‘What is this?’ The passage was tiled, the wall plastered and painted white. Lights were hidden in the ceiling illuminating the windy way down through the cliff. ‘A smuggler’s lair?’
‘Once upon a time, yes. There was a time long ago when all of coastal Armaria were smugglers and pirates, but now it’s just a simple shortcut to the beach.’
‘Is it safe?’ She wasn’t scared of heights or claustrophobic but the thought of walking through a tunnel dug out of a cliff, surrounded on all sides by tons of rock, made her heart beat faster and her palms dampen with nerves.
‘Completely. My grandmother used it for sea bathing well into her late seventies. But we can always turn around if you’re nervous.’
‘No, I’m fine.’ She wasn’t going to be outdone by a septuagenarian grandmother. ‘Just a little surprised, that’s all.’
‘I’m full of surprises.’
Emilia peered into the tunnel. Ever since she had first met Laurent her life had turned upside down. She’d found herself daydreaming at work. Flirting with a strange man. Confiding in a strange man. Getting on a motorbike with a strange man. Kissing a strange man. Now she was preparing to follow said strange man into a tunnel, trusting the destination was as he promised, trusting she’d be safe. But if she hadn’t been here, what would she be doing? She knew exactly what—she’d be sitting at her desk, updating her project plan and budget, answering her emails, checking the plans the temporary event planners she’d hired to cover her work back in Chelsea had submitted for her approval. Burrowing into work, putting all her hopes and dreams into work, just as she had every day since she’d walked out of her father’s birthday party, all her validation confirmed with every word of thanks, of praise. It had been enough. It had been all she had.
But something had changed in the last few hours. She had changed. And there was no going back.
‘Okay then.’ She reached out and took his hand, the strength in every sinew flowing into her. ‘Let’s go.’
* * *
Laurent was an honourable man. He had to be. He’d promised on his father’s deathbed to behave with honour and put Armaria first. But he hadn’t been thinking about honour or Armaria when he kissed Emilia. He hadn’t been thinking at all. He had been all instinct and need and desire.
Technically he was still free to kiss anyone he wanted. He had said nothing to Bella Clayton that was even flirtatious, let alone a proclamation, made no promises and asked for none in return. She had no hold on him and he none on her. But he still needed her father’s company to invest in Armaria and he knew there was plenty of speculation linking their names; by agreeing to joint costumes at the ball he was making a statement of some kind of intent, subtle as that statement might be. Joint costumes and gossip didn’t tie him to Bella Clayton. But while he was still considering proposing, honour should have stopped him kissing anyone else.
True, he knew that if he proposed and Bella accepted, then she wouldn’t be doing so in any expectation of love. No, she would be marrying him for position, as men and women had married for centuries. But she would have a right to expect her husband’s respect, his fidelity, his honour. A right to know that if his heart wasn’t hers it didn’t belong anywhere else either.
He had always known that he owed his future Archduchess loyalty even if he wasn’t lucky enough to offer her love and that was why in his few past relationships he had always been careful not to let his feelings grow beyond fond. To let his body and mind do the thinking, not his emotions.
He wasn’t kidding himself that one kiss and a bit of flirting was enough to make Emilia fall in love with him. But neither could he kid himself that he wasn’t falling for her. Hard. He was a rational, sensible man; he didn’t believe in love at first sight. But the moment he had seen Emilia something in him had cracked. The way she had been lying under the tree, utterly absorbed in her work. The way she had responded to the garden he loved. The loneliness in her wary eyes. Her trust in him. The way she’d kissed him, fearlessly and sweetly. A kiss that should never be repeated. A kiss he would never forget.
For her he was probably a tryst at best and that was exactly as it should be. For him she was a glimpse of what his life could be like if he wasn’t Prince Laurent d’Armaria, Archduke, absolute ruler and all that stood between his beloved country and bankruptcy.
So he allowed Emilia to take his hand and he vowed that he would treat her—and himself—to an evening neither would ever forget. And then he would let her walk away without a single reproach and he would get on with repairing his country.
