My Shocking Monte Carlo Confession (Passion In Paradise Book 12)

by Heidi Rice

  ‘From London, originally.’

  ‘Where you live and work?’

  She didn’t answer his question, her gaze sweeping the marina. ‘I adore the South of France, don’t you?’

  As attempts to change the subject went, that was clumsy. ‘The Riviera’s one of many places I like to visit.’

  She pulled him up on his apparent disinterest right away. ‘Like? How can anyone like the South of France when it’s so obviously gorgeous and fabulous? Don’t you feel doubly alive when you’re here?’ Her face lit up, and all the tension he’d detected when she’d first burst into the bar dropped away. ‘Music, food, heat, blue skies and sunshine—the way everyone throws back their shoulders and speaks out clearly instead of mumbling. People walk tall here with confidence and optimism, instead of huddling beneath raincoats in a grey, chilly drizzle—’

  ‘You put forward a good case,’ he conceded, shaking himself out of his black mood. ‘Are you a lawyer?’

  ‘No, but I’ve often thought legal skills would be useful.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ she said vaguely.

  ‘If not a lawyer, are you a writer? Your descriptive skills?’ he prompted.

  She laughed and looked away.

  ‘Why don’t you ask here about jobs?’ he suggested.

  She swept a hand down her crumpled clothes. ‘Like they’d hire me looking like this! And, anyway, I want to get as far away as I can. Out to sea would be my preference.’

  ‘Are you under pressure to get away?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘I’m just following the ball of string as you reel it out.’

  ‘So I’m not the only detective. I’d better be careful what else I say.’

  ‘You’d better,’ he agreed as measuring glances flashed between them.

  Young, attractive, intelligent and feisty, she was a welcome distraction on a difficult day.

  ‘I’m guessing you don’t work here,’ she said as she gave him a comprehensive once-over. ‘Ripped shorts and a sleeveless top don’t suggest to me that you’re trying out for the job of waiter.’

  ‘Me?’ He laughed. ‘No. I don’t think they’d trust me at the sink.’

  ‘A pot carrier, perhaps?’ she mused. ‘You’ve got the muscles for it.’

  ‘I’m hired, then?’ he teased with the lift of a brow.

  ‘You wish.’

  When she laughed a dimple appeared in her cheek, he noted.

  ‘So how come they let you in?’ she asked with an appraising look.

  ‘Like you, I just walked in. If you do so with confidence, I find no one will stop you.’

  ‘But you can’t help me with a job?’

  ‘Sorry. I’m afraid I can’t.’

  ‘Afraid?’ she demanded askance. ‘I’ve known you less than five minutes, but it’s long enough to know you’re not afraid of anything.’

  He might have agreed with her at one time, but when the rock he’d built his life on tottered and splintered into pieces, all bets were off.

  ‘Maybe you’re the type of guy I should know better than to talk to?’

  ‘Yet, here we are.’ Making himself comfortable against the wall at the side of the bar, he spread his hands wide.

  ‘Not for long,’ she said briskly. ‘All I need is a glass of water and then I’m out of here. I bet the barman could see you above their heads,’ she hinted as she took in the crowd at the bar. ‘Please,’ she begged. ‘You make the other men look like shrimps. They’ll part like the Red Sea when they see you on the move. They wouldn’t even notice me jumping up and down.’

  ‘You flatter me.’

  ‘Do I?’ she demanded, opening her eyes wide. ‘Entirely unintentional, I assure you.’

  ‘All right,’ he agreed. ‘Stay there.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere without a drink of water,’ she assured him.

  She amused him, and had stormed his reserve with nothing more than a bold line in chat and an engaging smile. The pert breasts didn’t hurt. Nor did a taut butt, displayed to best advantage beneath tantalisingly short shorts. It was all too easy to imagine those coltish legs wrapped around his waist, though they were tipped with a pair of battered old boots, which were possibly the ugliest he’d ever seen. He glanced back as he waited at the bar. Her face was a picture of puzzled concentration. She was still hammering away at the computer in her mind as she attempted to place him, he guessed.

