My Forbidden Royal Fling

by Clare Connelly

  ‘I know. I used to hate it too.’ I wink.

  ‘Then why did you wear it?’

  ‘Because it’s tradition,’ I say. ‘Tonight is a very special night and the people are excited to see you, their little Princesa.’

  ‘And I’m excited too,’ she says with a nod. ‘But do I have to wear the tiara?’

  Santiago settles Malthe, our four-year-old son, on the ground beside him, then crouches to Clara’s height. ‘How about we make a deal?’ he suggests, and I smile, because Daddy always knows exactly what to say to win Clara over—just like her mama.

  ‘What deal?’ Clara asks, crossing her arms over her chest.

  ‘You wear the tiara at first, just while we enter the room and photos are taken. Then you can take it off and pretend you are no longer a princess.’

  Clara considers that. ‘I like being a princess, just not wearing heavy things on my head.’

  ‘Ah.’ I nod wisely. ‘Then let me tell you a little secret it took me far too long to learn...’

  Santiago stands, putting his arm around me, drawing me close.

  ‘What?’ Clara prompts. Malthe watches us with interest.

  ‘There is no one right way to be a princess,’ I say firmly. ‘Listen to your heart and all will be well, my darling.’

  Clara considers that a moment, reminding me of her godfather Heydar. ‘My heart is saying it doesn’t like tiaras very much.’

  I laugh softly.

  ‘But I will do what Daddy suggested,’ she says on a dramatic, self-sacrificing sigh. ‘Particularly if there’s ice-cream at the end of it.’

  ‘You drive a hard bargain,’ Santiago observes, but he grins, reaching down and tousling Malthe’s hair. ‘But I concede. Ice-cream it is.’

  Malthe claps his hands together with enthusiasm for this idea.

  ‘Is the baby coming?’ Clara asks, slipping her small gloved hand into mine as we approach the doors.

  ‘Sofia is only two, way too young for a New Year’s Eve ball.’

  Clara assumes an expression of someone far older and wiser than her years. ‘Yes, you’re right. Let’s leave the baby to sleep.’

  I meet Santiago’s eyes once more and we smile, contentment wrapping around us as we contemplate the family we have made, the love we share and the life we lead.

  It turns out I was wrong. Happy endings aren’t just for romance books and Hollywood movies after all. They’re a part of everyday life and I am living proof of it.

  * * *

  If you were head over heels for My Forbidden Royal Fling why not also explore these other Clare Connelly stories?

  The Secret Kept from the King

  Hired by the Impossible Greek

  Their Impossible Desert Match

  An Heir Claimed by Christmas

  Cinderella’s Night in Venice

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  Keep reading for an excerpt from Invitation from the Venetian Billionaire by Lucy King.

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  Invitation from the Venetian Billionaire

  by Lucy King

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘SAY CHEESE!’

  Somewhat inexpertly holding her brand-new godson, Carla Blake looked at the camera and concentrated on not dropping the eleven-month-old that belonged to her best friend, Georgie, and Georgie’s husband, Finn. They’d only been posing for a couple of minutes, yet already her arms ached in an effort to contain the squirming child. The strain of maintaining her smile was taking its toll on her facial muscles and her head throbbed.

  Not that she wasn’t happy for Georgie and Finn, or indeed to be here. She couldn’t be happier. She was delighted to have been asked to be Josh’s godmother, and, with everything that her best friend had been through recently, Georgie deserved every one of the bright grins wreathing her face. Finn was divine—gorgeous, supportive, utterly in love with his wife—and as for their son, who was the spitting image of his father, dark of hair, blue of eye and rosy of cheek, well, he was simply adorable.

  Nor was she jealous. As picture perfect as today’s christening had been so far, Carla did not want what Georgie had. She couldn’t think of anything worse than swapping the bright lights and high-octane buzz of the city for a sprawling pile in the middle of nowhere, however beautiful.

  In no conceivable way would a baby fit with her career, and she certainly didn’t want a husband or partner. She didn’t even want a boyfriend. Casual flings? Absolutely. Anything long term? Definitely not. She didn’t have the time, and her freedom and her independence were too important to her to ever compromise.

  In fact, the mere thought of putting the welfare of her emotions into the hands of a man sent chills shooting up and down her spine. Besides, she wouldn’t know how to actually have a romantic relationship even if she did want one. Not a proper, healthy, adult one, at any rate.

  No, the tension gripping her body and the pounding inside her skull were purely down to stress and exhaustion. Twenty-four hours ago she’d been in Hong Kong, massaging the ego and manipulating the mind of a truculent CEO who’d spent far too long point-blank refusing to accept that the only response to the massive data protection breach the company had just experienced was an apology to every single customer and a generous goodwill gesture to those directly affected.

  Once he’d eventually seen sense and the way forward had finally been signed off, Carla had dashed to the airport, making her flight with minutes to spare. Having landed and cleared Customs early this morning, she’d swung by her flat to shower and change and had then driven the ninety minutes it took to reach the chocolate box Oxfordshire village Finn and Georgie had recently moved to.

