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The Rebel King
Melissa James


Wedded: the King and his convenient bride! Fireman Charlie Costa knows all about duty and saving lives. But when he learns he is a prince who must marry to secure his nation, Charlie rebels! He doesn’t want to be King, or to marry Princess Jazmine…no matter how beautiful she is.Charlie’s rough manners and bad-boy charm don’t deceive Princess Jazmine for a minute. He might fool others that he’s a rebel, but she knows the real Charlie: kind, generous, and a man who’s truly fit to be King.Suddenly Royal! The first in a majestic new duet…







Then he emerged from the car,and Jazmine heard the death knellof her plans before she’d evenbeen introduced to the Prince.



Oh, he was handsome—dark, lean, and oozing hot sensuality. But he was no storybook prince come to win a princess’s heart, and—her heart sank—she doubted he ever would be.



Thick curls cropped short, dark eyes, and the same regal nose as his sister—but on him it didn’t achieve elegance. In a charcoal Savile Row suit supplied for him on the jet, with a white shirt and sky-blue tie, he didn’t look suave, he looked turbulent. Every inch of him was lean and muscled, big and fit… Buff, her friends from Oxford would have said. She might have herself, if she wasn’t a princess.



And if he weren’t Crown Prince, she’d call him hostile.



He looked as regal as a lion, ready to attack; and as frighteningly compelling as a wind-tossed storm cloud about to unleash a torrent.



Yes, that was it exactly. God help her, she was engaged to a wild beast set to pounce. And the windstorm was about to break right over her head.


Melissa James is a mother of three, living in a beach suburb in New South Wales, Australia. A former nurse, waitress, shop assistant, perfume and chocolate demonstrator—among other things—she believes in taking on new jobs for the fun experience. She’ll try anything at least once, to see what it feels like—a fact that scares her family on regular occasions. She fell into writing by accident, when her husband brought home an article stating how much a famous romance author earned, and she thought, I can do that! She can be found most mornings walking and swimming at her local beach with her husband, or every afternoon running around to her kids’ sporting hobbies, while dreaming of flying, scuba diving, belaying down a cave or over a cliff—anywhere her characters are at the time!




THE REBEL KING


BY

MELISSA JAMES




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This book is dedicated to Rachel Robinson, for going above and beyond, and who made Charlie the hero he became.



Thanks to Robbie and Barb also, and to Emily Ruston for excellent revision suggestions.




PROLOGUE


Sydney, Australia



BY THE time the crew truck screeched up the footpath, the bottom storey of the house was engulfed in flame. Roof tiles at one end had already buckled and were smouldering. The wailing siren of the fire truck seemed obscenely loud over the terrified confusion of people racing around. The night sky was alight, the tinsel of the Christmas decorations in the windows had turned to blazing flame, warming the faces of the onlookers—and seeing the avid interest on so many faces didn’t make things better.

That’s the job. Charlie Costa faced it as he’d done for years. He’d store the jumbled mass of emotions for later.

‘We have a five-to-ten-minute window. Winder, Costa, gear up and go in,’ Leopard, the captain, yelled for Charlie and his partner, Toby. ‘Do a sweep for any signs of life. The rest of you, douse the house and grounds, and watch those trees. We have to keep the monster from leapfrogging to the surrounding homes.’

‘The monster’ was the name ‘firies’ gave the enemy. Charlie remembered the cold shiver that had raced through him the first time he’d heard it. Now it was a battle cry against the hungry destroyer that was the fireman’s daily enemy.

‘Dissect your internal conundrums later, Rip,’ a deep, growling voice came from beside him. ‘For now, we fight the Great Destroyer.’

‘I’ll ask how I can do all those things you said later on, O Grizz, Lord of the Dictionary.’ Charlie grinned at Toby Winder, his closest friend. The joking camaraderie they shared in life-and-death situations—such as calling Charlie ‘Rip’, a nickname due to his legendary temper, and Toby ‘Grizz’, due to his six-foot-five, muscular frame— helped to defuse the tension.

‘Let’s rock and roll.’ Charlie threw on the mask and strapped on survival gear. Covered by the guys shooting a storm of water and fire-retardant chemicals, he and Toby charged in. They didn’t use the axe to break down the door, but shut what was left of it behind them. The other guys would find and close any open windows, and board up those that had already exploded. The less oxygen in here, the better chances for any survivors of this inferno, and reports had come in that there was a young family still trapped inside.

‘It’s a kitchen fire,’ Toby reported into the two-way radio as he bolted through the smoke-filled living room. ‘It looks like the gas oven wasn’t turned off. It shot straight up through the ceiling to the second floor before it took hold down here.’ He wasn’t spouting his favourite polysyllables now; he was too worried. ‘I’ll go upstairs, Rip can take downstairs.’

‘No,’ Charlie yelled, following Toby to the stairs. ‘If anyone was downstairs they’d be outside already. We go up together, and find the kids first, parents after.’

What he didn’t say was that pairs had a greater chance of survival. With the risk of the floor buckling under Toby’s bigger frame, no way in hell was Charlie letting Toby go up alone. For some reason he’d never understand, his being there to balance the weight usually kept the floor from going a little longer.

They found the first survivor sprawled in the curve of the landing. A young woman, presumably the mother, her arms outstretched to the top storey. Toby did a quick ABC of her condition. ‘Get the paramedics in. She’s not breathing, pulse weak and thready. She’s going down fast.’

Charlie doused the stairs and carpet leading to the door with flame retardant, and moved all furniture that could burn. Toby dragged in a clean breath, turned off the airflow to his mask and began artificial respiration. They couldn’t chance any flow of oxygen or even tanked air on her until they were all safely out of here. She wouldn’t thank them if they saved her but killed her kids in the inevitable explosion.



A sharp crack, followed by a tearing sound, came as the woman was stretchered out. ‘The roof’s going!’

As one, the two men bolted up the stairs. ‘Send in two more guys to buy us some time!’ Charlie yelled into the radio.

Leopard yelled, ‘Get out, both of you, and that’s an order. It’s gonna go!’

Neither paid attention. Charlie took the far end of the hall without discussing it with his friend. Toby knew. He was the bigger and stronger of the two, but Charlie was leaner and faster, with a better chance of getting through any runners of flame.

Without glancing at Charlie, Toby ran into the first room to the left and Charlie immediately heard him shout a directive. ‘Ladders to the top bedroom windows!’

Resigned to the inevitable, the captain gave the order. They all knew these two never left a building until the last survivors were found. The way they worked was almost uncanny, which was why the Fire Brigade had kept them together after training. Knowing each other so well could be a handicap in life-and-death situations, but with Toby and Charlie their honesty and camaraderie, their brotherly love, and the way they read each other’s minds, made them the best team possible.

Crouching, Charlie ran along the sagging carpeted floor of the hall. It was ready to fall. He jumped from side to side against the walls where the floor remnants would be strongest because of the support beams. Keeping safe meant he’d make it into the room at the back of the house.

He opened the door, slipped in and shut the door behind him to cut off oxygen.

Through the haze the room took shape slowly, but moving would change the landscape, and he’d have to start focusing anew. Thirty seconds later and the picture came to his stinging eyes: a white room, pink bed-spread, a Barbie doll’s house. He yelled, a weird, muffled sound through the oxygen mask, ‘Is anyone in here?’

Even through the roar of the approaching monster, his trained ears heard a tiny cough.

He shut down and ripped off the mask. Talking through it scared kids, and the suit was scary enough. ‘Hey, sweetie, my name’s Charlie. I’m a fireman.’ He choked on the smoke that filled his lungs and throat in seconds, and breathed in clean oxygen before turning off the mask. He couldn’t risk feeding any starters in the room. ‘Want to see your mummy?’

Another cough, weak and unformed, came from under the bed. Diving under the quilt, he saw a tiny ball of curled-up humanity. She was dark-haired and sweet-faced, about three. ‘It’s okay, sweetie, I’ve got you.’ He croaked into the two-way, ‘Ladder to the back room, far left! I’ve got a kid!’

‘Forty-five seconds!’ Leopard yelled.

Replacing his mask to breathe, he did a quick check on her. The child was alarmingly limp. He wrapped a rope around her fast, ready for the transfer when the guys got to the window, but she’d stop breathing any moment. He lifted her into his arms with excruciating slowness.

