The Royals of Monterra: Royal Rivals (Kindle Worlds Novella)

by Rebecca Connolly

“I couldn’t believe you accepted my invitation this year,” Rosalia said as she finally released me. She grinned and looked down at me with a relieved expression. “Finally, someone I know is here for me and not my brothers.”

  That, at least, was true.

  “I’m thrilled I could come this year,” I told her, trying to match her smile. “This is exactly what I need right now.”

  Which was also true.

  I hoped.

  Rosalia positively beamed and rubbed my arms gently, her perfect teeth almost blinding. “I promise, I will make this the best house party you have ever been to.”

  “Well, I won’t hold you to that,” I replied, laughing. “You never know, with your brothers.”

  She rolled her eyes with a groan. “Ahimè.” She shook her head. “They promised me to behave this time.”

  “I doubt they meant it,” I muttered, glancing over at the pool.

  “Me too.”

  We shared a look and she smiled, giving me a once over. “You look molto bella, Claire. Has your hair always been so fair?”

  I nodded, running a hand through my hair. “It’s naturally this shade, yes. The cut is new, though. Summer makes it more golden, but it will fade with winter. It becomes quite dull, unfortunately.”

  Rosalia tsked sadly. “But we enjoy it while we can.” She glanced behind her at the arriving guests, then back at me. “I must greet the others, but I will see you tonight, yes?”

  I nodded and let her take my hands, squeezing them tightly. “Yes, I will see you tonight.”

  She smiled again, kissed my cheek, and darted away, almost bouncing in her step.

  I shook my head in amusement, then turned back to the pool only to find my smile evaporating completely as I saw someone standing there that I had no desire to see at any given time or place in my life. He saw me at the same time and his smug smile vanished as well, each of us equally horrorstruck at seeing the other.

  He could ruin absolutely everything.

  And there was no way I could leave now.

  Somehow, I would have to endure this house party with Salvatore, the Duca di Brista. The biggest and most annoying playboy I had ever known, and once a close friend of the Fiorelli family.

  I was completely and absolutely trapped in a nightmare.

  And from the look on his face, so was he.

  CHAPTER TWO

  He absolutely refused to acknowledge me from the terrace and turned back into the house without saying anything at all.

  That suited me fine. I did exactly the same.

  Why was he here? How did he possibly know the Catalanos?

  That was a stupid question, I reminded myself. Salvatore had slept with most of the high class European women, and at least half of the lower class ones, so it only followed that he and the Catalano brothers ought to be great friends.

  Still, he ought to have been in Monterra, not here in Tuscany.

  And not here with me.

  I hid in my room for the rest of the afternoon, watching the too-pretty maid named Maria unpack my things.

  She would be a target for the men at this party, and would be fired by the end of the week, unless she had an iron willpower or had a well-hidden skin condition.

  Poor Maria.

  I’d hire her myself once she was dismissed, but I wouldn’t be able to bear the competition. I knew myself. I was most definitely the jealous sort.

  Of course, I needed a man in order for the jealousy to be founded.

  But that had never stopped me before.

  Finally, after making somewhat polite conversation with Maria, I dressed for dinner and was pleased to discover that Maria was talented when it came to hair. This was not the sort of event that required much, but she worked in some loose curls that she then pinned back into a very sleek yet elegant look, which flattered me better than I thought it would. I was not particularly in the mood for dancing, but I still opted for a simple black skater dress with cream color block accents in the skirt. The slit down the back exposed the skin between my shoulder blades nearly to my hips, and I knew how toned my back was these days. Anyone looking would have to look twice for assurance that it really looked that good.

  Not that I anticipated anyone would.

  They would all be too busy drooling over the taller, leggier, skimpier dressed girls with less morality, and I was of a mind to let them without much interest.

  I might look, but that would be my own business.

  Italian men were ridiculously attractive, after all.

  I went down to dinner with my usual expression, the one that warded off strangers and reminded those who knew me where they stood. I was seated next to a complete stranger who spoke no English and only cared about the woman next to him, who looked embarrassed to even be here.

  That would make two of us.

  Rosalia did her best to play hostess, but Antonio and Severo seemed to be taking over, as they usually did, and the dinner was filled with loud laughter and whistling. It was as distracting as it was annoying, and felt more like we had all gone to a pub to eat rather than the villa of one of the wealthiest families in Italy. A brief scan of the tables showed that I was not completely alone in my feelings, but most of them chimed in anyway.

  Salvatore, I noticed, looked bored as he sat almost directly across from me, and didn’t laugh once, or comment on anything that was said.

  For a playboy, that was bizarre.

  He just sat there, eating his food, and didn’t speak to anyone. Occasionally he looked at the Catalano brothers or at Rosalia, but he completely ignored any of the conversation, particularly from the young women on either side of him, who were trying their best to attract his attention.

  Odd. Salvatore had never ignored any red-blooded female before.

  Well, perhaps me, but even then, we were sort of friends. Or had once been, at any rate. Perhaps we could be allies here, if for no other reason than we could both see how ridiculous this all was.

