by Penny Jordan
Emily’s head was aching painfully. She was finding it hard enough to grasp that Marco was actually here, never mind anything else. Her thoughts were in complete disarray. She couldn’t really comprehend what he was saying. It was difficult enough for her to focus simply on stopping her heart from spinning and shaking her body with the force of its frantic beats, without having to think logically and calmly as well. It had upset her far more than she wanted to admit that the sight of him should have affected her to such an extent that she had collapsed. Worryingly, even now her senses were still clinging possessively to the memory of being held in his arms as he had caught her. Part of her, the sensible part, she told herself firmly, wanted to put as much distance between them as she could, to protect herself from making it even more obvious just how intensely aware of him she was. Whilst the other part longed to be as intimately close to him as it was possible to be: body to body, skin to skin, mouth to mouth—heart to heart.
‘A business proposition?’ she repeated uncertainly. ‘What exactly does that mean, Marco? I’m an interior designer.’
‘Exactly,’ Marco agreed, ‘and a very good one.’
Marco was praising her? Flattering her? Why? she wondered suspiciously. It was totally out of character for him to behave like this.
‘Since it could be a while before I formally take over from my grandfather, instead of moving into the palace and being cooped up in a suite of rooms there,’ Marco told her, ‘I’ve moved into a villa I inherited from my parents. It’s in the old part of the town and it’s badly in need of modernisation. I want a designer who knows what she’s doing and, just as important, one who knows my taste.’
It took several seconds for the full meaning of what he was saying to sink in. But once it had, Emily could hardly conceal her disbelief.
‘Are you saying that you want to commission me to be that designer?’ she asked Marco faintly.
‘Yes, why not?’ Marco confirmed.
‘Why not?’ Emily stared at him, as her heart lurched crazily into her ribs. ‘Marco, we were lovers, and now our relationship is over. You must see that I can’t just let you commission me as your designer as though everything that took place between us never happened.’
‘Of course not, Emily. You never let me explain properly to you why I didn’t tell you about Niroli or my role there.’ Out of the corner of her eye, Emily could see Jemma discreetly edging out of the room to go into the stock room, closing the door after her to give them some privacy.
Emily waited, feeling helpless and weak. She was her own worst enemy, she knew that. She shouldn’t even be thinking of listening to him, instead of sitting here desperate for every second she could spend with him.
‘As a boy, I had a very difficult relationship with my grandfather. I suppose I was something of a black sheep in his eyes. I resented the way he treated my father, who was too gentle to stand up to him, and I swore that I would never let him control me the way he did my parents. I came to London determined to prove to him and to myself that I could be a success without the power of the Royal House of Niroli. It was for that reason that I came here and stayed incognito, and no other.’
‘But when we met, you had achieved that success, Marco,’ Emily forced herself to remind him.
‘Yes, but I had also grown used to the freedom of living and proving myself as plain Marco Fierezza. It seemed to me then that there was no need for me to live any other way—at least not for many years. My father was still alive and he would have succeeded my grandfather when the time came.’ Marco gave a small shrug. ‘I had no expectation of becoming king until I was much older.’
‘Maybe not. But you would surely have to marry appropriately and produce a son to whom you can pass on the crown,’ Emily couldn’t help pointing out quietly.
Marco inclined his head.
‘Yes, at some stage. One of the archaic rules that surround the Royal House of Niroli is that the king cannot marry a woman who is divorced, or of ill repute. The challenge of finding such a paragon in today’s world is such that I was more than happy to remain unmarried until necessity directed otherwise.’
Emily had to blink fast to disperse her threatening tears. Marco obviously had no idea just how hurtful his casual words were. It could never have occurred to him to think of her as someone he might love and want to commit to permanently. She should hate him for showing her how indifferent he was to her, Emily told herself, but somehow she felt too sick at heart to do it.
‘Look,’ Marco told her crisply, ‘I don’t have much time, and since you obviously need to eat, why don’t we discuss this over an early dinner?’
Emily shuddered and shook her head in instant denial, her reaction making him frown. She’d always had a good appetite, having never needed to worry about what she ate. But now the fact that she had not been eating properly was plain to see in the sharp angles of her cheek-bones and her jaw.
‘Jemma’s right, Emily, you aren’t looking after yourself properly,’ Marco announced firmly. ‘You need a break. I don’t have time to argue with you. I’ve made up my mind. You’re coming back to Niroli with me.’
Was this giddy, soaring feeling inside her really because she was so weak that she was glad that Marco had made up her mind for her? She was an independent woman, for heaven’s sake, not some wilting Victorian heroine. She tried to wrench back some control of what was happening.
‘I can’t do that, Marco. For one thing, there’s the business—’
‘Of course you can, Em. I can take care of things here,’ Jemma piped up from the threshold of the storeroom. With Niroli’s back to her, she mouthed to Emily, Go with him, you know you want to. Before announcing to both of them that time was getting on and she had to catch the post with some invoices.
Emily and Marco were alone in the shop now, and she wished violently that she were not so all-consumingly aware of him.
