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A Proposal From The Crown Prince
Jessica Gilmore
The prince and the ballerina… Her dreams of making principal dancer dashed, Posy Marlowe escapes to her beloved Villa Rosa. However, her peace is shattered by the arrival of a gorgeous stranger on her private beach!Crown Prince Nico is surprised to find Posy at the abandoned island villa. Once, he would've charmed Posy off the beach and into his arms, but now he's in need of a more permanent arrangement. He just has to persuade the woman who's already warming his heart she'll make his perfect princess bride!Summer at Villa Rosa – book 4 of 4


The prince and the ballerina...
Her dreams of making principal dancer dashed, Posy Marlowe escapes to her beloved Villa Rosa. However, her peace is shattered by the arrival of a gorgeous stranger on her private beach!
Crown Prince Nico is surprised to find Posy at the abandoned island villa. Once, he would’ve charmed Posy off the beach and into his arms, but now he’s in need of a more permanent arrangement. He just has to persuade the woman who’s already warming his heart she’ll make his perfect princess bride!
“I think we should get married. Don’t you?”
“But...that’s ridiculous. We don’t even know each other.” Plus he hadn’t even asked her. Not that a ring and a bended knee would make any difference, but at least she wouldn’t feel like a problem he needed to sort out. She folded her arms and glared at him.
Nico raised one lazy brow. “Rosalind Anne Marlowe,” he drawled. “Twenty-four years old. Your parents own a well-thought-of light aircraft manufacturer, which your sister, Imogen, now runs. You have two more sisters, one a pilot, the other a celebrity journalist who is in a relationship with Javier Russo, a friend of my cousin, Alessandro.”
“Yes, but...”
He carried on as if she hadn’t spoken. “You went to train to be a ballerina when you were eleven and graduated into a company where you spent the last five years as a member of the corps de ballet until your unexpected sabbatical this summer. No one knows if you plan to return to dancing or if you have other plans, but your sabbatical has caused quite a stir—you have shown no interest in anything except ballet your entire life. You share a flat with two other dancers, have had a handful of boyfriends although no relationship lasted more than three months and you met them all through work. How am I doing so far?”
“You had me investigated?”
His eyes darkened and he took a step nearer. “I know you like to dance on the beach even when there’s no audience there to see you. I know you like the feel of cold salt water on your bare skin. I know the look on your face when you make your mind up to do something and the way your hands clench when you’re nervous. I know the look on your face when I touch you. I know the way you sigh, the way you moan...”
Summer at Villa Rosa (#u13130e70-e9da-558e-b509-7182106ed151)
Four sisters escape to the Mediterranean...
Only to find reunions, romance...and royalty!
Villa Rosa holds a very special place in the hearts of Posy Marlowe and her three sisters, filled with memories of idyllic summer holidays on L’Isola dei Fiori. And her recent inheritance of the beautiful but fading palazzo from her godmother, Sofia, couldn’t have come at a better time for them all!
Now, this summer, they all escape to L’Isola dei Fiori and rediscover Villa Rosa again.
Don’t miss all four books in this fabulous quartet:
On sale June: Her Pregnancy Bombshell
by Liz Fielding (Miranda’s story)
On sale July: The Mysterious Italian Houseguest
by Scarlet Wilson (Portia’s story)
On sale August: The Runaway Bride and the Billionaire
by Kate Hardy (Imogen’s story)
On sale September: A Proposal from the Crown Prince
by Jessica Gilmore (Posy’s story)
Only in Mills & Boon Romance.
And Jessica Gilmore brings you an exciting online read—a prequel to Summer at Villa Rosa.
Available now at millsandboon.co.uk (http://millsandboon.co.uk).
A Proposal from the Crown Prince
Jessica Gilmore


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
A former au pair, bookseller, marketing manager and seafront trader, JESSICA GILMORE now works for an environmental charity in York, England. Married with one daughter, one fluffy dog and two dog-loathing cats, she spends her time avoiding housework and can usually be found with her nose in a book. Jessica writes emotional romance with a hint of humor, a splash of sunshine and a great deal of delicious food—and equally delicious heroes!
To my very own hardworking ballerina.
I hope one day you really will be a tree in Covent Garden xxx
Contents
Cover (#u8f6a545f-4586-5178-9508-11fa4e808203)
Back Cover Text (#u0d3369b4-9d43-5839-bb33-c4917a7377be)
Introduction (#ue43ce4d3-0ff1-5136-bb3c-668b88f56a0a)
Summer at Villa Rosa (#u7ba562a3-df43-5cf7-9422-df47dcd646f6)
Title Page (#u1070e22a-7ef2-5a1f-b6c7-b9feed5f0ba2)
About the Author (#u583c18a7-0764-5f2a-9c66-c1a2f2446419)
Dedication (#u2ac09a2d-c6d5-5043-82b6-dcec6bfc62cb)
CHAPTER ONE (#u9ea99474-4453-5966-b479-f64635768a43)
CHAPTER TWO (#u1f29d44e-6cd9-5174-b662-a67a7f6b9923)
CHAPTER THREE (#uc2ca3340-3bc8-5816-b15e-6d763ff9ccc2)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u07690d98-71c4-5dd4-8cfc-f47a89a37641)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u13130e70-e9da-558e-b509-7182106ed151)
POSY’S CHEEKS ACHED but her smile didn’t waver, nor did she flinch as a bead of sweat rolled down her forehead, another trickling slowly down her back. Her muscles screamed for release but she kept perfectly still, one leg bent, an arm outstretched, head high, eyes fixed on the cheering crowd. They were on their feet, shouts of ‘bravo!’ reverberating around the auditorium as bouquet after ravishing bouquet were carried onto the stage to be laid reverentially at her fellow dancer’s feet.
What must it feel like to be Daria, Posy wondered as Daria kissed her hand to the ecstatic audience, to know that all this rapture was for you? How did it feel to star in a brand-new ballet, choreographed just for you, and to have London at your feet? She and Daria had started ballet school together years before, had once stood side by side, the only two girls from their year to make it into the Company—but now Daria shone right in centre stage while Posy remained firmly in the heart of the Corps de Ballet.
But there was still hope, the promotions were yet to be announced. Maybe this year she would finally make Artist and be given some of the smaller featured roles—and then First Artist to Soloist and on and on until she reached the exalted rank of Principal. Maybe...
But at twenty-four, five years after she’d graduated into the Company, it was getting harder and harder to keep hoping. Of course, she reminded herself as another bead of sweat trickled down her cheek, thousands of people would kill for the opportunity to be doing exactly what she was doing, would consider being able to dance in nearly every production of the most prestigious ballet company in the world enough in itself. But it wasn’t enough; she wanted more.
Posy stayed backstage longer than usual after the curtain finally fell, standing quietly to one side of the cavernous room as the rest of the dancers exited chattering excitedly and the stagehands began to move the scenery back into its designated space. There was always an extra buzz after a Saturday night’s performance, adrenaline mixing with the sweet knowledge there was no class on a Sunday so the dancers could flock to their favourite Covent Garden haunts, filling the tables vacated by the tourists as night drew in. But Posy couldn’t shake her flatness and so she waited until the backstage area had cleared before making her way out. When she finally reached the dressing room she shared with several other girls it was empty apart from the usual bottles of make-up and brushes scattered on the dressing tables, discarded tights and pointe shoes piled in the corner and costumes hanging on rails, waiting for the costume department to collect, clean and mend them before the next performance.
