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He’d learned that his control was a much more fragile thing than he’d believed.
He’d learned that helping his brother was going to cost him dearly.
‘I’ve learned never to carry a woman to bed when she’s drunk. Go and take a cold shower and sleep it off. And try not to drown. A domani.’
Izzy woke with a crushing headache, a mouth as dry as a child’s sandbox and a clear memory of every single thing that had happened the night before. Why, oh, why, couldn’t she just have forgotten everything? Why wasn’t she one of those people who could never remember a thing that had happened? A bit of alcohol-induced amnesia would have been extremely welcome because most of the memories weren’t good ones.
She remembered being starving-hungry. She remembered grabbing the microphone at the party and being showered by disapproving stares. And she remembered the adrenalin rush of being driven by the prince in his super sports car.
And the kiss …
Closing her eyes, she gave a moan.
Oh, yes, she remembered the kiss. And she had a feeling she’d still be able to remember it when she was ninety and wrinkled. Where on earth had someone so zipped up and restrained as the Prince of Darkness learned to kiss like that? Except that he hadn’t been zipped up and restrained when he’d kissed her. One moment he’d been cold and disapproving; the next he’d been giving a crash course in the true meaning of sexual excitement. Because she knew that what they’d shared had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with hot physical chemistry.
She’d been kissed before, but never like that—never had the feelings spread all the way through her body creating a craving so powerful she hadn’t seen the benefit in stopping. Who in their right mind would want to stop something that felt so good?
And the craving was still there.
Shaken by feelings she didn’t recognise, she decided that the first thing to do was fix the throb in her head. Reaching for the jug of water by the bed, she noticed a pool of scarlet sequins on the floor. She dimly remembered wriggling out of her dress and then flopping onto the bed.
‘Never again,’ she moaned as she poured water into a glass and drank. ‘Never again am I drinking champagne with nothing to eat.’
Gingerly, trying not to move her head too vigorously, she squinted at her watch.
Ten-thirty.
She never slept in. Ever. She set her alarm for seven every morning no matter what she’d done the day before.
Wincing, she eased herself gently off the bed and padded into the bathroom feeling like roadkill.
Raccoon eyes stared back at her where her make-up had run, her face was horribly pale and she had a red mark on her cheek where she’d slept awkwardly. ‘No wonder he wasn’t keen to hang around.’ As she wiped away the damage, she noticed that although the palazzo was ancient and historic, there was nothing ancient or historic about her bedroom, or the luxurious bathroom with its walk-in shower.
In fact, the palazzo was more opulent and palatial than anywhere she’d stayed in her life.
Outside, the sun was blazing, and despite the headache her spirits lifted. The Mediterranean weather was a pleasant change from dreary, showery London.
Determined not to have a completely wasted day, Izzy picked up her pen and scribbled on a new page of her notebook.
Goal of the Day—Finish writing ‘Look at Me.’
At some point her suitcase had been delivered and someone had unpacked her few clothes and hung them in the dressing room. Tr
ying not to notice how lonely her dresses looked in that enormous space, Izzy grabbed her favourite denim shorts and a pink top and dressed quickly. Then she retrieved her suitcase, hunted in one of the concealed pockets and pulled out her battered teddy bear.
Clearing her throat, she propped him up against the pillows. ‘Right. Are you listening? I need to finish this song and you’re the nearest thing to an enthusiastic audience I’m ever going to get in this world. At least you don’t heckle.’
She hummed, sang scales and did her usual vocal exercises to warm up her voice but today her enthusiasm for her music was seriously dented by her pounding head. Conscious that not to achieve her one simple goal was a slippery slope towards giving up, she persevered until she was reasonably satisfied with the lyrics and the melody.
Deciding that what she needed following that was fresh air, she was about to leave the room when there was a knock on the door and a girl entered carrying a tray.
‘Buongiorno, signorina. His Highness thought you might be hungry as you missed breakfast.’
Izzy’s stomach rolled. Great. When she wanted food there was none to be had, and when she didn’t … ‘Thanks.’ Not wanting to offend, she managed a weak smile. ‘That’s kind of you.’
The girl smiled dreamily. ‘His Highness is an incredibly thoughtful person.’
Remembering his iron grip as he’d dragged her away from the stage and his non-stop flow of sarcastic observations, Izzy begged to differ, but the girl couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old and obviously thought the prince walked on water.
