The Royal & The Runaway Bride (Dynasties: The Connellys Book 7)

by Kathryn Jensen

  “Those filled pastries look wonderful,” she whispered excitedly in Phillip’s ear. “How delicious they’d be with a frothy cup of cappuccino.”

  “Too expensive. We can buy one of the large loaves of peasant bread, and it will last the day.”

  He took a moment to bargain with the baker. For less than a dollar in the local currency he purchased a huge loaf of crusty, wheat bread.

  “Here, let me have your shawl,” he said.

  She took it from her shoulders and held it out to him, wondering if he was going to trade it for something like one of the luscious green melons she saw piled high farther down the piazza. Phillip rested the bread in the center of the fabric then tied the ends together to fashion a makeshift shopping bag and slung it over his shoulder.

  “First course, done. Now on to the rest.”

  They purchased fresh oranges, apricots, one very small melon and a generous and fragrant wedge of local cheese from other vendors. “What about something to drink?” Alex asked.

  “We’ll stick to well water as long as we can find it. Later, we may need to buy a jug of wine to bring with us on the boat.”

  “Boat? What boat?” She scowled suspiciously at him. “Isn’t taking out one of your yachts breaking the rules?”

  “Who said anything about a yacht?” His amber eyes crinkled at the corners mischievously.

  He must have been a great kid, she thought, and fun to be around. It was a shame people had to grow up. Why not make life a game all the time? Probably that was why she pretended so much—fighting the necessity of growing up. Being an adult could be such a bore. She sighed.

  “Something wrong?” Phillip asked.

  “No. Just hungry, I guess.”

  He nodded. “Let’s eat down by the water. Less dust and a better view.”

  Halfway down the hill from town, he found a ledge that overlooked the little harbor of San Pietro. Beyond its aquamarine waters was the darker but no less beautiful Mediterranean Sea. They spread out her shawl and removed all of the food, which looked like a lot until she reminded herself that it was meant to last two people for three meals. But Phillip had done well, spending only a total of four dollars, which left them six for the next day. That is, if they didn’t spend any more in the next twenty hours or so.

  “Orange or apricot?” he asked.

  “Orange,” she said, and reached for one of the ruby-skinned fruits. Blood oranges, they were called in the local vernacular. The skin was mottled with crimson splotches. When she peeled it and broke it open, bright orange flesh interspersed with flecks of red dripped with tangy juice and dribbled from her fingertips.

  She ate hungrily, while Phillip did the same. He broke off a piece of bread and offered it to her. They consumed their ample meal in silence, and she marveled at how peaceful the world felt.

  No traffic noises.

  No one telling her how foolish she’d been to walk out on her groom the day before their nuptials.

  No urgency to dress and rush off for a luncheon at the club or a day at the office. Not that she knew what a real day in an office would feel like, since she’d never held a real job. There had been several stints of internship at her father’s headquarters, but that hadn’t seemed to count. Everyone there knew she was Grant Connelly’s daughter and went out of their way to not make her do any work.

  Still, it seemed heavenly to be so far removed from her usual social whirl, to not feel compelled to compete with her friends. There had always been that unspoken rivalry over who wore the most expensive jewelry, who had shopped at the most exclusive stores for their clothes. Malls were passé in her crowd. Nothing short of designer originals from New York, L.A. or European salons would do. Paris was good, Milan was better.

  Most of her friends also partied at trendy clubs and bars at least three nights during the week. Flying off to Baja or Vegas for a weekend on the spur of the moment wasn’t unusual. If you weren’t doing something exciting that cost a small fortune, they’d assume you were sick.

  “What are you thinking?” Phillip’s deep voice interrupted her less-than-appealing reminiscences of home.

  “Nothing much. Just how different, how nice it is here.”

  “It is a beautiful country,” he said, “Altaria, Jewel of the Sea—that’s what a poet once wrote about it.”

  “Byron?”

