by Donald Robyn
And although she didn’t realise it, she was giving off signals.
‘This is delicious,’ she said in a smoky voice. ‘Is it made on the island?’
‘I’m glad you like it. The distillery is our latest project.’ He sounded abrupt, so he wasn’t surprised when she turned away from him. ‘Sit down.’
After a cool, challenging glance from beneath lifted brows, she obeyed. ‘You sound like the principal of my school when she wanted to tell me something bad,’ she said primly, but an uneven edge to her voice gave her away.
Recklessly pleased by her unspoken awareness, Max reined in the rampaging urges of his body and sat down opposite her, keeping his gaze fixed on her face.
That didn’t work either. Sleepiness and the brandy had given her eyes a heavy-lidded look, unconsciously seductive, and her mouth was full and pink and more than luscious.
If she’d been using tricks he might have withstood her appeal better, but she clearly didn’t understand what she was doing to him. He felt like an old, decadent roué, whipping up his jaded appetite with youth and freshness.
Only there was nothing jaded about this. Silently cursing his unruly body, he clamped down on its demands and forced his mind back to the reason she was there. ‘So what is your advice?’
She hesitated, thinking of the two elderly men who had faced a bleak future without their vines. ‘You know what it is. Tear out the vines and burn them. Do the same to the adjoining vineyards. Fumigate the ground and use the antibiotic I brought on all the others around. Monitor every vine in the valley every week, and repeat the whole process whenever a new infection is found.’
Mouth compressed into a hard line, he swirled brandy around in his glass, watching the amber liquid shimmer and gleam in the light of the fire. She kept her lashes lowered, but through them she could see his hard, handsome face, compelling, resolute, stamped with unwavering authority.
He looked up at that, and she met his gaze, more gold than green. Grimly determined, he said, ‘How long will the supplies of antibiotic last?’
Frowning, she admitted, ‘Two more outbreaks.’
‘How long do you suggest we monitor the rest of the vineyards?’
‘For at least a year,’ she said steadily. ‘If you like, I’ll make out a programme of each step that has to be taken.’
‘Thank you. How high-tech will this monitoring be?’
‘Anyone with high-school science could do it, provided they’re conscientious. I’ve spoken to the head of the lab here; his number-crunchers will check the results. Would it be possible to get high-school seniors to do it?’
His brows lifted. ‘You can say “high school seniors” and “conscientious” in almost the same breath?’ he asked, deadpan.
That surprised a gurgle of laughter from her, but she soon sobered. ‘I’m sure you can find enough sensible kids to make it work. They’d have to be supervised, of course.’
‘Giovanni can organise that. He knows everyone here very well indeed.’
Together they worked out a plan of campaign, more urgently needed now in the light of this last outbreak. The next day Max would supervise the destruction of the infected vineyards, while Rosa would check out those that had won a reprieve.
When she gave another prodigious yawn, Max got to his feet. ‘Time for bed. I can only hope that before long you come up with something that kills the blight without the destruction of so many vines.’
She said with a touch of acid, ‘Believe me, we’re trying.’
‘Not fast enough.’
The self-mockery in his tone made her smile sardonically. ‘I know, but it’s not a fast process. People hear about miracle breakthroughs, but what they don’t realise is that they’re often based on twenty—sometimes fifty—years of research and experiment.’
‘I know,’ he said abruptly, and drained his brandy glass. He glanced at her shocked face, and smiled without humour. ‘It’s all right; I’m not going to drink myself into a stupor—I’ve never been an advocate of quick fixes.’
‘I wouldn’t blame you,’ she said, setting down her own barely touched glass. She didn’t need alcohol’s spurious warmth; she was hot enough already. ‘I don’t imagine you’re looking forward to telling those grape-growers that you’re burning their livelihood and the vines their great-grandfathers worked.’
He shrugged and got up, stretching. Acutely conscious of the power contained within his tall, lithe body, she clambered to her feet, her nerves jumping in an overload of sensation.
