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Royally Claimed
Marie Donovan
Once upon a time, a handsome duke – Duke Francisco Duarte – was forced to return to his fairytale villa and stumbled into an unexpected (and temporary) reunion with his long-ago love Julia. It’s delicious, paradise – until it becomes clear that their desire won’t easily be sated. After all the lost years, how can Francisco and Julia find their own fairytale ending?




Julia shivered, half from desire and half because the temperature had dropped precipitously.
Frank noticed, but she had the feeling he noticed everything about her. “Go upstairs to the master suite where I’m staying. There should be a sweater in the closet. I’ll bring these blankets downstairs.”
Back to her fantasy room. She ducked in and grabbed a yellow fleece pullover that made her look like a hazard sign.
Returning downstairs, she noticed Frank had set the blankets on the big leather couch in front of the fireplace and was eyeing the iron firewood rack. “We don’t have much wood inside. I’ll go to the shed in back to bring more in.”
“Do you need me to help?”
He laughed. “You’re asking a Portuguese man if he wants a woman to help him with heavy lifting? Remember where you are.”
“Hmmph.” As if she could forget the near castle they were in. “Would you like me to cook or clean something while you do all the manly work around here?”
He gave her a long look up and down her body. “You make me wish I could do even more manly work for you.” With a wink, he disappeared out the kitchen door.

About the Author
MARIE DONOVAN is a Chicago-area native who got her fill of tragedies and unhappy endings by majoring in opera/vocal performance and Spanish literature. As an antidote to all that gloom, she read romance novels voraciously throughout college and graduate school.
Donovan worked for a large suburban public library for ten years as both a cataloguer and a bilingual Spanish story-time presenter. She graduated magna cum laude with two bachelor’s degrees from a Midwestern liberal arts university and speaks six languages. She enjoys reading, gardening and yoga.
Please visit the author’s website at www.mariedonovan.com.

Royally Claimed
Marie Donovan





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To all my English teachers in high school, my Spanish, German and French teachers and professors, and to the little old signora at the language school, who taught me just enough Italian to be dangerous. I couldn’t have written these books and the previous seven without you. Many thanks, in whatever language you choose.

1
JULIA COOPER SQUEEZED her eyes shut and blinked hard a few times as she sat at a small café table. She couldn’t have seen what she’d thought at first. Ever since her concussion, she didn’t quite trust how her optic nerve was shooting messages back to her cerebral cortex. Misbe-having brain. Had to be playing tricks on her.
Even so, her heart still pounded as the man walked down the cobblestone street. He chatted with an older man, hands moving animatedly. Darned if he didn’t look like Frank, at least from the back, black hair curling over his collar as if he’d forgotten to get a haircut. The man disappeared around a corner before she saw his face. Of course, all the men on this Azorean island of São Miguel, St. Michael’s island, were dark, their sunny Portuguese heritage transplanted to a cool and misty string of rocks in the middle of the North Atlan- tic. Although the chain of islands stretched almost four hundred miles from end to end, São Miguel, the largest, was less than three hundred square miles in area according to her father, a huge geography buff.
Did the Azorean men ever have some ancestral longing for the hot, dry mainland, she wondered idly. A remnant of mitochondrial DNA passed from their mothers that made them crave the juice of blood oranges running down their chins as the Mediterranean sun beat on their heads?
She shook her head—cautiously, though. Fanciful thoughts for a decidedly unfanciful woman. Perhaps she was experiencing one of those moments that the poets described, where magic and reality entwined, the hazy time between waking and sleeping when you dreamed strange things—or were they dreams?
And what was reality? Was it that past life of hers in Boston, that world of white fluorescent, green scrubs and red blood? Blood and oranges. Blood oranges. She had a sudden craving for citrus, a craving for sun.
Or was it a Vitamin C deficiency? Ah, there was her normal nature asserting itself. She laughed softly, not wishing to appear as flaky on the outside as she sometimes felt on the inside.
It was normal, they had assured her. Normal, she scoffed. As if anything that had happened to her could be called normal.
But she was here, not just in the Azores, but here here, alive and breathing. Still on this earth. And that was something. What, she couldn’t exactly say.
Frank, the recesses of her mind whispered to her. Francisco, they insisted. And that was what she had feared, coming back here—the insistence of her thoughts. Not just her thoughts, her emotions.
Enough. Julia set her coffee cup down with a resolute clink and stood. Good, no more dizziness today. But she was a bit tired. Fatigue is your body reminding you to rest. She had learned that in nursing school and grad school, but mostly ignored it. Her reserves were much lower now than back then.
Home again, home again. She picked her way along the uneven street, stopping to peer into store windows. Around her, friends greeted each other with affectionate cheek kisses, talking animatedly in the local Azorean dialect. She remembered a couple of words from when she was a child but not enough to understand their conversation.
Julia just let the noise wash over her and bought an English-language newspaper for her dad and a German candy bar her mother enjoyed. She climbed a small hill to her parents’ apartment in a renovated old stone farmhouse, brushing her dark curly hair out of her face in the ever-present ocean breeze.
She could use a good trim. Her hair was the type that grew bigger, rather than longer, and the humidity was poufing her hair into a dark facsimile of a clown wig. Maybe she’d ask around to see if any of the island beauty shops could handle the daunting task.
She waved to their landlord, Senhor de Sousa, who offered her fresh berries. He chatted away to her in a mix of English and Portuguese. She nodded and smiled and couldn’t help contrasting it with her own condo building, where she knew her next-door neighbors only by sight and not by name.
She gracefully withdrew from what looked to be a rather involved conversation and climbed the steps to the apartment.
Instead of seeing her parents sharing a quiet cup of coffee, they were in a tizzy. Her mother paced back and forth, listening intently to the phone while her dad clicked away on the laptop. “If we book now, we can get a flight out later this afternoon,” he called.
Mother made an impatient gesture and then caught sight of Julia. “Oh, thank goodness. Here, my daughter is a nurse. Tell her what’s going on.” She shoved the phone at Julia, who grabbed it.
“Who’s sick?” she hissed.
“Your great aunt Elva and uncle Paul.”
Julia winced. Aunt Elva and Uncle Paul were her favorite relatives. “Hello?” Unfortunately, she was speaking to a hospital social worker. Her aunt and uncle had been driving along minding their own business when a truck plowed into their sedate sedan. Aunt Elva had bruised ribs and a broken arm, needing pins put in to stabilize the fracture. Uncle Paul had a broken leg but wouldn’t require surgery as long as he kept off his feet. “No head injuries or broken hips, pelvises, nothing like that?”
The social worker assured her that wasn’t the case and Julia quickly explained to her mom and dad. Broken hips and pelvises were almost a death sentence for the elderly, few recovering well from that injury.
Julia made a few notes on the paper that her mother shoved at her. They were in a hospital in the Boston suburbs, one with a good reputation for patching people up. She told the social worker someone would be there in a couple days when they were released and got the direct number for their hospital rooms to call later. She hung up. “So when are we going?”
Dad looked up from the laptop, peering over his half-moon reading glasses. “We can get a flight out tomorrow morning and be in Boston in under five hours.” Thanks to the large Azorean community in Boston, direct flights were pretty frequent, by Azorean standards.
Her mother twisted her hands together. “But what will we do about Julia?”
“What do you mean? You don’t need to do anything about me. I’m coming with you. Aunt Elva and Uncle Paul won’t stay in the hospital for very long. When they go home, they’ll need nursing care, and I am a nurse. A nurse practitioner, even.”
Her dad shook his head. “They need somebody who can help them up and down to the bathroom, move them around in bed. Basic nursing assistant skills. Brute strength that you don’t have. You fall over if you stand up too fast.”
“Dad!” He had all the tact of a bull from one of the local ranches.
As usual, her mother stepped in to smooth Dad’s bluntness. “I know you would do anything to help, but Julia, honey, you’re not strong enough right now.”
Great. Her parents thought she was as much an invalid as her poor aunt and uncle. At least she could make it to the bathroom on her own.