  I wasn’t so sure about his usual group though. Davide, the Conte di Lerio, and Francesco, the Barone di Atanni, neither of whom I had ever taken pains to know and certainly had never approved of, both seemed to be enjoying whatever was being said and showed too much interest in the women near them.

  Salvatore wasn’t even paying attention to them, or taking interest in anything else.

  So why was he even here?

  Then again, why was I here?

  Oh, right, because I had absolutely nowhere else to be, nothing else to do, and would soon be the most useless version of myself.

  “Lady Claire, are you not pleased with the food on your plate?” asked the man to my left who was, I could admit, fairly attractive, though not as striking as the Catalanos or Salvatore and his friends.

  I thought back to remember his name, but I hadn’t thought it important when I’d been told, as I was sure I had been, so nothing came. I offered him a very mild smile. “The food is fine. The company not so much.”

  He chuckled, surprisingly, and didn’t look at all offended, which he probably should have been, considering I’d said the words with all the contempt I could. “Yes, unfortunately the Catalanos like their fun too much, but at least our stomachs do not suffer for it.”

  “There is that,” I reluctantly admitted, turning to see him better. “And you? You’re not laughing and cavorting with the rest?”

  He shook his head slowly, his gaze drifting to the other end of the room, where Rosalia sat, looking stunning in a short pale purple dress with a black lace overlay. Stunning, but sad. “I find no amusement in the conversation that makes Rosalia so unhappy.”

  I bit my lip to keep from laughing at his obvious adoration, so simple and overdone, and so completely beyond Rosalia’s notice. But then, suddenly, it wasn’t funny. The furrow in his brow as he saw how miserable she was made me shift in my seat.

  Suddenly I was upset for her as well, and any appetite I had vanished. “I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Marco,” he
replied, his gaze swinging back to me. “Marco Silvestri.”

  I nodded, then looked beyond him to Rosalia. “Marco, see to it that Rosalia smiles tonight. I don’t care how. You’ll make a better friend to her during all of this than I will.”

  He gave me an odd look, and for some reason I decided to clarify. “I’m not the best sort of company at things like this. And I’m not very good at friendship.”

  “And how do you know that I am?” Marco asked with a small smile, as if what I had said amused him.

  I looked at him with derision. “Any fool can see how you look at her.”

  He seemed surprised by that. “She can’t.”

  “Then she is a fool.” I tilted my head in thought. “Or a woman.”

  Salvatore snorted across from me and I looked at him, unaware he had been listening in. He saw the look and held up his hands, saying something in Italian that I took to mean, “She’s right,” from his tone and expression.

  Marco conversed with him shortly and I returned to my drink with a sigh, hating being the only non-Italian speaking person in the entire group. Oh, there were some others from Switzerland, France, and even England, but all of them apparently spoke Italian.

  Really, was it so hard for everyone to speak English? They all knew it, I’d heard them, but to speak a language that not everyone would know was simply rude.

  I felt more excluded than ever.

  Marco tried a few more times to speak with me, being very polite and considerate, but I didn’t care.

  Let him look after Rosalia, by all accounts the only person I cared about at this party, and possibly the only person who cared about me. I would do my best to avoid being alienated by any other influential families in Europe, and that was all that could be said for me.

  Thankfully, dinner was over with soon and we all moved into the ballroom they had set up for the dancing, with a DJ and so many pieces of equipment that I wondered what exactly he would do up there short of magic tricks. The ballroom was extraordinarily well lit and matched the elegance and opulence of the rest of the villa. I, along with all of the members of the party that had any sort of sense, took a moment’s pause to take it all in. Finery should always be appreciated, in my opinion, and well-adorned finery was even better.

  But the moment was gone soon enough, and the music was soon blaring too loudly, like the worst clubs in London I’d been in. I was soon bored beyond belief, and as I refused to dance as though I was in those worst clubs in London, no one was coming anywhere near me.

  Just when I began to wonder if I would be missed if I wandered the grounds or explored the rest of the villa or flat out went to bed, I spotted Salvatore, Davide, and Francisco standing together away from any of the dancing. That was another strange sight, as I knew the three of them had frequented Inferno, Prince Dante’s nightclub in Monterra, and yet they could not have looked more out of place now.

  Granted, they were all very attractive men who could have been models for a high-end magazine with their perfectly-fitted clothing and their easy, masculine poses, but they weren’t fitting in with the rest.

  I was unofficially dubbed a queen of ice, apparently without emotions or hormones, but even I could appreciate that particular prospect.

  I didn’t particularly like their company, but I had no better alternative. I headed in their direction, taking a drink from the glass I held, though I honestly couldn’t remember what it was. I needed some form of courage to approach this unfortunate group of heartthrobs, if they had to be called such.

  Davide saw me first and groaned some Italian expletive I’d heard before, but didn’t actually know the translation of.

  I sneered at him. “And the same to you, my dear Conte.”

  “I don’t want to be your dear anything,” he replied, tossing back the rest of his drink.

  “Fine with me.” I turned to Francisco with a nod. “Baron.”

  He grunted and nodded. “Lady Claire.”

  Then I looked at Salvatore, who was already looking at me, though without the rancor the others had. “Duc,” I greeted with all the stiffness I possessed, unable to do anything else.