Posy sank into her chair with a sigh, avoiding her own gaze in the brightly lit mirror. She didn’t want to see the sweat-streaked stage make-up accenting her eyes, cheekbones and lips, the dark hair twisted into the bun she had worn every day for years, slim but muscled shoulders and arms, the clavicles at her neck clearly visible. Her make-up itched, felt too heavy, claggy on her skin, her shoulders ached and her ankles twinged. As for her feet, well, she knew all too well that it was her job to smile and look effortless while en pointe, that it took as much practice to smile through the pain as it did to perfect a pirouette, but tonight her shoes pinched more than usual, the ribbons too tight around her ankles. It took a few moments to undo the knots and slip them off, pulling off her toepads to reveal the bruised and blistered feet of a professional ballet dancer. She winced as she flexed her feet. Every twinge was worth it. Usually...
‘You look triste, chérie.’
Posy jumped as a voice floated over from the door; she’d assumed all her friends had left. She forced a smile and turned to greet her fellow Corps ballerina. ‘Hi, Elise. No, I’m fine. Just end-of-season blues, the usual.’ The principals and soloists were heading out on an Australian tour before stepping into a series of lucrative guest artist appearances but the summer always seemed longer and emptier for those without international reputations. She usually filled her break with stints teaching at summer schools, extra classes and courses and trying to find opportunities to perform wherever she could. She knew she was luckier than many ballet dancers—at least she was paid over the summer months—but she still felt lost at the thought of weeks without her usual routine of classes, rehearsals and performances.
The diminutive French girl sauntered into the room and dropped gracefully into the chair next to Posy’s. ‘Me, I’m looking forward to the break,’ she said. ‘I thought you were too. Don’t you have a holiday home to visit?’
Posy shrugged. She knew she should be more excited about the house her godmother had left her but her recent visit to the rambling pink villa on L’Isola dei Fiori for her sister Miranda’s rather sudden wedding had left her filled less with the thrill of home ownership than with panic. The villa was huge and had obviously once been beautiful but now it was dilapidated, the garden still overgrown despite her sister Immi’s best efforts, with walls literally crumbling down. It was going to cost a fortune to put right—and a fortune was something she most definitely didn’t have.
‘I am planning to go there at some point over the summer, but my sister’s there at the moment and I’m not sure how long she’s planning on staying.’ The villa did have an immediate use—it had been a bolt-hole for all three of her sisters; first Miranda, then Portia and now Imogen had all fled there to try and regroup in a year that seemed full of upheaval. Posy knew she was being silly, there was no reason she couldn’t stay there at the same time as her sister, but years away at ballet school had left her feeling very much the outsider in her own family. It didn’t help that the sisters nearest in age were twins, neither of whom had wanted to spend much time with the baby of the family when they were growing up.
‘If I had a villa on the beach I would be heading straight there and possibly never coming back.’ Elise eyed Posy keenly. ‘Unless there’s another reason you’re staying around.’
Posy shifted in her seat, unpinning her hair so she didn’t have to meet Elise’s gaze. ‘I don’t want to be too far away. People are ill on tour, they need emergency understudies; I’d hate to miss out because I’m not here.’ She just needed the opportunity to stand out. If they would just give her a solo, one small role, then they would see what she could do.
Elise didn’t answer for a long moment; instead she swept the discarded hairpins up from Posy’s dressing table and began to bend them back into shape. ‘Posy, you and I have danced together for how long now? Three years?’
Posy nodded, her chest tightening at Elise’s unusually serious tone.
‘In that time neither of us have been asked to do anything extra, to be featured in any way while girls who joined this season, last season, have been getting duets, solos, character parts.’
Posy closed her eyes. It was all too true. ‘It doesn’t mean we won’t get there...’
‘Non,’ Elise contradicted her. ‘It does. And I for one did not become a dancer to spend my life being nothing but beautiful scenery.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m leaving. I’m joining a tour company.’
Posy spun round and stared at her friend in disbelief. ‘You’re what? Cramped dressing rooms, digs, a different small town every day, no paid holiday? Instead of here, instead of all this history, the reputation? Why?’
‘To dance,’ Elise said simply. ‘I will go in as First Soloist, if I do well then I could be Principal by this time next year. I have been promised a chance to dance Clara and Aurora this autumn. There’s even a chance of Odette/Odile if I work hard. I deserve this. I’ve paid my dues here, Posy. As have you. Why don’t you come with me? I know they would jump at the opportunity to have someone with your training.’
But Posy was already shaking her head. Here was where she was meant to be. This was the stage she wanted to conquer—not a different stage every night. ‘I can’t. But I wish you all the luck in the world if this is what you really want.’
‘What I want is a handsome prince to whisk me away from all of this, but if it won’t happen in real life at least I’ll get to dance it. Posy, there’s a whole world outside. Remember that, you have choices...but come, it’s Saturday night and we are free for such a short while. Do you want me to wait for you? There’s a table at Luigi’s with our name at it.’
‘You go ahead. I’m still not changed and I left my jacket in the studio. I’ll see you there, okay?’
‘Okay. Don’t be too long. It’s not good to be alone when your thoughts are sad.’
There’s a whole world outside. Elise’s words echoed through Posy’s head as she headed away from the dressing room and up the staircase that led to the rehearsal studios and break rooms where she spent much of her day. There was a world outside but this was all she had ever wanted from the moment she first put a ballet shoe on. She had sacrificed friends, romance, higher education, even her family to be able to walk along these corridors, rehearse in these studios. To step out onto that stage. How could she give up on her dream when it was still attainable? Impossible.
She’d expected the dancers’ area to be dark and shut up but to her surprise the lights were on in the wide corridors. She stopped to look at the familiar space, at the sofas lined up along the wall facing the huge windows with their views across Covent Garden and the wider city skyline, encouraging the dancers to sit and rest between their gruelling routine of class and rehearsal. Windows above the sofas looked into the large studios, each wall covered with mirrors and barres, capable of holding forty or so dancers. She spent nine hours a day, six days a week in these corridors and studios; they were more home than the narrow bedroom she rented just a few streets away.
She’d left her jacket slung on one of the sofas and she picked it up, suddenly impatient to be out of the building and away from her worries. Elise was right, maybe being alone when she was sad was a mistake. She’d be better off at Luigi’s with a glass of wine and a plate of pasta, her usual Saturday night treat. As she turned she caught sight of two people in the studio and froze when she recognised the ballet master, Bruno, and the formidable company director, Dame Marietta Kirotsova, deep in conversation.
Her heartbeat speeded up. Here was her chance, handed to her on a plate. She could go in there and ask them just what she had to do, what she had to work on, how she could distinguish herself enough to finally take her rightful place as a featured artist. She inhaled, apprehension creeping through her. She was used to criticism, to rejection; she had to be. But this time it mattered more than it ever had.
‘Just move, Posy,’ she admonished herself, but for the first time in her life her feet wouldn’t obey. Maybe she was a coward after all, maybe it was better to hope than to know that there was no hope.