“We want you to come back with us,” her mother continued. “You can sleep on the pullout couch at their apartment.”
Julia winced. Aunt Elva and Uncle Paul had a modest two-bedroom apartment, big enough for them, but a tight squeeze for five adults plus whatever nursing staff they needed.
Her dad raised his eyebrows. “Come on, Evelyn, you know we’re going to be packed in like sardines, anyway. And what is Julia going to do all day with us old folks? Watch game shows and soap operas?”
No need to watch soap operas, her life had been one for quite a while.
“We can get you set up at your condo, and then you can come spend the day with us!” her mother exclaimed with a sudden bright idea.
Julia caught Dad’s sympathetic gaze. He knew she would be climbing the walls within a few days. At least it was spring in Boston, although mid-April was a toss-up with the real possibility of snow. “No,” she said impulsively, “I’ll stay here.”
“What? No, you can’t,” Mother protested. “By yourself?”
It sounded better the longer she thought about it. Go back to gray, cloudy Boston, bundle up in her down parka and stagger around in the slush or stay here in the sunny green Azores and eat fresh oranges from the trees? “I’m doing much better.” Julia ticked off the points on her fingers. “I haven’t had a bad headache in the past week, I’m not dizzy very often, and Senhor de Sousa can help with anything I may need. He would do that anyway.”
“Oh…” Mother fretted. “I would worry so, with you so far away.”
Dad unexpectedly came to her rescue. “Evelyn, we’d be only four hours away by plane. The girl is getting stronger and we can’t be hovering over her like a helicopter. She’d be more likely to have a nervous breakdown than a relapse with us.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
He pointed a thick finger at her. “But we expect you to have some common sense. Carry your cell phone with you and stay away from cliffs and those rodeos they call bullfights around here.”
“And call Dr. da Silva if you start feeling funny.” Her mother rummaged in the papers on the table. “Here’s his number. But I don’t know…”
“I’ll be fine,” she assured her mother. “I’m just not…ready to go back to Boston yet.”
“Understood,” Dad said. “But just say the word and I’ll hop a flight back to São Miguel to collect you.”
“Thanks.” She smiled at him. Master Sergeant Robert Cooper, United States Air Force (ret.), was an expert at hopping flights and collecting people.
The rest of the evening was spent helping her parents pack, mostly her mother since Dad could pack anything into a small duffel bag and proclaim himself well supplied.
When Julia brushed her teeth that night, the memory of that dark-haired man in the plaza popped to mind. Was she staying behind just in case he was Frank? And what on earth would she do if it was her former lover? Her first lover, she mentally corrected herself. The first man she’d loved.
FRANCISCO DUARTE DAS Aguas Santas stared at a wall of paint chips until spots formed in front of his eyes. Yes, he knew the villa needed a fresh coat of paint, but why was he the one picking out colors? He glanced at Benedito, whose dark brown eyes were rheumy with age. Ah, that was why he was the one picking out colors. He supposed his mother or one of his sisters could have done it, but he had offered to get the villa ready for Stefania’s honeymoon and this was little enough he could do for her.
“What do you think, Benedito? What color for the kitchen walls? Does that yellow have too much green in it?”
The old man looked at him as if he had grown two heads, or more likely, lost both testicles. “Don Franco, this is a job for women. Women choose paint, men paint it on the walls. We are not supposed to know these kinds of things. And why do you think yellow has green in it? Yellow is yellow, green is green.”
Frank grunted. “We don’t have any women handy.”
“And whose fault is that? I am not a young, handsome duke who owns a huge ranch in Portugal and a private island here in the Azores. No, I am a poor, ugly old man whose devoted wife is far away.”
“And she’s probably glad to have you several thousand miles away, you old reprobate.”
“She is grateful for the rest. I am an insatiable man,” Benedito leered.
Frank rolled his eyes but didn’t doubt the bandy-legged old coot. After lifetimes of hard manual labor and plenty of olive oil and red wine, elderly Portuguese men were as hearty as men half their age.
“You should be so insatiable,” Benedito scolded him. An elderly lady picking out pink chips the color of a stomach remedy gave them an interested look.
Frank ducked around to the next aisle, filled with bolts and screws. Benedito followed him. “Enough about my personal life. Besides, I am thinking of asking Paulinha to start accompanying me to social functions.”
Benedito made a phlegmy sound of dismay. “Don Franco, you know that is as good as becoming engaged to her. She has been chasing you since she was old enough to walk.”
Frank shrugged. Paulinha was his sister’s best friend and had been unofficially matched with him, like the princes of Portugal who became engaged to French princesses at the age of six. A dynastic merger, rather than a matter of love. “I am thirty. It is past time for me to settle down.” He’d had enough of the hardware section and turned into the garden aisle. Everything grew well in the fertile, volcanic soil here, so all they had to do was weed and trim the grounds.
“If you had gone wild like some of the other lazy noblemen, drinking, womanizing and acting like an idiot, then I would welcome you settling down. But you have never done anything to settle down from.” Benedito shook his head. “Bah, you have wasted your youth.”
“What, working on the family estate with you, your wife, my mother and four younger sisters all looking over my shoulder?” Once he was finished with his education, he’d returned home to the family estate, or fazenda, as it was called in Portuguese. The fazenda, named Aguas Santas after the natural spring’s “holy waters” that bubbled up in the churchyard fountain, was a huge outfit on the Portuguese mainland with several farms, ranches and vineyards. His mother, the Dowager Duchess, still lived there in a smaller house on the property. Two of his sisters and their families lived nearby and the other two were at university in London and Lisbon, respectively.
“I’ve barely been alone to take a coffee break, much less waste my youth. Besides, isn’t that the speech the disappointed father gives to a dissolute son who wanders back after blowing all his money on wine, women and song?”
Benedito grabbed his wallet, yanking out a handful of euros. “Here, take my money and waste it. Waste it on wine, women and song. You are like the virgin who chooses the convent before she can experience life.”
“Ah…” Frank pushed the money away in disgust and Benedito shook it at him. “Stop shoving your money at me.”
A middle-aged male clerk walked around the corner, eyeing them with interest. Frank groaned and grabbed some seeds. “No, Ben, you don’t have to pay for these, I’ll pay.”
Disappointed, the clerk wandered away. Benedito let out a wheezing laugh. “If only you were here with a beautiful lady, he wouldn’t have gotten the wrong idea.”
Frank rolled his eyes. Maybe he could text his sisters for some paint ideas. “Come on, old man, let’s get some coffee.”
“Ah, you finally have a good idea.” Benedito slapped him on the back.
Frank followed him out of the hardware store and down the street to a café where equally wizened men lounged around tables and eyed the surprisingly scantily clad local girls walking around. He didn’t remember seeing quite so much exposed flesh in his last visits to the Azores and mentioned it to Ben.
The older man gave him an amused glance as he sipped his thick black coffee. “You sound like a cranky grandma. All they do is complain about the racy Brazilian soap operas influencing the girls nowadays, but the old ladies watch them all the same. Why not just enjoy the view?”
Frank shrugged. Girls half his age were children, not women. “Like I told you, I have Paulinha on my mind.”
“Ah.” He was uncharacteristically silent.
“What does ah mean?”
“Let me be blunt, Franco.”
“How could I prevent it?” he murmured.
“Do not settle for a marriage without fire.”
Well, he hadn’t expected that. “What are you, a couples’ counselor?”
“And how long have you been married, you young punk?” He took another sip. “You know I don’t like to interfere…”
Frank almost snorted hot coffee out of his nose. “Since when?”
“Shut up and listen—this is serious. You would be miserable with her—not because she is not a nice woman, but because you are not in love with her.”
“And how do you know?”
“Because you are fifteen hundred kilometers away on an island with an old man and not back on the mainland with her.”
Frank made a dismissive gesture. “I have business here, not in Portugal.”
“So you can’t buy her a ticket to come with you? Are you too cheap or do you not want her here?”