  He nodded, sipping his drink slowly. “Claire.”

  I rolled my eyes, shaking my head and looking away. Salvatore had never properly appreciated titles, and it was obvious his manners had not improved in the months since I had seen him last.

  Davide and Francisco spoke rapid Italian to Salvatore and then left, not looking at me again.

  I watched them go without caring, and looked back at Salvatore with a raised brow. “Am I that terrifying a prospect?”

  Salvatore shrugged one shoulder, still staring at me with his dark eyes and expressionless features. “Only to weaker men.”

  That made me laugh and I turned more fully to the much taller man. He leaned against one of the several pillars in the room. “And you are not a weak man?”

  He gestured to himself, and I obediently followed his hand up and down, taking his entire picture in. I would never admit it to anyone, but I may have taken a small amount of satisfaction in doing so. “Obviously not. Quite the reverse.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Your own eyes tell you so.”

  “They do not.”

  “They told me so. I saw you.”

  I shook my head, grinding my teeth together and looking at him in disgust. “Are you always so pleased with yourself?”

  Salvatore seemed to smile. “Shouldn’t I be?” He ran his eyes up and down the length of me, his smile spreading. “I find I am rather pleased with you as well, Claire. You surprise me.”

  “How?” I asked, cocking a hip slightly, enjoying the way his gaze flicked there. He might have been a playboy that I wouldn’t have taken seriously for anything, but there was satisfaction in finding his attention focused on me.

  His eyes came back to mine. “You’re the witch, and yet you are a sexy fatina tonight.”

  I swallowed awkwardly as the word sexy flashed through my mind over and over, and tried to clear my throat at the same time. “Fatina?” I repeated, not even trying for the accent that had given it such a suggestive ring. “What does that even mean?”

  There was a glint in his eye that matched his smile, and I trusted neither. “Pixie. Little fairy.”

  My temper rose with lightning speed and my hand clenched around the glass I was holding, my nails almost biting into the glass. “Listen you pompous, arrogant…”

  “Gorgeous, charming,” he interrupted, completely unfazed by my anger.

  “…Impossible,” I continued, preparing for some fairly specific and particularly strong words, the kind I saved for those that commented on my height, or lack thereof. “Self-absorbed, rude, pretentious…”

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” a voice crowed through the DJ’s microphone, bringing the music and dancing to an abrupt halt. “Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please!”

  “Oh,” Salvatore moaned sympathetically. “And just when you were getting warmed up.”

  “Shut up,” I hissed. “I’ll get back to it.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “Welcome to the annual Catalano house party!” Severo announced, always the more outspoken of the brothers. He raised his glass, which had been filled repeatedly it seemed. “Are you all having a good time so far?”

  The room roared its approval, and I heard Salvatore snort beside me.

  I echoed it silently in my mind.

  Antonio stole the microphone from his brother, looking slightly unsteady on the stage. “There will be a lot of activities this week, and we’ll have schedules put under your doors by morning. If you can be awake before noon.”

  There were some good-natured chuckling that Salvatore and I didn’t join in. Neither of us were drunk enough to be in that group, and I doubted we were going to be.

  Severo and Antonio were saying some other things, but I had stopped paying attention, as it didn’t seem important. Rosalia, I noticed, was nowhere to be seen, and th
at seemed somehow wrong.

  “Get on with it, idioti,” Salvatore grunted to himself.

  I agreed, but I wasn’t going to let him know that.

  “Finally,” Severo said loudly, as the crowd was getting out of control, “as we are getting close to midnight, we wanted to end the evening on a special note, and start off the house party the right way.”

  Oh, this ought to be good. I couldn’t wait to hear what stupidity they wanted to subject us to. The room quieted, but their excitement was palpable.

  “At the stroke of midnight, which our friend Claude here will indicate with this sound.” He paused while the DJ played a classic gonging sound that reminded me of Big Ben. “And when he does, you all get to share your most magical, most wildly imagined first kiss with a PERFECT STRANGER.”

  There was a gasp that lit the room as nearly everyone turned to look at each other in surprise.

  My jaw dropped and I stared up at the stage in horror.

  I glanced over at Salvatore, who looked moderately unruffled, though his brows were raised.

  “If you know everybody in the room,” Antonio slurred loudly into the microphone, “then kiss whoever you want! But make it good! And if you don’t participate, you will find yourself escorted out of the house and out of the party for the whole week!”

  Another cry went up and I swore under my breath, turning to put my glass down. There was no way I could go home early from this, the entire family knew I was here, I had made a point of informing them all of that. They were starting to suspect that I had “fallen out of favor” with some of our more influential friends, and I couldn’t tell them the truth.

  So I had to kiss someone.

  But there was no way I was going to kiss a stranger.

  Which left Salvatore.

  He was looking at me with a bemused smile, obviously enjoying my discomfiture. “Well, Lady Claire,” he asked slyly, “who are you going to kiss?”

  I cleared my throat and straightened up as tall as I could in my five-inch stilettos. “You.”

  He skidded a bit against the pillar he was leaning against, blurting out some unintelligible Italian utterance I couldn’t make out.