And then all thoughts fled as she heard her name, loud and clear through the partly opened door. She tried to speak up, to let them know she was there, but her voice had dried up, her limbs incapable of movement.
‘Rosalind Marlowe? Oh, you mean Posy?’ Bruno’s voice, still heavily Italian even after several decades in London, carried easily through the still air. Posy swallowed, wishing she were anywhere else.
‘She’s danced with us for five seasons. Do you think she’s ready for a featured part?’
Posy squeezed her eyes shut, wishing with all the fervour of a small child for the right answer, that her worries would all be over soon.
‘No.’
And just like that her world ended.
‘She’s an excellent technical dancer, maybe the best we have. I can see her as coryphée one day—and she would be a wonderful teacher. But she doesn’t have the fire, the passion to step outside the corps. I never look at her in character and believe this is a woman who has loved, who has lived. It’s a pity but as I say she is almost unsurpassed technically and a great asset to the company...’
Posy didn’t wait to hear more. Somehow she regained control of her legs and began to back quietly away. She had her answer. She would never be a soloist, never stand in the spotlight, never see the crowds jumping to their feet for her. Worse, she would never dance the steps she knew and loved so well. Would never be Juliet or Giselle. She was fated to watch other girls live out the tragedies. She had failed.
CHAPTER TWO (#u13130e70-e9da-558e-b509-7182106ed151)
NICO MIGHT—AND DID—tell himself that he would rather be anywhere in the world than stuck here on L’Isola dei Fiori but even he had to admit that right now he was as contented as an imprisoned man could be. Maybe it was the soft summer evening light, the way the brilliance of the sun had dimmed to a glowing warmth, the sea breeze a cool accent to the heat. Maybe it was the scent of night-blooming jasmine mingling with the salty tang of the sea or maybe it was the way the green cliff tops rolled across the horizon dipping suddenly into the azure blue of the sea punctuated only by the curving perfection of fine white sand.
So, maybe L’Isola dei Fiori felt like a prison but at least it was a beautiful one and as he strolled along the cliff path towards the Villa Rosa it was easy to forget all the reasons he didn’t want to be here—and all the reasons why he was tethered to his island home.
Although the nearest beach was technically open to anyone, like all the beaches on the island it was Crown property; the only known path to it led from the fading pink villa, majestically poised on the very edge of the cliffs looking out over the sea. The only known path to those who didn’t know every inch of the island by heart, that was. And Nico did. Whether he liked it or not every path, every bend, every slope, every blade of grass and grain of sand was emblazoned on his heart, in their own way as binding as his obligations.
The way was hidden by two boulders, seemingly impenetrable unless you knew the exact turn—a smart right, almost turning back on yourself, a squeeze and then the path lay before you—more of a goat trail than a formal path, a steep, twisting scramble down to the beach. Nico stared down at the overgrowth covering much of the rocky path. How many times had he raced Alessandro down here, half running, half slithering onto the beach below, only to return bruised, scraped and exhilarated from another forbidden adventure?
His eyes burned. No, he wouldn’t think of Alessandro. But it was hard not to when every corner held a twist of nostalgia, a memory to cut deep. Two years on and time had healed nothing. Grimly he increased his speed, the adrenaline of the fast clamber down chasing away his grief in a way no other attempt at solace had until he finally half leapt, half fell down the last vertical slick of rock onto the sand below. Nico kicked off his shoes, the soft sand beneath his toes anchoring him firmly back in the here and now.
It had been over a decade since he’d last visited this particular cove and nothing seemed to have changed. Nico had travelled to more than his fair share of stunning places but on an evening like this the secret cove was hard to beat: small but perfectly formed, the sand curving in a deep horseshoe partitioned by a graceful arch of craggy rock. The waves lapped gently on the shore and Nico knew from experience that the currents were kind, the water deepening gently, several long strides before a bather found himself thigh deep.
The summer breeze was lessened down here, the steep cliffs providing a natural shelter, and Nico realised how warm he was, his T-shirt sticking to his torso. He eyed the sea, already feeling the coolness of the water against his heated skin. It wasn’t that late and the fierceness of the day’s sun would ensure the water was a pleasurable temperature—not that he and Alessandro had ever cared about the time of year or day, as happy to night swim in winter as they were in summer, the sea their eternal playground, until Alessandro had grown up, grown into his responsibilities and put their boyhood adventures firmly behind him. For all the good it had done him...
And now it was Nico’s turn to shoulder the burden, to take his responsibilities so seriously he would no longer be able to sneak away for an evening swim. Really he shouldn’t now; the sensible thing would be to turn around and go home. He clenched his fists. No, he had a lifetime of making sensible decisions ahead of him, a lifetime of duty first, self last. Tonight belonged to him. To the memory of two young boys sneaking away from tradition and responsibility to bathe by the light of the moon.
His body decided before his mind was fully made up, shucking off his damp T-shirt and stepping out of his shorts and boxers, leaving them in a crumpled pile on the sand as he walked naked towards the welcoming sea. It was only as his toe touched the refreshing water that he remembered the main reason why this was a bad idea. Nico paused briefly then shrugged the thought off. If a paparazzi was so enterprising as to follow him here then he or she would get the shot of a lifetime. His mouth curved as he pictured his uncle’s reaction. It would almost be worth it...
The water was every bit as revitalising as he had hoped, the waves not too strong, the temperature warm at first, turning more bracing as he headed out into the deeper waters. He struck out with strong, sure strokes, out, out and further out until, when he turned to float lazily on his back, the beach was just a smudge of yellow. He stayed there for some time, happy to just scull gently in the water as the waves broke over him, rocking him from side to side, the late, sinking sun still warm on his salt wet face. It was hard to imagine ever being this free again when tomorrow he would formally take up his duties, his future one of ceremonies and meetings, a hidebound, indoor, rigid existence.
And, sooner rather than later, a wife. A family. A suitable consort chosen for him.
At the thought his buoyant mood sank quicker than a pebble thrown into the water and he was back on his front and striking back to shore, not with the bold freedom of his earlier strokes but with a precise, weary determination, fighting his own instinct to flee as much as the outgoing tide.
He was closing in on the beach, his pile of clothes coming into focus, when he saw her. Nico stilled, swearing under his breath as he slowed to tread water.
She was on the other side of the arch that bisected the beach into two, standing near the narrow jetty and the natural thermal pool that made the beach so famous. He couldn’t see her boat but, seeing as she had just stepped off the jetty, he was betting she had moored on the other side. If he was careful then Nico might be able to make his way to shore and grab his clothes and be out of there before she noticed him. Or he could stay here, bobbing up and down like a seal and wait for her to leave. Neither option appealed but action would always win out over inaction. So stealthy approach it was.
His mind made up, Nico looked over at the girl again. She was too far away for him to make out her features. All he could see was a petite, very slim frame topped with a mass of long dark hair. She kicked along the beach, hands in pockets, staring down at the ground. Everything about her suggested despair and Nico felt a pull of kinsmanship. He was about to move off when she stopped, straightened and flung back her hair, curving one elegant arm above her head and executing what seemed to him to be a perfect pirouette on the beach. She paused and then spun round again and then again, hair flowing, like some beach naiad performing her evening rites.