Perhaps it was the brandy, perhaps the fire, perhaps a return to adolescent clumsiness, but one of her legs gave way slightly so she had to grab the back of the chair to balance herself.
Max covered the distance between them in a long stride and gripped her shoulders. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Of course I am,’ she said, but her voice had an odd dreamy inflection.
Realising the danger too late, she shook her head abruptly, stiffening when she tried to pull away from the dangerous challenge of Max’s embrace.
He reacted as though she’d thrown down some gauntlet. His arms tightened around her, bringing her in sharp, violently subversive contact with his lean, aroused body. Breath catching in her throat, she looked up into a face suddenly hard-hewn and demanding, eyes glittering green-gold gems against olive skin, a slash of dark colour along the conqueror’s cheekbones.
He said something beneath his breath, and her eyes widened in shock as he bent his head and kissed her.
The kiss lasted only for a second. But even though Max lifted his head as though he’d taken poison from her lips, he didn’t let Rosa go.
Dazed and boneless, she had to fight the almost overwhelming impulse to lean her head on his broad shoulder and offer solace in the only way she knew—with the warmth and softness of her body.
Except that she didn’t know how. She’d been kissed, but she’d never given herself to a man. Besides, she thought bleakly, Max wasn’t a man to take comfort in casual encounters.
Or forbidden ones.
‘That wasn’t sensible,’ she said, her voice stark and shocked.
She tried to pull herself upright, to look him in the face and demand that he let her go, but the words wouldn’t come and she couldn’t summon the will to move.
His hands slid from her shoulders to her back, holding her a hair’s breadth away from the strength and warmth she craved with a desperation that fogged her brain.
‘Rosa,’ he said thickly, gold lights overwhelming the green of his eyes. ‘Bella Rosita…’
Chapter 5
Pretty little Rose… It was heaven. Shivering with tantalising anticipation, Rosa turned her face into the column of Max’s throat, delicately inhaling a combination of wood-smoke and the rich aroma of brandy, and a faint, enticingly potent scent that had to be personal to his body.
She sighed.
In a voice she’d never heard from him before—a raw, reckless voice—he said, ‘I should never have said that.’ When she didn’t move, he added roughly, ‘Rosa, we have to stop.’
And the perilous haze of sensual desire lifted enough for her to realise that not only was he very aroused, but that he was furious.
As he had every right to be. Shame flooded her, stripping away every emotion except desperate pride. For both of them it would be best if she pretended to take this lightly.
She dragged in a jagged breath. ‘Then let me go.’ But it was a plea, not a command.
Every muscle in his big body contracted in fierce resistance. Rosa held her breath. Heady desire weakened her; if he didn’t let her go she’d surrender.
And just when it seemed inevitable, his formidable will won out over the elemental instinct to possess, and he released her.
It took all of her courage to step back, look him in the eyes and say with a tight smile, ‘I’m sorry, I must be more tired than I thought.’
His answering smile was cynical. It hurt her in some hidden part of her heart, but she met it with
squared shoulders and her head held high.
‘Both of us,’ he said, tacitly accepting her refusal to allow the kiss any importance. ‘Sleep in as long as you like tomorrow morning.’
But she spent the night twisting and tossing, her willful mind going over and over the incandescent moments when his lips had possessed hers and she’d been transported into a world where nothing mattered but Max…
When at last she woke silence pressed down on her. She lay listening to it as slow, painful tears gathered behind her eyelids.
She’d betrayed herself as openly and obviously as if she’d told him that she loved him and wanted him.
After those precious few moments in his arms, the tenuous friendship she’d thought they’d forged had vanished beneath Max’s mask of chilly formality. From now on he’d call her little cousin all the time, and remind her at least once a day of the family rule that said no blood relatives could marry.
Yet he’d wanted her. Even as something wild and unregenerate in her thrilled at that thought, she banished it. It would be stupid to fool herself into believing his desire was anything more than the casual lust any man would feel when a warm, compliant body was pressed against him.