He knew he was beat. “Love can come later.”
“Or not at all.”
“Enough about me. We have other errands to do.” Benedito was one of his oldest friends and mentors, but he wasn’t Frank’s first choice for a romance advisor. Especially when what he said cut too close to the bone.

2
From the website of Fashionista Magazine:The Royal Review
FASHIONISTA MAGAZINE IS thrilled to bring you The Royal Review—a hot new blog devoted to the upcoming wedding of Princess Stefania of Vinciguerra and her über-sexy, über-famous groom, Count Dieter von Thalberg, international soccer star. In less than two months, the stunning couple will say their “I do’s” in the magnificent cathedral tucked away in the tiny, exclusive principality of Vinciguerra high in the Italian mountains.
Fashionista Magazine has an inside track with the royal lovebirds—last year, we brought you Romance in Provence, a blog written by American travel blogger Lily Adams about her trip to sunny, sensual Provence. Lily did more than write it, she lived it, and is now married to Princess Stefania’s childhood friend, Count Jacques de Brissard, who owns the oldest lavender farm in the South of France. Countess Lily has kindly offered to fill us in on some of the inside scoop, with the bride’s permission, of course!
One juicy detail—in a huge break from tradition, Princess Stefania will not have any brides-maids—she’ll have bridesmen! Her brother Giorgio, Lily’s husband Jacques and their friend Francisco Duarte, Duke of Santas Aguas in Portugal, will be standing up with the bride.
“These men helped raise me after my parents passed away in their tragic car accident,” said Stefania. “Along with my grandmother, they are the dearest people in the world to me. How could I not acknowledge that special relationship?”
Even the most jaded celebrity reporter has to admit to a certain misty eye at the tender sentiment. And the thought of those handsome men lined up in their formalwear is enough to make the heart go pitter-pat!
JULIA FOUND HERSELF wandering around the town again the next morning. Her parents had arrived safely in Boston and were on their way to the hospital to visit her aunt and uncle. She had rattled around the apartment for a few hours, cleaning things that didn’t need cleaning until sheer boredom ran her out the door.
Boredom and a nagging curiosity about the man who looked so much like Frank. It could just be the familiar surroundings triggering her memory. The summer she and Frank had spent together had been magical, the summer after her first year in college. She attended Boston College but had gotten a cheap ticket to the Azores, a favorite place since her family had been stationed there for a year when she was a kid.
It was a favorite of Franco Duarte das Aguas Santas, especially since she’d found out later that his family owned their own small island there. He’d enjoyed America but was relieved to be home where he could speak Portuguese again after a few years in New York.
Julia heard plenty of Portuguese coming from the town square. She followed the noise and found a farmers’ market full of fruits and vegetables, local honey and wine. The Azoreans didn’t eat vegetables by themselves, either in a salad or cooked. The locals preferred to cook them into a soup filled with mostly meat, if they remembered the vegetables at all. She had discovered this after asking for a salad in the local restaurant and getting a blank stare. And when her neighbor had seen her eating a raw carrot as she sat in the garden, he told her those were either for the soup pot or the donkeys.
Julia had given a loud hee-haw, sending the man into a laughing fit that threatened to topple him.
But the fruit in the market was something more exciting. Baby bananas and golden-fleshed pineapples were on the table every morning. And her mother had made a great marmalade-type topping out of the local sour oranges, tart as lemons.
Julia picked up a packet of locally grown tea, the only tea grown in Europe, if she remembered correctly. And a jar of Azorean honey would sweeten it nicely. She paid a young lady for the tea and honey and wandered to a booth with Azorean wines and aperitifs. Too strong for her right now, although the bottles were beautiful. She declined a free sample but bought a bottle of the Aguardente velha da Graciosa brandy that her father liked and a bottle of passionfruit liqueur for her mother, who liked sweeter drinks.
A masculine laugh, full of joy and amusement rang in her ears. For a second, she thought she had fallen into the past again. But there it was again.
Not daring to breathe, she turned slowly, almost hoping she was just imagining it. She looked across the tables and saw him. The apple fell from her hand and clunked into the bin.
Frank stood across from her. She put her hand to her throat in shock. His raw masculinity at age twenty had matured into solid manhood, his shoulders broader, his arms thicker. His dark hair curled over his ears, one wave falling over his forehead. His face had hardened but his dark eyes crinkled with amusement.
Frank was leaning on a vegetable stand, listening to an older man who was obviously telling a funny story, thanks to the amused faces of the surrounding shoppers. Frank clapped the older man on the back and turned away, a smile on his face.
He saw her. The smile vanished, leaving a stunned expression to match hers. Instead of freezing, he moved. Toward her.
She panicked. What could she say to him? What would he say to her? She took a step backward, automatically searching for an escape.
But Frank was coming, cutting around the customers and tables with the grace she remembered. He stopped next to her. “Julia?” he asked, his voice full of disbelief. Good, so she wasn’t the only one.
“Frank, well, my goodness! How in the world are you?” Her tone had enough sugar to frost a wedding cake. Light and friendly, light and friendly, she decided.
He didn’t cooperate with her game plan and reply in an equally frothy manner, saying, What brings you back to the Azores? Or Gee, Julia, how many years has it been? Instead, he stood silently staring at her. Almost as if she were a ghost popping up through the floor.
“Frank?” She touched his forearm and he jumped as if she’d shocked him. She was shocked too and jerked her hand back.
Oh, no. Why that futile spark of attraction, after all these years? She looked away desperately.
“Julia. Your husband is here with you?” He casually scanned the crowd but his question was far from casual.
“My husband?” She wasn’t thinking clearly, all the warning bells in her head distracting her, telling her to run away before she got hurt again. “No.”
“No, he is not here, or no, you have no husband?”
“Oh, Franco,” she whispered. He no longer fit his boyish nickname.
“Tell me, Julia. Which is it?”
“I have no husband.”
Triumph flared in his eyes, quickly banked into a neutral expression. She resented it. As if she were a prize horse unexpectedly put up for auction.
“What about you? Any wife?” She meant it for turnabout, but he took it for interest, his mouth curling into a victorious smile.
Maybe it was interest. Oh, of course it was. She was dying to know if there was a Duchess Mrs. Franco Duarte, or whatever they were called in Portugal these days. She’d never quite picked up the naming system that could leave a person with four last names.
“No wife. Yet. I am here on business with Benedito.” As if summoned by his name like Rumpelstiltskin, the wizened old man popped up at Frank’s elbow.
“Bom dia, senhorina.” He bowed at the waist, his eyes sparkling with unabashed curiosity. Julia could well imagine why. She was probably pale as a ghost and Frank looked like the cat who’d swallowed the canary.
“Hello.” Someone had to act with normalcy, so she extended her hand to the elderly Portuguese, who bowed over it almost as if she were a princess.
“Senhorina.”
“Senhorina Julia Cooper, may I present Senhor Benedito Henriques Oliveira. Benedito, this is Senhorina Julia Cooper, whom I met here a long time ago.”
The old man’s eyes sharpened as he gazed between them. “A long time ago?”
“When we were younger,” Frank answered evasively.
“Then you must talk!” Benedito practically shoved Frank at her. “Go to lunch! Don Franco, I will pick out those paint colors you wanted and have them mixed.” He ducked away into the crowd as Frank let out a yelp of dismay.
“Paint colors?” Julia asked.
Frank gave up trying to spot his assistant and sighed. “We are here to fix up the villa.”
“The villa.” She was swept back in time again, to the stone building overlooking the sea on Frank’s private island. “Why?” She immediately regretted showing any interest. It was his own business, even if he were setting it up for a bachelor pad.
“A honeymoon.” He watched her closely.
“Ah.” Of course Frank would have moved on. It wasn’t as if he’d pined for her all these years. “And when is the happy event?”
“Two months, roughly. The wedding is in June.”
Oh, the bitter irony. Over ten years since their separation and then she arrived two months before his wedding. “Well. May I congratulate you and the future duchess?”
