Harlequin Romance April 2021 Box Set

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Harlequin Romance April 2021 Box Set Page 37

by Rebecca Winters


  Giorgio shrugged. ‘It’s not my place to judge.’

  ‘OK. If she really was your little sister, would you be happy for her to marry him?’

  ‘I’d want my little sister to marry someone who loved her for herself,’ Giorgio said diplomatically. ‘But the princess lives in a different world. One where people have expectations of her. Where everyone watches everything she says and does.’

  A world where Liam knew he’d never fit in. And he heeded the warning. He wouldn’t do anything to make Vittoria’s life harder. ‘I’ll go grab us a drink from the fridge,’ he said.

  When he went into the kitchen, Vittoria was humming along to a pop song on the radio, making gnocchi. She seemed completely unaware of Liam’s presence as he watched her; and she looked so cute, so relaxed, that he couldn’t resist taking a couple of snaps on his phone.

  A portrait of a princess; a portrait of her relaxing, doing something she enjoyed.

  That was the thing missing from the formal portraits he’d taken, he realised. Happiness. In the formal ones, she’d been shouldering a weight. Here, she was free.

  He wasn’t going to break the moment for her; he quietly got two cans of drink from the fridge and went back into the garden.

  * * *

  Vittoria had already made the pesto while the potatoes were boiling. She enjoyed the task of making the gnocchi: sieving the cooked potatoes, cutting the flour in with a blunt knife and then kneading the dough with her hands. She’d forgotten how relaxing it could be, shaping the dough into the little balls and then flipping it along the tines of a fork to get the traditional ridges on one side and a thumbprint on the other.

  When she’d cooked dinner as a student, it had been fun rather than a chore—a kind of balance to studying hard.

  When had life stopped being fun?

  She would never shirk her duty, but these stolen days had shown her that she needed a little more balance in her life.

  Once she’d made the gnocchi, she sliced strawberries and set them to steep in balsamic vinegar and black pepper; then she sliced up mozzarella, plum tomatoes and avocado and arranged them on three plates and decorated them with a tiny drizzle of pesto. Funny how such a simple thing could make her feel so good.

  She laid the table, then called Liam and Giorgio in from the garden.

  They were both appreciative of the meal.

  ‘It wasn’t exactly difficult. The first course and pudding were really just assembly jobs,’ she pointed out.

  ‘But you made the pesto and gnocchi yourself. You could’ve just bought some ready-made from the chiller cabinet at the supermarket,’ Liam said. ‘And this is the best pesto I’ve ever tasted. Really fresh and zingy.’

  The compliment warmed her all the way through. Particularly because it was specific, so it felt genuine rather than flattery. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So what’s the plan for tomorrow?’ Giorgio asked.

  ‘If it’s dry we could go and look for bluebells,’ Liam said. ‘There are some bits of really ancient woodland here, and there’s nothing more gorgeous than a bluebell carpet. The best time to visit is mid-morning, when you get all this soft, dappled light.’

  ‘It sounds as if you’ve done a shoot in a bluebell wood before,’ Vittoria said.

  ‘I have. And among snowdrops, and in a poppy field.’ He paused. ‘You’d look spectacular in a poppy field. Very Monet.’

  Was he seeing her with an artist’s eye, or a man’s?

  She damped the thought down. They’d agreed that yesterday’s kiss should be forgotten. The problem was, she couldn’t forget it. It kept sliding back into her head, and even thinking about it made her mouth tingle.

  Liam and Giorgio insisted on doing the washing up, and Giorgio made coffee.

  ‘I’ll sort out those photos for you,’ Liam said, and downloaded the photographs from his phone and camera to his laptop at the kitchen table. ‘Feel free to have a look,’ he said when he’d finished. ‘Let me know which ones you’d like, and I’ll forward them to you.’

  Their selfies on the boat with Giorgio looked as if they were just like all the other holidaymakers having fun. Vittoria chose one, plus the ones she’d taken of the seals, and he sent them to her phone.

