Prince's Arranged Bride

by Susan Stephens

  ‘Not very cosy, is it?’

  His voice startled her, even though it was pitched at little more than a murmur.

  ‘Sorry?’ she said, turning around.

  ‘This room,’ Alessandro said, holding her gaze as he carried the juice over to her.

  ‘It’s very—’

  ‘Yes?’ he said, noticing how studiously she avoided touching his hand as he passed her the crystal glass.

  ‘Well…’ Emily chose her words carefully. She didn’t want to cause offence—maybe he loved this style. ‘It tries very hard—’

  ‘—to condense all the flavours of your country into a single room in order to impress the well-heeled tourist?’ he supplied, looking at her with amusement over the top of his glass.

  ‘Well, yes,’ Emily said, discovering that a smile had edged on to her own lips. ‘How did you guess? That’s my opinion exactly.’ Nerves were making her facial muscles capricious, unpredictable…and somehow she found herself smiling up at him again.

  ‘Let’s hold our meeting somewhere more…snug,’ Alessandro suggested. ‘Don’t look so alarmed,’ he said, shooting her a wolfish grin that failed entirely if it was meant to reassure her. Thrusting a thumb through the belt-loop of his black trousers, he slouched comfortably on one hip to put his glass down on the table. ‘My bedroom can hardly be described as snug—it’s almost as large as this room. Fortunately there are two bedrooms, and I’ve had the smaller of the two turned into an office for the duration of my stay.’

  ‘I see,’ Emily said, watching him extract some documents from the folder on the table and wondering why all she could register was how tanned, and very capable his hands were—

  ‘Daydreaming again, Emily?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘And I beg you to pay attention when I ask you if you would care to join me in my office—so that our meeting can begin.’

  His tone was amused—tolerant. And her expression must have been blank and dreamy, Emily realised, hurriedly adopting an alert look.

  ‘Shall I lead the way?’

  Retrieving her handbag, Emily hurried after him, but as he opened the door to the next room, and stopped beside it to let her pass, she juddered to a halt. The remaining space inside the doorframe was small…too small.

  The difference in size between them seemed huge, suddenly, though it was his aura of confident masculinity that was his most alluring feature, Emily thought as she skirted past him. ‘Very impressive,’ she managed huskily, pretending interest in all the high-tech gizmos assembled for his use in the skilfully converted bedroom.

  ‘Why don’t you sit over there?’ he suggested, pointing towards a leather button-backed seat to one side of a huge mahogany desk.

  Perching primly on the edge, Emily watched in fascination as Alessandro sat or rather sprawled on his own chair with all the innate elegance of a lean and hungry tiger.

  ‘Would you care to open the discussion?’ he invited.

  Folding her hands neatly in her lap, Emily attempted to sweep her mind clear of anything but the facts. ‘Well, as you know, I’m here to secure the best possible deal for my sister’s band—’

  ‘For your sister, primarily?’

  ‘Well, yes, of course, but—’

  ‘Miranda needs the money a recording contract will bring her in order to buy a rather special violin and to complete her training, is that correct?’

  ‘That’s putting it rather crudely.’

  ‘How else would you put it, Emily? What I want to know is, what’s in it for me?’

  ‘Surely that was self-evident when you saw the band perform. They’re excellent—’

  ‘Without you?’ he cut in abruptly. ‘How do I know what they’ll be like? What if I said I’d sign the band if you remained as lead singer?’

  ‘I’m afraid my obligations at work would not permit—’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he cut in smoothly. ‘I’ll come to that later. But for now let’s consider your proposal regarding the recording contract for your sister. How does she intend to fulfil both her commitment to the record company and to her tutor at the music conservatoire?’

  ‘I’m here to ensure that whatever contract she signs allows her to do both—for the first year at least.’

  ‘And then she will drop the band?’ Alessandro suggested shrewdly.

  ‘She will fulfil all her contractual obligations,’ Emily stated firmly. ‘I can assure you of that.’

