But the more he considered it, the more he was convinced Posy could be the right candidate for the royal role. She had poise and dignity, which were always assets, she didn’t want to be Queen, which meant she had no expectations ready to be dashed, often a danger with a royal bride, and she came with no baggage. She didn’t have a title or a fortune to bring to the table, no scheming relatives or concession-demanding lawyers, just a Cinderella stroke Juliet stroke Goose Girl vibe, which had the marketing consultant salivating into her forecast spreadsheets.
So all he needed to do was convince the lady herself. She had to have an Achilles heel; he just needed to probe until he found it.
‘Why ballet?’
She darted a surprised look up at him. ‘What?’
‘Why did you want to be a ballet dancer? The tutus?’
‘How old do you think I am? Three?’ Her face relaxed into a soft smile. ‘Maybe a little bit the tutus, at the beginning. No, it was Sofia. She was my grandmother’s best friend. They met at boarding school and, even though they lived such different lives, were such complete opposites, they were fast friends. She was like an aunt to my mother—an indulgent, impulsive, glamorous aunt—and Mum wanted to let her know she was part of the family and asked her to be my godmother. She said, Sofia, that a godmother’s purpose was to spoil the child and so she did. She took me to London every Christmas for a matinee and afternoon tea at Fortnum’s.’ Her smile widened. ‘My sisters were so jealous. It’s not easy being the youngest. They all did their best to squash me so I did rather boast about my good luck.’
‘And Sofia encouraged you to dance?’
‘She took me to my first ballet. The Nutcracker. I was only five—Royal Opera House, a box, expensive chocolates. My mother was really doubtful I’d sit still for that long. I was rather an energetic small child, never still if I could move, but as soon as I saw the lights and the stage and the seats filled with people all dressed up and expectant I was hooked. And then the music started...’ Her voice died away, her huge dark eyes glistening before she resolutely wiped a tear away. ‘That was it. I wanted to be Clara floating on an adventure through a fantasy world. Yes, it was partly the tutus, but mostly the way the dancers seemed to soar. How graceful yet strong they were. I begged and begged my mother for ballet lessons and as soon as I set foot in that studio, all serious in my pink leotard and tiny ballet shoes, I knew I’d come home. I always felt that way, no matter how hard it got, how tired I was, how painful my feet. Like I was home.’
‘So why are you here and not there? Dancers don’t have a very long shelf-life, do they? Can you really risk a sabbatical?’
Posy brushed away another tear. ‘It stopped being home.’ She didn’t say any more and, after a quick look at her averted profile, Nico decided not to push any further. He didn’t need to. He had his information. Posy Marlowe was at a crossroads—all he needed to do was show her the right way.
They rounded the curve in the coastal path and Villa Rosa came into sight. The famous pink villa was surrounded by a high wall on three sides, the front of the villa overlooking the beach and ocean. The coastal path diverted from the cliff tops to ensure passers-by gave the villa a wide berth, wild meadows running rampant between the walls and the paths, ‘Keep Out, private’ signs dissuading hikers from taking a short cut through the long grass. Posy had trampled a narrow path from the wall to the path and she set off back along it. ‘Sofia would never let us walk through the meadow in May and June,’ she said. ‘It belongs to the poppies then. We had to take the long way round, through the gates and along the road until it met the path and then turning back on ourselves. Sofia always said it was a sin to step on a wild flower.’
But not a sin to sleep with another woman’s husband. Nico stopped the acerbic words before they reached his lips but, he realised, he was going to have to warn Posy not to mention her godmother in front of his grandmother. He might be envisioning a star-crossed lovers narrative for the pair of them but that didn’t mean Lady Montague had to befriend Lady Capulet even beyond the grave.