It was the cardinal rule: never take off your mask to give to a victim, because you can’t save someone if you’re dead or unconscious. Doing this would risk not only his life but the lives of his team who’d have to come in to save him, as well as the child if he passed out. But she was little more than a baby. He’d had his life—hers had barely begun.

Hoping there were no sparks in the room to feed on the oxygen, he ripped the mask off, turned the setting to ‘air’—too much oxygen right now could do her more harm than good if she had smoke inhalation— and put it over her face. Then, holding his breath, he turned to get out of the door—but the paint was blistering down the edges, and peeling off the entire centre of it.

Smoke was curling off the door handle, and seeping through. An explosion came right beneath him. The house was going. The floor sagged under his left foot.

‘I need a ladder to the extreme right of top floor! I’ve got an unconscious child. He isn’t breathing!’ Charlie heard Toby yell again, his voice harsh too. Obviously he didn’t have his air mask on either. Time was running out fast.

The floor started buckling beneath Charlie’s feet.

Slowly, inch by inch, he spread his feet further apart, feeling it give way each time he moved. His feet began to burn through his boots. ‘We’re gonna make it out, sweetie.’ Hearing a voice, even his own, gave him comfort when everything was going down. ‘Our guys are the best.’ He coughed. Crouch low forair, idiot! But he couldn’t shift down; it would cave the whole place in.

He was about to choke. He couldn’t risk the floor going with the motion. He must breathe now, or risk both their lives when he fell. He watched the baby breathe in, took the mask, breathed in and shoved it back on her face before she inhaled again.

No talking now. His world consisted of watching her breaths: in, take the mask and breathe, back to her, and count the seconds. Glass smashed in the room next door. The fire was in the back walls, and the window had burst. The monster was about to hit.

A whoosh of clean air filled the room. The door burst into glowing sparks as the fire leaped in to meet the oxygen. A voice screamed, ‘Give her to me!’

Thank you, God! Charlie leaped for the bed where the window was. ‘Take her!’

The bed sagged sideways as the floor collapsed under his weight. He passed the child over as the heat at his back seared him. The hairs on his neck withered and his skin was melting—he could actually smell his flesh cooking.

‘Jump, mate!’

He could barely move; the heat, pain and lack of air had left him in a stupor. One hand gripped the window sash; the other made it. Good. I can do this.One knee up…

The bed lurched back into the maw where the floor had been moments before. His body jerked back, but his desperate fingers held on. ‘Help,’ he whispered as his hands lost strength and smoke filled his lungs, his nose and throat, his eyes…

Hands came out of the cloudy darkness, lifting him through the window into a safety harness to lower him to the ground. ‘We’ve got you.’ It was Leopard. ‘You saved her, Charlie. The little girl’s going to make it, and so are you.’

Charlie coughed and coughed; the fresh air hurt, because the hairs lining his airways were gone or damaged. ‘Toby?’

‘He’s okay, he saved the boy. We’ve done all we can. Let’s go!’

He knew by what the captain hadn’t said that someone was dead.

Oh, dear God…those poor kids had lost their mother.

As he was winched to safety, he felt the flashes and glare of media cameras turned on him. He heard the words ‘hero’ and ‘saving the lives of a family’, but he couldn’t answer questions or accept praise for doing his duty. He fell to his knees, coughed until he choked, then threw up: the body’s instinctive way of clearing foreign objects.

The paramedics had him on a stretcher within two minutes, and he was on his way to hospital. He slipped into unconsciousness, knowing the ‘what ifs would haunt him until he died. Maybe he’d done all he could, but a woman had died today; two kids had lost their mummy before they’d been able to have memories of her—and, in his book, that meant that all he’d done hadn’t been enough.


CHAPTER ONE

Sydney, three months later



‘I’M THE grand what of where?’ Charlie grinned at the grave solicitor in the panelled oak office in the heart of Sydney. ‘Yeah, right, pull the other one, Jack. Now, why are we really here?’

His sister’s hand crept into his and held tight. ‘I think he’s serious, Charlie.’

At the fear smothered beneath the shock in Lia’s voice, Charlie’s protective instincts roared up. Lia was pale; he could feel the tremors running through her.

He couldn’t blame her. If this was on the level, this news could destroy his sister. After all these years of progress, she could slide back to anorexic behaviour to cope with the stress of what this stranger was telling them.

No way would he risk that. ‘Come on, Mr Damianakis. Tell us why we’re here. You’re scaring my sister.’

The lawyer smiled at Lia in apology, but his words didn’t give Charlie any relief. ‘I’m aware this must be a massive shock for you both. It was a surprise to us, too. The consulate contacted us after the story of your rescue of the children in the house fire.’ Now the apologetic look was aimed at Charlie. ‘They’d sent photos of your grandparents to every consulate around the world. You really are the image of your grandfather. The photo of you getting the medal for bravery led to an investigation which showed your grandfather’s entry papers into Australia weren’t on the level. The Greek records showed that the real Kyriacou Charles Konstantinos, who shared your grandfather’s birth date, died in Cyprus in the second year of the Second World War, eight months before your grandfather arrived in Sydney in 1941 using the same certificate.’

‘That doesn’t prove anything but that Papou was an illegal alien,’ Charlie argued. It was something he’d always suspected. Papou had always worked for himself, and worked for cash whenever he could.

Charlie frowned, realizing for the first time that Papou had built and paid for the house and everything in it with cash—a man who’d claimed to be the son of a humble bricklayer, and who had only ever worked as a carpenter. Where had the money come from?

‘No, in itself it proves nothing—but it was a start.’ Mr Damianakis shifted again in his seat, reacting to Charlie and Lia’s obvious discomfort with the situation. ‘Your father’s name is the Marandis family name—Athanasius, like your great-grandfather, the twelfth Grand Duke. Your grandfather’s medical records showed some family anomalies, such as the crooked little finger on the right hand, and the AB-negative blood type, which is usual in the male Hellenican line, but rare among Cypriots, and is not at all in the Konstantinos family.’

Lia’s grip tightened on Charlie’s hand, and he could think of nothing to say to comfort her. Damn, he wished Toby was here!

‘And your grandmother’s Italian heritage clinched it. When we contacted her family in Milan, got pictures of her at a young age and saw her resemblance to you, Miss Costa, we knew we had the right people.’

Charlie rubbed the healing skin on his neck, where the heat of the fire had gone right through the flame-retardant suit to melt the flesh. The fallout from that fire had done more damage than even he had anticipated. The media had followed him for days, trying to make him a hero. They’d followed him and Toby as they’d visited the kids in hospital, and had awkwardly tried to console the grieving father who’d lost his wife. If he hadn’t been instructed by the service to do it, for the sake of donations and good political mileage…

Damn the entire brigade! Those kids had lost their mother because he hadn’t been able to save her. If it weren’t for the press turning him into something he wasn’t, he’d still be living in happy obscurity.

Whatever happened now, he had a feeling that much was at an end.

Charlie jerked to his feet, bringing Lia with him. ‘This has to be a joke. You have thirty seconds to tell us why we’re really here before we walk out the door.’

‘I am one hundred percent on the level, sir.’ Mr Damianakis handed Charlie a document and a photograph. ‘Here’s the late Grand Duke’s birth certificate, and his photo taken when he came of age, sir.’

Charlie looked down, fighting a spurt of irritation. No one had ever called him ‘sir’ in his life, and never like he was a grand ‘what’ of where.

It was a young Papou in the photo, no doubt of it; Charlie saw the likeness. He’d always been the image of his grandfather. His Papou, who’d always hated war and had only fought over the backgammon table, was dressed in full military getup, covered in ribbons and medals, and the legend said:

1939. The 18-year-old Marquis of Junoar at hisgraduation from the Hellenican MilitaryAcademy, with his parents the Grand Duke andDuchess of Malascos.

The birth certificate gave no reprieve: KyriacouCharles Marandis, son of His Grace, Athanasius,The Grand Duke of Malascos, and Grand DuchessHelena Marandis, née Lady Helena Doughtry,daughter of the Earl of…

The words blurred in front of him as his head began spinning. The birth date was right; the face was exact. And he couldn’t deny the name— Kyriacou Charles. It was his name as well as his paternal grandfather’s name, in the old tradition, just as Lia was Giulia Maria, named for their grandmother, their beloved Yiayia.