Nico sensed that he was intruding on something intensely personal yet he couldn’t look away, transfixed by the grace and agility so unselfconsciously displayed, and by the time she drew her white dress over her head in one fluid movement and dropped it on the beach it was too late to turn away, to swim away. She wasn’t wearing a bra and it took less than two seconds for her to step out of her knickers and walk into the sea with the same grace she had displayed as she had danced.
She must be a naiad or a siren and he, like Odysseus, was caught, too mesmerised to retreat. All he could do was wait and hope that she wouldn’t see him. A futile hope—Nico knew the moment she spotted him because she stopped dead in the water, spluttering as a wave caught her unawares. It was his cue and he swam a little nearer, not too close, not enough to alarm her any more than he already had. ‘Nice evening for it.’
If looks could kill he would be shark meat, his dead body right now slipping underneath the waves. ‘I thought this was private property.’
His mouth curved appreciably. Her head was held high as she trod water, her dark eyes fierce. ‘The sea? Are you Poseidon’s princess to claim ownership over the waves?’
She swallowed, visibly fighting for control. ‘The beach. The beach is private property.’
‘It’s not, you know,’ he said conversationally. ‘It’s property of the Crown, open to all, and even if it wasn’t you, mysterious naiad, aren’t a Del Castro.’ That he was confident of; he knew every member of the most distant branches of the royal family tree.
‘But there’s only one way down and that is private property.’ She tossed her head as she spoke, triumph in her voice. ‘And I know you didn’t come by boat.’
‘There’s always another way, if you know where to look.’
‘Were you watching me? Just then?’
‘Not on purpose,’ Nico admitted. ‘The beach was empty when I got here so, really, I should be the offended one. You intruded on my privacy, not the other way round.’
She didn’t answer his teasing smile. Instead her brows shot up in rejecting disdain. ‘A gentleman would have drawn attention to his presence.’ She managed to convey affronted dignity despite the hair floating around her pale, naked shoulders, the drops shimmering on her eyelashes.
‘Ah. But I’m no gentleman. Ask my uncle. Besides, I didn’t want to draw attention to my presence. I am also...erm...in a similar state of undress.’ His smile widened as her cheeks flushed.
‘I think you should leave immediately.’
‘But I don’t trust you not to peek.’
She glared at him. ‘Believe me, I’ve seen it all before.’
‘This is a predicament.’ Nico moved closer. He was enjoying himself more than he had believed possible. If she’d shown any real signs of anger or fear he would have swum out of there with an apology but, for all her outraged words, there was a spark in her eyes that told him she was enjoying the verbal sparring as much as he was. That maybe she too relished the opportunity to forget her worries, to feel alive. She was younger than he had first thought, early to mid-twenties, her creamy skin a contrast to her large dark eyes and almost-black hair. She wasn’t exactly beautiful but there was something arresting about her features, a striking dignity that made him want to look twice and then again. ‘You and I here, our clothes there. I’m really not sure what our next move should be.’
That wasn’t entirely true. He was sure what he wanted to do—but not if he should. He wanted to swim closer, next to her. He wanted to see if those eyes darkened even more with desire, wanted to taste that plump bottom lip. He wanted to forget that tomorrow he would be presented with a list of suitable wives and expected to pick one with as much thought as he gave buying a new phone. He wanted to lose himself in another human being of his own choosing while he still could. He wanted to live on his last night of freedom.
* * *
She should be outraged. Possibly scared. Definitely wary. This man had plainly been watching her—watched her dance, watched her strip, watched her wade naked—naked—into the water. He’d lounged here insolently invading her privacy. And now, instead of apologising and leaving her to her evening swim, he was looking at her as if...well, as if he wanted to eat her.
She should be outraged but the clench deep down wasn’t fear; nor was the tingling in her arms and breasts. Posy took a deep breath, her legs suddenly weak, treading water as she fought to hold onto her composure. ‘Our next move?’ she managed to say, keeping her voice level. ‘There’s no “our”. You are going to swim back to your clothes, I will swim back to mine and neither of us will turn around or acknowledge each other in any way. Understand?’
His smile didn’t waver, a confident, amused grin, which infuriated her almost as much as her body’s traitorous reaction to the play of muscles across his shoulders and to the heat in his navy-blue eyes. ‘If you insist, naiad.’
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘But what else should I call a fair maiden dancing on the shore before slipping into the waves? A mermaid? A siren—or are you a selkie? Waiting for me to leave before slipping into your seal skin?’
‘Don’t be so silly and you don’t need to call me anything...’ She paused, embarrassed that she was reacting so strongly to his teasing, her innate good manners forcing her to add, ‘But if you did need to, then my name is Posy.’
‘Nice to meet you, Posy. I’m Nico.’
‘I wish I could say the same but I didn’t actually want to meet anyone tonight.’
‘Me neither,’ he admitted and, startled, she looked directly at him, her prickles soothed by the lurking smile in his eyes. ‘This is a place one comes to for solitude, isn’t it? I didn’t think anyone would be here. If I had I would have packed some trunks.’
‘Yes.’ She wasn’t sure what she was agreeing with—the joint need for space and to be alone or that swimwear was a good idea. ‘Okay then. Now we’ve been introduced let’s call an end to this impromptu meeting. I propose that you go that way, I go this.’
‘Deal. I hope you find it, whatever you came out looking for tonight.’ He paused, his eyes intent on hers for one long moment, before turning and with a graceful dive, which gave Posy a glimpse of a tanned, lean torso and a decent pair of legs, he powered off towards the opposite side of the beach. She lingered, watching his strong body cut through the waves for one guilty second before turning and kicking off in a more sedate breaststroke back to the beach, glad of the cool water on her overheated flesh.
Posy was no stranger to gorgeous male bodies—she spent most of her time with physically perfect specimens clad in Lycra and tights, every single muscle perfectly defined. She was used to being lifted and held, spun and moved, her partner’s hands moving with sure possession over her body. That was why when she dated, she dated within the company. Men from outside could never understand that when her partner’s hand clasped her inner thigh the last thing either of them was thinking about was sex. A dancer’s body was public property; there was no room for coyness. She was used to nudity, to being nude—or as good as. To react so strongly to the knowledge of another person’s nakedness was foreign to her. She hadn’t been able to see much. They’d both been cloaked by the evening sea. But she’d known, she’d reacted—and that discombobulated her.
Also, she was a fool. She should have swum away the second she noticed him. She was lucky he wasn’t some kind of maniac who lurked in deep water waiting for unsuspecting night swimmers. Maybe he just waited for said swimmer to return to the beach lulled into a false sense of security instead...but when she checked he was clearly heading to the far side of the beach, not even looking in her direction. As they’d agreed. Which was a good thing. And she wasn’t even the teensiest bit disappointed.
It was far less pleasant pulling her dress back over her wet body than it had been to shuck it off. She’d hoped that an evening walk and swim would distract her from an ever-lengthening list of questions and worries. She stifled an unexpected giggle; to be fair her plan had worked, although in a very unexpected way. She hadn’t thought about bills or her future once in the last ten minutes.
Posy took a few steps along the beach, heading for the jetty, almost hidden on one side, which led to the private path up to the villa, via the natural thermal pool. The pool might be famous but, like much of her godmother’s legacy, she would gladly swap it for a roof that didn’t leak in places, a new boiler and some idea of how she was going to pay the bills over the next few months whether she stayed here or not. What on earth would she do if she stayed here—and where would she go if she didn’t?