Ivy hung over the faded pink walls, so thickly Nico didn’t see the gate until Posy pushed the dark green leaves to one side and revealed the discreet, slim door. Images of his grandfather slipping furtively out rose irresistibly in his mind and Nico was torn between laughter at the ridiculousness of the King sneaking out of the villa like some kind of burglar and icy anger at his grandfather’s betrayal, not just of his Queen, but of the whole island. He paused, one hand on the door. Would marrying Posy be worth reviving all that old gossip? Or would their carefully orchestrated happy ever after finally put it to bed? Only time would tell—if she agreed.
The door led into the gardens, now overgrown, faded and crumbling like so much else in the villa. To one side were the garages and in front the famous conservatory with its jewel-coloured glass. The driveway was at the side of the house so that the front had a clear view of the ocean, unhindered by anything as mundane as a path or a driveway or the impressive wrought-iron gates. Gates that had been standing wide open when he had visited the villa earlier today.
‘Posy, did you close the gates after me? This morning?’
She started, still lost in a world of her own. ‘No, why? I haven’t closed them at all. They’re so heavy and the lock’s stiff. Besides, this is L’Isola dei Fiori. There’s practically no crime here.’
‘No,’ he said grimly. ‘But there are photographers. Wait here.’
As boys he and Alessandro had often played at being spies, slipping through the palace as stealthily as possible, searching out the hidden corridors that they knew must be somewhere if they just looked hard enough. Of course they hadn’t practised being spies in a creaky house, full of furniture with ludicrously large windows exposing them on every side.
Nico opened the conservatory door and stepped as quietly as possible onto the tiled floor before crossing the vast sunlit room to let himself into the shabby kitchen. He didn’t need to go any further. He could hear the noise from here. Banging on the door, voices echoing in through the letter box.
‘Miss Marlowe, we just want to talk.’
‘Is Prince Nico here?’
‘Posy, we are prepared to offer big for an exclusive tell all. My card’s on your mat.’
Nico swore under his breath. ‘Dammit.’ He’d hoped to have had a little more time. It was a good thing he’d made plans for this very situation. Retreating as silently as he had come, he made his way swiftly back to the garden and a wide-eyed Posy. She stood next to the fountain, her dark hair falling out of its loose bun, her legs long and strong in denim cut-offs, the oversized white shirt emphasising her air of fragility. It was just an air, he suspected, remembering the way she’d moved on the beach, the lines of her body twisting and turning, the way she stood poised, balanced, one leg high in the air, the way she cut through the water with clean, strong strokes. But would she be strong enough for what awaited her?
‘They’re here,’ he said brusquely. ‘We need to leave. Now.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
POSY SENT A nervous glance Nico’s way. He hadn’t said a word beyond a curt ‘careful’ since he’d hustled her away from the villa and down the steep path to the jetty, where he’d helped her into the boat. Posy was torn between admiration that he was one step ahead of the paparazzi by electing to sail to the villa, not drive along the narrow road where they would undoubtedly have found themselves hemmed in by the scarily large pack of photographers and paparazzi—and irritation that he was one step ahead of her right up to orchestrating their quick getaway.
She shivered despite the late afternoon sun. Her own sister was an entertainment journalist, used to celebrities and cameras and hustle—and since being linked to Javier had become a paparazzi target in her own right—but this kind of attention was beyond anything Posy had ever experienced.
As for Nico and the crazy p
lan he had come up with... Suddenly it didn’t feel quite so crazy and that scared her more than anything. When a fake love affair and an arranged marriage seemed logical it was a sure sign everything else had turned upside down.
Whoa. Her mind skidded to a stop. Did that mean she was considering agreeing? Of course she wasn’t—couldn’t—but everything was all happening so fast. Too fast, rapidly skidding so far out of her control she had no idea how she was going to get her life back on track.
She swallowed, willing her voice to come out calm and assertive, not plaintive and wobbling. ‘Where are we going?’
Nico barely turned to look at her, all his attention on the wheel as the boat ploughed smoothly through the blue waves. ‘The palace.’
‘The palace? Is that wise?’
‘You’ll be safe there.’