If all this rigmarole was true, their shy, retiring Yiayia had been a count’s granddaughter, an untitled royal nanny for whom Papou had given up his position to run off and marry, if Mr Damianakis could be believed.

He was descended from dukes and earls? He was a lost heir?

‘So when do the man in the iron mask and the three musketeers show up?’ he asked, with a world of irony in his voice.

The lawyer gave him a wry smile in return. ‘It must seem unbelievable: the runaway duke, the lost prince and princess—a massive fortune.’

Lia had read the words on the photo over Charlie’s shoulder and stammered, ‘It can’t be Papou. You have the wrong people. Our last name is Costa. We’re Greek.’

‘Your grandfather took the surname and nationality he was given by the man who created his false identity, and changed Konstantinos to the simpler version—Costa,’ Mr Damianakis said gravely. ‘Probably to avoid media scrutiny and being followed around the world. But there is no doubt. He became the Grand Duke of Malascos at his father’s death, and you became the Marquis of Junoar when your father died. Due to the tragedies in the nation in the past decade, you are no longer merely the Marquis of Junoar or Grand Duke of Malascos.’

Merely? Charlie heard his mind shout in disbelief.

‘But by Hellenican law, as the last male in the direct line, you are Crown Prince, heir to the throne. And you—’ he smiled at Lia ‘—are Her Highness Giulia Marandis, Princess Royal of Hellenia. Your great-grandfather left a massive private fortune to his lost descendants, totalling over five hundred million euros in land, gold and in bank accounts. I think he wanted his son to know he’d forgiven him.’ He rushed around to Lia, who’d turned alarmingly pale. ‘Please sit, my lady.’

Lia released Charlie’s hand and fell into the chair, her breathing erratic. ‘Don’t call me that,’ she said, her voice horrified.

The room swung around Charlie in slow ovals: around and up and down, like he was in a crazy ride he couldn’t get off. But he was a fireman, damn it, and he didn’t fall down under shock. He strode to the window, saw the limousine with diplomatic flags on it, and clenched his fists. The fairy story he wanted to laugh at was crystallising into horrifying reality. ‘You said the king and my great-grandfather disinherited Papou when he married Yiayia. So what do they want with us?’

‘When your grandfather was disinherited, he was ninth in line to the throne, but there were another twenty direct members of the Marandis family to inherit,’ Mr Damianakis said, in the tone of respectful gravity that killed Charlie’s urge to laugh this all off. ‘The past thirty years has been a tragic time in Hellenia. An attempted coup killed several members of your family. Twelve years ago rebel forces created civil war on behalf of the heir of a man in direct rivalry to the throne, named Orakis, in an attempt to reclaim it. The war lasted a decade. Thousands died, towns and villages were destroyed.’

Good God, now he’d gone from romantic legend to an item on the news networks. ‘So if this Orakis guy wants the throne so much, let him have it,’ he snapped. ‘Then nobody else has to die.’

‘Charlie,’ Lia said in gentle rebuke. ‘This isn’t Mr Damianakis’ fault.’

‘Sorry,’ he muttered with distinctly unroyal grace. He waved. ‘Go on.’

‘Not quite two years ago, the Prince Royal and his son contracted meningococcal disease and died within a day of each other, leaving only the Princess Jazmine in line for the throne. The laws of Hellenia do not allow for female inheritance if there is a direct male Marandis to take the throne. The Grand Duke of Falcandis is a descendant, but through the female line. King Angelis began a search for his first cousin, the Grand Duke of Malascos, and his descendants.’

Had they fallen down the rabbit hole? Charlie kept waiting for someone to jump out of a cupboard, yelling ‘Surprise!’. ‘Just call me ‘Charming’,’ he muttered.

Lia chuckled. ‘Yeah, like that’s ever going to happen.’

He grinned at her.

Mr Damianakis spoke again. ‘If you require further proof, sir, there’s a limousine waiting outside to take you to the private jet waiting at Kingsford-Smith airport. It will fly you both to the Hellenican Embassy in Canberra. A representative of the royal family is waiting to answer any questions you have, and give you the papers you need for an immediate flight to Hellenia. His Majesty the King of Hellenia, as well as Her Royal Highness Jazmine, and the Grand Duke of Falcandis, await your arrival.’

As the lawyer said something else, Charlie’s mind wandered. He shook his head, trying to clear it, to wake up and find he’d been knocked on the head. Half the time he barely felt qualified to be a fireman, and now he was…was…

Maybe he’d taken a hit by a supporting beam at that Christmas fire, or suffered brain damage with the smoke inhalation, and kept relapsing into delusions?

‘Charlie…’

He turned on his heel to see his sister’s cheeks holding the dreaded greenish hue. ‘Lia?’ He ran to her and knelt at her chair, checking her pulse automatically. ‘What did you say to her?’

Damianakis licked his lips, distinctly nervous. ‘You didn’t hear me?’

‘Would I need to ask if I had?’ He heard the lash of impatient anger in his tone, felt Lia’s hand press his, and tightened his lips. How many times did he have to shoot the messenger because he couldn’t keep his temper under check? ‘This isn’t your fault. Just tell me what upset Lia.’

Damianakis shifted in his seat. ‘I said you need to prepare yourselves. The ambassador thought it best that I tell you here, in a quiet environment.’ As if gathering his courage, he looked up at Charlie. ‘His Majesty, King Angelis, has arranged royal marriages for you both, to take place as soon as possible.’



Orakidis City, HelleniaThe next morning



The beautiful old black Rolls pulled up outside the front of the sprawling, four-winged mansion that was the royal family’s summer palace, where the king was keeping residence until the main palace was fully repaired from a fire attack a few years before.

There were too many repairs still yet to make to the nation’s towns, cities and homes for the royal family to think of repairing a palace as a priority.

Jazmine’s heart beat hard as she stood beside Max at the foot of the stairs, four feet behind the king, as adherence to royal protocol demanded. As Princess Royal and the Grand Duke of Falcandis, they held positions the world would envy; yet here they were again, the king’s dolls to rearrange as he wished. Old friends, they’d been engaged to each other until a month ago; now they were both engaged to strangers.

Was this a case of a magnificent escape for them, or being tossed from the king’s frying pan into his fire?

‘Courage,’ the Grand Duke murmured in her ear.

She stiffened. A princess to the core, she’d had correct deportment and proper distance drilled into her since birth. ‘This is my duty. I don’t need courage to face what I can’t change.’

His deep, smooth voice was rich with amusement. ‘You’re right—resignation would be more useful in our case.’ He waited, but she didn’t answer. ‘Talk to me, Jazmine. Surely, as the most recent object of your duty, I can intrude on your pride and share our changed circumstances with someone who understands?’

She felt a tinge of heat touch her cheeks. Her grandfather, the king, had dissolved their engagement when the news of Prince Kyriacou’s existence had been confirmed. His press secretary had hinted that childhood friendship made the engagement awkward: a truth His Majesty used when he found it convenient.

Jazmine smiled up at the fair, handsome face, so like his English mother. She’d been so embarrassed by her grandfather’s dictum, she hadn’t been able to look at him until now. ‘You’re right, Max. Thank you.’

‘Here come our respective futures,’ he murmured, smiling at her with the sibling-like affection they’d shared since she was thirteen. ‘Our third or fourth cousins, or something. Almost not related at all, apart from the name.’

Thank goodness, Jazmine almost said aloud. She’d found the thought of marrying any relative revolting, but, with Prince Kyriacou’s grandfather marrying an Italian count’s grandchild, and his father marrying a Greek woman—a real commoner!—the lines had blurred. Jazmine’s mother had been of the Spanish nobility—more line-blurring still. The more the better, in her opinion.

She started as the trumpets of Grandfather’s private band blared the national anthem of Hellenia—In Our Courage We Stand—in acknowledgement of royalty’s arrival. It was odd, considering that no one else was there but family and royal staff.

A young woman emerged first, wearing the tailored skirt and silk blouse Jazmine had chosen. This was Giulia, no doubt.

No doubt at all, from the moment she looked up. Though she resembled her Italian grandmother, Giulia was a complete Marandis. She had willowy curves, thick dark curls tumbling down her back, the heavy-lashed, slumberous eyes, the deliciously curved top lip. On the Marandis women, it looked like a hidden smile waiting to burst out, a wonderful secret they wouldn’t tell. Tall and graceful and golden-skinned, Giulia was beautiful in the quiet, understated, Marandis way.