Posy stopped as panic overwhelmed her, almost crushing her chest so she could barely breathe. She wrapped her arms around her torso, as if by squeezing tight she could push the terror out. Stay here or leave, she had nowhere to go, no purpose. Without dance who was she? What was she? How would she get up each day?
‘Posy? Are you okay?’
It took a while before the words penetrated through the grey mist. Posy looked up to see Nico—still on his side of the arch—looking at her, concern etched on his face. She forced a deep breath, dragging the night air into her lungs. ‘Yes. Thanks.’
He didn’t move. ‘That didn’t look okay to me.’
She forced herself upright, forced her arms to loosen in a pose of defiance and strength she didn’t come close to feeling. ‘What happened to straight home no looking?’
His mouth quirked into a half-smile. ‘I just wanted to check on you. Turns out there’s all kinds of strange people lurking in this bay nowadays.’
She should go. She meant to go. Yet once again her limbs, usually so obedient, used to being kicked up high and held in gravity-defying positions, refused to move a single step. ‘There are. Very chivalrous of you to think of me.’
‘I’m a chivalrous type.’ The sun had almost set behind him, casting a red glow over him, making him otherworldly, the cove a place of magic and mystery. He was taller than she had realised, lean to the point of slimness but with a coiled strength apparent in his stance, in the definition in his arms and legs. Casual in a grey T-shirt and khaki shorts, his dark hair, wet from the sea, falling over his eyes, he still radiated a confidence and purpose she coveted. Barely aware of what she was doing, she took a step closer and then another. He didn’t move but his eyes tracked her every movement. Posy was used to feeling graceful, assured in her every gesture, but right now she didn’t know what to do with her limbs, every part of her body a stranger.
She knew his name, nothing more—no, that wasn’t quite true. She knew that he had craved an hour’s peace and solitude. Knew that she couldn’t tear her gaze away from his, knew that every fibre in her body was aching to be given a purpose, a meaning. She was a creature of movement, she belonged in the dance, in the pairings of a duet or the exhilaration of many feet and arms all placed in exactly the right way at exactly the right time. For so many years that had been enough. Or so she’d thought.
But it wasn’t. Pouring her body and soul into her craft had left her lacking. She had no fire; she hadn’t lived. Those overheard words had burned through her, the truth of them hurting the most.
With the sunset blazing behind him Nico looked like a fire god personified, Mars come to earth blazing. Could some of that fire touch her? Warm her? Bring her to life?
Posy took another step. He leaned against the arch, watching her every move. She swallowed, the dryness in her throat a mixture of apprehension—and anticipation. ‘Not too chivalrous, I hope.’
He stilled. ‘Depends on the task.’
‘If I was a selkie, would you hide my seal skin, just for the night?’
‘I never thought that was playing fair. I’d prefer the selkie to come to me of her own free will.’
‘Would she?’
‘I think so.’
Another step. He was close now, close enough that, even as the dusk drew in, Posy could see the heat in his eyes, the tension in his stance for all his supposed nonchalance, the muscle beating in his cheek. He felt it, this connection. He wanted her. ‘I think so too. Just for one night.’
He nodded, understanding her every meaning. ‘You can’t trap a wild creature.’
Her entire life Posy had put ballet first. Her few relationships fizzling out, hardly mourned, they were so unimportant compared to her career. Bruno might feel that she lacked passion but everything she had was poured into her work. Without it she had no outlet, her emotions, her physical energy pent up, her worries needing an outlet. She’d thought a swim might help. She’d been wrong. But Nico might. If she let him.
If she let herself.
Posy Marlowe did not go skinny dipping. Posy Marlowe certainly didn’t flirt with strangers in the sea, on the beach. Posy Marlowe would never tug her dress off and stand naked in front of a complete stranger as the sun dipped below the horizon, the only sound the hush of the waves on the shore. With shaking hands she clasped the fabric and tugged, letting the cotton slither onto the beach as she stood before him. His intake of breath emboldened her. ‘You might tame it for an evening, though.’
‘Not too tame, I hope.’ He stepped away from the arch as he spoke, stepped close and looked into her face for one long moment, searching for truth, for consent, for surety. She appreciated it even as impatience surged, her hand reaching for his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles. She knew muscles, their purpose, look and feel. She’d never quite appreciated them before today as he quivered ever so slightly under her touch before capturing her hand with his even as his head bent towards hers, his mouth firm and sweet, his touch knowing and sure as he took control. Posy knew all about being led, the steps in a duet, and she sank into his kiss, into his touch, into his arms. Living. For one night only.
CHAPTER THREE (#u13130e70-e9da-558e-b509-7182106ed151)
NICO BOWED SMOOTHLY in his uncle’s direction before backing out of the Great Hall, working hard to keep the irritation off his face. He’d lost his temper too many times in the past and it had never got him anywhere. His uncle made a toddler in the middle of a tantrum seem reasonable, which meant rational debate was as unlikely to work as anger. When King Vincenzo V made his mind up it was well and truly up and neither logic nor reason could shift it. In the past Nico had simply circumnavigated his uncle’s wishes but things were infinitely more complicated now.
‘Dammit, Alessandro,’ he said softly as he finally made his way out of the double doors and into the opulent hallway. ‘You could always handle him so much better than me.’ The guards standing smartly to attention either side of the open doors, hot and ridiculous in the full burnished splendour of their dress uniforms, didn’t betray that they had heard his words with as much as a flicker of an eyelid. Maybe he should take lessons from them.
The hallway was wide enough for two cars to drive down it with ease, the vaulted ceiling at double height, the marble floor kept so highly polished Nico doubted it had ever been subjected to a health and safety risk assessment. As small boys he and Alessandro had skated along here under the disapproving eyes of ancestors frowning down from huge portraits, careering along, narrowly missing the spindly chairs and occasional tables that were dotted along like valuable obstacles in their headlong race. At intervals discreet doors were set into the ornate panelling, leading to suites of offices, other function rooms and rooms that Nico had discovered no discernible use for. He had his own suite now, one here for work, meetings and audiences as well as his private rooms, in the west wing. At least they hadn’t tried to give him Alessandro’s rooms yet. It was hard enough to feel at home in the high-ceilinged formal rooms without mementoes of his cousin scattered around his living quarters.
Not that he’d ever really felt at home here. He’d spent too much time alone in the family suite while his parents had jetted off to Paris, to London, to New York and even when they’d been resident in the palace they’d barely seemed to notice he was there, too busy enjoying the luxuries and privileges of royal life to settle for anything as mundane as private family meals or playing with their son. Luckily he’d been a firm favourite of his grandmother’s—and he’d idolised his cousin, two years older yet with plenty of time for his younger shadow. They were all the family he had needed. And now one was gone and the other fading fast.
‘Your Highness?’
It still took a few seconds for the title to register in Nico’s brain and for him to respond. In a way he hoped that never changed, that he wouldn’t supplant his cousin so easily. He stopped and allowed the harried official rushing along the corridor to catch up with him.
