Apparently so. Maybe she just needed to paint on her game face. Especially since she wanted him out of here as soon as possible so she could get back to licking her wounds in peace.
Dressed and with her hair in a neat bun, she ventured downstairs. A quick glance at the sofa showed it empty. Had Sandro left already?
Her hopes were dashed when she heard the fridge door close in the kitchen. “Good morning,” she called. Was he rifling through her newly purchased food? This man had a nerve.
“Good morning, Serena.” Sandro looked deliciously rumpled, his dark hair tousled and his expensive shirt crumpled. “What would you like for breakfast?”
“Uh…I can help myself.”
“Why don’t you relax and let me cook you something? A friend I shared a flat with in Paris now owns a string of gourmet restaurants. I picked up a few tricks from him.” He grinned, then turned back to the fridge.
“Are you serious?” Now she was intrigued. Could a man this gorgeous and confident really cook?
“Try me.” His eyes twinkled with mischief, suggesting that she try more than his cooking. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes and fought the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Do you like frittata? I see you bought eggs, onions, spinach and parmesan cheese.” He looked at her expectantly.
“Mmm, that sounds delicious.” And she’d get to sit here and watch him make it? “I’ll take you up on your offer. And I hope you’re making enough for yourself as well.”
This might even make a good blog post—perhaps with mention of a handsome man cooking but no information about his identity. She hadn’t yet revealed to her audience that her engagement was over.
Still, she didn’t want Sandro to get the idea that he was staying. “Did you get in touch with your friends?”
“Not yet. They’re on the West Coast so I need to wait a while longer before it’s morning there.” He was already breaking eggs into a bowl, big tanned hands moving with deft ease.
Yum.
This was an excellent way to get her mind off Howard, who didn’t know how to boil an egg, let alone make a frittata with it.
“You probably shouldn’t be alone here anyway. The car rental place told me there’s a big storm coming.” He sliced into the onion, and she braced herself not to cry. She didn’t even need an excuse lately. “I had to promise them I wasn’t going anywhere near the ocean.”
“So you’re a liar. That’s encouraging. But how can there be a storm? It’s not hurricane season.”
He shrugged. “I guess this storm didn’t get the memo. And there’s also a winter storm coming down from the Great Lakes. They’re supposed to meet up somewhere right around here. Wind, snow, ice and who knows what else. You might need help shoveling out afterward.”
She shrugged. “I’m from Virginia. I’ve seen snow before, and I’m stronger than I look.”
“I’m from the Alps. I’ve seen snow higher than my head.” He flashed that disarming grin, and her insides did a weird flip-flop thing.
“What country did you say you were from?”
“Altaleone.”
“Never heard of it.” Maybe he was making it up. He’d already confessed to being a liar.
“It’s tiny. In between northern Italy and Austria.”
He must be pulling her leg. She’d been skiing in Austria and visited Italy twice. “I don’t believe you.” She picked up her phone and searched for the name using the house’s Wi-Fi. Sure enough, there it was. Total population twenty-nine thousand. Ruled by the Leone family since A.D. 800 and known for producing fine champagne and cut diamonds.
Wait a second.
“What did you say your last name was?”
“Leone. Sandro Leone.” He smiled before stirring chopped onion into the egg.
“Any relation to the royal family of your country?” She lifted a brow, now sure he was lying to her.
“My brother Darias is the king.” He said it softly, matter of fact. “It’s a beautiful country. You should come visit.”
She scanned the wiki page and saw the name Sandro Leone listed as a member of the royal family. “So if your brother is the king, you must be…”
“A prince? Yes.” He chopped the spinach with speed and skill.
“Show me your passport.”
“What?” He looked up from his chopping.
“If you arrived on a plane you must have it with you. Do you expect me to just believe you’re a royal prince?”
He walked to the sink and washed his hands, then dried them. She followed him into the living room, where he fished into an outside pocket of his bag and pulled out a passport. He handed it to her with a lifted brow.
The passport was burgundy in color and had a hard cover. She flipped it open and the colorful pages revealed a photo of Sandro and the name he’d given. “This could be fake.”
“It’s real. I swear it.” His eyes glimmered with humor.
Damn it, she believed him.
She shoved the passport back at him. “We don’t really believe in princes in America.” She wanted him to know she had no intention of calling him your majesty or any such nonsense.
“I don’t take it personally.” That warm smile again. He led the way back to the kitchen and resumed his chopping. “I’m just a regular person. I’ll never be king.”
Sure. The wiki article had referred to the ancient family’s great wealth in land, art and plain old money. “Just a regular Joe, huh?”
“A regular Sandro.” He scraped the spinach into the eggs and whipped the mixture with a fork. His rolled-up sleeve gave her a tantalizing view of his muscled forearm. “At your service.”
“You’re too much. You still need to find somewhere else to stay, though. I’m here to write.”
“What do you write?”
She hesitated. “Nonfiction.”
“What kind?”
Gulp. “Self-help books. Giving people life strategies, that kind of thing.”
“Like how to spend Christmas alone in the middle of nowhere?” The way he glanced at her, laughter dancing in his dark eyes, made her chuckle in spite of herself.