  Part of her wanted to ask for a copy of the portrait he’d taken in the palace library—that last, very private shot. But she knew she’d only brood over it, and it was pointless wishing for something she couldn’t have. ‘Thanks for sorting this out for me,’ she said instead, and set out to compose a bright text to Izzy to go with the photographs.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ON THURSDAY MORNING, Liam drove them to a bluebell wood.

  ‘I’ve never seen a bluebell carpet in real life. Not even when I lived in London,’ Vittoria said as he parked the car.

  ‘Really? There are loads of bluebells in Richmond Park and Highgate Woods. They were my mum’s favourite flower. We used to go and see them every spring.’ He smiled. ‘After Mum died, I used to take Saoirse to see them and then we’d go for hot chocolate afterwards.’

  ‘A way of remembering your mum?’ she guessed.

  He nodded. ‘I wanted Saoirse to be able to remember her. And I thought a sight and a smell might help anchor it for her, as it does for me.’

  It was a bit like the way Vittoria remembered walking with her dad through the palace rose garden and thought of him every time she smelled roses. Maybe she should share that with Izzy, to help her to remember their dad. ‘I guess I was too busy studying and trying to learn some diplomatic duties to look for bluebells,’ she said.

  He frowned. ‘Don’t you have bluebells in San Rocello—or mainland Italy?’

  ‘We have giacinto di bosco, yes, but they’re not quite the same as English bluebells.’

  He nodded. ‘Dad taught me that English bluebells had narrower bells than European ones, and only on one side of the stem.’

  It was the first time Liam had talked about his father to Vittoria, though she remembered him saying that his father had died when Saoirse was very small and he wasn’t quite in double figures.

  ‘Your father liked flowers?’ she asked.

  ‘He was a horticulturalist. He worked at Kew,’ Liam explained.

  ‘So you know a lot about plants?’

  ‘Not that much,’ he said, ‘but we had an amazing garden at our old house. Mum kept it up after Dad died—he’d planted it so there would be colour all year round. Obviously at my flat now there’s only the patio, and it’s not fair to expect Saoirse to spend a lot of time on the plants if I’m away, so I just have stuff in pots that don’t need a lot of attention. Though it’s a shame. I want to keep Dad’s memory alive, too.’

  ‘Do you miss him?’ The question was out before she could stop it.

  ‘Yes. I guess you must feel the same about your dad. Wishing he could see you all grown up, wondering if you’ve grown into the person he thought you’d be. If he’d approve of your choices, your actions.’

  She looked at him. ‘Obviously I didn’t know your dad—but I’m beginning to know you, and I think any parent would be proud to have a son like you. Someone who cares, who’s made a huge difference to his little sister’s life.’

  There was a slash of colour in his cheeks. ‘Thank you. And I think any dad would be proud of the woman I’m getting to know—someone who thinks, who notices details. Someone who’s going to make a fair and balanced ruler.’

  She inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘Thank you. Though I wasn’t fishing for a compliment.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were. I wasn’t, either. But it’s hard growing up without a parent.’ For a moment, his expression was bleak.

  On impulse, she took his hand and squeezed it. ‘Harder for you—at least I still have my mother. Even if she does drive me a bit crazy.’

  ‘Mum used to wrap us both in cotton wool afte
r Dad died,’ Liam said. ‘It was only when one of her friends had a quiet word with her about smothering us that she made an effort to be—well, more relaxed.’

  Her own mother was definitely overprotective, Vittoria thought. Though she didn’t have friends who would nudge her to be less smothering; if anything, Vittoria’s grandmother encouraged her to be overprotective of both her daughters and the monarchy.

  Then she realised she was still holding Liam’s hand. Not the best idea, she reminded herself. ‘My dad liked flowers, too,’ she said, gently disentangling her fingers from his. ‘I used to love walking in the palace rose garden with him. I still walk there, sometimes, because it makes me feel close to him.’