‘Your Highness.’ She was breathing hard, swaying in her too-high heels. Every official dressed as if they were being judged on their power dressing skills, aggressively cut suits the unspoken palace uniform; Nico’s own faded jeans and checked shirt were a pointed contrast. ‘Her Grace would like to see you at your earliest convenience.’
Which meant now. Nico’s grandmother, in her own way, was just as stubborn as his uncle. ‘Thank you.’
The official hesitated; obviously she had orders to bring him then and there but Nico had no intention of being ordered around by anyone, not even Graziella del Castro, Dowager Queen. ‘I’ll be along shortly,’ he added. She didn’t look too placated but nodded and marched away, her heels perfectly balanced on the marble floor. Nico paused, his mini rebellion feeling as paltry as it was. It wasn’t his grandmother he was angry at—nor even his uncle. It was fate. Fate for snatching away his cousin and landing him here in this unwanted spot with this unwanted future. He pivoted and caught up with the official in three long strides. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll head there now.’
She gave him a startled look; palace officials were never worried—at least they were well trained not to look it—but nodded as Nico headed off in the direction of his grandmother’s rooms.
Like her son, the King, and Nico himself his grandmother had two sets of rooms, her formal receiving and business rooms in the main part of the palace and her own private suite in the west wing, compromising her bedroom, her sitting room, dining room, study and roof terrace. Up to a year ago she would usually be found downstairs during the day, sitting erect at her desk in her office or on the ornate chair in her receiving room, refusing to slow down despite having achieved her seventieth birthday a few years before. But since Alessandro’s death she tended to spend more and more time in her private rooms and it was towards these Nico headed, up the grand staircase, along the balcony that overhung the famous hall, the oldest part of the original castle, and through a discreet—at least it would have been if it weren’t for the two heavily armed soldiers guarding it—door that led to the royal family’s private apartments.
The door led into another corridor, as luxurious as the main hallway that bisected the palace in two, but less ornate. These rooms weren’t designed to impress and, although Nico personally found the rose velvet and cream a little cloying, it was a refreshing contrast to the pomposity of the gilt and purples in the public parts of the palace. His own rooms were on the top floor but his grandmother’s were on the first, and it only took a minute before he was rapping gently on her door to hear her voice bid him ‘Enter’. He did as he was told, sweeping a low bow before her and taking her hand in his and raising it to his lips. ‘Your Grace.’
Graziella didn’t look at all impressed by his display of manners. ‘Don’t humbug me, young man.’
Nico rocked back on his heels and grinned unrepentantly down at her. Her silver hair was in its usual elegant chignon and she was dressed with her customary chicness but the shadows under her eyes—and the shadows in her eyes—were new. No wonder, she had lost her husband, youngest son and grandson in the space of five years.
His grandfather’s heart attack had come as no real shock, the warning signs had been there for years, but Nico’s own father’s untimely death in a helicopter crash followed shortly by Alessandro’s sudden collapse had rocked the family—and the island—to the core. Nico still didn’t understand how a man as healthy, as strong as Alessandro could just drop down dead—and none of the reading he’d done on Sudden Arrhythmic Death Syndrome could convince him that he couldn’t have done something, anything, to prevent it if only he’d known.
In that way he was still well and truly stuck in the first stage of grief—denial. He could have held several medical degrees and been right there and still he couldn’t have done anything to save his cousin.
The remaining members of the family still all suffered, still all grieved, but his grandmother had been the slowest to return to some semblance of normality. Nico tried to hide his concern as his smile widened. ‘Not humbugging, just showing respect.’
‘Hmm, and did you show your uncle the same degree of respect?’ She waved him towards the uncomfortable-looking sofa that sat at right angles to her own chair and Nico obediently perched on the edge of the slippery satin.
‘Of course. At least,’ he amended, ‘I refrained from calling him a fool in public.’
‘Nico, he doesn’t like change, you know that.’
She might closet herself away in her rooms but she still knew everything that went on in every hidden palace corner. ‘Grandmamma, we have no choice. Change will come whether we like it or not. Better that we control it rather than let it control us.’
‘But tourists, Nico.’ His grandmother couldn’t have sounded more disgusted if he’d suggested tearing down the ancient woodlands to build a nuclear power station. ‘With their noise and their litter and their shorts and all they can eat. It’s never been our way.’
‘It depends on the tourists, Grandmamma.’ He’d already made exactly these points to his uncle. Nico took a deep breath and re-embarked on the speech he’d prepared. ‘We already get a few who make the journey here because we’re unspoilt, to walk or swim or relax. We just need more of them. We won’t be able to compete with the established Mediterranean resorts and nor should we, but if we market ourselves to honeymooners and couples as a luxury holiday destination and to the thrill seekers who will love our mountains and lakes then we won’t need to change too much. Invest in some new hotels, enable our cafés and restaurants to cater for more people, improve our transport links. Nothing too scary, I promise.’
‘But...’
‘Our people need jobs. Our schools and hospitals need investment. Our youth need a reason to stay. We don’t want them all heading off the island to start their lives elsewhere.’
As he had done.
‘But why, Nico? You’ve only just come home. Why shake things up now with your consultants and plans? Give your uncle some time.’
‘There is no time, Grandmamma.’ He paused, unsure how much to tell her. ‘Look. You know I spent the last year at Harvard doing an MBA. As part of that I studied our finances really carefully.’
The island monarchy wasn’t purely constitutional and the royal family still took a very active role in government. Once Nico had begun to comprehend how much rode on his new position as heir to the throne he’d realised how ill equipped he was for such a responsibility and so had given up his research position at MIT to study business at Harvard instead. It hadn’t taken him long to realise how much work he had ahead of him. A lifetime’s work.
‘I loved my grandfather, you know that, but he was a lavish spender, his father too. Look at how they redecorated the palace—all that marble imported in. And the rest: planes, cars, villas, ski lodges...’
‘And an apartment for every mistress, an annuity for every mistress, jewellery for every mistress—and there were a lot of mistresses.’ Bitterness coated his grandmother’s voice for one unguarded second.
‘For two generations the island was ignored in favour of jet-setting and pleasure. L’Isola dei Fiori needs a lot of careful managing to make up for fifty years of neglect.’
‘And you think tourism will do that?’
‘I think it’s a start. We need more, some kind of real industry as well but that’s a whole other step. One day I would like to see the island a beacon of innovation for renewable energy and other forms of eco-friendly engineering. Expand the university, bring in the expertise, offer the right companies, the right entrepreneurs the right deal so they settle here, build here and create jobs here.’ That had always been his dream. That was why he had put in the hours at MIT, made the right contacts, had worked towards his PhD, never giving up hope that, even if he couldn’t persuade his uncle to throw the weight of the government behind him, he could still return in his own time, at his own will, to start up his own research company.
But the current crisis needed a quicker fix and his own dreams had to be set aside, just as he’d set his research aside.
‘Tell me how I can help, Nico.’
He patted his grandmother’s hand gratefully. ‘You’re a key part of my strategy, Grandmamma. First of all I need you to work on my uncle. I know he’s done his best to put things right but selling the odd yacht and ski lodge isn’t enough. He needs to give the tourism campaign his full backing and ensure the rest of his ministers do as well.’
‘What did he say today?’
