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She awoke with a start and realised that they were driving along an avenue, the trees flanking the road providing a menacing guard of honour. Groggy, she turned her head. ‘I fell asleep.’
He pressed his foot to the accelerator. ‘Non c’è problema. You were silent. A vast improvement. And talking of silence, don’t use your phone while you’re with me.’
‘Now you’re telling me who I can call?’
‘No, I’m telling you not to call from your own phone.’ He spoke with exaggerated patience. ‘When we arrive at the palazzo, you can call anyone you like from a secure line. That’s if anyone is still speaking to you after tonight’s debacle.’
Izzy, who had no clue what a debacle was, decided that if it was linked to the engagement party it couldn’t possibly be anything she’d want to repeat. She made a mental note to load a dictionary app onto her phone later. ‘I sent one text to Allegra.’
‘Don’t send any more. You can call your mother from the palazzo.’
‘Why would I want to do that?’
‘I assume she’ll be worried about you. Wondering where you’ve gone.’
‘She won’t even notice.’ Izzy spoke without thinking and then caught his searching glance. That was the danger of drink, she thought woozily. It brought your emotions right to the surface. ‘So all this “don’t use your mobile” stuff—you’re one of those people who believes in conspiracy theories?’
‘No, I’m one of those people who has had his phone tapped.’
‘Seriously? People listened in to your conversations? Were you saying something salacious at the time?’ Pleased with herself for having managed to worm such an impressive word into the conversation, she wriggled deeper into the luxurious seat. She’d show him that he wasn’t the only one who could use long words. ‘They can listen to my conversations if they want to. I hope they’re shocked. I don’t care what the media say about me.’
‘Of course you don’t.’ His derisory tone was a long way from complimentary. ‘You were created by the media. You depend on them for your survival. You obviously love the press and everything they can do for you.’
His biting assessment of her situation was like a hard slap, all the more painful because it was partly true. She didn’t love the press, that wasn’t true, but she was savvy enough to know that publicity made a difference. It had taken her a year of hard knocks to learn that the press was not her friend. She knew now that just because they called her ‘Izzy’ and acted as if they were on her side, they weren’t.
The notes faded from Izzy’s brain, as did the excitement of writing a new song.
It had been a crazy fantasy to think Prince Matteo, friend to rock stars and royalty, would listen to her singing and be impressed. ‘You’re entitled to your opinion about the press, but don’t ever think you know me.’
Look at me, I’m not who you see.
Suddenly she wished she hadn’t worn the strawberry sequin dress. She’d been so excited about it when she’d noticed it in the store. It had been the sexiest dress she’d seen and when she’d tried it on she’d thought she looked like a popstar. But when she thought about the elegant, restrained clothes everyone else had worn she realised that she’d got it wrong again. She’d stood out for all the wrong reasons.
Izzy blinked rapidly as she remembered the condescending glances and the barely concealed smirks. It would have taken more than the right dress to make her fit in. Her whole look was wrong. She didn’t have a slim, aristocratic face like so many of the women at the engagement party. Her cheeks were round and her nose turned up at the end. They had smooth, perfect hair. Hers insisted on curling. Theirs was golden or glossy brown—hers looked as if she’d rolled in a vat of strawberries. At school she’d been given a detention for colouring her hair and no amount of protestation on her part had convinced the headmistress that Izzy Jackson had developed pink streaks in her hair at the age of three. Apparently her grandmother’s hair had been the same.
Most of the time she told herself that she didn’t care. But creative, dreamy Izzy, for all her bounce and outgoing nature, was extremely sensitive.
Look at me, I’m not who you see, Deep inside there’s someone else, longing to break free.
Maybe there were advantages to being forced to hide out at his palazzo, she mused.
She could just work on her song until it was perfect. She’d write something so amazing that people had to listen. And maybe, just maybe, she could persuade the Prince of Darkness to at least let her help with the final preparations for the Rock ‘n’ Royal concert. Perhaps he’d even get her a ticket!
Cheered by that thought, Izzy allowed herself a tiny dream where she was backstage chatting with her favourite stars.
Every year since she was a teenager she’d watched the concert live on TV. The event was giant, backed by his friend the famous music producer Hunter Capshaw, who was a genius at staging live events. She’d read that the two of them already had the biggest names in the industry signed up and willing to donate their time for such a good cause. Rock royalty. Not national jokes, like her.
Without thinking, Izzy slid her hand to her hem and tried to tug her dress a little further down her thighs.
The prince caught the movement and his head turned, his dark gaze flitting over her.
Their eyes met briefly.
Heart pounding, she found herself looking at the sensual curve of his mouth and for a fleeting, unsettling second she had a wild impulse to lean forward and kiss him just to see how it felt.
Shaken by the intensity of that sexual connection, she looked away quickly.
The man had no sense of fun and he was so maddeningly sure of himself she wanted to punch him. Having never before wanted to punch someone and kiss them at the same time, Izzy decided that she must be more drunk than she’d first thought.