“Exactly. I can show people how to have a wonderful holiday by themselves.”
He poured the egg mixture into a baking dish. “Where is your boyfriend or husband?”
She gave him credit for not staring awkwardly at her while he asked such a personal question.
She gave herself credit for not flinching before answering. “I had a recent breakup. To be honest I couldn’t face going home to my family alone. My sisters and my brother are all married and happy. I’m the odd one out.”
“You do seem pretty odd.” He closed the oven door, opened the fridge, poured two glasses of her orange juice, and sauntered over to where she stood by the island. “But I like that in a woman.”
She took the glass from him. “Are all royals as confident and obnoxious as you?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Sandro shrugged. “Probably.”
“It figures.” She sipped the juice, fighting the urge to smile. He stood far too close, and she could smell the last traces of some kind of yummy expensive cologne clinging to him. When she told people this story none of them were going to believe her.
“Why didn’t you buy a goose?” he asked.
“Why would I?”
“It’s the traditional Christmas bird. You didn’t buy a turkey, either.”
“I bought a rolled turkey breast with stuffing in it.”
He grimaced. “I saw that in there. Sorry, but no.”
She stared. “What? It’s not any of your business what I eat.”
“Indeed it is.” He polished off the last of his glass and put it in the dishwasher. “I have fallen into your life, and I intend to save you from yourself.”
“I don’t need saving, thanks.”
“Because you already figured everything out and wrote a book about it?”
“Pretty much.” Strange feelings built in her chest. A mix
of hurt and anger and humor at her own ridiculous predicament. “And since that’s how I pay my bills, I need to write another one. And I can eat a rolled turkey breast while I’m writing it if I want to.”
He chuckled and turned on the oven light. She could see the top of the frittata already beginning to bubble.
She frowned. “You preheated the oven?”
“Of course.”
“So you were going to make a frittata whether I wanted one or not?”
“If you wanted something else I’d have made that. Just getting prepared. Speaking of which, we need to hit the local stores before the storm rolls in. I started writing a list.”
“There’s only one store, and I don’t think they’re going to have goose. I went there in daylight, remember. I wanted to buy feta cheese, but they didn’t have anything that exotic. They have a lot of different cuts of pig.” She shuddered at the memory.
“Excellent. My chef friend I told you about is from the Deep South. New Orleans, to be precise. His name is Louis DuLac.”
“I’m not eating pigs’ feet. Or intestines. I’m not wild about the rest of the pig, either.”
“Shame. We’ll make do with turkey. If you rub butter and herbs underneath the skin it stays juicy.”
“You really do love to cook, don’t you?”
He’d turned away to remove the dish from the oven using one hand and the dish towel. “It’s a useful hobby.”
“I agree. I wish more men could cook.” She wasn’t much of a cook herself. She liked reading cookbooks and watching cooking shows, but even when she used all the right ingredients and followed the directions to the letter, nothing ever came out quite right.
Kind of like her life lately.
Her stomach growled. “That smells wonderful.”
Enjoy life’s unexpected blessings. Hadn’t she used that as a chapter heading once? “Let me get the plates. If I can find them.”
It didn’t take long to get two places set at the large stone island. She even found some ironed linen napkins.
“Coffee?” He put freshly cut slices of frittata in both places.
“I thought I smelled coffee.”
“I’m glad you thought to shop ahead.”
“I try to think of everything.”
“Is that something you recommend in your books?”
“Absolutely. The power of making lists.” She smiled. He was so easy to talk to that she couldn’t be mad at him right now. Even if they were blowing through all the ingredients she’d bought for her holiday for one. “But seriously, where will you stay? Is there a hotel? Or another rental?”
“Milk? Sugar?”
“Just milk.” Was he ignoring her questions? Just because he was royal didn’t mean he could do whatever he wanted.
“Say when.” He poured in a trickle of her one percent milk.
“When.”
“I hardly poured any.”
“I like it dark. So when are you leaving?”
He put the milk back in the fridge. “About that.” He turned and put his hands on his hips. “Wouldn’t you enjoy a multi-course, expertly prepared Christmas dinner with all the trimmings? And I brought some Christmas music. You’ll like Zach and Ajay. They’re super nice guys even though they’re geeky shut-ins a lot of the time.”
The frittata looked so delicious that she didn’t feel like arguing right now. Maybe the eggs would give her the strength she needed to put her foot down. She decided to ignore his question.
His phone rang, and she heard someone talking on the other end.
“Just a few gusts of wind, nothing serious.” He sat down on the stool near hers. “We’re not going to get snowed in. We’re at the beach! Who ever heard of getting snowed in at the beach. Don’t worry. You’ll be back in time for your meeting.”
He hung up and shook his head. “It’s hard to get these workaholic types to take a break. He’s trying to use the storm as an excuse to cancel.”
“You were trying to convince me only a few minutes ago that I might need help shoveling out. I take it you’re the kind of person who says whatever they think will win.”
“Do you warn about people like me in your books?”
“Not yet, but I’m considering this breakfast as research.” She shot him an arch look.
