Royally Claimed

by Marie Donovan

  “Basically, yes. Giorgio—George—is the prince of Vinciguerra, a tiny country in the north of Italy. Jacques, who still goes by Jack, is a count, with his holdings in Provence, the south of France.”

  “And you, the Duke of Aguas Santas in Portugal.”

  “Yes.” It wasn’t any secret in the Azores who he was considering he owned a small island there. But the islanders were easygoing and not inclined to give him the paparazzi treatment. He was sure they gossiped about him, but friendly gossip was a national Portuguese pastime.

  “Is one of them getting married?”

  “Not exactly. Jack just got married last summer to an American travel writer named Lily, and Giorgio and his fiancée haven’t set a date yet. It’s for Giorgio’s younger sister, Stefania, who lived with us in New York. She is marrying a German football star.”

  “Soccer.” She lifted her chin. “Germans play soccer, not football.”

  He remembered Julia had been a star soccer player in high school and college. “No, football,” he teased. “In Europe, we play football. And Stefania is getting married in the cathedral at home. Between the royal-watchers and the football fans, they will have very little privacy in their everyday lives, but Stefania and Dieter would like a private honeymoon. The villa is very private and romantic.” At least that was how he’d remembered it when he and Julia had stayed there.

  “Of course,” she murmured, maybe remembering the same thing? “And that’s why your assistant went off to pick paint colors.”

  Frank grimaced. “Benedito isn’t exactly an interior designer. We’ll have to see.”

  The waiter arrived with their entrees. Julia leaned over her bowl and eagerly inhaled the steam rising from the chouriço. She found a piece of the sausage with her fork and picked it up, waiting in anticipation before she moved it to her mouth. As she chewed, her expression was delighted and wistful in turns, as if she had been deprived of something important for so long, that the acquiring of it was almost bittersweet.

  What else had Julia deprived herself of?

  Frank watched her as long as he dared, then busied himself with his salt cod stew when she turned her attention back to him. Bacalhoada, or salt cod stew, was a Portuguese staple. The basics were the same everywhere, but it always tasted a bit different. Salt cod was dried and preserved with salt. To prepare it, you had to soak it overnight to rehydrate it, and then cook like any other fish. This dish was more of a casserole, with chunks of cod and chouriço, olive oil, potatoes and sliced tomatoes cooked along with them. Topping the dish were wedges of hardboiled eggs and black olives.

  If Julia hadn’t gone to any Portuguese places, it was unlikely she’d had bacalhoada either. He broke off a chunk of potato and salt cod with his fork, swirling it through the olive oil. “Here, try this.” He offered her a taste, wondering if she’d accept.

  She looked at him cautiously with her big sherry-colored eyes. He smiled as meekly as he could manage, when all he wanted to do was toss their bowls aside and drag her into his arms.

  But none of that must have shown on his face because she delicately took the bite from his fork, chewing thoughtfully. “Um, very fishy.”

  He had to laugh. “Preserving the cod with salt concentrates its flavor.”

  “No, it’s good. You know I like seafood.”

  “Yes, you do.” They were both children of the ocean. She had made her mother’s New England clam chowder for him once, and he had practically finished the stockpot in one sitting.

  Julia ate steadily for a few minutes before speaking. “The villa doesn’t need much work, does it? I mean, you probably use it several times a year.”

  “My mother and my sisters do. My nieces and nephews love fishing and exploring the island.” Frank speared an egg wedge. Probably laid fresh this morning in the family henhouse.

  “But you don’t stay there.”

  “Once in a while.” He’d tried to vacation there a few times, but seeing Julia’s shadow in every room had made his visits short and far between. “There are a couple rooms that need to be painted, some garden work done and a thorough cleaning and airing. Oh, and I bought a beautiful new outdoor whirlpool tub that was just installed yesterday.”

  She smiled. “Sounds like a wonderful place for your friend’s sister and her husband.”