Then her brother emerged from the car, and Jazmine heard the death knell of her plans before she’d even been introduced to the prince.

Oh, he was handsome—dark, lean and oozed hot sensuality. But he was no story-book prince come to win the princess’s heart, and—her heart sank— she doubted he ever would be.

Thick curls cropped short, dark eyes and the regal nose. Yes, Kyriacou was as much a Marandis as his sister, but on him it didn’t achieve elegance. In the charcoal Savile Row suit supplied for him on the jet, with the white shirt and sky-blue tie, he didn’t look suave, he looked turbulent. Every inch of him was lean and muscled, big and fit— ‘buff’, her friends from Oxford would have said. She might have said it herself, if she wasn’t a princess.

And, if he weren’t a Crown Prince, she’d call him hostile.

He looked as regal as a lion, ready to attack, as frighteningly compelling as a wind-tossed storm cloud about to unleash a torrent.

Yes, that was it exactly. God help her, she was engaged to a wild beast set to pounce. And the windstorm was about to break right over her head.

Well, she was used to flying in storms, and flying blind. Five years ago she’d been a minor royal, then after the civil war had ended, she’d become Princess Royal. She’d become the unwanted, ‘couldn’ t-inherit’ female heiress two years before. She’d been engaged to Max until a month ago; now she was engaged to this stranger.

If she’d had a choice, she’d still have taken this fate for the sake of her country and her people. She’d make this man want to marry her, unless she wanted to create an opportunity for Markus Orakis to seize the throne.

Hellenia had seen enough of coups, civil war and murder to last ten generations. She’d do whatever it took to end the bloodshed, to help this country heal from its scars—and she’d cope with this Marandis the same way she coped with her grandfather, the king.

Keep your dignity. Don’t let him walk all overyou. When you give in, do so with grace. You are aprincess, no man’s doormat.

If only it didn’t sound like a fairy tale in her own mind. No matter how much she wanted to be her own woman, she, like Max—like the new Marandis brother and sister—was a servant to the crown, here to bend to the will of king and country. If Kyriacou and Giulia Marandis didn’t understand that, they soon would.

The new Crown Prince and Princess Royal walked through the line of saluting king’s guards, and beneath the meet-and-kiss flags showing the royal scarlet-and-gold over deep turquoise that was the symbol of Hellenia, and the Marandis banner: the soaring royal eagle over verdant hills and valleys. A massive bouquet of white roses was thrust in Giulia’s arms: the flower of peace.

Grandfather stepped forward, every inch the regal ruler. He extended his hand towards the brother first—the expected way in this male-dominated society. ‘Welcome to Hellenia, Kyriacou,’ he said, using the traditional first-person version of the name Kyriacou, making it more personal, intimate. ‘And to you, Giulia.’ With an attention to detail he’d never lost, the king pronounced her name with beautiful precision: Yoo-lya. He smiled warmly. ‘Welcome to our family, and to your new home.’

Neither responded for a few moments. Though she smiled, Giulia’s face held a look of bewildered wonder at the change in her status. Kyriacou held his sister’s arm in obvious protectiveness. He didn’t move to take the king’s hand, or bow in response to the traditional but sincere welcome.

‘My name, sire,’ he said clearly, ‘is Charlie.’


CHAPTER TWO

STUNNED silence reigned at the flagrant breach in royal protocol.

Breach? It was more like an abyss. Nobody spoke to King Angelis like that, or refused his hand. Hadn’t Eleni taught them the correct mode of address while on the jet? Jazmine had sent her own personal assistant to Australia for that sole purpose.

Giulia stepped forward with a gentle smile, placing her hand in Grandfather’s. ‘Thank you, your Majesty.’ She dipped into a deep curtsey. ‘Forgive us. We’re still confused by the changes in our lives, and tired from the long flight.’ She lifted her lovely face, smiling. ‘We’re not used to this level of fuss attached to our arriving anywhere.’

Jazmine relaxed. At that moment, she knew she’d like Giulia. She was a peacemaker who knew how to keep her dignity and courage.

It was a good thing. Marandis women needed to be strong to survive.

Seeming mollified, Grandfather smiled again. ‘Well, at least you listened to the procedures for royal protocol on the flight.’ The look he slanted at Giulia’s brother was frost itself. Pure snow.

‘Pardon me for being underwhelmed by thirty-six hours spent in lawyers’ offices, limousines, consulates and jets. We were forced to leave our home and life without warning, pushed into limos and jets without consent, told we had to obey the will of a king we knew nothing about. We’ve been bowed and scraped to wherever we go, “Your Highnessed” to death, had “this is a royal secret” slammed into us every thirty seconds. If I was given any choice in any part of the past thirty-six hours, I might have chosen to listen,’ Kyriacou—Charlie—snapped. ‘I’m not a puppet whose strings you can pull, and it would be good for you if you remembered that…Your Majesty.’

More silence, as everyone held their collective breath, waiting for the king’s reply. If Jazmine didn’t have self-discipline, she’d have closed her eyes. The new Crown Prince of Hellenia was a moron, unable to follow simple instructions or to know one always respected royalty.

Grandfather’s eyes narrowed. ‘You will learn differently, Kyriacou. My word is law in Hellenia. I can force you to return to your obscure life without the benefit of your great-grandfather’s fortune. Don’t embarrass me publicly, boy, or you’ll regret it.’

‘With respect, Your Majesty, bring it on,’ Charlie returned without a blink, or lowering his voice. ‘I was enjoying my life until yesterday. Obscurity and the single life suit me right down to the ground. Maybe you should find a new heir, Your Majesty, because I’m nobody’s idea of a duke, let alone a prince—and bringing me here is the furthest you’ll manipulate me.’

It took all Jazmine’s self-will not to gasp. Instead of being intimidated, the new heir met ice with fire—and a tiny part of her, the rebel she’d submerged years ago, wanted to cheer him on.

Maybe he wasn’t as stupid as she’d feared. And maybe there were possibilities in this. If he could stand up against the old autocrat and hold his own, he could be perfect for her purpose. If she could bring him to see what he could accomplish for Hellenia…

Her brain began buzzing with plans.

A royal staffer stepped into the breach, performing his assigned duty with no sign of discomfort. Every inch the Oxford-trained gentleman. ‘Your Royal Highnesses, may I introduce you to Jazmine, the Princess Royal, and Maximilian, the Grand Duke of Falcandis?’

Perfectly done. His name was not to be mentioned until the important personages were introduced. Diplomats and royal staffers knew how to blend in.

‘Your Highness.’ Giulia dipped into another curtsey. ‘Your Grace.’

Max smiled but remained silent, waiting for the first in precedence to speak.

Jazmine smiled with genuine pleasure at Giulia. ‘Please don’t curtsey to me. And call me Jazmine.’ She kissed Giulia’s cheek with warm welcome.

Giulia smiled back. ‘My father was an only child, and my mother’s relatives were all still in Greece, so I’ve never had a cousin, Jazmine, but I’ve always wanted one. My brother tends to be a bit overprotective.’ Those glorious eyes twinkled at her brother, who merely grinned. ‘My friends call me Lia.’

It seemed their lives were more alike than Jazmine had anticipated. She too had grown up with her relatives far away; she too had lost her mother at a young age, and had longed for a friend, a confidante, who belonged in her life. ‘Perhaps we should be thinking of each other as sisters, Lia.’

‘I’d like that.’ Lia’s face lit, as if Jazmine had offered her a fortune.

Without warning, her throat thickened. How long had it been since she’d had a simple offer of friendship from a person she could trust? But, much as she wanted to explore a friendship with Lia, her duty wasn’t complete.

With some trepidation she turned to Charlie, allowing none of her concerns to show in her face or voice. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather not think of you as a cousin, Charlie.’ She held out her hand to him. ‘I don’t think it would bode well for the future.’

To her surprise the new prince took the extended hand, and grinned as he shook it. He drawled in a mock-Southern accent, ‘Smacks too much of hillbilly movies and all them there in-breeders?’



Caught out, she did laugh this time. ‘Well, we’re only third cousins.’