  He shook his head. “Could have been Byron, but I can’t remember for sure. You enjoy reading, don’t you?” He remembered her curled up on the divan in his house, devouring a book from his library.

  “I’ve always loved to read.”

  “Why didn’t the writing work out, then?”

  She laughed. “I told you. I didn’t have the discipline.”

  “You’re disciplined enough to train horses. I think that takes a lot of concentration and dedication to a difficult job. And you must have worked hard over the years to break into such a male-dominated career. I don’t think I’ve ever met a female trainer before.”

  An uncomfortable twinge nibbled at her stomach. The lie. It had come back to haunt her again.

  She really must confess to him her true identity. But it was such a lovely day, and Alex didn’t want to disturb the relaxed camaraderie they had established. After their weekend adventure, she told herself, she would fess up. She was sure he’d share a good laugh with her over her innocent ruse.

  “Well, yes, working with horses has been a challenge, of course. But, the other problem with writing is the physical act of sitting in one spot for a long time. I’m not sure I could do that. I have to keep moving.”

  He shrugged. “You’re probably right. You’re used to physical work, outdoors. I’m sure that sitting all day at a desk would feel confining.”

  “Yes,” she agreed hastily, “that’s exactly how it would be.”

  Of course, she rarely spent time outdoors, unless you counted skiing in Aspen for a few weeks every year or driving her spunky Fiat convertible with the top down during the summer. But now that she was wandering between quaint villages on Altaria, accompanied by a man who made her heart skip beats every time she looked at him, living without a roof over her head didn’t seem bad at all.

  She swallowed and took another bite of nectar-dripping orange. “I guess I might go back to writing some day.”

  “As busy as you are with the horses, I have no doubt you have little time to spend on outside hobbies,” he commented and bit off a piece of bread.

  “Something like that,” she murmured, feeling a sudden tickle of guilt down low in her stomach. She had to change the subject fast or blurt out her admission that she’d tricked him. Now just wasn’t the time. “What about you, Phillip? You must have secret dreams. Everyone does.”

  “Me?” He laughed and shook his head. “What could I want? I have everything.”

  “Not a family.”

  He looked at her sharply.

  Had she struck a sensitive chord? “I know there’s your mother,” she clarified. “But I mean, a family of your own. Children. You said you wanted kids.”

  His expression softened. He tore off another chunk of the bread. “I’d like to have kids some day, but not at the expense of a bad marriage. All the pieces have to fit perfectly. The right mate—her for me, and me for her. I’ve learned how bad it can be when you make the wrong choice.”

  That made her feel better about her own dismal situation, although she couldn’t let on about that, not yet. “And boats?” she asked. “Where do they fit in?”

  “Boats.” His eyes glazed over and sought the far horizon. “I like sailing, sure, but…well, the rest of it is a boyhood thing. Something that’s no longer possible.”

  “Tell me about this impossibility of yours.”

  “Why?” he asked, curious that she should be so insistent about things that no longer mattered.

  “I saw the drawings in your library.”

  He looked blankly at her, at first not understanding. “What drawings?”

  “Sketches of bo
ats. Beautiful, sleek craft, but none of them finished. You hired someone to custom design a sailboat for you, but he never finished?”

  He looked away again, his expression thoughtful, the irises of his eyes darkening to a tawny gold. “I drew those plans.”

  “You?”

  He nodded. “A long time ago. As many as ten years, I’d guess.”

  She stretched out on the shawl and leaned on one elbow to look up into his face. The breeze off the water kicked up grains of sand and lifted the hem of her skirt, and she noticed his eyes roamed to the long line of her legs. Knowing he was watching her like that made her feel more aware of her body. She decided to ignore the urgent little tugs at her insides, but it wasn’t easy.

  “Why didn’t you finish the drawings?” she asked.

  “Because…I don’t know. I suppose it was a combination of distractions. My mother can be a very demanding woman. And there was college, and the many social obligations that go along with—” He shrugged.

  “A title?” she supplied.

