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‘I believe you drink champagne?’
Tilly frowned, and was on the brink of pointing out that she really didn’t drink much at all before remembering that Cressida was practically fuelled by the stuff. She found it perfectly acceptable to start her day with a glass of bubbles. And, despite the fact she could knock off a bottle on her own in no time, she never seemed affected by it. Which showed she had an incredible tolerance for the stuff. Unlike Tilly.
Yet she nodded, knowing it would lead to questions if she disavowed something so intrinsic about the heiress.
He reached into the fridge and pulled out a bottle—Bollinger, she saw as he unfurled the top.
‘The cabin is not exactly well appointed,’ he explained, pulling out a single tumbler and half filling it with champagne. He handed her the glass, then scooped up their plates and cutlery.
‘You’re not joining me?’
‘No.’
He moved down the corridor, pushing the door to the balcony open with his shoulder and holding it for her to move past. It surprised her; she’d assumed they’d sit inside at the table.
But when she looked up she let out a sound of astonishment.
Somewhere between their walk on the beach and the pages she hadn’t read, the sky had caught fire. Red, orange, pink and purple exploded in every direction, backlit by warmth and turning the ocean a vibrant hue of purple.
‘Wow!’
He set the plates on the small table, his eyes following hers.
‘Remember when we swam as the sun dipped down and the sky was orange? And you told me I was a mermaid who’d come from the sea?’
His mother’s voice had been crackly and faint. The last of her cancer treatments had left her disorientated and confused.
‘Prim’amore—my love, my first love. For ever.’
When death had been at her doorstep, she’d thought only of him. Piero. A man who hadn’t even come to the funeral—who hadn’t so much as acknowledged her passing.
Rio compressed his lips, his appetite diminished.
Not so Tilly’s.
She sat opposite him and attacked her fish with impressive gusto, pausing occasionally to turn back to the view, before remembering that she was starving, apparently, and pushing another piece of her dinner into her mouth.
A beautiful mouth. Full and naturally pouting, with a perfect cupid’s bow that out of nowhere he imagined tracing with his tongue.
His body stirred at the idea. The sooner he got off this island the better. Any number of women would make more suitable, less complicated lovers than Cressida Wyndham.
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes roaming her face. ‘Yes.’ His nod was concise. ‘I think you’re spoiled.’ His eyes dropped to her lips once more—lips that were parted now with indignation. ‘But it is not your fault.’
‘Oh, geez. Thanks.’ She reached for her champagne and sipped it, pulling a face when the water she wanted to taste turned out to be bubbly and astringent. Still, it slid down her throat, soothing her parched mouth and calming her nerves.
His laugh sent her pulse skittering.
‘I mean only that anyone raised as you were would be spoiled. You have been indulged from the first day of your life. Adored. Cherished. All your dreams made a reality, I imagine.’
Tilly couldn’t have said where the need to defend Cressida came from, but it was like a sledgehammer in her side. Sisterhood? Girl power? Her own childhood had been idyllic. She, Tilly, was the one who had been spoiled. Not with material possessions—money had always been tight in the Morgan household—but with time and love.
‘Yes, well, that may be true, but there’s more to life than physical possessions, and far better ways to show affection than by giving gifts.’
Curious, he leaned forward. ‘Poor little rich girl?’ he prompted, and when she kept her face averted, her chin set at a defiant angle, he felt a surge of adrenalin kick in his gut. ‘Have I hurt your feelings, Principessa?’
She reached for her champagne once more and held it in one hand, her eyes roaming the ocean before lifting to his face. ‘You haven’t hurt my feelings.’