Suddenly Jazmine needed a long, cool glass of water. Her mouth and throat had dried, watching that dark, dangerous face soften with the sexy Marandis smile. His voice was rough with the Australian twang, deep and intensely masculine. Suddenly it made the cultured accents of the men she knew sound, well, namby-pamby. And she was having the strangest reaction to the feel of his hand in hers.

For the first time in years, her self-control vanished and she had not the slightest idea what to do or say.

‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered softly as he pretended to kiss her cheek. ‘This isn’t your fault. I’ll find a way out of this crazy situation.’

She blinked, stared, opened her mouth and closed it. Where had her famous self-composure disappeared to when she needed it?

Max’s smile told Jazmine he’d seen her reaction to the new prince. Taking the focus from her, he moved forward to meet the new arrivals, shaking hands with the right degree of friendly welcome.

‘We will take tea.’ The king turned towards the stately sandstone house—the Marandis summer palace since the eighteenth century—before anyone else could speak.

The smile vanished from Charlie’s face. He nodded, as if his permission had been sought, and turned to walk with Lia into the house.

Despite his being a firefighter, obviously taking orders wasn’t something he enjoyed, though he seemed to know to choose his fights and bide his time.

Though that meant more work whipping him into shape, the complex nature of the new prince seemed to fit into her very personal agenda for the future of Hellenia. A modern hero with rebellious tendencies— as shown by his rescue of the children in Australia—and knowing when to keep silent, was exactly what her people needed.

She turned to follow her grandfather, taking Max’s arm. Then she remembered, and turned to Charlie to walk inside first. He was Crown Prince now, and above her in station.

He took his sister’s arm and stood, waiting. ‘I was brought up to allow ladies—and princesses— to go first.’

The words told her more than she wanted to know. He had no intention of accepting the title, or becoming a part of the royal family. He wanted to return to Australia as soon as possible. He’d soon learn it wouldn’t happen. Royal families didn’t belong to themselves, or have the luxury of independence.

As Max took her arm, he whispered, ‘I suspect life is about to get interesting. Our new prince is a firecracker. Good luck with that.’

She stifled a laugh. ‘I suspect you’re thanking the gods for your changes, now you’ve seen Lia.’

‘She certainly is lovely,’ he murmured, ‘And smooths over the waves. Good manners and well brought-up. Just what every man wants in a wife.’



Jazmine caught the irony in his tone. If Max resented being a slave to royal duty, he hadn’t shown any sign of it in the past few months—but then, how could he until now?

‘If the sister was well brought-up, what happened to the brother?’ she whispered.

‘By all accounts, his grandfather never bowed to the will of the crown,’ Max replied, just as softly. But as they passed through the grand double doors to the ballroom-sized chamber known as the tea room, she saw Charlie stiffen.

Max ushered her into the room. ‘Well, you can’t fault his hearing. You might want to keep any future liaisons—’

‘I’m not biting.’ She smiled sweetly at him. A prince in waiting and a gentleman to the core, Max had always enjoyed putting the cat among the pigeons.

Max grinned. ‘You can’t blame me for trying. It doesn’t appear as if my future bride has the Marandis fighting spirit your future king has in spades. I fear she’ll make me a poor opponent.’

Jazmine shook her head. Having read the investigative reports into the brother and sister, she doubted Lia lacked anything, including spirit. Her story of anorexia survival proved that, but Max would have to find out in his own time and way.

Grandfather waved them all into chairs facing him. By the way he drew himself up and refused to sit, he was about to hold court, as he called it.

She called it laying down the law.



‘Tea,’ he ordered a servant, who bowed and disappeared. The room emptied.

To Jazmine’s surprise, Charlie took a seat beside her. He was glancing from her to Giulia—who sat on Jazmine’s other side—but his expression didn’t change. He still looked grim and protective.

‘We will have no public displays in future of family discord, Kyriacou.’

Grandfather never descended to such terms as ‘do you hear me?’ As king, he could enforce his word with the full force of the law, even in the twenty-first century. He believed the Hellenican people liked it that way.

Jazmine had other ideas, but they’d remain her own until she was queen. If she became queen. She kept her gaze on the man who held her entire future in his hands.

Charlie was sprawled in his chair, watching her grandfather with polite interest, as if the king was an unusual exhibit at the zoo. ‘It’s been a long time since anyone defied you, I’d guess, Your Majesty.’

Grandfather put a hand on the back of the carved-oak chair. His brows lifted a touch. ‘Certainly.’

Charlie said politely, but with finality, ‘Well, here’s the lowdown on family discord, sire. I’m not your family. I met you five minutes ago. I am an Australian citizen—’

The king’s smile stopped him mid-sentence.

‘Actually, Kyriacou, you are a Hellenican citizen,’ Grandfather stated with well-bred relish. ‘You are a descendant of the royal family. You have been Hellenican, subject to its laws and regulations, from the moment you stepped into the consulate in Canberra.’

The silence was absolute. Even the servants didn’t breathe.

After a minute that seemed to take an hour, the king went on. ‘My word is law in Hellenia. You will do as I tell you, and leave only when I allow it.’ He smiled at Charlie in barely restrained triumph.

Giulia’s face was pale as she turned towards her brother. Max lifted his brows.

Jazmine felt herself gulping on air. Whatever Charlie said or did, unless it was capitulation or an abject apology, would only throw a landmine into Grandfather’s proud, stubborn face—and, on five minutes’ acquaintance, she felt sure ‘capitulation’ and ‘apology’ were words as foreign to the prince’s nature as they were to the king’s.

After an interminable minute, Charlie answered without the expected fire. ‘Without prior knowledge of Hellenican law, we’ve been subjected to false imprisonment, which is subject to international law under the terms of the Geneva Convention.’ He smiled back at Grandfather, whose lined, regal face whitened. ‘You made a mistake in underestimating me, Your Majesty. I will not be forcibly detained here. Nor will I allow you to force my sister or me to accept the positions. We are not political prisoners. If you make us such, I’m sure the world media would love to know about it.’

War declared—and it was about to be accepted. Before she knew it, Jazmine was on her feet, looking down at Charlie. ‘May I speak with you, please, Your Highness?’

Arrested by her intervention into the hostilities, Charlie turned and looked at her. A brow lifted as he searched her eyes. Jazmine’s panic grew as he seemed to be looking past her projected calm. Seeing more than she wanted him to.

‘Of course, Your Highness. I’m at your service.’ Just as slow, seeming almost insolent, he rose from the chair, stood and held an arm out to her as he’d seen Max do.

He was a quick learner when he wanted to be…but the challenge in his eyes told her the changes would come only in his time and way.

This man definitely had hidden depths—and, as he’d said to Grandfather, it was a mistake to underestimate him.

‘Do the goons get in line every time you move?’ he said in a conversational tone as they headed to a parlour, and four Secret Service people followed at a discreet distance.

‘Actually, two of them are yours. They’re here to protect you.’ Resisting the urge to pull her arm from his—the Secret Service would report the disharmony to Grandfather—she checked his reaction.

Bad mistake. The brows were up over laughing, derisive eyes. ‘Protect me? A little, five-foot-four Miss Perfect is going to take me down? I need help handling you?’

She nodded at their combined minders to step outside, then closed the parlour door behind them. ‘I’m five-foot three,’ she retorted, intensely aware of keeping her dignity. ‘And, though we both know it isn’t me you need protection from, I have a green belt in karate.’ She could also fly a jet and combat swim: they were basic requirements for the royal heirs of Hellenia.

She wondered if that would pique his interest; he was a man of action after all. How would he take it if he knew that both she and Max, whom he saw as pampered royals, could do all he did and then some?

Charlie grinned. ‘Are you going to bring me to the mat? Want to know how many ways I could take you down, princess?’

She shook herself. This half-sexual banter put her in a ridiculous situation; it was beneath her. ‘We’ve just come out of ten years of civil war. There were ten million people in Hellenia fifteen years ago. We’re down to eight million. Lord Orakis tends to eliminate competition in violent ways, and you and I both stand in his way. The king doubled the protection of all the royal family three years ago.’ Afterthe palace attack. And she intended to change the over-the-top protection levels, too, if—when—she became queen. He had to listen to her. He had to.

Charlie’s brows lifted again, and she guessed he was digesting another facet to his unwanted elevation in status.