L’Isola dei Fiori was a small island and during her childhood holidays Posy had been to pretty much all of the limited and often old-fashioned sights. She’d sailed out on the old sailing ship, toured the grottos and sea caves, eaten gelato at Giovanni’s—still renowned as the best ice cream in Europe by those in the know—and spent hours at the old-fashioned fair in the centre of San Rocco, the quaint capital city. Sofia had loved the carousel, riding the faded wooden horses with as much straight-backed grace as if she were on an Arabian steed.
But Posy had never set foot inside the palace even though parts were open to the public, never seen the famous paintings, the celebrated romantic architecture, the graceful spires and spiral stairs more like a fairy-tale castle than a living, breathing building.
Sofia had kept them away from anything and anywhere to do with the Del Castro family. Not for them the feast days and carnivals celebrated with such enthusiasm by the rest of the island or the parades and parties. For the first time Posy realised just how limited her godmother’s seemingly glamorous life must have been. Everyone knew who she was and yet she could never be publicly acknowledged.
While Posy herself had suddenly become all too public.
‘Maybe I should have stayed put. They’d have gone eventually. If I go to the palace with you then we’re making a statement, aren’t we? It’s as if I’m agreeing to your...’ She searched for the right word. She could hardly call it a proposal. ‘Your suggestion. But I haven’t had a chance to think it through.’
‘What do you want, Posy? If this hadn’t happened, if we hadn’t met, what were you planning to do next?’
She looked down at the water, stirred up into white froth by the boat, and wished for a moment she could dive in and just float there until this was all over. ‘I don’t know,’ she confessed. ‘All I ever wanted to do was dance and I haven’t decided yet whether I’m ready to stop. I can’t make that decision, such a final, life-changing decision, not yet. It’s too soon. I might be on a sabbatical but I’m not sure I’m ready to walk away for good.’
‘Then give me three months. Three months to convince the world we’re falling in love. If after that you decide this isn’t for you we’ll plan an exit strategy.’
Plan. Exit strategy. Marriage as a boardroom presentation. ‘Three months? And then I can walk away?’
‘You’ll still be linked to me but hopefully we can turn the story around, make you someone people want to be, not someone...’
‘Not someone people are giggling about?’ It made a crazy kind of sense. ‘How would we end it? If I agree? And what about the villa? Will you still pressurise me to sell it to you?’
‘We have three months to figure it out. But, Posy, I want you to promise something. If you decide to try, then please really give this engagement a chance. It might not be something you want, something you’ve ever considered, but it could give you a way forward. You love this island too. Why else would you come here? The island needs some good news, some positive publicity, someone to help me look after it and lead it. You could be that person. Think about it.’
Posy nodded, unable to speak. He was right. The island did have a hold on her heart. It was the place she’d instinctively turned when she had nowhere else to go, nothing to hold onto, no one to turn to. Maybe she could have a purpose here. It was better than no purpose at all.
Three months. It wasn’t that long a time. She’d be free before Christmas. Maybe she could give him that. Give herself that. After all, it wasn’t as if she had anything more pressing to do. She looked at him, at the set of his jaw, the way his eyes focused on the horizon, the muscles playing in his arms as he kept the boat steady. She’d taken a crazy chance on him once before. Trusted him. Okay, it had all gone horribly wrong but not because of anything he had done—and here he was, trying to make it right.
‘Fine, I’ll do it. I’ll give you three months. But if I do this then you have to be honest with me as well. If it’s not working for you then say. After all, you have an entire dossier of other potential wives to choose from.’
He shot her an unreadable look. ‘Deal.’
She shifted in her seat. The wind whipped the strands of hair that had fallen from her bun around her face. Posy breathed in, the sea air tasting like freedom. She’d better inhale it while she still could. ‘So, what happens next? We announce our engagement straight away?’ An unexpected giggle burst from her as she pictured it. Would he stand there and say ‘whatever love is’ while she stared coyly at her hands?
‘Not immediately. First, first we fall in love. Obviously, publicly, and as photogenically as possible. I hope you’re ready for your close-up, Miss Marlowe. We’re here.’