  ‘I get that,’ he said softly. ‘And it’s not just the sight, is it? It’s the scent. The best rose garden I’ve ever seen is up on the north-east coast at Alnwick. I did a photo shoot there for a Sunday supplement and it was like breathing roses as you walked round. The scent was unbelievable.’

  And then he stopped. ‘Here’s your bluebell carpet,’ he said softly.

  She hadn’t really been paying attention to their surroundings as they walked; she’d been focused on him.

  And there it was. A haze of blue underneath the trees in the dappled sunlight, as far as the eye could see. The scent in the air was delicate, a kind of green floral. Vittoria closed her eyes for a moment to breathe it in, and knew this scent would always remind her of a late spring English morning—a morning spent with Liam.

  They walked in silence; she was spellbound by the sheer beauty of the flowers, and took several snaps on her phone. Liam had his compact camera in his pocket and persuaded her to sit on a fallen tree and pose for pictures. ‘I’m taking these for Izzy,’ he said, and was very precise in his instructions for each pose.

  Again, she saw the artist at work—and she liked what she saw. He was focused, intense, and she loved the sheer energy as he paced about, looked at her, changed his own position anywhere from being on tiptoe to squatting down, directed her to move her position or her head a little bit to get the precise angle he wanted, then took another shot.

  He made her laugh when he asked her for what he called the classic female shots—one with her arms raised and her eyes closed and her head tilted back as if looking at the sky between the treetops; one with her holding one hand out towards him; one with her leaning against a tree trunk. It was surprisingly fun; she hadn’t expected to enjoy this so much.

  ‘Can I take a picture of you?’ she asked, when he’d finished.

  He looked slightly surprised, then nodded and handed over the camera. ‘Sure.’

  ‘So I assume there are rules for portrait photography?’

  He smiled. ‘A few. Though you don’t always have to stick to the rules. You can break them—but it’s better if you know why you’re breaking them.’

  He wasn’t just talking about photography, was he? Her pulse leapt. ‘Uh-huh,’ she said, trying to sound calm and collected. Except she didn’t feel calm or collected. She wanted him to kiss her again. And that wasn’t fair.

  With an effort, she said, ‘Tell me the rules.’ And then maybe she’d remember her personal rules, too.

  ‘OK. With women, it’s all about the curves; with men, it’s about angles, so you’re looking for a V shape with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. You’re looking for a strong jaw, the eyes slightly squinting, and his head tilted away from the camera—but not too far, or he’ll look arrogant and aggressive.’

  She’d never thought about that before.

  ‘Do you want me to face you full on or look away?’ he asked.

  ‘What’s the best one?’

  ‘That’s your choice, because you’re the one taking the portrait and telling the story,’ he said. ‘But even if it’s face-on, you’d want your subject to turn very slightly so the nose is off-centre. That gives more shape and definition to the face.’

  Liam had a beautiful nose. A beautiful face, she thought. And a mouth she desperately wanted to run her forefinger along and kiss again. She damped down the feelings. Not here, not now. ‘Turn your face slightly to the left,’ she directed, and he did so.

  Funny, seeing him through the lens made her look at him differently. Made her focus on the little details. Everything from the cornflower-blue of his eyes, to the length of his eyelashes, to the tiny grooves at the corners of his mouth which told her he smiled often.

  ‘Next, decide what kind of light you want. It’s up to you whether you want to use a flash, but consider that if the light source is from the same angle as the camera it’ll flatten my features, because there aren’t any shadows.’

  She liked the way he explained things so clearly.

  ‘Keep the composition simple. And check the background.’ He smiled. ‘In a forest, you don’t want a tree trunk growing out of your subject’s head or a branch growing out of an ear.’

  ‘Got it.’ She looked at the screen on the back of the camera. ‘Right now, there’s a tree growing out of your head. So I ask you to move, right?’

  ‘Yes. And if I’m not looking straight at the camera, don’t crop in too tightly. It’s a better composition if you have some “lead room”—that’s the space in a photo, between the subject and the edges of the picture. You need that to be in front of me, in the same direction as I’m looking. If the space is behind me, it makes your audience frustrated because there’s all this empty space doing nothing, and they want to know what I’m looking at.’