  “Stefania is a real sweetheart. Hard to believe she’s already twenty-four when I remember how little she was when she came to New York. Poor girl, losing both her parents at once.” Stefania had been inconsolable. Her grandmother, fearing for her granddaughter’s mental health, had sent Stefania to live with George, Jack and Frank. After hiring a housekeeper, the three nineteen-year-old guys raised Stefania through her preteen and teenage years. Frank shuddered at some of those memories.

  “What was that shiver for?” Julia was eating heartily now, wiping her bowl with some bread. He was glad to see that since she looked a bit thin.

  “Stefania always has been a handful. She once chained herself and her electronic bullhorn to a lamp-post outside a certain foreign consulate whose country was not particularly kind to its women and children.”

  Julia burst out laughing.

  “She called every media outlet in New York, drew a crowd of several hundred enthusiastic supporters and wound up on the national nightly news. When one reporter tried to take her to task for being the product of an outdated patriarchal monarchy, she told her how her own country had granted women the vote twenty years before America and how her outdated patriarchal monarchy had a female literacy rate of one hundred percent compared to that consulate’s country’s dismal rate of fourteen percent.”

  “Good for Stefania. Blasted them with facts. And what does she do now?”

  “She’s finishing her master’s degree in international politics and will probably stay in New York since George is running their own country very well. She’d let him know if he weren’t.”

  “You have to keep politicians on their toes.”

  “She also will be selling a commemorative perfume made from lavender at Jack’s French estate. Proceeds go to her women’s and children’s charity.”

  “What an accomplished young woman. Give her my best wishes if you get the chance.” Julia sipped her water and pushed her bowl away. “That is so filling. I can’t believe I ate all of that.”

  “Our food is comfort food. Nothing low carb or low fat about it.” Frank finished his own helping. “And now for dessert.”

  “No, Frank,” she groaned. “I may pop.”

  He didn’t want her to go yet, but forcefeeding her was probably not the way to spend more time with her. Maybe bribing her with food? “How about we take a couple pastries with us? We can go for a walk, pick up some coffee and then you can try one.”

  She hesitated. “Okay. That way I don’t have to cook dinner for myself.”

  He signaled the waiter to order before she changed her mind. The waiter brought him a box of pastries and Frank paid the tab, despite Julia’s protest that she wanted to pitch in. Frank and the waiter gave her such an incredulous glance that she subsided.

  Frank hid a smile. He may have been educated in the United States, a more modern version of his ducal ancestors, but there was no way in hell a woman would pay for her own meal on a date with him.

  And whether Julia realized it or not, liked it or not, it was a date.

  3

  JULIA FOUGHT THE BUTTERFLIES in her stomach as she walked next to Frank. Their lunch had felt suspiciously like a date—not that she and Frank had bothered to date very long the first time they’d met.

  Her teenage self had wanted to blow off steam after her first stressful year in college, and sexy Frank had been more than willing to help. But it had quickly turned to more.

  She sneaked a look at his profile. He’d lost his eager openness of earlier years, but what did she expect? She wasn’t exactly a fresh-faced innocent any longer, either.

  Frank caught her looking at him. She thought he’d make something of tha
t, but all he asked was how she’d decided to come to the Azores again.

  She chewed her lip for a second and decided to tell him a partial truth. “I was hurt at work and needed to take some time off to recover.”

  “What?” He stopped in his tracks. “But you should be at home resting.” He took her hand and tucked it into the bend of his elbow.

  She automatically tightened her grip on his bicep. “You’re stronger than you used to be.”

  He covered her hand with his. “I work with the men on the estate back home. We still have the big vineyard, several orchards, and we raise cattle, horses and sheep. After college in New York, I apprenticed myself to Benedito and learned as many of the jobs as I could.”

  “Which is your favorite part?”

  He gave her a startled look, as if he’d never considered that. “My favorite part is making sure my people have steady jobs and can provide for their families.” He smiled down at her. “Although I admit I like working with the bulls. Matching my strength and wits against them keeps me on my toes.”