  “Yes, and with money of any large amount. I just felt trapped by it all, but couldn’t figure out a way to escape.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” she murmured, feeling very close to him. A second later, she realized with horror that wasn’t what a simple working girl would say. Had she given herself away?

  Phillip studied her for a long moment. She held her breath.

  At last he spoke. “No, I don’t think you ever could understand what it’s like, Alex. You didn’t come from money, and money exerts powerful pressures of its own. Things are expected of you. You can’t just choose what you want to do with your life without getting resistance from family and friends.” He let out a long, weary breath.

  She closed her eyes in relief. “I see.”

  “Then there were practical issues. I didn’t have an education in naval design, so I could only take my plans so far before I ran into serious technical problems. Also, I’d have to find a shipbuilder to work with, but I had no idea where to start looking for the right one.”

  “So you gave up,” she stated, saddened at the thought. His one dream. Gone. If she’d had a dream like that, she’d have clung to it till her last breath.

  “At the time I didn’t think of it as giving up. I simply put the plans aside one day, assuming I’d go back to them.” He stood up, gathered the orange peels and wrapped the bread in its paper sack. “Life complicates dreams. I just never picked up where I’d left off.”

  They loaded the remaining food into her shawl and he fit his arm through the opening so that their supplies hung in the pouch he’d fashioned over his shoulder. The air was growing warm as the sun rose overhead. They walked down the hill the way they’d come earlier that morning. Alex couldn’t stop thinking about all Phillip had shared with her. For some reason, his confidences made her feel special, as if he’d given her a gift, bestowed on her a rare trust. She wanted to prolong the sense that he’d honored her.

  “What kinds of boats would you build, if you could?” she asked.

  Phillip walked on for a ways before answering. “I wanted to build a family sailboat. Not a yacht, not something that cost a half million dollars with every piece of state-of-the-art equipment from microwave oven to radar. Just a simple sailing craft, about thirty feet or so, something to comfortably accommodate a family of four. A boat they could sail together on weekends without a crew. It would have a small cabin including a basic galley for heating a meal and sleeping space for all. It would be efficient, safe and affordable. Most of all, it would be fun.”

  She smiled up at him. “That’s a wonderful idea!”

  “I’m not sure it’s achievable, though.” He laughed. “The cost of materials and labor being so high these days, I just don’t know.”

  “But you could find out. I mean, if you wanted to try again, you could get the information you need and—”

  “Alex.”

  “Yes?”

  “Drop it. It’s a fantasy I outgrew a long time ago.”

  She hesitated, watching his face closely. His eyes had shimmered with a euphoric glow as he’d told her about the boat of his dreams. The hell he’d outgrown it! That sort of enthusiasm didn’t leave a person easily. She’d seen something similar in her father, once or twice over the years, when he was onto a really important deal.

  “Are you sure?” she whispered.

  He nodded. “Besides, we have more important issues to consider now.”

  She linked her arm companionably through his. “Like?”

  “Securing our transport for the weekend. And I think I see it right down there.”

  Alex followed the line of Phillip’s pointing finger to the beach they’d passed earlier. Fewer of the fishing dories remained. Two men sat in the sand, mending nets.

  She frowned, more than a little worried. “We’re going to steal a fishing boat?”

  He laughed. “Of course not. We’re going to make a trade, if you’re willing to sacrifice your shawl.”

  She looked at the pastel square, now flung over his shoulder and bulging with their remaining food. “It’s old, and I rarely use it. Sure, why not?” She didn’t tell him it was a Gucci, purchased at a chic salon in Rome.

  It took less than five minutes for Phillip to complete his bartering with the fisherman. The flowered shawl, which the boat’s owner was sure his wife would be delighted to have, for the weekend use of one of his larger boats that sported a makeshift cabin in its center.

  The dory was built of wood, looked as if it could use a new coat of paint above the waterline and a good scraping of the hull below to remove the barnacles that encrusted its bottom. But its cozy cabin would provide shelter should it rain. Phillip also assured her that, small as it was, they could sleep inside on blankets provided by their host, thereby avoiding the need to locate a room for the night or sleep in the open on the beach.