  ‘As well as put in the necessary practice hours to become a top-class international soloist? Somehow I doubt it,’ he said, embroidering the comment with a slanting, sceptical look.

  ‘You clearly have no experience of what it’s like to strive to achieve something so far out of reach,’ Emily said, overruling her cautious professional persona in defence of her sister, ‘that most people would give up before they had even started.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right—’

  ‘Many artistes are forced to take other jobs to pay their way through college,’ she continued passionately, barely registering Alessandro’s silent nod of agreement.

  ‘Not just musicians or artistes—’

  But Emily was too far down the road either to notice his comment or to hold back. ‘You’re making assumptions that have no grounds in fact,’ she flung at him accusingly.

  ‘And you’re not even listening to me,’ Alessandro replied evenly, ‘so how do you know what I think?’

  ‘You’ve already decided she can’t handle both commitments,’ Emily said, realising she hadn’t felt this unsteady since delivering her first seminar as a rookie law student. ‘Right now, Miranda’s not feeling well. But as soon as she’s feeling better I know she’ll do everything she says she will.’

  ‘You say—’

  ‘Yes, I say,’ Emily said heatedly. ‘I know my sister better than you…better than anyone—’ She broke off, suddenly aware that all the professional expertise in the world was of no use to her while her emotions were engaged to this extent.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Alessandro agreed quietly, showing no sign of following her down the same turbulent path. ‘But why on earth choose a band as a way of making money? Why not find it some other way?’

  Emily made an impatient gesture as she shook her head at him. ‘Because she’s a musician, Alessandro. That’s what she does.’

  ‘A cabaret singer?’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  As he shrugged, Emily guessed every stereotypical piece of nonsense that had ever been conceived around nightclub singers was swirling through his brain.

  ‘Miranda makes an honest living,’ she said defensively. ‘Would you rather she gave it up…gave up all her ambitions…just to satisfy the prejudice of misguided individuals?’

  Alessandro confined himself to a lengthy stare of good-humoured tolerance, and then held up his hands when a knock came at the door just as Emily was getting into her stride. ‘Excuse me, Emily. I won’t be a moment.’

  As Alessandro left her Emily felt a warning prickle start behind her eyes. No one had ever made her lose her temper like this before…not once. She hadn’t ever come close. Plunging her hand into her handbag, she dug around for some tissues, then rammed them away out of sight again when he came back.

  ‘Come on, Emily,’ he said, staying by the door. ‘Supper’s arrived.’

  ‘I think I’d better go.’ She resorted to hiding her face in a hastily contrived search for the door keys in her handbag.

  ‘After supper,’ Alessandro insisted as he held out his hand to her.

  Was she meant to take it? Emily wondered as she stared up at him in surprise.

  ‘Come,’ he repeated patiently.

  It was tempting. Maybe supper would give her a chance to relax, regroup, gather what remained of her scattered wits. She was here for Miranda, wasn’t she? And the job she had come to do wasn’t nearly finished. Eating was harmless…civilised. Lots of deals were cut over power breakfasts and business lunches; she’d
done it herself on numerous occasions.

  Romantic suppers?

  Muffling the tiny voice of reason in her head, Emily convinced herself that the meal was nothing more than a brief interlude, a welcome break that would give her the chance to get her professional head screwed on ready for the discussions to come. But when she walked back into the first room she saw that a great deal more than a light snack awaited her.

  ‘When you said supper, I imagined…’ Her voice tailed off as she surveyed the incredible feast that had been laid out for them along the whole length of a highly polished mahogany table.

  ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ Alessandro demanded, cruising along the table, grazing as he went. ‘I know I am.’

  She tried not to notice the way he seemed to be making love with his mouth to a chocolate-tipped strawberry.

  ‘You can eat what you want when you want,’ he said, sucking off the last scrap of chocolate with relish. ‘And we can keep on talking while you do,’ he added, his curving half-smile reaching right through her armour-plated reserve to stroke each erotic zone in turn. ‘Would you like me to make a few suggestions?’