He gave her a slow smile. “The wedding isn’t mine.”
FRANK DIDN’T FEEL THE slightest bit guilty about taking advantage of Julia’s state of confusion to guide her into a cozy back table at a local café. She’d tried to hide her shock and then relief at finding out he wasn’t the lucky groom, but Frank could still read her emotions, even after all these years.
“Would you like some wine?” He held the bottle over her glass, ready to pour. It was a variety they used to drink together.
She held up a hand. “Just water, please.”
“All right.” He ordered a bottle for her and filled her glass when it arrived. She drank eagerly, as if her throat were dry, then twirled the stem between her fingers. She looked all around the café—anywhere but at him.
“Julia,” he began, not sure what to say. Why did you leave me when we were college students? sounded more than a bit whiny and pathetic. “How have you been?”
“Fine.” She gave him a polite smile.
He tried again. “You finished your nursing degree?”
“Yes, and after a couple years, I went back to graduate school. I’m a nurse practitioner now and have taken some classes toward my doctoral degree.”
“Good for you.” Pride for her, misplaced or no, swelled his chest. “You always were the smartest woman I ever met.”
The compliment broke through her polite shell and she snorted in disbelief. Now that was more like the old Julia he remembered. Or was it the young Julia he remembered? This woozy sense of past and present was mixing him up. “Why do you make that noise?”
“What?”
“You don’t believe me.” He shook his head. “Do you remember me as a liar?”
She pursed her lips. “Surely you’ve met smarter women than I.”
“No, and just to prove it, all of them would have said ‘smarter women than me.’”
“Good grammar doesn’t make you smart.”
He shook his head. “You always were terrible at accepting compliments.” Like how her dark hair shone in the sun, her hazel eyes sparkling like his estate’s premium sherry.
“I was not!”
“Argumentative, too.”
“I am not—” She stopped arguing when he started to laugh. “Frank, that is not fair. You know I can’t say anything to that without arguing.”
“Then you’ll just have to agree with me.”
“Hmmph.”
“Ah, Julia, no need to fuss. We are just old friends who have met again for lunch. What would you like to eat?”
She pressed her pretty pink lips together. Oh, how could he have forgotten how her dimples appeared when she did that. He had to hide a delighted smile before she really lost her temper and walked out on him. Again.
Well. Remembering that wiped the smile off his face.
“Frank?” She gave him a questioning look.
“Lunch, oh, yes.”
“Where is the menu?”
He pointed to the chalkboard outside. “Whatever they feel like cooking today. Chicken with rice, salt cod stew and chouriço de carne—sausage with fava beans.”
“Mmm. I haven’t had chouriço in years,” she said wistfully.
“You can’t get Portuguese sausage in Boston?” There was not only a huge Portuguese-American community there, but a large portion of that was specifically of Azorean heritage.
She shrugged. “I live in a different part of town.”
That wasn’t much of an answer. How long could it take her to drive to a Portuguese deli? He’d driven to Massachusetts and Rhode Island Portuguese restaurants from New York when he’d had a craving for sausage or the sweet, eggy desserts that were an Azorean specialty. “Well, you must have it here.” He waved to the waiter and ordered the sausage and fava beans for her and the salt cod stew for him. “Sure you don’t want any wine?”
She shook her head, so he ordered another bottle of water and switched to that, as well. Julia alone was making him light-headed enough.
He acknowledged she had become even more beautiful in the eleven years since they’d parted. “How is it that you aren’t married yet?” he blurted, then winced. Smooth move, dummy. If she were married, she would either not be here at all or else her husband would be sitting across from him shooting daggers with his eyes at Frank. Maybe they’d have a few small kids, too, who would wonder in embarrassingly loud voices how this foreign guy used to know their mom.
“I’m not married yet because nobody ever asked me.” Now her lips were really tight, her dimples even deeper.
“I did.”
“Out of some misguided sense of obligation. That doesn’t count.”
He’d taken her virginity and changed her life forever—why wouldn’t he feel obligated toward her? And it wasn’t misguided, but he knew she would run away from him forever rather than discuss that now.
She jumped to her feet. “Look, Frank, it was nice to see you, but I have to go home.”
He jumped up, too. “Julia, please stay. I spoke out of turn. I apologize.” He shifted his body in front of her but the look of panic in her eyes made him move out of her way immediately. “But of course, I will not keep you here if you don’t want to be.” Frank wanted to kick himself. Good God, his prize bull at the estate had more finesse than he did.
She relaxed slightly, but was still wary, and he didn’t blame her. The last time they’d parted, he’d been desperate to keep her and had been too overbearing. But twenty-year-old men in the agonies of first love were often thoughtless, and he’d been no exception. If he’d had a cooler head, he would have backed off, realizing the poor timing. Asking her to forgo the rest of her college education had been a bad idea, to put it mildly. “Come, sit. I promise, no more talk of awkward things. We will just be old friends who are catching up on the past ten years.”
“Eleven,” she corrected him automatically. So she remembered exactly, as well. That was intriguing.
“Eleven, of course.” He took her elbow and guided her back to her seat. The waiter, sensing a juicy story, plied them with a basket full of hearty chunks of bread and fresh whipped butter. Frank practically had to shoo him away.
Julia seemed more amenable once she had a bit of homemade bread and butter in her, asking, “So who is getting married?”
Frank smiled. “Do you remember me telling you about my best friends from the university?”
She nodded. “The Italian guy and the French guy. Both were rich noblemen like you.”
“Basically, yes. Giorgio—George—is the prince of Vinciguerra, a tiny country in the north of Italy. Jacques, who still goes by Jack, is a count, with his holdings in Provence, the south of France.”
“And you, the Duke of Aguas Santas in Portugal.”
“Yes.” It wasn’t any secret in the Azores who he was considering he owned a small island there. But the islanders were easygoing and not inclined to give him the paparazzi treatment. He was sure they gossiped about him, but friendly gossip was a national Portuguese pastime.
“Is one of them getting married?”
“Not exactly. Jack just got married last summer to an American travel writer named Lily, and Giorgio and his fiancée haven’t set a date yet. It’s for Giorgio’s younger sister, Stefania, who lived with us in New York. She is marrying a German football star.”
“Soccer.” She lifted her chin. “Germans play soccer, not football.”
He remembered Julia had been a star soccer player in high school and college. “No, football,” he teased. “In Europe, we play football. And Stefania is getting married in the cathedral at home. Between the royal-watchers and the football fans, they will have very little privacy in their everyday lives, but Stefania and Dieter would like a private honeymoon. The villa is very private and romantic.” At least that was how he’d remembered it when he and Julia had stayed there.
“Of course,” she murmured, maybe remembering the same thing? “And that’s why your assistant went off to pick paint colors.”
Frank grimaced. “Benedito isn’t exactly an interior designer. We’ll have to see.”
The waiter arrived with their entrees. Julia leaned over her bowl and eagerly inhaled the steam rising from the chouriço. She found a piece of the sausage with her fork and picked it up, waiting in anticipation before she moved it to her mouth. As she chewed, her expression was delighted and wistful in turns, as if she had been deprived of something important for so long, that the acquiring of it was almost bittersweet.
What else had Julia deprived herself of?
Frank watched her as long as he dared, then busied himself with his salt cod stew when she turned her attention back to him. Bacalhoada, or salt cod stew, was a Portuguese staple. The basics were the same everywhere, but it always tasted a bit different. Salt cod was dried and preserved with salt. To prepare it, you had to soak it overnight to rehydrate it, and then cook like any other fish. This dish was more of a casserole, with chunks of cod and chouriço, olive oil, potatoes and sliced tomatoes cooked along with them. Topping the dish were wedges of hardboiled eggs and black olives.
If Julia hadn’t gone to any Portuguese places, it was unlikely she’d had bacalhoada either. He broke off a chunk of potato and salt cod with his fork, swirling it through the olive oil. “Here, try this.” He offered her a taste, wondering if she’d accept.