  Even windswept, she was beautiful. Smudged with dirt from the trail and make-up-free. Her hair, in particular, was an abundant, fiery magnificence. Its unusual shade of copper reminded him of sunset at sea. Held back carelessly with a few pins, it begged to be set free so he could tangle his fingers through the lustrous locks as he eased her head back to kiss his way down the long, slender line of her neck. But it was more than good looks that had captured his attention. She had character and spirit and gave as good as she got, which, in the world of sycophants he was about to inhabit, made her a welcome change.

  He was on a deadline. Soon he would return to the principality of Madlena to take the throne after the death of his brother. The responsibility that entailed hog-tied him a little more each day. This might be his last trip on his yacht the Black Diamond before duty put an end to his freedom for good. The last thing he needed was a complication in the form of a sassy young woman with a seemingly bottomless pit of questions. No doubt sex would ease his tension, but his usual pick would be an older, experienced woman who knew the score, not an ingénue on a backpacking trip around Europe.

  ‘Water! At last!’ she cried theatrically as he handed over a misted bottle and a glass.

  As she reached for it, her body brushed his, causing a riot she was seemingly unaware of, while his groin had tightened to the point of pain.

  ‘Thank you,’ she gasped on a grateful exhalation as she drained the glass.

  ‘You could use another?’ he guessed.

  ‘You read my mind. But don’t worry. I can handle it,’ she assured him.

  ‘Go to it,’ he invited, standing back.

  As she’d pressed against him, he’d been given more than a clue about the body beneath her shabby clothes. His adored nonna, Princess Aurelia, might have said this young woman was ‘well made’. Although she was tiny like his grandmother, at least a head smaller than anyone else at the bar, which meant her repeated attempts to attract the barman’s attention were a massive fail.

  ‘All right,’ she conceded finally. ‘Seems I’ve got no option but to throw myself on your mercy again. Go to it!’ she urged. ‘I’ll cheer you on from the sidelines—as much as I can with a throat that feels like sandpaper.’

  Her voice was unmistakeably British, while her mouth was extremely sexy. An almost perfect Cupid’s bow, it tugged up at one corner, which made the endearing dimple appear in her cheek. ‘Hurry,’ she begged, clutching her throat like the leading light in some amateur dramatic society. ‘Can’t you see I’m desperate?’

  ‘You belong on the stage,’ he commented dryly.

  ‘Yeah, scrubbing it,’ she agreed.

  That she made him laugh on a day when laughter had seemed impossible pointed up the fact that this was no overentitled drip. She wasn’t helpless in any way. Here in this preserve of the rich and famous, where labels didn’t just count, they were mandatory, and where a designer outfit would never dare to show its face twice, she was as poised as a princess—and a lot more fun, if the selection of po-faced contenders drawn up by his royal council was anything to go by. She could also be a lot more trouble, he considered on his return from the bar. Her mouth had pursed disapprovingly when she saw him served before anyone else.

  ‘I didn’t ask you to crash the line,’ she scolded with a grin.

  ‘I didn’t. The barman just happens to be superefficient.
’

  ‘Okay,’ she conceded. ‘Well, thank you. You’ve done me a real favour, and I appreciate it.’

  ‘I splashed out on two glasses of water,’ he pointed out, bringing her back down to earth. ‘Hardly a good enough reason to throw yourself at my feet.’

  ‘You should be so lucky,’ she assured him. ‘Anyway, sometimes a glass of water is all it takes. Do you know everyone here?’ she added as she glugged it down.

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Because they’re all staring at you.’

  ‘Perhaps they’re staring at you.’ When he turned, heads swivelled away as the übersophisticated clientele pretended they hadn’t seen him.

  ‘Hmm,’ she mused thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think so.’ She downed the second glass in record time. ‘I’m well outclassed.’

  That was a matter of opinion.

  ‘Anyway,’ she added with a gasp of relief as she put the empty glass down, ‘don’t let these nosy parkers worry you. You’ve got me to protect you now.’