‘The usual. That I’m too young to understand, that I’ve been gone too long, that I think fancy degrees from fancy universities make up for my own lack of sense.’ He grinned at her. ‘Nothing he hasn’t said a million times before.’ It didn’t stop the words from stinging though. He was thirty-two, not twenty, and he was proud of his degrees. He’d worked damn hard for them. But his uncle preferred to believe the rubbish in the papers than the evidence before him. Nico had been labelled a playboy Del Castro in his teens, like his father and grandfather before him, and his uncle had no intention of challenging that narrative.
Graziella drew herself up. ‘I’ll speak to him.’
‘Thank you, Grandmamma. There are another couple of things. I need to marry...’
‘Yes?’ Her eyes lit up. This was exactly the kind of project she relished.
‘And I need you to choose me a bride. I know you have a list of suitable names and that’s fine. Better to find a girl who has been raised to manage this kind of life than throw some hapless innocent into the circus. I just have one request...’
‘Just one?’
‘I need a bride who is willing to be wooed. Publicly. The marketing consultant thinks a royal wedding is the perfect international showcase for L’Isola dei Fiori and we should milk it as much as possible. You know, boat rides into the grottos, horse rides through meadows, a royal ball...’ He grinned at the revolted expression on her face.
‘I had no idea you were such a romantic, Nico.’
‘I’m not a romantic. I’m a realist. There’s nothing people like better than a royal love story. So pick me a girl who will play her part and I’ll marry her. The papers follow me around anyway. I might as well make use of my reputation.’
As a young, unattached prince he’d attracted the gossip magazines like wasps flocking around a sweet drink at the tail end of summer. If he’d lived quietly they might have left him alone eventually but he’d hung out with a young, moneyed crowd, enjoying time away from his studies at parties in New York, summer houses in the Hamptons, winter breaks in the Bahamas, on yachts, in clubs throughout Europe. At first it had been an exquisite relief, freedom after the strictures of a childhood at court. At some point it had become habit.
His grandmother nodded. ‘Everyone loves a reformed playboy, I suppose. I’ll find you a suitable bride. But, Nico? Just be discreet, when you find other amusements.’ And for a fleeting second she looked so vulnerable Nico felt a surge of anger against the grandfather who had put that look on her face—and emptied the palace coffers to do so.
‘No need. When I marry I’ll be faithful. It might be arranged but that’s no reason to treat marriage like it’s meaningless. I hope I’m better than that.’ As he said the words a fleeting image passed through his mind, a slim girl on the beach, hair tumbling around her breasts, eyes on his. He’d known then it was his last act of freedom, a sweet goodbye. Something to carry him through the years of duty that lay ahead.
‘And the other thing?’
He winced. He knew she would dislike his next proposal. ‘If we’re going to start the campaign soon we need a few places ready for the tourists we’re hoping to attract. There’s a few decent city hotels, a couple of beach places and some lovely guesthouses but none of the boutique hotels that the kind of holiday makers we want to attract prefer. The consultant has suggested that we invest in several now, do them up over the winter ready for next season.’
‘And?’
‘And one of the places she suggested is Villa Rosa.’
His grandmother didn’t answer but she drew herself up, her mouth tight. Nico watched her sympathetically. Until early last year the villa had been occupied by an aging beauty who, had been involved in a very public and very steamy affair with his grandfather, who had visited her, semi discreetly, by sailing around to the cove at night. The owner had died recently and the villa, as far as he knew, lay empty. His grandmother had always behaved with a dignified ignorance where his grandfather was concerned but installing a mistress on the island had pushed even her resilience to the limit.
‘It has a certain notoriety that will draw people in: the parties that were held there, the famous people that stayed there—and of course the thermal pool and the secret beach.’
‘I see.’
‘I’m sorry to bring it up, Grandmamma, but I think the consultant’s right. It is the perfect location and the Villa Rosa markets itself. Plus the lawyers say it’s likely that my grandfather shouldn’t have gifted the villa away in the first place; because it is so close to the cliff top and because it has access down to the beach it’s situated on Crown land and therefore...’
‘Therefore it can’t be sold or owned by a private individual.’
‘Or inherited,’ he confirmed. He hesitated. ‘I know you keep tabs on everything that goes on around here. I wondered if you know who owns it now? I could ask around but I don’t want word to get out that we’re interested.’
His grandmother shrugged. ‘Apparently that woman left it to a niece or something but it’s been empty or used as a holiday home since she died—they tell me it needs a lot of work. What are you going to do? Serve her notice?’
Nico shook his head. ‘No. I’ll offer her money to sell. We don’t want the delay or cost of going to court—nor the publicity. But we can pay a fair price, tied up in a lot of legal documents that will hopefully persuade her to say yes sooner rather than later.
‘Do you know anything about this owner? Where she’s from?’
His instincts had been right. His grandmother knew everything. She tilted her chin. ‘England, but I believe she arrived on the island a week ago. By public ferry, coach class, one battered bag.’
Which meant she had been there when he and Posy...an unwelcome thought hit him. He hadn’t, had he? ‘What’s her name?’
‘Marlowe. Rosalind Marlowe.’
Relief flooded through him. Not the same woman after all. And coach class with one bag? That added up to one cash-strapped Englishwoman. She’d be putty in his hands. The sooner he got his tourism project up and running, the sooner he got married, then the sooner he could work on his ideas and create something real, something sustainable in his homeland. And then this whole Crown Prince deal might start to feel less like an unwanted burden and more like something he could live with.
It was time to pay the owner of the Villa Rosa one very official visit.
CHAPTER FOUR (#u13130e70-e9da-558e-b509-7182106ed151)
POSY CROSSED THE courtyard and eyed the garages curiously. They were in pretty good nick, their roofs sounder than that of the house itself. They would, with new doors, a new floor, heaters and a sound system, make pretty awesome studios.
Just a quick DIY job then. Posy mentally totted up the possible costs, wincing before she got to the sprung floor, mirrors and barre. Converting wasn’t going to be that much cheaper than building from scratch and right now she was more geared up for a ‘lick of paint and a good clean’ type budget.
Of course, she could always sell the stylish vintage car that she’d inherited along with the villa to pay for the work. Her sisters would never forgive her—she’d already had to hear rhapsodies about engines and paintwork and rpms—but unlike the rest of the Marlowes Posy’s interest in transport was limited to did it work and would it get her where she needed to go? Hanging onto a vintage car for the sake of it when it could be turned into cold, hard cash would be utter folly.
Maybe she should offer Miranda and Imogen first refusal though...for a reasonable price because goodness knew she needed the money.
She pivoted and looked closely at the villa in all its faded glory, trying not to glaze over the imperfections. Thanks to Immi the gardens were looking a lot more manageable and her sisters—and their various husbands and fiancés—had all helped make the inside more home-like, but there was no way she could even consider opening to paying guests until she had fixed the roof, put in a new boiler and pulled the kitchen into the twenty-first century. Then she’d have to make sure the bathrooms were all in decent enough condition for non-family use and check each bed for broken springs or damp. She’d need bed linen as well. And she still needed actually to qualify as a Pilates and ballet teacher...