‘You can’t take me back with you, Marco. It wouldn’t work. We were lovers—’
‘And still could be, if that’s what you want,’ Marco interrupted softly.
Emily didn’t dare look at him in case he saw the hope and the longing in her eyes. She struggled between her own helpless awareness of how much she still wanted him and the practicalities of the situation, protesting unsteadily, ‘Marco, we can’t. Even if I wanted to…to go back, it isn’t possible.’
‘Why not, if it’s what both of us want?
What both of them wanted. Her heart lurched, joyously intoxicated by the pleasure of hearing the admission his words contained.
‘But what about the rules of the House of Niroli? Surely your grandfather wouldn’t approve, or—’
‘My grandfather doesn’t rule my personal life,’ Marco responded with familiar arrogance.
She had no idea how to handle this. She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she admitted. ‘How long have I got?’
‘To share my bed?’ Marco cut her off smoothly. ‘I doubt that my grandfather is really ready to step down, for all that he says he is. We could have the summer together and then reassess the situation.’
Emily could feel her face burning.
‘That wasn’t what I meant. When I said how long have I got, I meant how much time will you give me to think things through before I make up my mind about your business proposition?’ she told him primly. ‘Nothing else.’
‘No time. Because you aren’t going to think about it. You are coming back with me, Emily—you don’t have a choice about that. What you can choose, though, of course, is in what capacity. My flight leaves at eight, so we’ve just got time to go back to your house and collect your passport, and anything else you might need. And time for me to show you exactly what both of us will be missing if you don’t,’ he told her, giving her a look that was so explicitly sexual that her whole body burned with longing. And then, as though he had said nothing remotely outrageous to her, he continued smoothly, ‘I should warn you, the villa is going to tax even your creative eye, but I’
m sure you’ll enjoy the challenge.’
He was handing her her handbag and her coat, and somehow or other she was being ushered out of the door, helpless to stop what was happening and not really caring that she couldn’t.
‘How many bedrooms does the villa have?’ she managed to ask Marco slightly breathlessly, once they were outside on the street.
The look he gave her as he turned to her made her heart thud recklessly.
‘Five, but you will be sleeping in mine—with me.’
‘You’re going to be Niroli’s next king, Marco!’ Emily felt bound to remind him. ‘You can’t live openly with me there as your mistress.’
‘No?’ he challenged her softly.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AT SOME stage during the drive from Niroli’s airport, into which they had flown by private jet, she must have half fallen asleep, Emily realised as the motion of the car ceased and she heard Marco’s voice saying through the darkness of the car’s interior, ‘We’re here.’
But not before she had seen the impressively straight road leading from the airport, with huge placards attached to lampposts bearing a photograph of Marco, a royal crown hovering several centimetres above his head and an ermine-edged cape around his shoulders. Underneath were Italian words, which she could just about translate as, ‘Welcome home, Your Highness’.
It made her shiver slightly now to think about them and to remember how she had felt at seeing them, how very aware they had made her of the gulf between her and Marco’s royal status.
The emotional roller-coaster ride of the last few hours had taken its toll on her, Emily knew. It had drained her and left her feeling so exhausted that she barely had the energy to get out of the car, even though Marco opened the door for her and reached out his hand to support her. Just for a moment she hesitated and looked back into the car. Wishing she had not come? She pushed the thought aside and focused instead on the fact that the night air had that familiar scent of Mediterranean warmth that she remembered from her many holidays elsewhere in the region with Marco: a mingling of olfactory textures and tints, ripened by the day’s sunlight and then distilled by the soft darkness.
Emily breathed it in slowly, trying to steady her own nerves. She was, she realised, standing in the courtyard of what looked like a haphazard jumble of white stone walls, shuttered, arched windows and delicate iron balconies, illuminated by moonlight and lamplight from the surrounding buildings. The courtyard was shielded from the narrow street outside by a pair of heavy wooden doors, and as Emily’s senses adjusted themselves to the darkness she could hear from somewhere the sound of water from a fountain falling into a basin.
‘It looks almost Moorish,’ she told Marco.
‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it?’ Marco agreed with her. ‘History does have it that the Moors were here at one time, and it’s here in the oldest part of the main town that you can see their architectural influence. Although there were also Nirolians who travelled as traders to and from Andalucia in Spain, as well.’ He was guiding her towards an impressive doorway as he spoke. Emily hesitated, knowing it was too late now to change her mind about the wisdom of allowing him to bring her here and yet not totally able to overcome her uncertainty.
‘You said that you’re living here, instead of at the palace?’
‘Yes. Are you disappointed? If so, I am sure I can arrange for us to have a suite of rooms there—’
Us? ‘No…’ Emily stopped him hurriedly. ‘Marco…’ She stopped, and shivered slightly despite the warmth of the air. She was a fool to have allowed Marco to steamroller her into coming here so that he could have her back in his bed, when she knew there was no real future for her with him. But why think of the future when she could have the present? an inner voice urged her. Every day she could have with Marco, every hour, were things so precious she should reach out and grab them with both hands. Emily squeezed her eyes tightly closed and then opened them again. She wasn’t used to this unfamiliar recklessness she seemed to have developed, with its blinkered refusal to acknowledge any-thing other than her determination to be with him. She did love him so much, Emily accepted, but it would be far better for her if she did not.