Because that was what an Archduke should do.
The tunnel brought them out right at the foot of the cliff, onto a narrow ledge lashed by sea spray. There Laurent kept a small boat moored on a tiny jetty, sturdy and open, not robust enough to do anything but hug the rugged coastline, but still a taste of freedom found nowhere else in his narrow life except for those brief moments on his beloved bike.
‘Your carriage, my lady,’ he said as he pointed out the boat and her eyes narrowed.
‘First a motorbike and now an open boat. Are you sure you’re not trying to kill me?’
‘The boat is completely safe.’ He paused. ‘You can swim, can’t you?’
‘I won’t need to be able to swim if the boat is as safe as you say,’ she pointed out and then relented. ‘Yes. For a while I was in club training. As you can imagine, my mother hated it, all those five a.m. starts. I gave up after, well, when I went to live with my dad, but I’m still a strong swimmer.’
‘Good. Sometimes I take the boat to deserted coves and swim. Maybe you could come with me one day.’
‘That sounds lovely.’ Emilia didn’t point out that the chances of either of them having time to go swimming during the rest of her stay were slim at best and Laurent was relieved. Tonight he wanted to be like Ren, the man he had pretended to be when he’d first met Emilia, free of all ties and responsibilities, enjoying the company of a beautiful woman.
He helped Emilia into the boat and expertly steered it away from the rocks and along the shoreline, taking it further out as the cliffs gave way to harbours and beaches, the curve of San Tomare’s famous promenade clearly visible with its waving palm trees and butter-yellow sand and elegant pastel-painted buildings, the mountains behind framing the picture-perfect whole.
Emilia said nothing during the boat ride but her eyes were wide as she took the scene in, her solemn mouth curved into a smile, showcasing her dimples. Fierce pride enveloped Laurent as he followed her gaze. San Tomare was the most cosmopolitan part of Armaria, but it was just one part of the country he loved; the mountains, the vineyards and olive groves, the alpine plains and the lowland rural grasslands, where the country’s farmers still tilled and sowed as they had for hundreds of years, were just as important, just as impressive. But there was something special about the small capital city; no wonder tourists flocked here.
The city, the mountains, the plains, they were all in his keeping and he would do everything he could and all he should to ensure they prospered. But tonight... His eyes softened as his gaze moved to study Emilia, her straight hair whipped into a tangle by the sea breeze, her sallow cheeks pink with happiness, her eyes alight. He had never seen anyone or anything as beautiful as she was this evening, windblown in her jeans and jacket. He memorised every atom, knowing this memory would sustain him through the years to come.
Spotting the harbour, he steered the boat towards the long jetty he usually favoured, bringing the boat smoothly alongside with practised ease. Securing the boat onto one of the iron rings set into the jetty, he held his hand out to help Emilia from the boat. Her hand was cool and smooth in his, and yet he was aware of every millimetre of skin that touched his and he knew the feel of her hand in his would be imprinted on him for ever. How could a few hours change a man so profoundly? Maybe the Princess in Roman Holiday had a point—better a day of freedom than n
one at all.
‘This is even more beautiful than the photos,’ Emilia said, looking around as they started down the jetty, her eyes wide in appreciation, and Laurent was filled with a bittersweet happiness that he could show off the city he loved so passionately.
‘A poet once said that San Tomare had all the history of Rome, the culture of Paris, the beauty of Vienna and the fierce pride of Tirana distilled into a few square miles of perfection.’
‘I wouldn’t want to contradict a poet,’ Emilia said, her face glowing as they reached the end of the jetty, and Laurent couldn’t help but remember Byron’s immortal words: She walks in beauty, like the night...
‘Come on then; let’s see if you still agree after you’ve looked around.’