She sighed. The way she saw it she had two choices. Either she sold the villa or she stopped it being a liability and turned it into an asset. And it could, with some work—okay, a lot of work—be a very considerable asset. The island was famed for its hot springs, the rock pool offered a natural bathing experience all year round and the view and the gardens were tranquil enough to soothe any stressed city dweller. She had bedrooms to spare, more bathrooms than she could use if she bathed in a different one every day and plenty of nooks where people could settle with books or just to doze.
She had the space, she had the contacts, she had the knowledge and, if she sold the car and ransacked some of the contents of the villa, she might be able to muster up enough money.
Posy blew out a frustrated breath. Her other choice was to sell. That would solve the money problem but left her with no idea what a twenty-four-year-old ex-ballerina with one good GCSE to her name could do for the rest of her life.
And the Marlowes were famously long-lived.
Of course there was nothing stopping her jumping on a plane and returning to London either. When she’d falteringly handed in her notice Bruno had taken a far too keen look at her before telling her to keep in shape and exercise and if she changed her mind within the year there would still be a place for her in the company. For all her resolution to start again, when she lay awake in the middle of the night the prospect of slinking back and resuming her place in the Corps de Ballet was far too tempting. But if she returned to London would that make her a double failure? Prove that she didn’t know how to live?
But she’d lived last night...
Heat flared in her cheeks, an answering warmth in her breasts and low deep in her stomach and she fought the urge to hide behind her hands like a small girl caught out in a misdeed. What had she been thinking? Taking her clothes off in front of a complete stranger? Allowing him—no, wanting him—to touch her like that in public? She had never behaved so recklessly, so provocatively. It was all too easy to blame the moonlight, the sea, the need to feel wanted. But she was the one who had wanted. She was the one who had initiated. Not that she’d kept that control for long...
She shivered as flashbacks of deep, sweet kisses, long, torturous caresses, whispered endearments overwhelmed her. She had never known it to be like that, at once so wild and urgent and yet so tender. It had taken every inch of resolution to walk away, disappearing before midnight because every fairy tale reader knew not to stay beyond the witching hour. They’d agreed on just the one evening but she’d taken her time as she’d moved along the beach, just in case he called after her, asked to see her again.
She’d been half disappointed when he hadn’t, the feeling intensifying when she’d reached the jetty and turned back to find him gone. Okay, more than half disappointed.
Posy wandered back towards the house, the day stretching before her, empty and meaningless just like the day before and the day before that. She’d mechanically stretched and gone through her exercises earlier that morning, keeping her muscles warm and her body supple, but her books sat unopened, her crochet hook lay unused and the colouring books were still pristine. Turned out she wasn’t much good at relaxing and doing nothing.
Maybe she should start going through the house—she had a list of contents somewhere along with valuations. Whether she sold up or sold enough to convert the villa into a retreat she still needed to know what was where and if she wanted to keep any of it—not that her tastes ran to shelves filled with vases, ornaments, boxes and the numerous other knick-knacks that filled the villa. When she had come to visit her godmother as a child she’d loved to play with them all, creating intricate games and scenarios for the various china animals. Now they were just clutter, gathering dust.
The double doors that led into the grand double-height conservatory stood open, the sun reflecting off the panes of coloured glass randomly interspersed with the plain glass. It must have been gorgeous in Sofia’s, her godmother’s, heyday, filled with climbing plants winding their way up the leaded panes, providing much-needed shade and contrast. Sofia had held parties in the room attended by movie stars, European aristocrats and millionaires; if Posy closed her eyes she could still see the glittering jewels around the throats and in the ears of the women, the long, elegant cigarette holders, the cocktails circulating on silver trays. If rumour was to be believed Sofia had had her own share of diamonds and other precious stones but all that was left was paste and crystal, pretty but worthless. Sofia had sold them all as her looks had faded and her lovers had melted away.
She’d still been a consummate hostess though. Posy had loved coming here. Sofia had always treated Posy and her sisters as if they were small adults, not children. Posy had never known what to expect from one day to the next—they might get dressed up in some of Sofia’s old couture gowns and hold a party, canapés and mocktails at three in the afternoon for just them. Or Sofia might decide they needed to redecorate the dining room, or teach them to snorkel, or take them into the town for oysters and champagne. But mostly she allowed them freedom to swim, sunbathe and run free so that they returned to the UK tanned and relaxed. Posy treasured the visits even more once she had started at ballet school, her holidays no relaxing time off but filled with residential courses around the country. The two carefree weeks she managed to snatch at Sofia’s were a welcome contrast to the rigid, disciplined life she had chosen. The rigid, disciplined life she was trying so hard not to miss.
She jumped as the bell tolled solemnly. Who could that be? The house had been empty since Immi left a month ago and no one apart from her family knew she was here.
She didn’t have to answer it. If she stayed quiet they would probably just go away.
The bell tolled again, low and commanding. ‘Don’t be such a coward,’ she scolded herself. After all Imogen’s fiancé, Matt, had lived on the island for several years. It would be just like Immi to get a friend of Matt’s to check up on her. She knew her sisters were worried about her decision to move into her money pit of an inheritance, to leave London, to quit her hard-fought-for career; of course they’d send in an intervention.
Well, the intervention could just intervene right out. She was fine. Almost.
The bell tolled for a third time as she moved briskly through the hall, a room large enough to hold a ball in if the conservatory was otherwise engaged, and she wrenched open the front door, indignation buzzing through her veins. ‘Hold your horses. I’m here. Oh!’
Her hand tightened on the door. ‘Nico?’
She wasn’t sure at first. The expression in the blue eyes was a mixture of surprise and determination, the dark hair slicked back, the broad shoulders and narrow waist covered by a perfectly cut light suit. But her body knew him instantly, every pulse beating rapidly as he looked straight at her.
‘Hello, Posy.’
Any thought he might have come looking for her, that this was the start of the kind of whirlwind romance she’d read about but never experienced, evaporated in the late morning sun. There was no flirtatiousness in his voice, no seduction in his eyes. Whatever Nico wanted here it didn’t include a re-enactment of last night.
That was fine. She didn’t expect anything else. Hoped maybe, in that first flare of surprise, that he might be pleased to see her but two could play at the ‘polite strangers’ game. She forced her hand to relax, her face to remain still, her highly trained muscles obeying in instant precision. ‘How can I help?’
‘I’m looking for Rosalind Marlowe. Is she here?’
‘You’re talking to her. I’m Rosalind,’ she clarified as his forehead crinkled. ‘Rosalind shortened to Rosy, my family called me Rosy-Posy and then when I started to dance, they kind of lost the Rosy in a Ballet Shoes Posy Fossil way.’ She was babbling. Great. ‘Not that that matters. What do you want?’
The mask had slipped a little; Nico was looking uncomfortable. ‘Can I come in?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again after last night and now here you are looking for me but not knowing it’s me. I don’t want someone who makes me uncomfortable in my house. So probably not. Whatever you want to say to me you can say right here.’
* * *
Nico narrowed his eyes. Two minutes in and already this whole situation was slipping dangerously out of control. It was his own fault. He should have heeded the warning bells clanging loudly the instant his grandmother mentioned that the villa had passed to an Englishwoman. There was a reason Posy had sprung straight into his mind. She was the logical choice, appearing on the beach the way she had last night, her conviction that he was trespassing, her surety that she was safe to swim naked—but the difference in name had allowed him to ignore his premonition. Big mistake.

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