Fine, the reckless voice told her. So you spend your time trying to stop loving him, and I’ll spend mine enjoying being with him. You can’t leave—not now. What was this? She felt as though she were being torn in two. The sensible, protective part of her was telling her that it would be better if she spent her time here learning to recognise the huge differences between them; far better if she made herself focus, not on the fact that Marco was her lover and the man she loved, but on the fact that he was Niroli’s future king and as such could never be hers. However, this new reckless part of her was insisting that nothing mattered more than squeezing the intimacy and the sweetness out of every extra minute she had with him, regardless of what the future might bring. How could she bring together two such opposing forces? She couldn’t.
‘Let’s go inside,’ she heard Marco telling her, ‘then I can introduce you to Maria and Pietro who look after the villa for me.’
Emily still hung back.
‘They are bound to talk about my being here.’
‘I expect they will, but why should that matter?’ Marco knew all too well that they would, and that their talk would very quickly reach his grandfather’s ears. There was no need for him to share that knowledge with Emily, though.
‘Wouldn’t it perhaps be better if… well, you said you wanted me to restyle the villa. Perhaps I should have my own room, for convention’s sake, and then you could…’
‘I could what? Sneak you into my bed at dead of night?’ Marco shook his head, his mouth tightening. ‘I am a man, Emily, not a fearful boy.’
‘But if we are going to be lovers…’
“‘If” we are?’ he mocked her softly. ‘There is no “if” about it, Emily. You will be sleeping in my bed and I shall be there with you, make no mistake about that. I know you’re tired, so I shall not make love to you, but only for tonight. My people will understand that I am a man, as well as their future king, and they will not expect me to live the life of a monk. They will accept that—’
‘That what? That I am your mistress, and that you have brought me here to warm your bed?’ When Marco talked like this, she felt as though she were listening to a stranger, Emily recognised in sharpening panic. His casual reference to ‘his people’ and his position as ‘their future king’ set him on a different plane from her, and a different life path; already he was someone else from the man she had known…a king-in-waiting.
‘Are you saying that you don’t want to warm it?’ Marco asked her, breaking into her thoughts and then adding so seductively, almost like the old Marco that she used to know, ‘Did you know there is something about the smell of your skin that right now is filling my head with the most erotic thoughts—and memories?’ His voice had dropped to a whisper that was almost mesmeric. ‘Can you remember the first time I tasted you?’
Despite the doubts and fears she was experiencing, his words sent a thrill of sensation through her, making her body quiver with arousal at the images he was conjuring up. She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t a naïve virgin any more and that she wasn’t going to play his game, but instead she heard herself saying thickly,
‘Yes.’
‘And the first time you tasted me?’
Now she could only nod her head as desire kicked up violently inside her stomach.
Marco’s fingers had encircled her wrist and he was stroking her bare skin in a rhythmic, beguiling caress.
‘You didn’t care then about the staff of the hotel knowing that we were lovers.’
‘That was different,’ she protested.
‘Why?’
‘Then we were private lovers. But here, Marco, as you yourself have just said, in the eyes of the people of Niroli you are their future king, and I will be your mistress.’
‘So?’
Could he really not unders
tand how she felt? Was he really already so far removed from ordinary life that he couldn’t see that she would a thousand times rather be the lover of plain Marco Fierezza, than the mistress of the future King of Niroli?
‘I can assure you that you will be treated with courtesy and respect, Emily, if that is what is worrying you,’ he continued when she didn’t answer him. ‘And if it should come to my ears that you aren’t, I will make sure that is corrected.’
He sounded shockingly, sickeningly, aloof and regal. The words he had spoken were the kind of statement that previously she would have laughed openly over and expected him to do the same. But she could tell from his expression that he meant them seriously. Marco’s always had been a very commanding presence, but now Emily felt there was a new hauteur to his manner, a coldness and a disdain that chilled her through. The hardening of his voice and the arrogance of his stance betrayed his determination to have his own way. And a belief in his royal right to do so? Emily wasn’t sure. But she did feel that the subtle change she could sense in him highlighted her own un certainties. In London, despite the financial gap between them, they had met and lived as equals. Here, on Niroli, she knew instinctively that things would be different. But right now she was too tired to question how much that difference was going to impact on their new relationship. Right now, all she wanted. Marco was still stroking her arm. She closed her eyes and swayed closer to him. Right now, she admitted, all she wanted was this: the scented darkness, the proximity of their bodies and the promise of pleasure to come.
It was the single, sharp, shrill, animal cry of the victim of a night predator who had come down from the mountains to hunt, cut off along with its life, that woke Emily from her deep sleep. At first, her unfamiliar surroundings confused her, but then she remembered where she was. She turned over in the large bed, her body as filled with sharp dread as though the dying creature had passed on its fear to her.