She sat down. ‘We should get comfortable. There are things you need to know.’

‘Shake out the list, it’s miles long.’ His tone was as dry as new wine as he sat opposite her. It seemed he was a man who liked his personal distance. ‘We might need to ask the goons to bring in dinner and breakfast while they’re out there doing nothing.’

The words made her hesitate; he was already on edge, and obviously didn’t want to belong here. She abandoned her original, perhaps too harsh, words. ‘Life is very different here—’

He laughed, hard-edged. Words couldn’t adequately describe the wealth of half-repressed emotions it held.

Trying again, she forced herself to hold to her resolve. He’d been here less than an hour and he’d been threatened, had been given veiled bribes, and told he had no rights. A man like Charlie was bound to react badly to that. ‘No doubt you’ve been brought up very differently to those of us within the royal family, but you’re no longer in Australia.’

‘Gee, thanks, Dorothy. If I could find my red shoes I’d disappear back to my life and career, and make everyone’s lives easier.’ He cocked his very handsome head back in the general direction of the door. ‘His Furious Majesty’s less than impressed with the new heir.’

Strange that his speech sounded so arrogant, yet she heard rough exhaustion, and his acceptance that Grandfather was right to be unimpressed. ‘I’m trying to help you, but you’re not making it easy,’ she said, repressing the urge to grit her teeth.

At once his face and deep, velvety eyes softened, and again Jazmine felt that odd loss of emotional equilibrium. She felt less princess, and more…

‘I’m sorry, princess. I’m sure you’re as unhappy with this situation as I am.’ He swept a hand over the suit. ‘Even in the borrowed threads, I’m nobody’s idea of a prince. Believe me, I know. I’ve had enough ex-girlfriends informing me of the fact.’

Oh, but you could be, she almost said, but he was obviously uncomfortable in his new skin. Showing him possibilities, or ordering him around, it would be alienation to him.

No, just alien. He can’t be expected to see life asI’ve been bred to do.

Charlie had grown up ignorant of his heritage, in a modest four-bedroom brick home he’d occupied with his sister and friend until two days ago. Instead of years of royal training and sterling education at an international school and Oxford, or perhaps Yale or Harvard, he’d gone to a local high-school and had gone into fireman and paramedic training. He was a Marandis only in name. No, in Charlie’s mind, he was a fireman from the backblocks of Sydney. He’d had no time to adjust, saw no reason to adjust.

Grandfather had made a tactical error in his peremptory summons and enforced extraditions of this pair. He expected Charlie to obey orders he didn’t understand, to see his expected future as an honour, and accept his position when he had no idea what that future and position entailed. He’d made a mistake in expecting Charlie to bow to the royal will without full knowledge of why he and Lia were so necessary to the continuation of the Marandis royal family.

And, to Jazmine’s mind, wanting him to be a traditional Marandis was as impractical as it was counterproductive to the future she had planned.

‘Do you mind?’

Startled out of her plans, she looked at the cause of her hope and confusion. He’d shrugged off his jacket, and was tugging at his tie.

To her surprise, she smiled. ‘Only if I can take off these heels. You have no idea how much they hurt after a couple of hours’ standing.’

He grinned. ‘Go for it. I won’t tell.’ He tugged at his tie and pulled it off, then undid the top three buttons on his shirt, and rolled up his sleeves. ‘Hasn’t this place got air-conditioning?’

‘This house is almost four hundred years old.’ Charlie’s untamed golden masculinity, exposed in the open column of his shirt, emptied her head of everything but the need to stare her fill; to cover her pounding heart she added with would-be calmness, ‘The real palace does, but we haven’t lived there in a few years. It’s still being repaired.’ She half-expected him to ask why it was taking so long, or make a caustic comment on spoiled royals wanting everything perfect.

Instead, he said gently, ‘I’m sorry.’

Confused again, she lifted her brows in query.

He smiled at her. ‘Lady Eleni told us about the palace fire-attack during the war, and your father’s and brother’s deaths so soon after the war ended. It’s no wonder you agreed to this engagement. Security’s not to be sneezed at after all you’ve been through.’

Moved yet unnerved by kindness from a stranger, she turned her face. ‘I barely knew my father or brother.’ She willed control against the vast sorrow that there wasn’t time to know Father or Angelo now. She turned back, forcing a smile. ‘I was sent to school in Geneva when I was eight, and then attended finishing school. I was at university in London when I became Princess Royal, and summoned home. Father was busy with his duties, as was Angelo. I’d only been back here a year or two when they—’ Without warning, her throat thickened. Control, control!

‘I see,’ he said very quietly.

She closed her eyes, struggling to go on.

He leaned forward and touched her hand. ‘Lia and I lost our parents when I was seventeen. We’d all lived together, all three generations, all our lives, and Yiayia and Papou were fantastic, but…’ He smiled at her. ‘It’s okay to cry sometimes, princess. I know I did my share when I felt so alone I could scream.’

The words were beautiful and foreign to everything she’d been raised to believe. Don’t cry, Jazmine, her father had said at Mother’s funeral, when she was seven. You are a Marandis. You are strong!

Her spine straightened. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

The kindness and warmth vanished from his face. ‘Sorry; I crossed the royal line. There’s proof that I’m not a real prince, and I never will be.’

‘But you are,’ she said softly, backtracking fast, and letting the fact click into place: he doesn’t likebeing locked out. ‘Like it or not, you’re a Marandis, Charlie, and we need to discuss—’

‘Mmm. Say my name like that, and I’ll discuss whatever you want.’ A smile curved his mouth. ‘Char-r-r-lie,’ he said, as softly as she had, but with far more sensual intent. ‘I never heard the Mediterranean burr in quite that way before. Your voice is so blurry and sexy. I love listening to you, Jazmine.’

And his eyes, lingering on her face, said, and Ireally like looking at you.

He spoke her name as it had been pronounced: Zhahz-meen. One word, just a name she’d heard ten-thousand times, but he’d turned it into silk and shadows, with the summery sensuality of a lush Arabian night.

Without warning, a new kind of wolf had leaped from his lair; the hidden lion was pouncing. He’d spoken to her not as princess, but as man to woman. And she felt the slow melt inside, feminine liquidity racing like quicksilver through her body. He’d taken her from blue-blooded princess to red-blooded woman with just a few soft words.

She’d never met a man like him before. He was unique, an unexpected prince in a fireman’s skin, all hot-blooded male. He’d never learned to hide his emotions as she had. And, by his words, the look in his eyes and the slow burn in his touch, he wanted her to know he found her attractive. He didn’t play diplomatic games; he didn’t know how. This golden-skinned, dark-eyed man, strong and beautiful, a hero as much as any from the pages of TheOdyssey, found her as attractive as she found him.

‘And, as regards this engagement, it’s a farce. I don’t want to be here, and the last thing you need is a man who’ll never fit into your world. Nobody can force us into this kind of thing in the twenty-first century. I swear on my life I’ll get you out of this.’

She started out of her lovely daydream as his words sank in. And her heart sank right down with it.


CHAPTER THREE

CHARLIE saw the instant distress in her eyes—the intense disappointment—before something clicked back into place, and the warm woman she’d been became the ‘Mona Lisa princess’ the tabloids called her: picture-perfect and smiling, comfortable in the public eye, if remote somehow. ‘What makes you assume I want to get out of this?’

He stared, wondering if someone as lovely as the princess could have only half her marbles. ‘It has to be obvious. Even a real-life princess must want the whole nine-yard cliché: the handsome prince, babies, a palace—and a happily-ever-after. It’s only by accident of birth I’m here. I’m a Sydney boy, a rough-mannered fireman. I don’t have class, I don’t do “for ever”—and I’m certainly not the guy who’d make your life easier. I’m not what you’d call easy-going.’

Her smile grew, but it wasn’t one he liked. It made him feel out of control, and that was a feeling with which he was neither familiar nor comfortable. ‘It seems I have at least six of those yards, Your Highness. A palace—’ she waved her hand around ‘—and, if we married, babies would be part of the deal, I’d assume.’

His heart darkened at the thought of it. Royal children with royal minders, who’d have to bow and scrape to His Majesty’s every whim? Not on his life. ‘Four-and-a-half yards aren’t enough for a woman like you.’