Laurent knew every inch of his city. Like all municipalities, San Tomare wasn’t perfect. Some areas were far too expensive for locals, dominated by holiday lets and second homes, others needed investment, the inhabitants too often locked into a circle of poverty served by substandard infrastructure. If Clay Industries could be persuaded to invest here then all that could change, the opportunities for the youths and adults in the narrow streets transformed.
But this evening he would forget all his responsibilities and concentrate on all that the tourists flocked to San Tomare to enjoy, from the cobbled Italian quarter with its world-famous Roman amphitheatre to the celebrated beachfront promenade and the small but vibrant theatre district where Armaria’s world-class ballet and opera companies were based.
At this time of the year the sun didn’t set until late and they could wander through the soft pink evening light, Laurent pointing out the famous if slightly creepy puppet shops, stopping at a stand-up bar for bitter coffee followed by an eye-watering shot of the locally produced citrus liqueur sweetened with honey, and tiny plates of olives and cheese and tomato topped bread before they headed to the amphitheatre. Sometimes in summer the theatre companies staged plays or operas in the ancient space but tonight just a few tourists wandered around the circular stage, sitting on the stone seats or taking selfies against the dramatic backdrop. Laurent’s heart swelled as he watched a young couple smiling into the camera, his arm protectively around her shoulders, the other angling the phone down as his girlfriend or wife snuggled in. What must it be like to be so carefree, to be able to choose where to bestow your heart?
But in the end did any of them have any choice at all?
‘Come on,’ Emilia said, tugging on his arm. ‘Smile!’
To his surprise and slight alarm, Laurent saw her phone was in her hand, the camera switched on and toggled towards them. He always refused all requests for selfies and photos, wanting some little control over his life, to keep his inner self private. No wonder all his official photos and portraits were so stiff, like one of the puppets they had passed earlier, even the paparazzi shots showing a mannequin not a man. Was there a photo of him relaxed and smiling anywhere? Not that he was aware of.
His instinct was to pull away, but part of him wanted a memory of this evening’s escape to be preserved on a cloud somewhere, for Emilia to come across it at some future date and remember the kiss they’d shared. So, instead of making his excuses, he smiled, leaned in so he could smell the sweet scent of her hair, so she fitted perfectly against him, and allowed her to take the picture.
‘There you go,’ she said, showing him the photo. ‘Look at that backdrop.’
Laurent took the phone and stared down at the small screen and the two smiling faces. He barely recognised himself in the relaxed, laughing man, eyes glowing with happiness. ‘Who is it that said that a photo captures a piece of someone’s soul?’
‘You’ve given me some of your soul then?’ Emilia took her phone back and, although her tone was light, teasing, her eyes were full of questions.
‘Yes,’ Laurent said. ‘And I gave it willingly.’
He’d told himself he wouldn’t kiss her again, but how could he not when the sun was dropping below the horizon and the sky was purple and gold, when her face was full of hope and a tentative joy, when he knew it wasn’t just part of his soul he had handed over this evening? She was still so close it was just a moment’s work to turn to face her, to slip his arm around her slim waist and allow himself to savour the feeling of her skin under his touch, to imprint this moment firmly on his memories, to stare into the deep depths of her eyes and see her soul in turn and know he had been granted a rare and precious gift. One he would hold for just a few hours but remember for the rest of his life.
CHAPTER SEVEN
EMILIA COULDN’T BELIEVE this was her life. The whole evening was like a fairy tale. A dream. A soft-focus montage in a film.
It was like living someone else’s life. Nights like this just did not happen to Emilia. She wasn’t the kind of girl who got whisked off on a black steed—automatic horsepower rather than equine, but still—and kissed in a lemon grove and then again at the top of an amphitheatre as the sun set in a picture-perfect kaleidoscope sky. She had never before wandered hand in hand with a tall, handsome man through cobbled streets, stopping to kiss in doorways, before ending up in a tiny harbourside restaurant where flowers trailed from hanging baskets and violins played in the square beyond.