  ‘That’s a joke?’ he asked.

  ‘Take it any way you want,’ she said, ‘but my suggestion is, just ignore them.’

  Fiery hair was a fair indicator of temperament, he suspected, guessing she could be a little terrier if she was put to the test. There was no risk of overdosing on sugar when it came to this woman.

  ‘So,’ she added, barely pausing for breath, ‘are you going to tell me who you are? I mean, apart from being the only person in here as badly dressed as me?’

  There was no denying they were both showing a flagrant disregard for the dress code. As a minimum, patrons were required to wash the sand from their bodies before sitting down to eat—but who questioned royalty? And she was with him.

  ‘My name is Luca,’ he revealed. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Before we get to that—’ she gave him one of her cheeky smiles ‘—I want to know how you’ve managed not to be thrown out when you look as if you’ve just stepped out of the sea.’

  ‘Because that’s exactly what I did.’

  ‘Okay...’ She drew the word out. ‘My best guess, in that case, is that even if they combined their forces, security and the staff here wouldn’t dream of taking you on.’

  ‘More compliments?’ he suggested dryly.

  Pressing her lips together, she grinned. ‘My mistake. But you still haven’t told me how you get away with it.’

  ‘Perhaps they like me here, and make an exception?’

  ‘And perhaps pigs might fly,’ she countered dryly. ‘The maître d’ looks like a regimental sergeant major, and I don’t imagine he lets anyone slip by. You’re either respected or feared,’ she conjectured. ‘So, which is it, Luca?’

  Probably a bit of both, he mused. ‘I have been here before,’ he conceded.

  ‘So are you crew from one of those floating office blocks?’

  Following her stare to the line of gleaming superyachts moored up in a row down the quay, he shook his head.

  ‘Not crew,’ she reflected, ‘yet everyone seems to know you, so are you the local criminal mastermind, or some fabulously wealthy billionaire out slumming it for the day?’

  He raised a brow. ‘I imagine I could play either role.’

  ‘I bet you could,’ she agreed. ‘But not with me.’

  ‘Has it occurred to you that it might be you that everyone’s staring at?’

  ‘Me?’ she scoffed. ‘I hardly fit the style brief here. Apart from a few disapproving glances when I first walked in, no one’s looked at me since.’

  ‘Your fabulous hair might cause comment.’

  ‘Why, thank you, kind sir,’ she said, dipping into a curtsey.

  ‘Did I let a compliment slip past me?’ he mocked lightly.

  She twisted her mouth before carrying on with her interrogation. ‘It’s definitely not me they’re looking at. Now I’ve had my drink there’s nothing desperate about me to suggest some sort of mystery attached to my coming here, or that might lead anyone to believe I’m seeking sanctuary in this steel and glass temple to excess.’

  Sanctuary? ‘Are you running from something?’

  Instead of answering his question she went off on another tangent. ‘The trouble with Saint-Tropez is that it’s so misleading. I’d never been here before, so when I first arrived it was hard to believe the town retained the charm of the original fishing village. There’s such an abundance of megayachts and boys’ toys—the dream cars,’ she explained. ‘But everything coexists happily. Bourgeois French life cheek by jowl with ostentatious wealth.’

  ‘Don’t you approve?’

  ‘Of course I do. The contrast is what makes Saint-Tropez so special and fun to visit. But don’t change the subject. We’re talking about you.’

  ‘I changed the subject?’ he challenged.

  She shrugged and laughed this off. ‘So, come on—tell me. Are you a celebrity, or a fugitive from the law?’

  ‘I don’t fall into either category.’

  ‘You might as well come clean. I’m very good at extracting information,’ she told him with a comic accent.

  ‘MI6?’

  ‘I’ve always fancied being a sleuth,’ she admitted, adding a comic face to the mix. ‘I could never resist a good puzzle.’

  ‘Perhaps I’m hiding out like you.’

  ‘I’m not hiding out!’

  The heat of her defence reinforced his growing belief that that was exactly what she was doing.

