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Because the sooner she was away from Monterosso, the better.
Rosie didn’t stop rushing until she was back in the grounds of the palace and the crushed diamond glitter of the beach was far behind her. Skirting the less used paths she knew so well, she was able to move unseen through the fragrant foliage, towards the turreted creamy patina of the soaring royal residence. And it wasn’t until she was safely back in her room and had closed the door behind her that she drew in a shuddering breath of relief.
And anger.
She found herself staring into an enormous mirror without really seeing herself, because the only things which dominated her thoughts were those piercing amber eyes which gleamed like purest gold.
Had Corsoalwaysbeen so hateful? First of all he’d looked her up and down with faint incredulity and then started behaving as if she were invisible—while his jaw had practically dropped to the ground when Tiffany Sackler had appeared with that foxy look on her face. As soon as the supermodel had arrived, the whole atmosphere had changed, making Rosie grow increasingly uncomfortable. Or was she just being naïve and unrealistic? What had she expected? That the Prince would prefer to talk to her, when one of the most lusted-after women on the planet was in the vicinity, batting her super-long lashes at him?
But of all the women he could have had—why choose Tiffany? Or was it her own lack of self-esteem which made Rosie suspicious of the American model, whose eyes she thought resembled shards of blue ice? Her suite was right door next to hers and, since the thick palace walls meant the phone signal was hopeless, Tiffany would sometimes wander out onto her terrace, wearing an eye-poppingly tiny bikini, chattering into her phone and surveying the magnificent scenery around her with a hungry expression. Surely Corso could have found himself a lessin your facegirlfriend than that?
But his relationship with Tiffany was nothing to do with her and Rosie forced herself to focus on the pale face which was staring back at her from the ornately scrolled mirror. She needed to get things in perspective. Tonight was the Prince’s birthday ball and after that the clock would start ticking down towards her departure. Just a few more hours to get through and then she could fly back to England and decide what she was going to do with her future.
But the future was scary. She knew that better than anyone. Thank heavens no one was ever given a crystal ball, because if you knew some of the things which were waiting for you—you’d never get out of bed in the morning. She hoped that her mother would start becoming the warm, loving woman she’d grown up with, rather than the pale and haunted widow who seemed unable to cope with her husband’s death.
In an effort to distract herself from reality, Rosie began flicking through the bookshelf until she found a book she recognised. A record of early Monterossian art, written by the man who had introduced her to the subject almost before she could walk. The man who had been her hero and the lynchpin on whom the three Forrester women had depended—perhaps a little too much—until his spirit and body had been crushed by an underwater arch which had collapsed on him. The density of the water had meant he hadn’t been killed instantly, as would have happened if it had occurred on dry land. Instead, he had lain in a coma for four long years before his eventual death, which had given the family time to reflect on the fact that Lionel’s enthusiasm had stupidly led him to undertake a dangerous mission, single-handedly. It had been a slow kind of suffering for them all—and now his work and his two daughters were all that remained of him.
It had been a long time since Rosie had been able to bring herself to look at this particular book, but it was comforting as well as poignant to read the familiar words, for it conjured up her father’s voice and his presence. Lost in tales of ancient battles and of jewelled crowns forged for royal princesses, Rosie was oblivious to the hours drifting by until she heard a noise coming from the direction of Tiffany’s terrace. With a shock, she glanced down at her watch and realised there was barely an hour left before the ball began. She hadn’t even thought about getting ready—and no way should she be late.
A quick shower washed all the remaining sand from her body but there wasn’t enough time to wash and dry her hair. Never mind. She could twist it into an intricate knot, high on her head, and hopefully that would conceal the fact that some of the strands were still covered in suncream. At last she plucked her dress from the ornately carved wardrobe, her heart hammering nervously as she pulled it over her head.
‘Keep it simple,’her sister had advised, and, since Bianca always looked totally amazing, Rosie had taken her at her word. She suspected that the only reason she’d been able to afford the dress was because the unforgiving white fabric would have revealed every lump and bump on most people, of which Rosie had none. The gown was silky and fell to the ground, pretty much covering her feet—which was a good thing as she was wearing a pair of red ballet pumps which still fitted her and which she had never really used, since she’d always been hopeless at dancing. She still was. The most daring thing about the outfit was that it draped over one shoulder, leaving the other completely bare. Her only adornment was a delicate choker of gold, a replica of an ancient Monterossian necklace which her mother had lent her. But the catch was fiddly and Rosie’s fingers much too nervous to secure it...
Couldn’t she go and ask Tiffany to fasten it for her? Forget her prejudices about the American supermodel and perhaps have a friendly chat with her before the big event. Wasn’t that the companionable kind of thing women sometimes did before parties? Maybe they could even go to the ball together—because that would be infinitely better than having to enter the luxurious palace ballroom on her own.
Her ballet pumps were silent as she crossed the marble floor and she was going to approach from the shadows of her own terrace, when she saw Tiffany standing with her back to her. Her phone was held to her ear and Rosie was just about to retreat and return once the call was finished when her ears pricked up as she heard a name she recognised.
‘Oh, don’t worry. I have Corsoexactlywhere I want him,’ Tiffany was purring.
Rosie had been taught never to listen to other people’s conversations because nothing good ever came of it, but a faintly troubling quality in the supermodel’s voice was making her body grow tense.
Leave, she told herself, but she remained rooted to the spot all the same.
‘Because I’ve made him wait and he’s hot for me, and my timing couldn’t be more perfect.’ Tiffany was whispering, before letting out a soft and triumphant laugh. ‘Yes, you do. You know exactly what I mean. And if the stars align themselves properly, you’re going to be organising a baby shower before the year is out. Yeah, yeah...’
The rest of her words were lost as Rosie slipped back into her room, her thoughts spinning.
Disbelief washed over her as she thought about what she’d just heard. Could Tiffany have meant what itsoundedas if she meant? As if she was planning to trap the Prince by getting herself pregnant? Surely she wouldn’t do something as crass and as underhand as that.
But she wouldn’t have been the first woman in the history of the world to have stooped to such an action. Rosie might have been completely innocent of men, but she knew that much. Her face grew hot and she wanted to squirm. Because if thatwerethe case, then surely she couldn’t just remain silent about it, because in essence—that would be condoning it. Did Corsorealisewhat was on Tiffany’s mind? Did he have any idea what might be waiting in store for him?
Because she knew very well that the Crown Prince had always been a traditionalist and his royal legacy was hugely important to him. And yes, his sexual exploits might give people the idea that he was a playboy, but he was also the type of man who would marry only when the time was right—to a woman of a similar exalted royal background. He certainly wasn’t the kind of man who would have a baby out of wedlock, with a commoner.
Trying to keep her fingers steady, Rosie fiddled with her necklace until at last it was fastened and she wished she could just crawl underneath the embroidered covers of the magnificent bed and sleep the night away until her flight home tomorrow. But she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t.
Whatshouldshe do?
She swallowed.
She and Corso went back a long way—even if hehadbeen unable to conceal his faint disdain for her today or the fact that, inevitably, they had grown apart. And anyway, this was about more than her own hurt pride. Surely she owed it to the Prince, to his land and his people to confide in him the truth. Shehadto tell him. Before it was too late.
She heard the first of eight sonorous clangs as the palace clock began to ring in the hour.
Despite all her best intentions, she was late.
The final chime was just dying away as Rosie burst into the ballroom to confront the Crown Prince of Monterosso.