  Frank had always reminded her of a bull—strong, stubborn and sexually insatiable. Memories of his stamina and endurance made her catch her breath and stumble on a loose cobblestone. He steadied her instantly, his arm flexing. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine, just the uneven street.” And she was tiring. The emotional expense of meeting Frank again and trying to stay on guard with him during lunch had sapped her strength. And thinking about how they’d spent the majority of their time together having the hottest sex of her life was not exactly keeping her mind on difficult things. Like walking.

  Did he remember much about their summer together? He was a rich, famous nobleman, so undoubtedly he’d had plenty of hot sex since then. Probably had women throwing themselves at him every other week. Super-models, princesses, gold-diggers…and probably very nice ladies who would be thrilled to marry a handsome, sexy man like Franco Duarte das Aguas Santas.

  “Come on, Julia.” For a second she thought he was reading her mind. “Let’s go sit in the park.” He deposited her at a bench and disappeared into a nearby café, returning with two paper cups of coffee. “Two creams, two sugars.” He handed her one.

  At her surprised look, he stopped. “Or do you drink it differently now?”

  “No, that’s just fine.” On her night shifts in the E.R., she’d been teased for putting so much cream and sweetener in her coffee. “And you still drink it black?”

  “Of course. It is a sign of extreme manliness.” He laughed and opened the pastry box. “Here are some pastéis de nata.”

  “Oh, my,” she whispered. “I haven’t had one in…”

  “Eleven years?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “Yes.” She stared at the small round egg custard tarts, almost afraid to take a bite. Why had she ever thought coming back to the Azores was a good idea? These tarts were the apple in her Garden of Eden.

  Frank closed the box, and she looked into his sad eyes. “Was it really so terrible, Julia?”

  “What?” she asked, startled. How did he know about her accident in the hospital? Not an accident, she mentally corrected herself. It hadn’t been an accident.

  “You loved Portuguese food and cooked it every day for us, but you haven’t touched it since we parted, did you? Did our time together give you such terrible memories?”

  “Never!” she blurted and then sipped her coffee to look away from him.

  He didn’t say anything, only opened the pastry box again. “Open your mouth, my sweet Julia.”

  She did open her mouth, but only to tell him she wasn’t his sweet Julia anymore, but he took advantage of it to brush a tart across her lips.

  A flaky crumb stuck to her bottom lip and she automatically licked it off.

  He inhaled sharply. “That’s it. Now take a bite.”

  She clamped her mouth tight and he had the nerve to laugh. “Oh, Julia, you wish to see which one of us is more stubborn? Or are you afraid of a little sweetness?”

  She snorted in derision. He pulled the tart away from her and bit into it with his straight white teeth that had never required fillings or braces, she remembered. “Mmm. Oh, so good. Imagine how good it would be after such a long, dry spell.”

  Julia had the sneaking suspicion they weren’t discussing tarts anymore. Unless it was her. Hell, she was feeling like a tart now, watching his strong lips nibbling at the crispy pastry crust. He darted his tongue out to lick the soft, creamy egg filling and she wanted those lips, that tongue, to devour her with the same intensity. He finished the pastry and she almost groaned with disappointment. After feeling half-alive for so long, the rush of desire hurt, as if she’d fallen asleep on her arm and had to endure its pins-and-needles reawakening. Much more painful when it was your entire mind and body.

  “Come on, Julia.” He held another out to her, daring her to take it.

  She did and cautiously bit into it. Sugar, cinnamon and cream burst on her tongue and she actually moaned. Frank’s fingers dented the corners of the box at the blatantly sexual sound. She finished it quickly and reached into the box for another.

  “Not so fast, greedy girl.” He pulled the box away and got out a tart. “If you want another, I’ll give it to you.”

  Her nipples tightened and she knew they had passed the point of friendly lunches. The point of no return was rushing up rapidly, and she didn’t want to stop. “What are you waiting for?” she challenged.

  “To see if you were ready.”

  “I am.” She glared at him and opened her mouth.

  He laughed. “You look like you’re at the dentist. Relax.”

