed Deangelo for the very first time. I was so tired of always being afraid. I wanted to really feel alive, just once. Emilia bit her lip, the slight pain recalling her back to herself. She knew exactly how Harriet had felt. Knew exactly what it was like to live closed off and afraid and lonely. The last few months, she had begun to feel part of a family again, but Harriet’s engagement showed how fragile those ties really were. Oh, their friendship would last, she had no doubt about that, as hopefully would the business, but Harriet’s life had expanded, even as hers contracted even further until work was all she had.

  One kiss. What harm would one kiss on a sunlit evening in a garden filled with the scent of lemons do? If she just dared. After all, no one would ever know...

  She moved a little closer, her whole body now humming with need and want, delicious shivers running down her spine, aware of every nerve and how it sang with excitement. Reaching out, she touched Laurent’s arm, warm and solid under her fingertips. He stood still, but a quiver ran through him as his eyes darkened even further to the almost grey of a storm-tossed sky. Emilia looked directly at him, allowing her desire to show in her eyes, for once hiding nothing, swaying further towards him, lips parted, and with a noise that was half a growl, half a smothered curse he tilted her chin, looking down at her for a long second before his mouth found hers.

  Emilia had been expecting a slow warm-up kiss, maybe something gentle and tentative, a getting-to-know-you kiss, but why should a kiss be any different from their acquaintance so far? Hadn’t they jumped from Sorry for trespassing to dinners for two without passing Go or collecting two hundred pounds? From the moment his mouth claimed hers the kiss spiked straight to incendiary, his lips provoking sensations and feelings she hadn’t even known existed. Her hand still lay on his arm but otherwise their bodies didn’t touch and, much as Emilia wanted Laurent’s hands on her just as much as she wanted to claim every inch of his tall, lean body, touch every sinew and muscle for herself, she also knew if she did she would be undone.

  No, better to lose herself in the kiss, to let his mouth take hers, at once hard and yet tantalisingly soft. Let herself get lost in his taste, in the ripples of lust shuddering through her body, in a rhythm that felt so right she could dance to it.

  They could have been standing there for thirty seconds or thirty minutes or even, lost as she was, for thirty hours, but when he lifted his head and broke the kiss, it hadn’t been long enough. One kiss? Who had she been kidding? Pandora had opened the box and she wanted more.

  ‘Emilia...’ Laurent’s smile was a little rueful, a lot satisfied and a tinge wolfish, a combination that reached inside her and tugged hard down deep. ‘I didn’t bring you here to take advantage. I hope you know that.’

  ‘Actually�
�’ she tried for blasé and a little provocative ‘—I think I was the one who took advantage of you.’

  ‘Is that so?’ His smile was all wolf now and she wanted nothing more than to submit, but she lifted her chin and matched his smile with her own.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said kindly. ‘I like that you’re not intimidated by strong women.’

  His eyes flared with heat and a challenge she longed to answer, but his tone was cool and amused. ‘That’s good to know. What do you say, are you ready for that boat ride now?’

  ‘Absolutely—lead the way.’

  Emilia followed Laurent down the path, her head still dizzy with lust, her mouth full of the taste of him and yet in some ways it was as if the kiss had never happened. Laurent made no effort to hold her hand or slip an arm around her as they made their way through the garden, but there was a tension between them, a crackle in the air, electricity any time their hands or arms accidentally touched, that showed neither were as impervious as they might pretend. Neither spoke until they reached the clifftop. A low wall was all that stood between the end of the garden and dramatic cliffs, with the sea tumbling against the rocks below.

  ‘Do we abseil?’ Emilia stared down at the churning white water. ‘Is that why you told me to wear comfortable shoes?’

  He smiled at that and her heart flipped. Princes shouldn’t have such devastating smiles. It was most unfair.

  ‘Not quite. Look this way.’

  The tunnel was so cunningly hidden Emilia would never have noticed it on her own, the entrance concealed in a tangle of olive trees. A narrow steep slope led to a door, locked by an electronic keypad. Laurent led her down it, then punched in a long series of numbers and the door swung open. It was more like entering some vault than a path down to the sea.