But she’d always remember his harsh indrawn breath, the subtle hardening of his body against hers, the sudden increase in his heart rate…
And her flowering of excited confidence when she’d realised she could feel passion.
But only for this man, she thought bleakly.
Abruptly her tears overflowed. Although she knew no one could hear her through the solid stone walls of her room, she buried her head under the pillow until her eyes dried. Eventually she fell into a restless sleep punctuated by snatches of desperate erotic dreams where Max came to her and everything miraculously was all right…
Except that each time he turned on her in nightmare contempt, and she woke to the sound of her shattered breathing.
When she came down in the morning Giovanni was waiting for her, his face worried.
She smiled and tried to sound light-hearted. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I slept in.’
But she knew his keen eyes had noticed the ravages of the night through the cosmetics she’d applied.
He gave a stiff little bow. ‘The prince is helping the growers destroy their vines. He suggested that after you eat I take you around so that you can explain both to me and to the owners what needs to be done for the vineyards in the infected areas.’
Rosa fought back a sinful pleasure that Max had thought of her. ‘It’s not difficult, but every vine needs to be checked and tested every week. Max seems doubtful that there are enough suitable people here to do that, but I’ll make a checklist so that all they need to do is tick or cross a box. Anyone who is used to working with vines can do that.’
‘Everybody in Cattina has grown up with vines,’ Giovanni told her with a tired smile. ‘They are like our sisters and our brothers. The prince said you suggested high school students, but there are plenty of people around who will do this, especially as the prince says they will be paid. People here know what this blight can do, so it is up to us to find a way to kill it.’
It was a long day and an emotional one. The vine-growers hid their fears beneath a gruff friendliness, but smoke from the huge bonfires drifted over the valley in thick clouds, a threat to everything these people had worked so hard to achieve. Ignoring it, Rosa gritted her teeth and went grimly on examining each vine.
At lunch Giovanni took her to his house and introduced her to a pretty girl busy in the kitchen. ‘Elena has cooked us lunch,’ he said with pride that surprised Rosa.
Most of the island girls learned to cook at their mother’s knees, helping in the kitchen almost before they went to school. ‘I’m looking forward to it,’ Rosa said with a smile.
Elena, a slim, willowy woman with a calm, serene face, smiled too. ‘Perhaps Giovanni should tell you that I’m blind,’ she said without a hint of self-pity in her tone.
Rosa squelched an involuntary spasm of compassion, instinct warning her it would be rejected. This woman, with her sleek, chic hair and her air of cool, patient competence, didn’t need anything like pity.
She said cheerfully, ‘So?’
It was the right answer. Elena’s laughter was genuine and unforced, although Giovanni looked taken aback.
‘Thank you, Highness,’ Elena said.
Elena joined them for the meal, talking little until Rosa set herself the task of drawing the other woman out, learning that she was an excellent pianist who’d chosen to use her talents as a music therapist.
The food was superb. When the meal was finished, Rosa thanked her and said, ‘If I ever come back to live on Niroli, perhaps you can teach me to cook.’
Elena grinned. ‘There are others who could do that much better than I, but if you’d like to learn the piano…?’
Rosa gave a theatrical sigh. ‘My mother used to weep when I played, wondering how on earth she’d ever had such a fumble-fingered child. I love listening to it, but I’ll leave its execution to those with talent.’
Breaking in, Giovanni said, ‘Highness, why don’t you rest until the sun loses a little of its heat? You were up most of last night, and you’ve been on your feet all morning—you must be tired.’
The idea appealed enormously. Weariness weighed her down and she’d lost her ability to cope with Niroli’s summer sun, the lion sun as the islanders called it. But she shook her head.
‘I have to get this over and done with. It’s too painful for the growers—they need to be told as soon as possible, not spend days waiting for the axe to fall.’
He said, ‘You are not used to this.’