  Withdrawing the plundered stalk from between his strong white teeth, he deposited it neatly on a side-plate.

  Emily forced her mouth shut, but kept right on staring at him.

  ‘Food?’ Alessandro offered with an innocent shrug as he cocked his head to one side to look at her.

  ‘That’s fine, I can manage,’ Emily said, almost snatching one of the white porcelain plates from his hands.

  ‘Shrimp, signorina?’

  ‘Don’t you ever take no for an answer?’

  The look he gave her sent a flame of awareness licking through every inch of her body.

  ‘Relax, Emily. I deliver what I promise—just a light snack, in this instance.’

  ‘I’m perfectly relaxed, thank you,’ Emily retorted, concentrating on making her selection from the platters of delicious-looking salads…a selection she was making with unaccustomed clumsiness, thanks to the route her thoughts were taking.

  Was it her fault that those beautifully sculpted lips provided a rather different example of a tasty snack…or that stubble-darkened jaw? Not to mention the expanse of hard chest she supposed must reside beneath his superior-quality jacket and shirt—and, talking of superior quality, what about the muscle-banded stomach concealed beneath that slim black leather belt? Distractedly, she spilled half a bowl of coleslaw on top of the mountain of food she seemed to have absent-mindedly collected on her plate.

  ‘I don’t think the pudding will fit,’ Alessandro pointed out, removing a serving spoon holding a heaped portion of sherry trifle from her hand.

  ‘Of c-course not,’ Emily stammered, while the erotic mind games kept right on playing—ignoring her most strenuous efforts to put all thoughts of whipped cream and tanned torsos out of bounds.

  When later she found herself drawn towards a tower of honey-coloured choux balls drizzled with chocolate, he asked, ‘Do you like chocolate, Emily?’

  ‘I love it. Why?’ she said suspiciously.

  Alessandro shrugged as he piled some profiteroles onto a plate, adding some extra chocolate sauce and pouring cream for her. ‘We have a chocolate festival in Ferara every year; free chocolate is handed out all over the city. We even have a chocolate museum—you should make time to see it.’ As he handed her the plate his amused golden gaze scanned her face. ‘What do you say?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Was she accepting an invitation to consume a plate of delectable pudding, or something rather more?

  ‘Imagine this, Emily—a thousand kilos of delicious chocolate sculpted into a work of art before your very eyes; artists coming from all over Europe to compete for a prize for the best design—’

  He turned to pour them both a steaming cup of strong dark coffee from an elegant silver pot.

  ‘Clean sheets are placed underneath each block so that the onlookers can help themselves to slivers as they watch—’ He stopped, and stared straight into her eyes, his expressive mouth tugging up in a grin. ‘Well?’

  Emily’s pulse-rate doubled. ‘No cream, no sugar,’ she blurted, certain he intended to provoke her—a chocolate festival, for goodness’ sake!’

  Murmuring her thanks as he pressed the coffee cup into her hand, she glanced up, only to encounter a dangerous gaze alive with laughter. She was right to be wary, she realised, looking away fast.

  But thankfully this was his final sally, and he allowed her to finish her meal in peace. When they returned to his luxurious bedroom-turned-office, he kept the lights soothing and low as he slipped a CD into the music centre.

  Emily smiled. Brahms, she realised, surprised he had remembered her mother mentioning Miranda’s competition piece.

  He poured champagne and brought two crystal flutes across before settling himself down on the opposite sofa.

  ‘Better?’ he murmured, watching her drink. ‘Do you mind if I take my jacket off?’ he added, loosening a couple more buttons at the neck of his shirt.

  ‘Not at all,’ Emily said, forgetting her pledge to keep champagne celebrations until later as she watched him ease up from the chair to slip off a jacket lined with crimson silk. Freeing a pair of heavy gold cufflinks from his shirt, he dropped them onto the table and rolled up his sleeves to reveal powerful forearms shaded with dark hair. There couldn’t have been a more striking contrast to the type of pasty-faced executive she was accustomed to dealing with.

