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CHAPTER ONE
AGAINSTTHEGLAREof the beach, the man seemed to blaze more brightly than the sun. His tall body was bronzed. The sunlight caught his thick hair and gilded it with licks of fire, making him appear almost incandescent. But unlike everyone else on the beach, Rosie wasn’t particularly mesmerised by his presence. She wasn’t trying to get him to notice her, or stare at her. Mostly she was trying to melt into the background and pretend she wasn’t there, wishing she were back home in England.
She glanced across the sand, where everyone looked like models you might see within the pages of a glossy magazine. She’d always been taught to concentrate on the similarities rather than the differences between people, but here therewereno similarities and never had she felt it more keenly than today. She was different from everyone else who frolicked on the fine-grained silver sand.
She wasn’t royal.
She wasn’t even well connected.
And she certainly wasn’t rich.
Fiddling with the strap of her black swimsuit, she continued to observe the action playing out on Monterosso’s most desirable stretch of beach, where the assembled gathering was paying homage to the man in their midst. The man with a mane of hair which some called russet, or titian, but was often described in gushing newspaper profiles as resembling dark fire. He exuded an aura of poise and power. Of arrogance and assurance. Every woman was in love with him and every man strove to be like him.
Corso.
Or, more accurately, Corso Andrea da Vignola, Prince and heir to the fabulous kingdom of Monterosso, with its casinos and nightclubs and the famous red mountain which had given the country its name.
Women wearing bikinis, which looked as if they had been constructed from dental floss, opened their glossy mouths and roared with laughter whenever the Prince spoke. They thrust out their perfect breasts and sucked in already concave stomachs as they unsubtly vied to capture his interest. They looked like thronging cattle in a market stall, Rosie thought in disgust, quickly quashing the thought that she might perhaps bejealousof them. Of course she wasn’t. For a period in her life she’d felt almost close to him, before time and circumstances had intervened. These days she felt as if she didn’t know him, apart from the fearsome reputation he seemed to have acquired in the press—the playboy with the heart of stone, they called him, although Rosie thought that was a bit cruel. Just because a man of twenty-five hadn’t chalked up much in the way of long-term relationships, didn’t necessarily mean he had a heart of stone, did it?
Her bottom pressing into the sand—for all the loungers had been taken and she was too shy to ask for another—she folded her arms around her knees, hoping the pose struck a confidence she was far from feeling. She wondered how much longer she was going to have to stay here with her head getting hotter and hotter beneath her cheap sunhat. Probably until Corso decided he wanted to leave—because it was forbidden for a guest to leave a function before the royal Prince.
Whyhadshe come here?
She should have let the past go. Let it slip away like a silent stream, into the hidden backwaters of her mind.
She stared down at the grains of sand, which looked like crushed diamonds as they glittered in the sunshine. Had she been hoping to find a sense of peace, of belonging—here in this Mediterranean paradise where she had spent so many happy summers, before life had hurled a series of grenades into her life? Perhaps she had. But, like all daydreams, her hopes had dissolved the minute they’d made contact with reality. She had no place here, not really. Her imaginings had been nothing but illusions. Although her father had been considered Monterosso’s most respected archaeologist and the Prince’s favoured mentor, when it boiled down to it, he had been nothing more than a servant.
And she, a servant’s daughter.
‘Now, the question I am asking myself is what you’re doing over here, hiding away in the shadows like a lynx in the forest. Why aren’t you joining in with the party?’
Rosie was startled by the sound of a richly accented drawl, which had always been the most distinctive voice she’d ever heard. She glanced up to see Corso standing in front of her and quickly turned to look behind her to see who he was talking to, but there was nobody there.
‘Yes, I’m speaking to you, Rosie.’
His deep voice was tinged with amusement but it sounded as if it might be underpinned with a faint sense of impatience and Rosie realised that she must have looked the odd one out among all the supermodels, world-class sportswomen and other over-achieving females who were on the beach-party list. She should have listened to her sister, who had told her she would be insane to pitch up at one of the most glittering social events of the year, taking her hopelessly inadequate wardrobe with her. But Rosie had felt drawn back to Monterosso, as if she were being tugged there by an insistent and invisible string. Was that because some of her happiest times had been here, in this beautiful mountain kingdom—or because the current reality of her life was grey enough to make her want to lose herself in the past?
And, of course, Bianca had been right, because everythingdidseem strange and different—which was probably more to do with the way Rosie was feeling, rather than the way she looked. Had she imagined that she might have some sort of special bond with the Prince, just because he used to enjoy her mother’s chicken pie and had taught her how to tie knots? Because if she had, then surelythatwas the real insanity.
Once she might have chattered to him with the lack of inhibition of a child, but now she didn’t dare. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say. She shifted awkwardly, self-conscious of her under-developed body and how gauche she must seem compared to all the stunners who were draped across the sand. Which was why she stayed exactly where she was, unwilling to stand up and subject herself to the scrutiny of the royal Prince, who suddenly seemed like a stranger to her. How could it be that the man she had once regarded as a quasi-big brother—if their positions in life hadn’t been so dramatically different—now appeared so distant and remote? She could feel her cheeks growing hotter and she swallowed. If this was what growing up was about then she didn’t want it.
‘Happy birthday, Corso,’ she said awkwardly.
‘Thank you,’ he responded, with a regal inclination of his head.
But his dark brows remained raised in question and Rosie realised to her horror that he might be expecting her to bow down before him. Was he? As a child, she had only ever curtseyed to his father, the King, and the Corso she had known would have loathed such formality. Cheeks still burning, she scrambled to her feet, painfully aware of the plain swimsuit which emphasised her bony ribs and skinny legs. As she sank towards the soft sand, she wished it would swallow her up.
‘Forgive me for my lack of protocol,’ she said as she rose to her feet once more. ‘I’m not quite sure what to do. Not any more.’ He was looking at her in bemusement—as if he was unused to someone saying exactly what was on their mind—and something about the molten quality of his golden gaze made her blurt out the truth. ‘It’s so weird being back here.’
‘Yes, I can imagine it must be.’ There was a pause. ‘How long has it been?’
‘Six years.’
‘Six years? Is it really?’
Was that a sigh she heard? Surely not. Sighing was something she associated with sentiment or nostalgia—and the steely Corso was not the type of man to indulge in either.
‘Time passes with the speed of a tornado,’ he continued, with a frown. ‘How old are you now? Sixteen?’