‘If Prince Max can do it, I can. It’s much worse for him, and worst of all for the growers.’
‘That is why he is with them, working like a slave to get the vines out of the ground.’
She smiled at the note of pride in Giovanni’s voice. There was no doubt about the affection between these two men.
‘He’s a good man,’ she said quietly.
Elena nodded. ‘A very good man. And if you will excuse me, Highness, I will go now.’
Rosa smiled and they said their goodbyes, Elena disappearing into the cool interior and she and Giovanni walked out onto the terrace outside.
He looked across at the horizon, where a fresh plume of thick, dark smoke announced yet another fire. ‘Only Prince Max could have persuaded these men to tear their vines from the ground and burn them. They trust him because he has kept every promise he made to them.’
Carefully modulating her tone, Rosa said, ‘He’ll be a good king.’
Giovanni looked sharply at her, his eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat. ‘Yes,’ he said after a moment, ‘he will make an excellent king. The islanders are happy that he is the next one.’
Dusk was falling when she got back to the castle. In the late afternoon a breeze had sprung up to carry most of the smoke away, but the last of the fires was still blazing against the hills, its flames greedily consuming the vines. Max was nowhere in sight, and the manservant told her he hadn’t come home.
Rosa showered the smoke from her body and her hair, pulled on her dressing gown, and emerged to discover the maid scooping up her smutty, smelly clothes. The woman’s eyes were red.
‘What’s wrong?’ Rosa asked, heart clamping.
‘My father had to burn all his vines today, even though they were not infected with this disease.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Rosa said quietly, wishing vainly there were something she could do to ease this pain.
‘Why?’ the maid asked, driven by pain to ignore convention and quiz a member of the royal family. ‘These vines are our ancestors’—why were they slaughtered like this when there was nothing wrong with them?’
Rosa explained, and gradually the maid grew calmer. ‘I understand,’ she said wearily, wiping eyes that had filled again. ‘But—it is cruel.’
Rosa nodded, her own face bleak. ‘Yes,’ she s
aid. ‘Sometimes life is cruel.’
The maid looked at her. ‘For you too?’ she said in a disbelieving tone.
‘For everyone,’ Rosa said. ‘You have your father and mother.’
The older woman flushed. ‘Idiot that I am, I had forgotten,’ she said, and stepped forward, enfolding Rosa in a hug. ‘Poor little one—to lose them so swiftly, so early.’
Then, embarrassed, she dropped her arms, gathered up the clothes again and almost ran from the room.
Gratefully Rosa got into a fresh outfit, a slim-fitting pair of trousers and a sleek top in garnet-red, and went down the stairs.
The manservant came to meet her when she reached the great hall. ‘The prince asked me to tell you that he won’t be back for dinner,’ he said. ‘I have set the table for you in the small dining room unless you would prefer to eat in your room?’
‘The small dining room would be lovely, thank you.’ She didn’t want to be shut in her room.
Although dinner was delicious, Rosa ate mechanically and without appetite. Afterwards she wandered into the study where Max had given her brandy, and took down a book from the shelves, hoping to drive out of her rogue mind the brief, fiery moments when he’d held her and kissed her.
The book was a children’s classic, one she’d loved and lost somewhere along the way. She sank down into a chair and began to read.
Max walked down the stone staircase. He’d showered away the reek of sweat and smoke from his body, but he suspected that the smell of the ancient vines burning would be in his nostrils for ever, like the weight on his soul of the growers’ grief and pain and fear.
Yet they had trusted him. And Rosa…
He pushed the door into the study open and stopped, hit by such relief and pleasure that the memories of the day vanished.
She was asleep, her head curved against the arm of a winged chair. And she was smiling. No cosmetics hid her silken skin, and although her hair had been tied into a loose knot, it had pulled free to tumble in an inviting black flood over one slender shoulder. The rich garnet-crimson shirt revealed the elegant lines of her body, and her long legs were stretched out in front of her, slim ankles relaxed.