  ‘So, Emily,’ he challenged, eyes glinting as he caught her staring at him. ‘Do you still think I’m one of those misguided individuals you referred to?’

  For his opinion of cabaret singers, yes; where everything else was concerned—

  ‘I take it from your expression that you do.’

  His smile had vanished.

  ‘Let’s get one thing straight between us before we go any further. I don’t give a damn what people do, as long as they’re not hurting anyone else in the process. But I do care about motives—what makes people tick. What makes you tick, Emily?’

  Racing to put her brain back in gear, the best she could manage was a few mangled sounds.

  ‘Barrister by day,’ he went on smoothly, ‘moonlighting as a cabaret singer by night. There’s no harm in that, if you can cope with the workload. And it’s even more to your credit that you were moonlighting to help your sister out of a fix. What is not to your credit, however, is the fact that you intended to deceive me. Why was that, Emily?’

  ‘I admit things got out of hand—’

  The lame remark was rewarded by a cynical stare.

  ‘You really thought you could pull this off?’ he demanded incredulously. ‘What kind of a fool did you take me for?’

  Emily’s face burned scarlet as she struggled with an apology. ‘I didn’t know you—I’m really sorry. I didn’t think—’

  Alessandro held up his hands, silencing her. ‘As it happens, you’re not the only one who hasn’t been entirely straightforward.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Let’s consider this plan of yours first.’

  ‘My plan?’ It was clear he was on a mission to tease out her motives whilst taking care not to reveal any of his own, Emily realised.

  ‘Amongst your misconceptions is the notion that your sister’s crazy scheme is actually going to work.’

  ‘Will you help her or not?’

  ‘Without my co-operation your sister will never play the instrument she has set her heart upon.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Emily said anxiously, finding it impossible to sit down a moment longer.

  Stretching his arms out across the back of the sofa, Alessandro tipped his head to look at her. ‘Why don’t you sit down again, Emily?’ he suggested calmly. ‘You do want to help your sister, don’t you? You do want her to be able to play that violin she saw in the instrument maker’s shop near the castle in Heidelberg?’

  Emily could feel the blood draining out of her face as she stared at him. ‘How
do you know about that?’ she said in a whisper.

  ‘I make it my business to know everything relevant to a case before I enter into any negotiation,’ he said steadily. ‘I never leave anything to chance.’

  Emily’s professional pride might have suffered a direct hit, but the only thing that mattered was Miranda’s future…But what was Alessandro Bussoni really after? Why had he gone to so much trouble? And how did he come to have such a hold over a German violin maker?

  ‘The violin in Heidelberg—’ she began, but her voice faltered as she remembered Miranda playing the beautiful old instrument. ‘What did you mean when you said that my sister might never get to play it?’

  ‘Without my co-operation,’ Alessandro reminded her, his expression masked in shade.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Sit down again, Emily. Please.’

  ‘I think you owe me an explanation first.’

  ‘The particular instrument you refer to is a museum piece almost beyond price. It was being displayed by one of today’s most celebrated instrument makers—’

  ‘Was being displayed?’ Emily asked. ‘Why are you talking about it in the past tense?’

  ‘Because it’s no longer there,’ he said evenly.

  ‘You mean it’s gone back to the museum?’ Relief and regret merged in the question.

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘What, then?’ Her look demanded he answer her fully this time.

  But Alessandro still said nothing, and just stared at some point over her left shoulder.

  Slowly Emily turned around, her eyes widening when she saw what he was looking at. A beautifully upholstered taupe suede viewing seat was angled to face a large entertainment system. Nestled in the corner of the unusual triangular-shaped seat rested a violin, propped up between two cream silk cushions. ‘Should it be out of its case?’ she mumbled foolishly, sinking down on the sofa again.

  ‘I imagine that’s the only way it’s ever going to be played,’ Alessandro said, levelling a long, steady gaze at her.

  Emily’s heart was thundering so fast she could hardly breathe. She had to turn round to take another look, just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming—to prove to herself that she really was in the same room as the violin Miranda had played in Heidelberg.