  She’d bust a gut to get here on time but she didn’t mind one little bit because she and Georgie were more than best friends. The moment they’d met on the commune where Georgie had been living, and to which Carla and her parents moved, they’d each recognised a kindred spirit in the other and from then on they’d shared everything. Together they’d navigated the challenges of adolescence and a parenting style that bordered on neglect. Through the bleakest of times they’d provided each other with badly needed support.

  However, jet lag was catching up with her now and the adrenalin that had been keeping her going was flagging. Her usual party mojo had disappeared without trace. Conversation was proving an unfamiliar slog and the heat was stifling.

  But it wouldn’t be long before she could go home and crash out. And once there, then she’d be able to worry about possible burnout and ponder the wisdom of requesting some leave. In the meantime she would simply pull herself together and carry on smiling because today was all about Georgie and her family, and nothing—least of all, she—was going to ruin it.

  The photographer finally gave her the thumbs-up, and as he turned away to check the pictures he’d taken Carla set Josh on the grass. While he toddled off in the direction of the gazebo where lunch was being set up, she straightened and shook out her arms, and tried not to grimace when her muscles twinged.

  ‘My godson is as wriggly as an eel,’ she said to Georgie, who’d been standing a few metres away but now stepped forward.

  ‘He took his first solo steps a week ago,’ said Georgie with a fond smile while her gaze tracked her son’s progress. ‘Now he just wants to practise. All the time.’

  Carla watched as Josh toppled like a ninepin then got up without a whimper and resumed his journey, her amusement turning to admiration. ‘His determination is impressive.’

  ‘He takes after his father.’

  ‘How is Finn?’

 
Georgie’s grin faded and a small frown creased her forehead. ‘Climbing the walls while trying to pretend everything’s fine.’

  ‘Still no news?’

  Late last year Finn had learned he’d been adopted as a six-month-old, and had poured considerable resources into investigating his roots. Back in March he’d discovered that he’d been born in Argentina and was one of a set of triplets, but as far as Carla was aware that was all anyone knew.

  Georgie sighed. ‘None.’

  ‘It must be so frustrating.’

  ‘It is. Finn says it doesn’t matter, that he’s let it go because he has us now, and I think he genuinely wants to believe that, but he isn’t as good at pretending as he thinks. It’s eating him up.’

  And because it was eating Finn up, it was eating Georgie up too, Carla knew, and she hated knowing her best friend was hurting. If only she could somehow fix it. ‘What’s being done?’

  ‘The investigation agency is still trying to track down his brothers but the trail’s gone cold.’

  ‘Is there some way I can help? Some kind of PR campaign, maybe?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Georgie with a shake of her head. ‘But thank you. And thank you for coming today. I know what an effort it must have been.’

  ‘There’s truly nowhere I’d rather be,’ said Carla, meaning it despite the stress of the last twenty-four hours. ‘It couldn’t be more perfect. Josh is a very lucky little boy. Besides, you know how much I love a good party.’

  And this certainly was a good party, mojo or no mojo. Not a cloud blemished the great swathe of cobalt-blue sky. The honey-coloured stone of the house gleamed in the mid-June sunshine, the glass panes of the huge sash windows glinting with warm light. The vast expanse of lawn stretched out from the terrace like an emerald carpet, bordered by hedges that had been immaculately clipped, their edges and angles a sharp contrast to the softly swishing leaves of the towering trees behind. Champagne and sparkling fruit juice flowed, mopped up by exquisitely delicate canapés, and all-round chat and laughter resounded.

  ‘I’d better go and see to lunch,’ said Georgie in response to a signal from the caterer who’d emerged from beneath the gazebo. ‘Will you be all right?’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ said Carla with a reassuring smile, very glad she didn’t want any of this for herself, for if she had she’d have been consumed with envy. ‘Go.’

  As Georgie turned to leave, Carla scanned the throng, her gaze bobbing from one elegant guest to another, when it suddenly snagged on something in the distance.

  A figure stood in the shadows beyond the hedge, leaning against a tree, his arms folded across his chest, his face obscured by the dappled shade. Something about the way he was standing and watching, sort of skulking, triggered Carla’s instinct for recognising trouble. Every sense she had switched to high alert and the tiny hairs at the back of her neck shot up.

  ‘Wait,’ she said, putting a hand on Georgie’s arm to stop her just as she was about to head off.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is everyone who’s meant to be here, here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you expecting anyone else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then who’s that?’

  Georgie looked in the direction she indicated and frowned. ‘I have no idea. But I swear he wasn’t there a moment ago.’

  ‘Want me to go and check it out?’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course.’ Rooting out potential problems and neutralising threats was what she did for a living, and a speedy assessment of the situation deemed any risk negligible.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Georgie with a grateful smile.

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Yell if you need back-up.’

  ‘I will.’

  * * *

  He’d been spotted.