  ‘But if there’s empty space in front of you, they still won’t actually know what you’re looking at,’ she pointed out.

  ‘True, but it means I’m the focus of the photograph—not, say, my ear,’ he explained.

  He talked her through a few more of the rules, and she took several shots in between each one, making him change his pose accordingly. Each picture was better than the previous one, because he’d taught her a little more. And it surprised her to realise that she was feeling more confident in her own abilities—more grounded. Not just in the skills he’d taught her this morning, but everything; he’d made her focus on her ability to see things, to plan and make decisions. Things that applied to more than taking a photograph.

  Right at that moment, she felt strong: capable of doing anything. Because he was beside her? Or was he simply bringing out something that was already there? She’d been following so many rules for so long, she wasn’t entirely sure. Maybe his own confidence in his skills—a confidence she found compelling—was rubbing off on her.

  ‘So the poses you made me do... Are there male equivalents?’

  ‘Yes. Though any pose can be gender-swapped. It depends on what you want to say with the picture,’ he said. ‘If I assume the pose, you tell me whether you need me to move, and if so how.’

  And she loved every second of it. Seeing him put his right hand up to his chin, his thumb to the side and his index finger across his lips as if he was telling her this was a secret, a glint of mischief in his eyes. Standing almost side-on with his arms folded. Turning up the collar on his jacket, one hand on each lapel. Taking off his jacket and holding it over his shoulder with one finger, the other hand casually in his pocket. Leaning against a tree, with the leg closest to her bent up and his foot against the trunk.

  It showed how strong his thighs were. And all of a sudden, she couldn’t breathe. She could imagine him in a very different pose. On a hot summer night, when she’d woken and left their bed to get a cool drink... Naked, face down on a wide bed, with a sheet carelessly thrown across his lower body and showing how strong his back was, how perfect his musculature.

  Heat prickled all the way through her.

  ‘Done?’ he asked.

  Her mouth felt as if it had stuck to the roof of her mouth. Was this how he saw his models? Was this how he’d seen her when he’d asked her to pose for him?

  ‘Vittoria? Are you OK?’ There
was a note of concern in his voice which snagged her attention away from the images in her head.

  ‘Yes. Sorry. Wool-gathering.’ She really hoped her thoughts hadn’t shown in her face.

  ‘Can I see the shots?’

  She nodded mutely and gave his camera back.

  He switched it to playback mode and scrolled through the shots. ‘I can definitely see progress,’ he said. ‘You pay attention and you pick things up quickly. San Rocello’s going to be lucky to have you in charge.’

  The compliment warmed her all the way through. Particularly because she could tell it was sincere. She was used to people flattering her in the hope that she would give them influence or a business deal, but Liam didn’t want anything from her.

  But, oh, she was going to have to get those other images out of her head.

  Because it couldn’t happen. It couldn’t last. And a fling with him—even if a future queen could abandon caution to the wind and have a mad fling—wouldn’t be enough for her.

  They strolled back to the car park, chatting easily, and he drove them further round the coast. They stopped to pick up sandwiches and takeaway coffee from a deli-café—he’d brought reusable mugs from the cottage—and then headed along a walkway at the edge of a pine forest.

  ‘This one’s gorgeous. It’s been used as a film set quite a few times,’ he said.

  There were no beach huts here, and no cliffs. Just pine trees, a wide expanse of sand and an area that seemed to be covered in tiny flowers.

  ‘It’s a saltwater lagoon,’ he said. ‘When the tide comes in, it’s covered.’

  They walked along the beach together, with Giorgio as always giving them enough space to talk privately yet staying near enough to be there immediately if he was needed.

  ‘I’ve been thinking. You said earlier you want to be best portrait photographer of your generation, but aren’t you that already?’ she asked.

  ‘I have a good reputation,’ he said, ‘but I think you can always learn more in your chosen field and do better. And I’m not where I want to be, yet.’

 

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