She looked at him cautiously with her big sherry-colored eyes. He smiled as meekly as he could manage, when all he wanted to do was toss their bowls aside and drag her into his arms.
But none of that must have shown on his face because she delicately took the bite from his fork, chewing thoughtfully. “Um, very fishy.”
He had to laugh. “Preserving the cod with salt concentrates its flavor.”
“No, it’s good. You know I like seafood.”
“Yes, you do.” They were both children of the ocean. She had made her mother’s New England clam chowder for him once, and he had practically finished the stockpot in one sitting.
Julia ate steadily for a few minutes before speaking. “The villa doesn’t need much work, does it? I mean, you probably use it several times a year.”
“My mother and my sisters do. My nieces and nephews love fishing and exploring the island.” Frank speared an egg wedge. Probably laid fresh this morning in the family henhouse.
“But you don’t stay there.”
“Once in a while.” He’d tried to vacation there a few times, but seeing Julia’s shadow in every room had made his visits short and far between. “There are a couple rooms that need to be painted, some garden work done and a thorough cleaning and airing. Oh, and I bought a beautiful new outdoor whirlpool tub that was just installed yesterday.”
She smiled. “Sounds like a wonderful place for your friend’s sister and her husband.”
“Stefania is a real sweetheart. Hard to believe she’s already twenty-four when I remember how little she was when she came to New York. Poor girl, losing both her parents at once.” Stefania had been inconsolable. Her grandmother, fearing for her granddaughter’s mental health, had sent Stefania to live with George, Jack and Frank. After hiring a housekeeper, the three nineteen-year-old guys raised Stefania through her preteen and teenage years. Frank shuddered at some of those memories.
“What was that shiver for?” Julia was eating heartily now, wiping her bowl with some bread. He was glad to see that since she looked a bit thin.
“Stefania always has been a handful. She once chained herself and her electronic bullhorn to a lamppost outside a certain foreign consulate whose country was not particularly kind to its women and children.”
Julia burst out laughing.
“She called every media outlet in New York, drew a crowd of several hundred enthusiastic supporters and wound up on the national nightly news. When one reporter tried to take her to task for being the product of an outdated patriarchal monarchy, she told her how her own country had granted women the vote twenty years before America and how her outdated patriarchal monarchy had a female literacy rate of one hundred percent compared to that consulate’s country’s dismal rate of fourteen percent.”
“Good for Stefania. Blasted them with facts. And what does she do now?”
“She’s finishing her master’s degree in international politics and will probably stay in New York since George is running their own country very well. She’d let him know if he weren’t.”
“You have to keep politicians on their toes.”
“She also will be selling a commemorative perfume made from lavender at Jack’s French estate. Proceeds go to her women’s and children’s charity.”
“What an accomplished young woman. Give her my best wishes if you get the chance.” Julia sipped her water and pushed her bowl away. “That is so filling. I can’t believe I ate all of that.”
“Our food is comfort food. Nothing low carb or low fat about it.” Frank finished his own helping. “And now for dessert.”
“No, Frank,” she groaned. “I may pop.”
He didn’t want her to go yet, but forcefeeding her was probably not the way to spend more time with her. Maybe bribing her with food? “How about we take a couple pastries with us? We can go for a walk, pick up some coffee and then you can try one.”
She hesitated. “Okay. That way I don’t have to cook dinner for myself.”
He signaled the waiter to order before she changed her mind. The waiter brought him a box of pastries and Frank paid the tab, despite Julia’s protest that she wanted to pitch in. Frank and the waiter gave her such an incredulous glance that she subsided.
Frank hid a smile. He may have been educated in the United States, a more modern version of his ducal ancestors, but there was no way in hell a woman would pay for her own meal on a date with him.
And whether Julia realized it or not, liked it or not, it was a date.

3
JULIA FOUGHT THE BUTTERFLIES in her stomach as she walked next to Frank. Their lunch had felt suspiciously like a date—not that she and Frank had bothered to date very long the first time they’d met.
Her teenage self had wanted to blow off steam after her first stressful year in college, and sexy Frank had been more than willing to help. But it had quickly turned to more.
She sneaked a look at his profile. He’d lost his eager openness of earlier years, but what did she expect? She wasn’t exactly a fresh-faced innocent any longer, either.
Frank caught her looking at him. She thought he’d make something of that, but all he asked was how she’d decided to come to the Azores again.
She chewed her lip for a second and decided to tell him a partial truth. “I was hurt at work and needed to take some time off to recover.”
“What?” He stopped in his tracks. “But you should be at home resting.” He took her hand and tucked it into the bend of his elbow.
She automatically tightened her grip on his bicep. “You’re stronger than you used to be.”
He covered her hand with his. “I work with the men on the estate back home. We still have the big vineyard, several orchards, and we raise cattle, horses and sheep. After college in New York, I apprenticed myself to Benedito and learned as many of the jobs as I could.”
“Which is your favorite part?”
He gave her a startled look, as if he’d never considered that. “My favorite part is making sure my people have steady jobs and can provide for their families.” He smiled down at her. “Although I admit I like working with the bulls. Matching my strength and wits against them keeps me on my toes.”
Frank had always reminded her of a bull—strong, stubborn and sexually insatiable. Memories of his stamina and endurance made her catch her breath and stumble on a loose cobblestone. He steadied her instantly, his arm flexing. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, just the uneven street.” And she was tiring. The emotional expense of meeting Frank again and trying to stay on guard with him during lunch had sapped her strength. And thinking about how they’d spent the majority of their time together having the hottest sex of her life was not exactly keeping her mind on difficult things. Like walking.
Did he remember much about their summer together? He was a rich, famous nobleman, so undoubtedly he’d had plenty of hot sex since then. Probably had women throwing themselves at him every other week. Supermodels, princesses, gold-diggers…and probably very nice ladies who would be thrilled to marry a handsome, sexy man like Franco Duarte das Aguas Santas.
“Come on, Julia.” For a second she thought he was reading her mind. “Let’s go sit in the park.” He deposited her at a bench and disappeared into a nearby café, returning with two paper cups of coffee. “Two creams, two sugars.” He handed her one.
At her surprised look, he stopped. “Or do you drink it differently now?”
“No, that’s just fine.” On her night shifts in the E.R., she’d been teased for putting so much cream and sweetener in her coffee. “And you still drink it black?”
“Of course. It is a sign of extreme manliness.” He laughed and opened the pastry box. “Here are some pastéis de nata.”
“Oh, my,” she whispered. “I haven’t had one in…”
“Eleven years?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Yes.” She stared at the small round egg custard tarts, almost afraid to take a bite. Why had she ever thought coming back to the Azores was a good idea? These tarts were the apple in her Garden of Eden.
Frank closed the box, and she looked into his sad eyes. “Was it really so terrible, Julia?”
“What?” she asked, startled. How did he know about her accident in the hospital? Not an accident, she mentally corrected herself. It hadn’t been an accident.
“You loved Portuguese food and cooked it every day for us, but you haven’t touched it since we parted, did you? Did our time together give you such terrible memories?”
“Never!” she blurted and then sipped her coffee to look away from him.
He didn’t say anything, only opened the pastry box again. “Open your mouth, my sweet Julia.”
She did open her mouth, but only to tell him she wasn’t his sweet Julia anymore, but he took advantage of it to brush a tart across her lips.
A flaky crumb stuck to her bottom lip and she automatically licked it off.
He inhaled sharply. “That’s it. Now take a bite.”
She clamped her mouth tight and he had the nerve to laugh. “Oh, Julia, you wish to see which one of us is more stubborn? Or are you afraid of a little sweetness?”
She snorted in derision. He pulled the tart away from her and bit into it with his straight white teeth that had never required fillings or braces, she remembered. “Mmm. Oh, so good. Imagine how good it would be after such a long, dry spell.”