And yet here she was, champagne in hand, a plate of fresh seafood in front of her, a candle separating her from said tall, handsome man who was looking at her as if she—mousy, reserved Emilia—was the most enticing, brilliant thing he had ever seen. If this was romance then she had been wrong to scoff at it for all these years. She just needed to remember that it couldn’t be real. People didn’t actually fall in love at first sight or in one evening, or even in one week. They fell in lust maybe, desire certainly, but the bubbles frothing through her veins, the sweet tension low down in her belly, the sheer physical awareness of every part of her body and how it fitted with Laurent’s, that couldn’t be love. It couldn’t be that easy, that simple.
A week simply wasn’t long enough to get to know someone properly. She was all too aware that you could spend months, years with a person and they could still reveal a part of them you had never guessed was possible, show an indifference worse than any deliberate cruelty. But she did know that Laurent was a good listener and somehow she could open up to him like no one else. That he knew all the most picturesque spots in the city. That he kissed like an angel—or maybe a devil.
Even if she was the kind of girl to change her life for a man, it simply wasn’t possible. Laurent had obligations and ties she simply couldn’t comprehend, whether Bella was part of his future or not. No, better to take this evening as exactly what it was, a perfect evening. A gift from a universe which had finally seen Emilia’s aching heart and loneliness and decided to show her another way. A better way. She could take this confidence and knowledge back to England and try to expand her limited life.
‘What would you like to do next?’ Ren asked as the plates were cleared and the waitress poured the last of the champagne into their glasses. ‘We could go dancing—ballroom, disco, country—there’s a nightclub for any type you fancy. Or we could go to a late-night concert. Or we could just sit here and enjoy the view.’ His gaze was fastened to her face as he said the last few words, not out at the moonlit sea, and Emilia’s cheeks heated at the compliment—and at the desire clear in his eyes.
‘They all sound appealing,’ she said, picking up her glass and taking a too-large gulp of the tart champagne.
‘Or,’ Laurent said, his navy gaze intent on hers, ‘we could head back to the villa. For a nightcap. See where the night takes us.’
‘A nightcap?’ Of course he’d suggested a nightcap. Wasn’t that where evenings like this led? Walks and kisses and violins and champagne all led to nightcaps and then where? Her hand trembled as she held her glass, her smile less confident than she would like. But, for all her tell-tale nerves, she was tempted by the invitation, both spoken and in Laurent’s eyes, the way his body leane
d towards hers. She was sick and tired of regrets, of fear of rejection. And her body hummed with his proximity. Why deny herself?
This whole job was about moving on. Moving on professionally by getting the kind of publicity which would push the agency into another league, making enough money to give them security for the next few, crucial months. It was her apology to her father and his family and a farewell gesture to a childhood full of anger. Why not move on emotionally as well, start to think of creating a life full of memories she wanted to carry rather than memories that held her back? Move on physically, banish the shadows that haunted her and stopped her getting close to anyone.
She wanted to, every atom ached to. But actually taking the step would be a whole other leap and she just didn’t know if she was strong enough.
‘Or a coffee. If you prefer.’
‘That sounds tempting.’ It was Laurent who tempted her, not the nightcap. But she couldn’t let things go any further, not while there was so much left unsaid. Walks and kisses were one thing. A nightcap or coffee and where they might lead quite another. Laurent had no idea who she was, no idea she was related to the man he was putting so much work into attracting. No idea that the family she had told him about was the one he was considering marrying into. And even if she didn’t tell him herself, he would find out soon enough. Her father, Simone and Bella were going to arrive in just a couple of days and she couldn’t guarantee that her anonymity would be maintained. Better Laurent heard the news from her.
But what if the confidences she had so thoughtlessly shared made him confront her father and her dad didn’t invest as a result? San Tomare was utterly charming, but Laurent had pointed out where it needed investment, jobs beyond tourism, farming and fishing, a reason for the university graduates to stay home rather than take their skills to France or Switzerland. Her father’s company could be the first step in helping Laurent make the changes he needed. She would still be the selfish brat her father thought her if she got in the way of that.
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