‘I hadn’t finished,’ she said softly. ‘In my opinion, I have a handsome prince, even if he’s a reluctant one.’ She broke the smugness with a bitten-lip grin, the woman in her peeping out for a moment, and he found himself responding in kind. ‘If I must marry, I’d rather have a firecracker than a dog rolling over on order. You have a mind of your own, ideals and dreams. I respect that.’

Damn. Much as he liked her words—she’d made it obvious she found him attractive, and liked both his temper and his independence—now he had to be blunt. ‘As tempting as you are, I don’t want to get married, princess. I could never become what you’d want in a prince. I couldn’t stand the constant intrusions into my life you endure from the press every day. It was bad enough after the fire a few months back, but if I had to handle it on a daily basis I’d end up hitting someone. Not very royal behaviour, is it?’

She shook her head, still smiling. ‘I noticed your discomfort with the press—it was obvious in every photo. But, rest assured, we’d help you to acclimatise to that sort of thing.’



His jaw clenched tighter. ‘I don’t want to acclimatise,’ he said baldly. ‘I can’t think of a single benefit in being here. I want to live my life without black-suited goons following me and cameras waiting for every stuff-up I make—and I will make them.’

Jazmine nodded, as if she’d expected him to say it. He found himself wondering what it would take to rattle her cage, to put a crack in her perfect composure. ‘You do realize that the only way you can go home is by repudiating your position, which likely means your sister will go home with you?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t see a problem with that. Lia likes her life at home.’

Her voice filled with gentle amusement. ‘Have you asked Lia what she wants, or are you taking it for granted you can make a decision of this calibre for her?’

He felt his jaw clench. ‘I know my sister. She’s happy living with Toby and me, running her business and teaching the kids.’ Well, happy enoughnow, he amended silently. After her failed attempt to enter the Australian Ballet on the heels of their parents’ death in a car crash, it had brought on her dance with death-dealing anorexia. If it hadn’t been for Toby’s complete devotion to her returning to health—staying at the clinic with her day and night around their firefighting training-schedule—she might not have made it. Toby wasn’t only the best friend he’d ever had, the brother he’d always wanted, he was the only person Lia trusted with her secrets.



Suddenly he wanted to hear Toby’s voice saying everything would be okay, he’d be there soon, though it was sure to be said in four-syllable words he favoured. ‘Lord of the Dictionary’ Toby might be, but he was the staunchest, truest friend he and Lia could ever have.

There hadn’t been any joking camaraderie or long words when they’d talked to him from the Consulate in Canberra. Toby’s silent reaction to their sudden disappearance ‘on family business’, unable to say when they’d be home, unable to call again—unable even to talk it through with him as a result of the officials listening in on every word—had been an almost more frightening reality than the jet they’d been about to board. He, Lia and Toby were family. None of the three of them had ever kept secrets from each other, as far as he knew.

Now he and Lia were secrets. Secrets of state. And he hadn’t felt this alone since his parents’ death.

‘You know what your sister wants without asking her. I see.’ The amusement lurking in Jazmine’s eyes grew to an outright twinkle. She was so pretty, with that sparkle lighting her up from within. He’d always had a thing about that rich-chestnut colour, and she had it in a double dose: her eyes and hair. No wonder she was known as the last single beautiful princess in Europe, feted and courted by all the noble bachelors within five-thousand kilometres.

I could be the one kissing her next. I could takeher to bed in a matter of weeks…



And thinking about that, looking into that face, suddenly the whole prince-and-arranged-marriage gig didn’t seem so bad. The perks of unexpected royalty had never come in a more tempting package than Jazmine Marandis.

He dragged himself out of those thoughts before they turned dangerous. What had she been saying? Seeing something… ‘You see what?’ he demanded.

‘I see why you and my grandfather clash. You both believe you know what’s best for others without asking what they want. You’re more of a Marandis than you realize.’ Jazmine’s infuriating half-smile grew. ‘So you know she doesn’t want to be a princess, live in the palace, marry a young and handsome Grand Duke— Oh, and inherit the fifty million euros that is her inheritance and dowry from the duchy?’

Fifty million euros? Charlie felt a cold shiver run down his back. Good God. He hadn’t thought about the money; he’d been too furious to think. He’d concentrated on what he would lose, what he wanted.

What about Lia? Would she want the money, the lifestyle, the whole thing? What if she was attracted to the Grand Duke? Would Charlie ruin everything for her because he wanted to return to his life?

As if tapping into his thoughts, Jazmine asked conversationally, ‘Have you always made decisions for Lia? I hear she runs a successful ballet school. Do you decide what concerts she’ll do, check the accounts, or help her run it?’



‘Of course not,’ he snapped, hating that she was right. He had no right to decide for Lia. And he was really irritated that the snooty princess was holding all the cards. He knew nothing of this country, his new family or the laws. The only power he had was his independence. His ‘pig-headed pride’, as Lia put it.

He grinned suddenly, thinking of his sister as Princess Lia. Just as well his name wasn’t Luke, or this whole thing really would have been a farce.

But, much as he hated to admit it, the ‘Mona-Lisa princess’ sitting across from him was correct. The title suited her, he thought sourly, with her intriguing, frustrating little smile, and eyes that saw too much. He had no right to decide the future for Lia. His shy, family-loving, homebody sister might hanker after the fairy-tale ending most women dreamed of, and after everything she’d been through she deserved it.

‘What do you want from me?’ he growled, backed into a corner for Lia’s sake.

As if knowing she’d boxed him in, her smile turned hopeful. ‘I only want you to give this life a chance before you disappear. And, please, stop trying to be my white knight. If you’re no prince, I’m no damsel in distress.’

He felt the flush creeping up his neck. She was right. The fireman in him had crossed the world to a new kind of burning building, ready to carry out the helpless female trapped in a situation not of her making…or liking.



The muscles on her face didn’t move, but he knew she was smiling inside. That mysterious twinkle in her eyes, lurking deep, fascinated him with her unspoken secrets.

‘And?’ He could tell there was more.

‘There’s more at stake than your privacy, independence and pride, Charlie. Lives hang in the balance.’ She leaned forward in earnest entreaty as she said his name again, and a hint of soft cleavage showed through the correct folds of her silky blouse.

Was her skin as silky-soft? Would she say his name with that sweet, sexy little burr as he slipped that blouse from her shoulders and down…?

Shove it, jerk. She’s a princess. With her minders,there’s no chance of touching her before thewedding night. And a wedding night—or awedding—just isn’t happening!

The only reason he was listening to her was because he didn’t know what Lia wanted. He knew what he wanted. And that wasn’t about to change, no matter how pretty and appealing the princess was. Because she was a princess, she came with her own set of royal chains, and he wasn’t the guy to slip his wrists into the king’s cuffs for any amount of money or power. She was bred to this life. He was here by accident of birth.

‘So whose life is at stake?’ He was proud of the even tone. Control established.

She frowned, her head tilting a little. ‘You don’t want to know what your inheritance is?’



For a moment he was tempted. Then the realization came: she’d only asked to weaken his resolve, to appeal to his greed—and when that didn’t work no doubt she’d try another tack. She’d keep gently chipping away at his walls until, deprived of a safe perch, he’d fall off. And, like Humpty Dumpty, if he fell no amount of king’s horses or men would put his life back the way it had been.

Surely she’d seen enough of him to know the only good he could do this place was to get back on that jet and return to his anonymous life in Sydney? If he hadn’t even been able to help his own sister through anorexia, how the hell could he run a country?

‘No, thanks,’ he said abruptly. ‘If I can’t take it home with me, there’s no point. So, what are the stakes? Whose lives “hang in the balance”, as you put it so eloquently?’

She’d bitten her lip as he spoke—not on the outside, no, that wouldn’t be classy enough for the perfect princess. But she’d worried the inside of her lip, and for some reason he couldn’t fathom he found the act touching…sweet, and somehow lonely.

When she spoke, it was with a kind of desperate resolve. ‘The lives and future of the people of Hellenia. Lasting peace in our nation.’

His brows lifted. ‘All that depends on me?’ he mocked, to cover the fact that he had the same sinking feeling in his gut he felt when he saw a fire gone beyond his ability to extinguish it.