  When Alex first stepped aboard, after the men had pushed the sturdy craft into the water, the boat smelled like the insides of a tuna fish can. But by the time Phillip had maneuvered it a few hundred feet away from shore, Alex forgot about the briny odor and lost herself in the beautiful scenery. She helped Phillip raise a well-used mainsail, and they skimmed across teal-blue water, beneath an azure sky.

  The breeze was light but steady. And once they’d set a smaller, triangular second sail, which he called a jib, they picked up speed and the little boat sliced effortlessly through the low waves. Never had Alex felt so at peace with her surroundings or with herself. The water seemed to sing reassuringly to her: You can make no wrong decisions…just drift with me…follow your heart…release yourself to the wind.

  “Where are we going?” she asked after a while, though she didn’t particularly care. As long as she was with Phillip on the water, she was content.

  “We’ll explore a few coves around the west end of the island. By dusk we should anchor for the night. Tomorrow, if you like, we can sail across the channel to the southern coast of Italy and see what we can find for our meals.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” she agreed.

  The day was perfect from Alex’s perspective. Although she had accompanied friends who cruised Lake Michigan on their parents’ luxury motorized or sailing yachts, she herself had never done the work of sailing. There always had been a crew to handle the sails or serve beverages and snacks on deck.

  This was more fun. Phillip taught her how to tack to make the most of the wind by changing directions. She held the tiller as he instructed. The surge of water against the tiller blade made it feel as if she were holding the end of a kite string. The vibrations set off by the wind in the sails made the boat feel alive.

  She felt alive, too.

  As the sun started to set, Phillip aimed the little boat toward a small cove they’d discovered earlier in the day. The land was rocky, rust-and cream-colored patches of stone, as if taken from a Manet painting. A sandy beach formed a white crescent moon. Above were two small villas, one a pastel gr
een, the other a pale-peach hue. There were no people in sight. The cove was as isolated and pristine a spot as she’d ever seen.

  “I’m beginning to wish we weren’t leaving tomorrow,” Alex said as they munched on the remaining bread and cheese for their supper.

  “We can stay here, if you like.” Phillip moved over to sit closer to her. His arm came around her, and Alex relaxed into its warmth. Kiss me, she thought. Please, please, kiss me.

  She needed very badly to be touched in that special way. The man who had kissed her last had betrayed her. Desperately, so very desperately, she wanted to banish all memory of that shattered relationship, all the pain balled up in her heart that had been left there by Robert.

  She could think of no better way to do that than by finding a lover to take his place. A man who would so overshadow her fiancé’s lingering presence that Robert Marsh would exist as no more than a pale, nearly forgotten shadow over her life.

  Phillip was silent for what felt like a long while. He didn’t move, didn’t seem to be breathing. Alex would give anything to know what he was thinking. She wondered about the night to come. Was it only wishful thinking on her part? Had it even crossed his mind that they might become lovers?

  Impulsively, she decided to test the waters.

  Lifting her chin, Alex looked back over her shoulder at Phillip. He was staring out across the water, to all appearances lost in distant thought. She was struck by how lovingly his eyes passed over the wave tops, as if he was gentling them with the caress of his gaze. Was he thinking about his dream boat again? Or was she occupying the secret corners of his mind?

  Alex planted a soft kiss on the underside of his chin. For a moment Phillip didn’t react, then, slowly, his eyes leveled down toward her.

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “About what?” she whispered, her voice strangely hoarse, her heart thudding in her ears.

  “Maybe I should try again. Forget everything else. Just build the damn boat.”

  “Of course you should,” she said, pleased and disappointed at the same time. It was nice that he’d taken her advice about pursuing his dream, but upsetting that her kiss hadn’t moved him to take advantage of a potentially romantic moment. In the next second, though, she realized that she shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss her chances.