Julia had the sneaking suspicion they weren’t discussing tarts anymore. Unless it was her. Hell, she was feeling like a tart now, watching his strong lips nibbling at the crispy pastry crust. He darted his tongue out to lick the soft, creamy egg filling and she wanted those lips, that tongue, to devour her with the same intensity. He finished the pastry and she almost groaned with disappointment. After feeling half-alive for so long, the rush of desire hurt, as if she’d fallen asleep on her arm and had to endure its pins-and-needles reawakening. Much more painful when it was your entire mind and body.
“Come on, Julia.” He held another out to her, daring her to take it.
She did and cautiously bit into it. Sugar, cinnamon and cream burst on her tongue and she actually moaned. Frank’s fingers dented the corners of the box at the blatantly sexual sound. She finished it quickly and reached into the box for another.
“Not so fast, greedy girl.” He pulled the box away and got out a tart. “If you want another, I’ll give it to you.”
Her nipples tightened and she knew they had passed the point of friendly lunches. The point of no return was rushing up rapidly, and she didn’t want to stop. “What are you waiting for?” she challenged.
“To see if you were ready.”
“I am.” She glared at him and opened her mouth.
He laughed. “You look like you’re at the dentist. Relax.”
Julia forced herself to breathe. He held the pastry to her lips, making her take the next step. She nibbled at the crust, and he scoffed. “You used to be so much braver than this. What happened?”
He had no idea what had happened to her. She opened her mouth wide and snapped down on the tart, barely missing his fingers. “That better?” she asked, once she had finished chewing.
Frank tossed the tart box to the side. “Finally a sign of passion.” He dragged her into his arms. She expected him to kiss her right away, but instead he looked down into her face. “Julia.” It was full of wonder and tenderness. “After all these years.”
“It shouldn’t be any longer.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth to hers. They moaned simultaneously as their lips met.
She wanted to weep, to sing, to dance around the park. Here he was, and he was kissing her, the pent-up passion bursting free from both of them.
His mouth was soft and warm as he explored the contours of hers. He pressed kisses along the seam of her lips, nibbling at her full bottom lip.
She sighed in pleasure and opened to his further exploration. He flicked his tongue inside to meet hers, tasting of sweet pastry and coffee. She ran her tongue along his and pressed closer to him. His hands tightened on her shoulders and he groaned deep in his throat.
Julia’s head spun, as if she had been living in a gray world and it suddenly turned into color. As if she had only eaten watery oatmeal for years and was offered a banquet instead. Frank was a feast for her senses, wine for her thirst.
He brushed her hair aside and trailed kisses down her neck. How did he remember what she liked? She ran her fingers through his thick black hair, enjoying how it fell into waves under her touch. Heat poured off him, engulfing her in quiet flame.
Their silent solace was interrupted by the angry buzzing of an engine. She dragged her eyes open to see a wide-eyed park gardener butchering the grass in wobbly stripes thanks to his inattentiveness.
“Frank.” She pushed at his shoulders but may as well have been pushing at the park’s statue for all the good it did. He fastened his mouth on the hollow below her ear and sucked, causing her to nearly see stars. Good Lord, if only he could do that elsewhere…
But she also knew how much he would dislike being the focus of gossip. “Frank, we have company.” She tried shoving him again and this time he raised his head.
His olive skin was flushed with desire, his eyes black with lust, hypnotizing her as if he were a dangerous lion and she were his prey. He could devour her anytime.
He shook his head as if coming back to himself and glared at the nosy gardener. The young man immediately turned back to his work and Frank’s mouth tightened. “Come with me.” He stood and took her hand in his.
They ducked out of sight down a small pathway. He stopped under a tree. “Julia, I want to see you again.”
She crazily considered inviting him home, or rather to her parents’ apartment. Ugh. Not that. “When?”
“As soon as possible. I have to take our supplies back to Belas Aguas, but it is only a half hour by boat.” Belas Aguas, Beautiful Waters, was his family’s private island, in their possession for hundreds of years.
A faint ache was starting in the side of her head, a warning to get home and lie down before it grew. “Tomorrow.” She didn’t want to discuss her injury yet, and she was already overwhelmed.
“Tomorrow.” He looked disappointed but kissed her gently. “You have a phone here?”
They exchanged numbers, Julia’s fingers fumbling over the keypad as she entered his. “Frank…” She stared up at him, her headache tightening.
“You look pale again.” He tucked her hand in his elbow. “I’ll take you home so you can rest. I’ll pick you up at one tomorrow. We can have lunch at the villa if you’re up for a boat ride.”
“I’ll be fine.” She waved her free hand.
“Good.” He guided her out of the park and through the streets, chatting to her about the plans for Stefania’s wedding. “The wedding is in June at the big cathedral in their country of Vinciguerra. I’ve been helping Stefania with some things, like choosing colors, invitations and flowers. It’s amazing what you can do with webcam conferencing. And it helps to have their country’s department of protocol doing the heavy lifting.” He laughed. “My mother told me I had no idea how much work went into planning a high-society wedding, much less a royal wedding. She was right. But everything is just what Stefania wants, so that’s all that matters.”
Julia smiled. Frank, macho nobleman and rancher, had thrown himself into wedding preparations. She wondered if he had ever come close to planning a wedding for himself. Maybe she’d break her self-imposed rule and look him up on the internet. She never had before, somehow knowing keeping tabs on him would only make their separation worse.
She pointed out the turn to her parents’ street and they climbed the small hill to the old farmhouse. Working in his garden, Senhor de Sousa eyed them with avid curiosity as they passed. Frank called out a greeting, and her neighbor bobbed his head respectfully, obviously knowing who Frank was.
Frank guided her up the steps and into the small living room. She was acutely aware of her bedroom right around the corner, but the only thing she wanted to do was lie down—alone.
“I should leave right away.” Frank smiled down at her. “Your reputation is on the line.”
“Hmmph.” She wasn’t used to considering the state of her virtue, but small-town gossip about her would reflect poorly on her mother and dad.
“But I do have time for this.” He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss on her mouth. She caught his shoulders and pulled him close. His lips moved over hers gently, then more demanding. She moved in close to him, intoxicated by his clean scent, his hot masculinity. She opened her mouth to him and he slid his tongue inside to caress hers. Her arms curved around his neck and he backed her against the small couch. She almost lost her balance and he steadied her.
Once he was sure she had her balance, he groaned and moved away. “Julia, you tempt me terribly. I am putty in your hands.”
She’d bet he’d be a lot firmer than that. But she managed to back away, putting the table between them. “My parents…” she gestured.
“Of course. This is their home.” He rubbed his face. “One o’clock tomorrow. We can have lunch on the terrace at the villa. I’ll send Benedito to the far side of the island and have him cut weeds or something.”
“Frank!” she scolded. “He seems perfectly nice.”
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t let his cheerful elfin looks fool you. He’s a thorn in my side.”
“But he’s your right hand.”
“That, too.” Frank smiled at her. “Enough about Benedito. Tomorrow is for us.”
“Okay.” Her voice suddenly sounded breathy and seductive. He noticed that as well, running his gaze down her body.
“Tomorrow.” He took a deep breath, repeating her words as if he were promising himself—and her—a treat. “Lock the door behind me.” He winked and left.
Julia blew out a long breath. She had the sneaking suspicion that she would have asked him to stay, parents’ home or no, if her head had been feeling better.
She went into the kitchen and took a pain pill with some fresh juice before lying down in her lonely bed. She pulled a quilt over herself, but it was no substitute for a warm male body. Was it a good idea to invite Frank to share her bed? She just couldn’t decide. Her mind was telling her no but her body, well, it had a mind of its own.

4
BENEDITO HAD BEEN uncharacteristically quiet on the boat ride back to Frank’s family’s island. The two men carried several boxes of food and building supplies into the villa.
Frank set a bag of bread, meat and cheese on the large oak worktable in the center of the kitchen.
Benedito set a couple bottles of red wine next to it. “I will get more wine tomorrow, but this should be enough for tonight.”
Frank nodded, but he wasn’t about to drink a whole bottle on his own and show up hungover to pick up Julia. Benedito had an inordinate capacity for vinho and would not show a single bad after-effect.