  From his position beneath the wide-spreading branches of the tree he’d been leaning against for the last couple of minutes, Federico Rossi clocked the exact moment the blonde noticed him. One minute she’d been chatting animatedly to her friend, the next her sweeping gaze had landed on him and she’d frozen. Long glances in his direction from both women had followed, a quick exchange of words then a nod, and now she was striding towards him, her progress impressively unhindered by her sky-high heels.

  Her long limbs were loose and her hips swayed as she crossed the lawn. The top half of her red sleeveless dress moulded to her shape, but from her waist to her knees the fine fabric flowed around her thighs and drew his attention to her legs. There was nothing particularly revealing about what she was wearing but her curves were spectacular and the fluid confidence with which she moved was mesmerising.

  Rico wasn’t here in search of female company. He’d come solely to meet one Finn Calvert and to find out if his suspicions about who he was were correct, to ascertain the facts, and absolutely nothing else. Nevertheless, it was a relief to know that he could still appreciate an attractive woman when he saw one. Three months ago, in the immediate aftermath of the accident that had fractured his back, shattered his pelvis and broken his femur, it had been doubtful that he’d walk again, let alone regain his ability to respond quite so viscerally to a woman.

  However, through sheer force of will, determination and the resilience with which he’d survived the streets of mainland Venice, which had eventually become his home following the sudden death of his parents when he was ten, he’d defied all medical expectations, and viscerally was how he was responding now.

  Because as she continued to approach and he continued to watch, her face came better into focus and he saw that she was more than merely attractive. She was stunning. Sunlight bounced off choppy blonde hair that surrounded a heart-shaped face. Even at this distance he could see that her eyes, fixed unwaveringly on him, were light, possibly green, and fringed with thick dark lashes.

  He couldn’t have looked away even if he’d wanted to. All his attention was focused on the desire that was beginning to stir and fizz in the pit of his stomach, sending darts of heat speeding along his veins, igniting the sparks of awareness and accelerating his pulse. A dose of adrenaline shot through him and his muscles tightened as if bracing themselves for the most thrilling of attacks. And, despite the fact that her mouth was currently set in a firm, uncompromising line, he was filled with the hot, hard urge to draw her back into the shadows with him, pin her up against the tree and find out what she tasted like.

  Parking that unexpectedly fierce response for later analysis and getting a swift grip on his control, since now was neither the time nor the place to find out how fully he’d recovered in that department, Rico unfolded his arms and pushed his sunglasses onto the top of his head. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans to cover the inevitable effect she was having on him and levered himself off the tree trunk. He stepped forwards, out of the shadows and into the sunlight, stifling a wince as the muscles of his right leg spasmed, and at that exact same moment, a couple of feet in front of him, the woman came to an abrupt halt.

  Every inch of her stilled. For the longest moment she just stared at him, as if frozen in shock. Then she raked her shimmering green gaze over him from head to toe and back up again, her eyes widening, her face paling and her mouth dropping open on a soft gasp.

  ‘Oh, dear God,’ she breathed in a way that momentarily fractured his control and filled his head with scorching images of her tangled in his sheets and moaning his name despite his intention to ignore her allure.

  ‘Not quite,’ he drawled, ruthlessly obliterating the images and focusing.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Federico Rossi. My friends call me Rico.’ Well, they would if he had any.

  ‘Where did you come from?’

  Originally, who knew? Who cared? He didn’t. ‘Venice.’

  ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘With un
expected ease,’ he said, remembering how he’d sailed through the gates and up the drive. ‘Someone left the gates open.’

  ‘For the coming and going of staff.’

  ‘Finn should take his security more seriously.’

  ‘I’ll let him know.’ She gave her head a quick shake in an apparent effort to pull herself together. ‘I can’t quite believe it,’ she said, nevertheless still sounding slightly stunned and appealingly breathy. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Well, now, there was a question. On the most superficial of levels Rico was here to find out if what he suspected was true. On every other level, however, he had no idea, which was confusing as hell. All he knew was that ever since he’d come across that photo in the financial press he’d been perusing while laid up in hospital, drifting in and out of pain, his broken bones recently pinned and splinted, he hadn’t had a moment’s peace.

  Initially, he’d dismissed the electrifying jolt that had rocked through him on first seeing the face that could almost have been his staring out at him from his laptop. He’d ignored too the strange, unsettling notion that a missing piece of him had suddenly slotted into place.

  Nothing was missing from his life, he’d reassured himself while willing his heart rate to slow down and his head to clear. He had everything he could ever wish for. He neither needed nor wanted to know who this man who looked so like him might be.

  However, with the interminable passing of the days that turned into weeks, the sensation swelled until it was gnawing at his gut day and night, refusing to stay unacknowledged and relentlessly taunting him with the unwelcome suggestion that here might possibly be a blood relative, whether he wanted one or not.

  Eventually he hadn’t been able to stand it any longer. The growing pressure to do something about it had borne down on him with increasing intensity until he’d had no choice but to give in to the instinct he hadn’t yet had cause to mistrust, and take action.