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And then, as though he had said nothing remotely outrageous to her he continued smoothly. ‘I should warn you. The villa is going to tax even your creative eye. But I'm sure you'll enjoy the challenge.'
He was handing her her handbag and her coat, and somehow or other she was being ushered out of the door, helpless to stop what was happening and not really caring that she couldn't.
‘How many bedrooms does the villa have?' she managed to ask Marco slightly breathlessly, once they were outside on the street.
The look he gave her as he turned to her made her heart thud recklessly. ‘Five, but you will be sleeping in mine—with me.'
‘You're going to be Niroli's next king. Marco!' Emily felt bound to remind him. You can't live openly with me there as your mistress.'
‘No?' he challenged her softly.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AT SOME stage during the drive from Nirolis airport, into which they had flown by private jet she must have half fallen asleep. Emily realised as the motion of the car ceased and she heard Marcos voice saying through the darkness of the cars interior. ‘We’re here.’
But not before she had seen the impressively straight road leading from the airport, with huge placards attached to lampposts bearing a photograph of Marco, a royal crown hovering several centimetres above his head and an ermine-edged cape around his shoulders. Underneath were Italian words, which she could just about translate as. ‘Welcome home. Your Highness’.
It made her shiver slightly now to think about them and to remember how she had felt at seeing them, how very aware they had made her of the gulf between her and Marcos royal status.
The emotional roller-coaster ride of the last few hours had taken its toll on her. Emily knew. It had drained her and left her feeling so exhausted that she barely had the energy to get out of the car, even though Marco opened the door for her and reached out his hand to support her. Just for a moment she hesitated and looked back into the car. Wishing she had not come? She pushed the thought aside and focused instead on the fact that the night air had that familiar scent of Mediterranean warmth that she remembered from her many holidays elsewhere in the region with Marco: a mingling of olfactory textures and tints, ripened by the days sunlight and then distilled by the soft darkness.
Emily breathed it in slowly, trying to steady her own nerves. She was she realised, standing in the courtyard of what looked like a haphazard jumble of white stone walls, shuttered, arched windows and delicate iron balconies, illuminated by moonlight and lamplight from the surrounding buildings. The courtyard was shielded from the narrow street outside by a pair of heavy wooden doors, and as Emilys senses adjusted themselves to the darkness she could hear from somewhere the sound of water from a fountain falling into a basin.
‘It looks almost Moorish.’ she told Marco.
‘Yes it does, doesn't it?: Marco agreed with her. History does have it that the Moors were here at one time, and its here in the oldest part of the main town that you can see their architectural influence. Although there were also Nirolians who travelled as traders to and from Andalucia in Spain, as well.' He was guiding her towards an impressive doorway as he spoke. Emily hesitated, knowing it was too late now to change her mind about the wisdom of allowing him to bring her here and yet not totally able to overcome her uncertainty.
‘You said that you're living here, instead of at the palace?’ Yes. Are you disappointed? If so I am sure I can arrange for us to have a suite of rooms there—:
‘Us? No...' Emily stopped him hurriedly. ‘Marco..’ She stopped, and shivered slightly despite the warmth of the air. She was a fool to have allowed Marco to steamroller her into coming here so that he could have her back in his bed when she knew there was no real future for her with him. But why think of the future when she could have the present? an inner voice urged her.
Every day she could have with Marco, every hour, were things so precious she should reach out and grab them with both hands. Emily squeezed her eyes tightly closed and then opened them again. She wasn't used to this unfamiliar recklessness she seemed to have developed, with its blinkered refusal to acknowledge any-thing other than her determination to be with him. She did love him so much. Emily accepted, but it would be far better for her if she did not.
Fine, the reckless voice told her. So you spend your time trying to stop loving him, and I'll spend mine enjoying being with him. You can't leave—not now. What was this? She felt as though she were being torn in two. The sensible, protective part of her was telling her that it would be better if she spent her time here learning to recognise the huge differences between them; far better if she made herself focus, not on the fact that Marco was her lover and the man she loved, but on the fact that he was Nirolis future king and as such could never be hers. However, this new reckless part of her was insisting that nothing mattered more than squeezing the intimacy and the sweetness out of every extra minute she had with him. regardless of what the future might bring. How could she bring together two such opposing forces? She couldn't.