‘Yes.’ Her eyes grew soft with pleading. ‘Grandfather seems almost immortal, but he’s eighty-two, and he’s had two heart attacks already. If he dies without naming a male heir, it will mean disaster for Hellenia. It’s obvious you believe you’re the wrong man for the job, Charlie.’ His body heated up again, hearing the blurry way she said his name. ‘But don’t judge Hellenia’s needs or your suitability until you know our history. Being one of the few absolute monarchies left in the world—’

Before she could finish the State of the Nation address, she appeared to think better of it; her voice dropped, and turned husky with emotion. ‘There’s been such suffering in our country since your grandfather left. It can end with us.’ Her words held entreaty and conviction—no longer the Princess dolly, but showing a bare hint of the passionate woman he’d seen before, and it fascinated him. ‘This is bigger than us, what we want.’

With control still in place, his jaw didn’t drop, but the shock lingered inside him, roiling his gut. ‘Are you saying you want this crazy marriage?’

‘Alliance,’ she corrected, her eyes calm. ‘Don’t panic, Charlie; it isn’t personal.’ She nibbled the inside of her lip again. A subtle gesture, and one most wouldn’t see, but Charlie could feel her fear, sense her worry, the loneliness of her position—and the stakes he still didn’t know became more urgent, reflected in the shadows inside her eyes. Eyes that, looking more closely, he noted were more like old Irish whisky than chestnut. ‘I know you care about others, or you wouldn’t have risked your life for that little girl, or the dozens of others we discovered you’ve rescued.’ Her gaze searched his in deep-hidden pleading and anxiety.

Not knowing what to say or do, he nodded, wishing he didn’t have to, but her complete honesty demanded his in return.

‘We need your help on a larger and more lasting scale than anyone you’ve saved in the past. There are five-hundred-year-old laws that need changing. Not merely that, but thousands of people lost family and homes and rights during the civil war. Some of my people have nothing. And, if you leave, they’ll have nothing to look forward to. Nothing.’

Though she’d said it three times, the word still held a starkness, a rawness too strong for her to be putting on an act.

‘I’m listening,’ he said quietly.

Her eyes lit from within, and his body tightened in spite of the gravity of the conversation. She was so pretty, so certain of her convictions. ‘I want to bring Hellenia into the modern world, but with the way the law currently stands I can’t do it alone. If you renounce your position, I lose my chance. According to laws in place since we took power in the 1700s, there must be an heir from the male Marandis line, or the crown reverts to a direct descendant of the royal family that was forcibly removed in the 1700s. The Orakis family was deposed by the people for their selfish and immoral ways. The head of the rebel force—a national hero, Angelis Marandis—was asked to become king. Marandis didn’t want to take the crown, but he did, for the sake of his people.’

Charlie nodded again, feeling an unwanted kinship with this long-dead relative. He’d heard most of this from the ambassador in Canberra, but it was obvious she had something to say, and interrupting her would break her train of thought.

The princess sighed. ‘The Orakis family never left. They’ve started civil wars, fomented unrest in troubled times—such as during World War Two, when our ally Greece was overrun. The troubles in Albania have given the Orakis supporters the opportunity to try to regain power in secret during the last twenty years.’ She stopped, nibbling her lip again. Looking almost adorably lost.

Trying with all his might not to respond to her plea, to touch her, he nodded. ‘Lady Eleni told us all that in Canberra.’

She smiled at his awkward attempt to comfort her. ‘Sorry if I appear to be going over old ground, but you need to understand why your decision is important to far more people than you and Lia. Markus Orakis is an autocrat in the old mould, believing in his right to rule. Orakis’s father spent twenty years trying to reclaim the throne.’ She blinked once, twice, but the suspicious sheen turned her eyes into beautiful mirror-pools of the suffering she saw in her people’s future. She looked up, those mysterious eyes shimmering with emotion, drenching his soul with her courage and her selfless duty.

‘It’s not that he’s a terrorist—he’s not. He just wouldn’t change anything. He’d keep Hellenia in the seventeenth century to keep the monarchy absolute and unchallenged. He’d put his family and followers in strategic positions to consolidate his power, and destroy anyone who threatened him.’ She sighed. ‘You’ve watched the international news, right? This isn’t melodrama. It’s what this kind of man does. They start with good intentions, doing good to the nation, then power goes to their heads and they justify any act of violence. He’s already that way with the following he has.’

Again, Charlie nodded. Anyone who watched the news could name the dictators who’d done exactly as Jazmine was predicting Orakis would do. ‘Go on.’

She touched his hand, and he could feel her trembling as she delivered her final words with the subtlety of a battle axe to his skull. ‘Ask yourself—if he could have returned, would your grandfather have done so? For his people, the people he loved? And, now he can’t, wouldn’t he want you and Lia to try?’

Ah, hell…

Click: a tiny sound in his brain, but deadly. It was the sound of manacles around his wrists. She’d found the key to his capitulation, and turned it without hesitation.

If he could have, Papou would have come back. He’d have urged Charlie to try to help if he could— and, despite his denial, he knew Lia’s answer. In all her life she’d never let anyone down, never said no if she was in a position to help. To her, the suffering in Hellenia would make this choice a sacred commission, the chance to put right Papou’s wrong in choosing love over duty.

An hour into their relationship, and she’d put his wrists in cuffs. For the sake of the Hellenican people: Papou’s people; her people. And for her sake, because it seemed the perfect princess did need a hero after all.

The perfect shell of the mysterious princess was a fragile illusion that, when shattered, couldn’t be reinstated. Those private, proud eyes had cried for him, and if he turned his back now he’d regret it for the rest of his life.

‘Enough, Your Highness.’ His tone froze even him, but he was losing the freedom he treasured. He might have to accept it, but he didn’t have to like it. ‘I’ll go back in there and behave. I gather that’s what you want?’

The appealing loveliness of her vanished as if it had never been. ‘There will be much more than that, Your Highness—but let’s take on one obstacle at a time.’

She was every inch the princess, cool and detached. But the woman of passion and commitment lingered like a super-imposition; her warm and vital heart beat beneath the icy layer she projected. He saw the princess, but heard the woman within. He saw her, beautiful and so earnest, pleading with him to stay. She’d stripped her defences, not for herself, but for the sake of her people.

He wondered why, when she could have used other cool, level-headed arguments, she’d chosen to show her real, hidden self to him.

‘Time to bow to the old dragon,’ he said, not without ruefulness. He didn’t want to, but he’d given his word. He put the choking tie back in place as she slipped her feet back into the heels that were way too high for so small a woman. ‘See, princess, I can pretend to be civilized every now and then.’

The smile she gave in return seemed remote, yet the super-imposition remained. As if she stood in a mirror, he could see the reflection of her uncertainty beneath—and it was that hidden woman under the princess’s surface face he couldn’t make himself reject.

He held out his arm to her. He’d have liked a more intimate touch. Holding hands would tell him if the simmering fascination he was feeling for her was returned, or if it was all duty on her side.

But the minders waited on the other side of the door. And two stood in strategic positions outside on the terrace. When it came to private matters, he’d never been one to put on a show.

Jazmine rose gracefully to her feet and slipped her arm through his. ‘Think of it as a game,’ she suggested. ‘You say yes, you capitulate—for now—and you make plans. When it’s your turn, you can change what you like, from law, protection levels and privacy, to the rate of taxes.’

He felt his brows lift. ‘Very clever, Your Highness.’

She inclined her head, but not before he caught the twitching grin, the tiny quiver of a half-dimple at the side of her mouth, and the lurking mischief in her eyes.

He knew he’d remember her face, caught in that moment in time, for the rest of his life. The superior Mona Lisa: dutiful princess, a passionate, committed woman and a sweet tease all in one. And she was beautiful like this, so beautiful.

The door opened as they approached. He flicked a glance around, and saw the security cameras in every corner.

Strangers had been watching his every move, listening to every private word between himself and Jazmine. Like it or not, he had been putting on a show.

It would be that way for the rest of his life, if he took this on. There would be no treasured private moments between husband and wife. Every sound would be noted by the security outside, even if there were no hidden cameras.

This wasn’t the start of something between a man and a woman, it was a farce, a half-tragic sitcom for the edification of a legion of strangers.

He wanted to puke, to bolt back to that big silver jet and head back to a life where he didn’t have people watching, a king telling him what to do, and a princess who made him feel like a jerk and a hero at the same time.




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