The kitchen was bigger than most in the Azores, the stove and oven wall tiled in blue-and-red Portuguese tiles and inset oak cabinets. The exposed walls had been sponge-painted peach and gold over beige in some unfortunate past decade and Frank was planning to change that. The master bathroom was powder pink, his mother’s favorite color, but probably not Stefania’s, the bride-to-be’s.
On the other hand, Stefania and her groom probably didn’t give a fig about the wall color and only wanted a big soft bed. That certainly had been his first priority when he and Julia had stayed there.
Unfortunately they had leapt before they looked, straight into bed. He didn’t ever regret making love with her, but in the end, it hadn’t been enough to keep them together. What a miracle that had brought them both back to the Azores at the same time.
Somehow the uncanny Benedito had read his mind. “Don Franco, did you have a nice lunch with the senhorina?”
“How did you know I had lunch with her?” He made cheese and sausage sandwiches on crusty bread for him and Benedito and put the rest of the food away.
“The waiter is my second cousin’s daughter-in-law’s brother.” Benedito opened one bottle of wine and a plastic container of marinated olives from the farmers’ market. He poured the wine and ate the olives out of the container with his gnarled fingers. Benedito abandoned his manners with gusto when he was away from his wife.
He offered some to Frank, who gave up on his own manners and accepted. Pure heaven. “A close family connection,” he said sardonically. “Yes, we had a nice lunch and then had coffee and pastéis de nata in the park.” He’d left the box with Julia—she looked as if she could stand to gain some weight.
“Ah, yes, the park.” Benedito nodded knowingly. “Quite the box of pastéis it was.” He made a zipping motion across his lips and winked.
“How do you know that? Were you skulking in the shrubbery or is the gardener there your nephew?” He restrained himself from chucking an olive—or the entire container—at Benedito’s head.
“Leonor’s nephew.”
“Of course.” Frank sighed. A fishbowl of a life, that’s what he led. And of course, Benedito had ducked the question if he had indeed been skulking in the shrubbery. It was fair to say Frank wouldn’t have noticed if the entire Portuguese Army had been doing reconnaissance missions in the bushes. He finished his sandwich and turned on his laptop to do some business. “Benedito, can you install the new faucet in the downstairs powder room? The old one is leaking.” If Benedito was busy, maybe he would stop bugging Frank.
No such luck. “Senhorina Julia certainly is beautiful.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Frank stared at his email program, mentally willing him to go away. Two dozen emails from various people on his estates.
“She is very smart, an advanced nurse in a big American hospital, according to her neighbors.”
“Yes.” Good Lord, the old man had been busy this afternoon.
“A wonderful companion for any red-blooded man.”
That was hovering on the border of disrespect, even if Frank knew exactly what he was talking about and agreed one hundred percent. He lifted his eyebrow and scowled at Benedito.
“Will you be seeing the senhorina again?” the old man pressed.
“Maybe if I can get some privacy for once!” Frank shouted, finally losing his temper. “With waiters and gardeners and neighbors all reporting back to you as if you were my guardian and I were a virginal princess out in the world for the first time? How do you expect me to do anything with her? Tell me that!”
“Ah, to be alone.” Benedito nodded, his eyes wide, as if the idea of privacy was a new and strange concept. To him, of course, it was. “Don Franco, if you would excuse me, I have to check on some building supplies.”
“Fine, go.” Frank waved his hand and forced himself to read his email from the mainland. Problems with wine caskets, grapevines, animals needing the vet, two of his fieldhands fighting over the same girl. Fortunately, relatively small things, although Frank recalled the girl in question being quite pretty and flirtatious. And with a mean, burly father. He toyed with the idea of inquiring whether the two fieldhands had turned up with black eyes and fat lips received after their fight, but the more he stayed out of their personal business, the more smoothly it ran.
Involving the Duke in romantic quarrels would bring shame and embarrassment upon the parties involved. Better that the Duke focused on his own romantic problems. And even better that the Duke stopped referring to himself in the third person.
Frank grinned and immersed himself in estate business for the next couple hours, thoughts of Julia always at the edges of his mind.
Benedito popped into the kitchen again. “Boa tarde, Don Franco.”
“Yes, good evening to you, too. Did you take care of those building supplies?”
“Yes, and picked up the paint, as well.”
“Paint? But we never chose any colors.”
“But I did, Don Franco. So you would have more time to spend with the young lady.” Benedito nodded conspiratorially.
Frank bit back a groan and thanked him. What hideous palette did Benedito choose?
“And Don Franco, I received a call from the mainland.”
“You did?” He didn’t even know Benedito had a cell phone.
“Yes, yes.” Benedito waved his hands impatiently. “Leonor, my beloved wife…” He paused dramatically.
“Yes, I know who she is.” Leonor was the housekeeper at the fazenda. In addition to the traditional agricultural holdings for an annual pittance Frank leased use of several outbuildings for small local businesses and artists’ studios. It boosted local income and kept families together since they didn’t have to send the men and young people off to Lisbon for jobs.
“Leonor needs me at home.”
“Is she all right?” Frank asked. Leonor had the constitution of a mule and if local legend was correct, had last been ill in the early 1980s—a mild cold.
“She, ah…she, well…she has, um, female problems!” Benedito finished triumphantly.
Frank supposed it was possible, not being in that line of work, although Leonor had to be in her late sixties. But the magical phrase “female problems” was like playing the ace in a game of poker—the trump card that nobody argued with. “Female problems.”
“Yes, yes. Oh, terrible female problems.” Benedito shuddered at the horror, whether real or imagined.
“And I suppose they came on suddenly and you need to rush back to the fazenda to help care for her.”
“Oh, Don Franco, I am glad you understand.”
Frank clapped him on the back. “I do indeed. When do we leave?”
“We?” Benedito’s dismay was comical. “No, no, Don Franco, it would be a sin, a sin, I tell you, if my poor little problems were to take you away from your business here in the islands.” He drew himself up. “I will call my wife and tell her—” he paused for effect “—that you need me here. She will manage.” He looked nobly across the sea toward the mainland, the brave husband separated from his ailing wife.
Oh, bravo. Frank was ninety-nine percent convinced Benedito was lying through his coffee-stained teeth, but what if Leonor were indeed ill?
“Oh, go on. Go home.” He waved his hand at Benedito.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Benedito clutched his hand, but when he bent to kiss it, Frank had enough.
“No more of the grateful peasant routine! Why aren’t you more agreeable to me the rest of the time?”
Benedito widened his eyes. “Your Grace, I have no idea what you mean.”
Frank decided to see if Benedito actually had a phone or was lying even more. “Call the blasted airline and change your return flight.”
His eyes darted back and forth. “My phone, the battery failed just as I was saying goodbye to my dear wife. It stopped right in the middle of hearing her precious voice, right in the middle of our tender farewells…”
Frank tossed him his phone, cutting off the rest of his nauseating description. “Here, use this.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Benedito said meekly, turning his back to make his call.
“Peasants,” Frank grumbled. “Everything went to hell when we were no longer allowed to whip them.”
The older man’s shoulders stiffened in outrage and Frank grinned. Served him right, although he had his doubts about being able to best Benedito in a physical fight. The wily old man undoubtedly fought dirty. Still, Frank was glad to get in the last word. For once.
“YOUR FAUCET IS INSTALLED, Your Grace,” Benedito announced in long-suffering tones, coming up behind Frank as he waded through a dreary email announcement of new rules from the ministry of agriculture. “I skinned my knuckles on the old sink and I think they are infected.”
Frank rolled his eyes. “Too soon for infection. Let me see.” He gestured to Benedito to extend his hand for inspection.
“Eh, what do you know about injuries?” Benedito clutched his hand to his chest. “Maybe I should go to São Miguel.”
“The hospital? If you’re seriously injured, I’ll take you over there myself.”
“Pah, the hospital!” Benedito spat. “Full of germs and sick people.”
“Well, yes. They do have both of those.”