  Julia forced herself to breathe. He held the pastry to her lips, making her take the next step. She nibbled at the crust, and he scoffed. “You used to be so much braver than this. What happened?”

  He had no idea what had happened to her. She opened her mouth wide and snapped down on the tart, barely missing his fingers. “That better?” she asked, once she had finished chewing.

  Frank tossed the tart box to the side. “Finally a sign of passion.” He dragged her into his arms. She expected him to kiss her right away, but instead he looked down into her face. “Julia.” It was full of wonder and tenderness. “After all these years.”

  “It shouldn’t be any longer.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth to hers. They moaned simultaneously as their lips met.

  She wanted to weep, to sing, to dance around the park. Here he was, and he was kissing her, the pent-up passion bursting free from both of them.

  His mouth was soft and warm as he explored the contours of hers. He pressed kisses along the seam of her lips, nibbling at her full bottom lip.

  She sighed in pleasure and opened to his further exploration. He flicked his tongue inside to meet hers, tasting of sweet pastry and coffee. She ran her tongue along his and pressed closer to him. His hands tightened on her shoulders and he groaned deep in his throat.

  Julia’s head spun, as if she had been living in a gray world and it suddenly turned into color. As if she had only eaten watery oatmeal for years and was offered a banquet instead. Frank was a feast for her senses, wine for her thirst.

  He brushed her hair aside and trailed kisses down her neck. How did he remember what she liked? She ran her fingers through his thick black hair, enjoying how it fell into waves under her touch. Heat poured off him, engulfing her in quiet flame.

  Their silent solace was interrupted by the angry buzzing of an engine. She dragged her eyes open to see a wide-eyed park gardener butchering the grass in wobbly stripes thanks to his inattentiveness.

  “Frank.” She pushed at his shoulders but may as well have been pushing at the park’s statue for all the good it did. He fastened his mouth on the hollow below her ear and sucked, causing her to nearly see stars. Good Lord, if only he could do that elsewhere…

  But she also knew how much he would dislike being the focus of gossip. “Frank, we have company.” She tried
shoving him again and this time he raised his head.

  His olive skin was flushed with desire, his eyes black with lust, hypnotizing her as if he were a dangerous lion and she were his prey. He could devour her anytime.

  He shook his head as if coming back to himself and glared at the nosy gardener. The young man immediately turned back to his work and Frank’s mouth tightened. “Come with me.” He stood and took her hand in his.

  They ducked out of sight down a small pathway. He stopped under a tree. “Julia, I want to see you again.”

  She crazily considered inviting him home, or rather to her parents’ apartment. Ugh. Not that. “When?”

  “As soon as possible. I have to take our supplies back to Belas Aguas, but it is only a half hour by boat.” Belas Aguas, Beautiful Waters, was his family’s private island, in their possession for hundreds of years.

  A faint ache was starting in the side of her head, a warning to get home and lie down before it grew. “Tomorrow.” She didn’t want to discuss her injury yet, and she was already overwhelmed.

  “Tomorrow.” He looked disappointed but kissed her gently. “You have a phone here?”

  They exchanged numbers, Julia’s fingers fumbling over the keypad as she entered his. “Frank…” She stared up at him, her headache tightening.

  “You look pale again.” He tucked her hand in his elbow. “I’ll take you home so you can rest. I’ll pick you up at one tomorrow. We can have lunch at the villa if you’re up for a boat ride.”

  “I’ll be fine.” She waved her free hand.

  “Good.” He guided her out of the park and through the streets, chatting to her about the plans for Stefania’s wedding. “The wedding is in June at the big cathedral in their country of Vinciguerra. I’ve been helping Stefania with some things, like choosing colors, invitations and flowers. It’s amazing what you can do with webcam conferencing. And it helps to have their country’s department of protocol doing the heavy lifting.” He laughed. “My mother told me I had no idea how much work went into planning a high-society wedding, much less a royal wedding. She was right. But everything is just what Stefania wants, so that’s all that matters.”