Any inclination Posy still had to giggle disappeared as Nico expertly steered the boat in between two high, narrow rocks and the boat emerged into a wide bay, the palace perched on top of the cliffs. Guards manned the parapets looking out to sea—not that the island had been invaded during the last two hundred years or so. Before that, however, it had fallen prey to several different empires, which was why, although the official language was Italian, there were Greek, French and the odd bit of British influences across the island.
‘Couldn’t anyone just sail in?’ she asked as Nico headed towards a small harbour on the opposite side of the bay. Several boats were already moored there, including the surviving royal yacht—there had been three but the current King, Nico’s uncle, she realised, had sold two—some fancy-looking cabin cruisers and catamarans as well as some more modest boats and dinghies like the one Nico was currently guiding in.
‘Technically but the only way up to the palace is heavily guarded and the harbour and beach are monitored and patrolled. We do get the press coming in occasionally but there’s very little for them to see here so they can usually be persuaded to leave without too much bloodshed.’
As he spoke Posy saw several smartly dressed soldiers stepping smartly along the harbourside. A welcoming party. ‘Oh, no, I’m a mess.’ She quickly smoothed back the wisps of hair and pulled her shirt down. ‘You should have let me bring some clothes. We had time to pack.’ Not that she had anything suitable for a palace. She spent her life in sweat pants and vest tops. Hardly royal attire.
‘Don’t worry, I called ahead. It’s being taken care of.’
‘Oh.’ One step ahead again.
The boat glided against the dock and Nico threw the rope to one of the soldiers, who caught it in one hand and looped it around a pole. Nico jumped smartly up onto the dock and extended a hand to Posy. She took a deep breath. It was time.
His hand was warm and firm and oddly comforting as he pulled her onto the dock. Posy had an urge to keep hold of it, an anchor in this strange new world. ‘Okay?’ he asked.
‘I think so.’
The soldiers fell in step around them. She could do this. It was just like a ballet, everyone knowing their steps and their place—except Posy, but she was an expert at finding her feet. Nico slanted a glance at her. ‘A room’s been prepared. I’ll take you straight there to wash up and chang
e.’
‘And then?’
‘And then you meet my family.’
Great. Straight into the lions’ den. ‘Meeting the parents on the second date.’ As she said the words she remembered that his father had died three years ago in a helicopter crash. There had been some whispered scandal; a woman’s body had also been uncovered from the wreckage.
Nico seamlessly covered her gaffe. He must have had training: How to Speak to Tactless Commoners for Beginners. ‘My mother isn’t here, you’ll be relieved to hear. She lives in France now, splitting her time between Paris and the Riviera. Just my uncle and aunt and my grandmother.’
‘Just the King, Queen and Dowager Queen. Nothing I haven’t dealt with one hundred times before. No, wait. That’s those girls in your grandmother’s dossier.’
He laughed at that. It was the first time she’d heard him laugh. It transformed him, lit him up. It would be nice to make him laugh more often...
‘Just call them all Your Majesty and defer to my uncle’s wisdom and you’ll be fine.’
‘Is that what you do?’
‘I manage the Your Majesty bit, the other I have a hard time with,’ he confessed. ‘They can be a little intimidating but it’s in everyone’s interests that this works out so don’t let them worry you.’
It was hardly the most reassuring speech Posy had ever heard.
She’d expected hordes of interested onlookers but it was eerily deserted as the guards escorted them past the checkpoint and into the tiled tunnel cut into the cliff, through two sets of security doors, and saluted them as they stepped into a plush lift, just two accompanying them up to the palace. Posy tried not to think about how the lift shaft must be cut into the solid rock as the lift smoothly rose upwards at a stately speed. It was equally deserted when the doors opened into a marble vestibule and they passed through another set of security doors and into the corridor beyond. Either people had been told to keep away or nobody knew she was accompanying Nico back to the palace. She didn’t care which one it was, she was just grateful for these last few moments of privacy.
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