“I was thinking that pretty nurse could look at my wounds.”
“Julia?”
“Yes, Senhorina Julia, with the beautiful black hair.” Benedito sounded half in love with her already.
Frank beat down a weird jealous twinge. For goodness’ sake, Benedito was old enough to be her father. “Oh, let me see this mangled hand of yours.”
After a brief tussle where Benedito refused to show Frank his hand, Frank finally got it yanked away and looked. “Those three scrapes? Your wife would fall on the ground laughing if you asked her to take you to the hospital for that.”
He jerked his arm away. “My wife is not here. She is ailing, poor woman, and I am alone on this island with an unsympathetic duke who mocks my injury.”
“How about some disinfectant spray and bandages? Besides, you’re flying home to the mainland, when?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Maybe when you take your wife to the doctor for her ‘female problems,’ they can look at your hand.”
Benedito pursed his lips. “If Your Grace refuses…”
“I’m not taking you to see Julia for skinned knuckles. Do you know how hard I had to work to get her to go to lunch with me? And she’s coming to the island for the afternoon tomorrow as soon as I drop you at the airport.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Benedito beamed at him as if he were a particularly stupid student who had finally done something smart. Whistling a ribald folktune, he strutted over to the sink and scrubbed his fingers without even wincing.
“Why, you old faker!” Frank didn’t know whether to throw something at him or give him a raise. “You were looking for an excuse to get me to see her again?”
His only reply was an innocent shrug. “I feel much better already. Perhaps it is your healing presence.”
“I’m a duke, not a saint. Now, don’t you have some packing to do?”
“I have plenty of work to do before I leave, Don Franco. But continue your own work. You will not hear a peep from old Benedito.”
That was what worried him. Like his sisters’ kids, Benedito was only quiet when looking for trouble.
He shook his head as Benedito scooted out of the kitchen. Frank’s phone rang and he answered. “George?”
“Frank, glad I caught you.” It was his best friend from college and brother of the bride. George’s relaxed voice came over the satellite connection. Of course he always sounded relaxed, being in love with Renata, his beautiful and sexy American fiancée. “How have you been?”
“Keeping busy with getting the villa in order. It just needs some cosmetic work and a bit of cleaning.”
“Oh, so you’re in the Azores? I was wondering why the connection took a little while longer. How is it?”
“Lovely as ever.”
“What? You hate being out there anymore. The last couple times you barely stayed long enough to get your luggage off the boat.”
Frank grinned. “Let’s just say things are coming full circle.”
“What? I better call Jack. You sound like you’ve taken too much cold medication.”
“George…” He rolled his eyes but greeted Jack dutifully. George and Frank had been his best men at Jack’s whirlwind wedding in Philadelphia last summer. George had met Lily, Jack’s beautiful American bride, and they had all gone out for cheesesteaks and fries. Yum.
“Frank’s in the Azores,” George announced. “And he’s enjoying himself.”
“That’s great. Congratulate me, mes amis!” Jack cried. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but I can’t wait to announce to you, my brothers—Lily and I are having a baby.”
A stunned hush fell over the group.
“A baby,” Frank finally choked out, fighting back bittersweet memories. “Jack, that’s wonderful.”
“Amazing.” George’s voice sounded husky, as well. “And how is your lovely wife feeling?”
“Ah, not so good.” He lowered his voice. “I tried to tell her that illness is a good sign that the hormones are strong and working well, but all she did was call me bad names. In French, no less. She picked it up from the farm workers—I’ll have to take my manager to task for allowing such vulgarity.” But he sounded giddy and not about to punish anybody.
“Renata and I are going to have a baby,” George announced.
“What?” they chorused.
“No, not now. As soon as Renata and I are married. I cannot have the next Prince of Vinciguerra born less than nine months after our wedding. Just my luck he would be a ten-pound baby and nobody would believe he was early.”
Frank nodded. “Don’t want any doubt about succession to the throne.”
“Exactly,” George agreed. “But enough about babies—at least for now, Jack. Do keep us posted.”
“But of course. How is your lovely island, Frank?”
“About to get lovelier at one o’clock tomorrow.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t know if you remember, but many, many years ago, I stayed the summer here.”
“Yes?” they answered cautiously, remembering the terrible autumn that had followed when Frank had become a mess, a zombie unable to function without Julia.
“I don’t know if it is fate or luck, but I am here—and so is she.”
“She? You mean Julia?” George knew that name well, having listened to Frank cry in his beer for weeks.
“But how can that be? Did you find her and invite her?” Jack sounded confused.
“Her parents live here now and she was visiting them. They are back in the States with elderly relatives, and I have her all to myself.”
“Oh.” George paused for a couple seconds. “And how is Julia?” he asked politely.
“Single and more beautiful than ever.”
“Please, Frank, just be careful,” Jack urged him. “People do change after all these years. You are different. She will be different. You cannot expect to pick up where you left off.”
“Why would I want to do that? We left off with her leaving me, Jack.” Frank was getting irritated. His best friends had found the loves of their lives, and Jack was having a baby, as well.
“I think Jack is just concerned for you, Frank,” George added, ever the diplomat. “Obviously you are a grown man now, with more experience in matters of the heart. But sometimes you see things with rosecolored glasses, as the American phrase goes. Take a good look at the situation with as much clarity as you can.”
“Like you two did with Renata and Lily?” he asked pointedly.
There was silence and then two voices breaking into guilty laughter. “Do as we say, not as we do, Frank,” Jack said.
“Ah, yes, we did not listen to our own advice, did we, Jack?”
“Not at all. But it all turned out well in the end.”
“And maybe it will for me and Julia, too.”
“If that is your wish, we certainly hope so,” Jack said.
“I don’t know,” Frank said thoughtfully. “I was a wreck when she left me the first time. Should I risk it?”
George sighed. “Life is full of risk.” His own parents had not lived past their mid-forties. “All we can do is live for the moment and hope for the best.”
“Very true. Fate can be cruel,” Jack agreed, having seen plenty of tragedies as a disaster-relief physician. Frank didn’t even want to imagine what he had witnessed over his years of work.
Frank congratulated Jack on his baby-to-be and wrote down some important wedding dates from George before hanging up. He had just enough time to finish at the villa before he needed to check in at the estates and then go to the wedding in Vinciguerra.
But as he worked on more estate business, he thought about what George and Jack had said about the vagaries of fate.
Frank didn’t want any risk. He was a farmer and rancher. Uncertainty was dangerous. The seasons turned, the crops were planted and harvested, animals were born and grew. The Dukes of Aguas Santas were born and grew. And died, like his own father twenty years before.
But Frank was the last and only Duke. Without him, there were only his sisters, who were uninterested and unprepared to run the estate. And to maintain everything until their children were old enough? Almost impossible. Without proper management, his estates would decline and be sold, the title of Duke of Aguas Santas a title in name only for his oldest nephew.
He drummed his fingers on the table. Until meeting Julia again, he had planned to court his sister’s friend, Paulinha. Now that plan was on the scrap heap. Julia was the only woman who made him feel, made him alive. But as his friends had so unwelcomely pointed out, people changed. Maybe he and Julia had changed enough that they could stay together this time.

5
Fashionista Magazine: The Royal Review:
UNTIL NOW, PRINCESS Stefania has been hush-hush over many of the fashion details of her big day, but she finally told our loyal royal correspondent Countess Lily de Brissard how she’s decided to wear her hair. Long and loose or fabulous up-do? A little of both, it turns out. “I have a small face and lots of curly hair,” explained Princess Stefania. “So I plan to pull the top and sides back in a smooth do, while letting the back hang loose and curly. This way, I can have my hair out of my face but still have my natural look.”
Princess Stefania also has something very special for the “something old” category of the old wedding rhyme—“Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.” “I will be wearing my grandmother’s own bridal veil from her wedding more than fifty years ago. It was handmade in Belgium and is the finest, most delicate lace imaginable. They don’t make lace like that anymore, and I’m so proud to wear it in my grandmother’s honor.”

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