  ‘You could hardly blend into the scenery with your looks,’ she commented, making it sound like the worst insult possible. ‘Simply stating facts,’ she told him when he raised an ironic brow.

  Some women simpered and preened when they met him. She did neither, but continued to stare at him narrow-eyed, as if he were an interesting specimen in a lab.

  ‘The name Luca isn’t much of a clue...’

  ‘Can you put a name to everyone you meet?’

  ‘Of course not, but I really feel I should know you,’ she mused, still frowning. ‘Anyway, let’s forget that for now. I’m on my own, trekking around Europe, so I’d better be careful who I talk to. I think it’s time to move on.’

  ‘That’s your choice, but if you’re so concerned about safety, why strike up a conversation with a stranger in the first place?’

  ‘You look trustworthy, and you don’t frighten me.’

  ‘Evidently,’ he agreed, finding it hard to curb a smile.

  Where had she been these past few months when his image had been splashed across the press? The tragedy of losing his older brother had resonated across the globe. First his grandmother, and then Pietro had raised him when their parents were killed in an air crash, only for Pietro to die in tragic circumstances. Two brothers cruelly torn apart, with the added fascination of great wealth and royal lineage, had made sure that their story reached everyone’s ears.

  Seeing him out of context must have thrown her. He bore no resemblance to the solemn man in uniform that had been pictured in the press. Those images showed a grim-faced individual, mired in sorrow, standing on a parade ground to accept the fealty of troops who were loyal to him now. That man didn’t relax, or slouch on one hip, but stood sternly to attention, as he endured the unendurable, which was to accept that his beloved older brother would never brighten his life again. The diners who knew him here thought only that he was an aristocrat and a billionaire, with a megayacht worthy of mention. His vast three-mast rigger, the Black Diamond, was anchored off shore. Its modern take on a traditional design always caused comment, though no one fussed over him, as billionaires and members of the aristocracy were two a penny in Saint-Tropez.

  The yacht was his pride and joy, and a guaranteed escape route from a news-hungry world. He’d bought it some years back with profits from a tech company he’d started in his bedroom as a boy. News had spread quickly that the P
irate Prince—as people liked to call him, thanks to his uniquely sinister yacht with its black sails and night-dark hull—was indulging in one last round of freedom before embarking on a life of royal circumspection.

  ‘Since you’re not afraid of me,’ he told the young woman, ‘I think it’s time we became properly acquainted.’

  ‘I’m honoured,’ she mocked, bringing her hand palm flat to her magnificent breasts. ‘My name is Samia. Samia Smith.’

  ‘Exotic,’ he commented.

  ‘Me, or the name?’ A smile tugged at her lips.

  ‘What if I said both?’

  ‘I’d say you were trying too hard and I don’t think that’s you.’

  The name suited her perfectly. A bunch of contradictions, Samia was resolutely upbeat, but there was no mistaking the shadows behind her laughing eyes. ‘Samia,’ he murmured. Having tried the name on his tongue he found it rolled off like warm, sweet honey, much as she’d taste, he imagined. ‘Very pleased to meet you, Samia Smith.’

  ‘Also very pleased,’ she said as they shook hands. She spared him another curtsey. But had she placed him, he wondered as she narrowed her eyes to stare thoughtfully into his. And would it change her attitude towards him if she had?

  His best guess was no.

  Copyright © 2020 by Susan Stephens

  Love Harlequin romance?

  DISCOVER.

  Be the first to find out about promotions, news and exclusive content!

  Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks

  Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks

  Instagram.com/HarlequinBooks

  Pinterest.com/HarlequinBooks

  ReaderService.com

  EXPLORE.

  Sign up for the Harlequin e-newsletter and download a free book from any series at

  TryHarlequin.com

  CONNECT.

  Join our Harlequin community to share your thoughts and connect with other romance readers!

  Facebook.com/groups/HarlequinConnection

  ISBN: 9781488059391

  My Shocking Monte Carlo Confession

  Copyright © 2020 by Heidi Rice