He had the audacity to look pleased. “I hope they don’t cancel. Then I’ll be all alone for Christmas.” He looked up at her with sad eyes.
You’re the kind of person who says whatever they think will win.
“You could fly back to…Altaleone.”
“It’s too late already. By the time I fly from here to a hub, then from there to Austria, or Switzerland, and drive through the mountains—which are heavy with snow at this time of year…”
“That would be sad, wouldn’t it?” She tried to sound sarcastic. “You could use the time to write a book. What do you do, anyway? Or is being a prince a full-time job?”
“I’m a mechanical engineer by training. I invent things by inclination.” He sipped his coffee.
“Like what?”
“Right now my main focus is on portable solar panels for smaller applications like a single laptop.”
“So spoiled executives wouldn’t have to worry about running out of power on the train.”
“You’d be surprised by how much of the world is still off the grid. Picture someone in rural Africa being able to connect to the Internet via satellite and share or retrieve information a hundred miles from the nearest lightbulb.”
“Okay, that does sound pretty cool.” Great, he had to be smart as well as handsome. And his bringing power to African laptops made her posts on how to organize your closet seem a bit lame. “Did you bring a panel or two with you in case we lose power during the storm?”
He laughed. “Nope. I’m like the shoemaker’s children who have bare feet. But knowing Zadir, this place probably has a full backup generator. How do you like breakfast?”
“It’s very good,” she admitted reluctantly.
He looked pleased again. “When you’re done we should hit the store. No sense waiting until the weather gets really bad.”
She heard a text come in on his phone. He muttered a veiled curse and dialed someone. “Zach, it’s just a storm. The airports are not going to be shut down for days.” He rose and paced while listening impatiently. “And being Jewish is no excuse to be alone on one of the most festive days of the year. Jesus was Jewish, remember? And it’s his birthday. If the local airport gets snowed in I will personally drive you to Atlanta. Or Charlotte. Or somewhere bigger, anyway.” He paced some more. “They always overestimate these things. The house is gorgeous—right on the beach! And the weather here is perfect right now.”
Serena glanced at the kitchen window, where rain spattered gently against the glass. It was kind of adorable that Sandro wanted to give his non-Christian friends a festive Christmas so they wouldn’t be alone. Then again, it was pretty obnoxious, too.
He put his phone down, looking annoyed. “Some people are so pessimistic.”
“He’s not coming.”
“Nope. Ajay should be getting on his plane any minute, though. He’s only in Philly so he’ll be here in a few hours.”
His phone pinged with an incoming text. He picked it up and peered at it. “Quitter.” Then he turned to her. “I guess it’s just you and me, after all.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Sandro insisted that Serena drive with him to the grocery store—firstly, because he had no idea where it was; secondly, because he was afraid she would somehow change the locks while he was gone.
Still, he could tell she was beginning to like him. He steered the rented car, laden with the local store’s very meager provisions, along the narrow beach road. And threw her another winning smile, just to help his cause.
Serena was beautiful, with a body to die for. Hopefully, their growing mutual intimacy would allow him to enjoy the pleasures of those full lips and full hips. He grew hard thinking about t
he possibilities.
Stay in the moment, Sandro. “At least they had a fresh chicken, and my stuffing will be way better than the boxed stuff you bought. Trust me.”
“It’s hard to trust you now that I know you’ll say whatever you think will win me over. But since you’re so terrified of spending Christmas alone, I will let you spend it with me.”
He wanted to laugh. She seemed almost more arrogant than him, which was saying something. And she still acted like she couldn’t care less about him. Which, of course, only made the challenge of seducing her more exciting.
“We should go to the beach.” He could see glimpses of the ocean through the trees on his side of the car.
“That chicken needs to go in the fridge.” She kept her chin at a jaunty angle, as if ready to deflect all blows.
“True, but once it’s safely tucked away, let’s go for a walk.”
“I actually have a lot of work to do.” He could tell she still wanted to wall herself off in her room and mope.
He couldn’t stand that kind of waste.
“We can talk about your work.” He shot her a winning smile. “Maybe find you some inspiration.”
The rain had cleared up and the sun peeked through the clouds, dusting the beach in pale light. Serena kicked off her sandals at the edge of the dunes. It couldn’t hurt to go for a walk with him, right? She might as well make the most of this beautiful location.
The invading winds so far were tropical, so it was warm enough to wear only a sweater over her T-shirt and khakis, and the ocean breeze was refreshing rather than chilling. Sandro wore faded jeans with a hole in one knee—rather an affectation for a wealthy prince—and a dark blue sweater. With his tousled hair and dark, flashing eyes, he looked like an Italian fisherman, and the effect was unfortunately enchanting.
Maybe she’d get a blog post out of this one day when she had more distance.
He rolled up the bottom of his jeans. “How did you get started writing books?”
The sand felt cool between her toes as they walked toward the shoreline. “The two I’ve written so far have been compilations of my blog posts. I started a blog in my senior year of college, and it caught on. I expanded into writing magazine articles, making YouTube videos, and one day I decided to put a bunch of my blog posts together into a book and publish it myself.”
A Prince for Christmas (Royal House of Leone Book 2) Page 2