by Sara Wood
His arrival had prompted her to dream of meeting her prince one day, falling in love and having his children. Even if that ‘prince’ turned out to be a farmhand or an estate agent, he’d be a prince to her!
And they’d have children. Four would be perfect. Sophia sighed. She longed for a baby. The desire had grown more urgent as her biological clock had begun to tick away. Although she’d always made the best of whatever situation she was in, a family would make her life complete.
Humour and common sense dragged her back to reality. Out here in this quiet country setting, white horses bearing spare bachelor princes, farmhands or estate agents were thin on the ground. Especially ones who’d fall madly in love with a thirty-two-year-old spinster in a terminally ill brown cardy!
Amused, she imagined Prince Rozzano leaning down from his white stallion and hooking her up to sit in front of him. He’d unbutton her demure cardigan and fling it away in a fit of unbridled passion.
She stifled a giggle and paid attention, her face as sombre as she could make it.
‘So please, take a seat. And I must apologise for Jean,’ Frank was saying. ‘She’s a temp. My own secretary is on maternity leave.’
‘How lovely!’ she said, suppressing her envy. ‘But I’m sure it’s been difficult for you,’ Sophia sympathised.
She sat down and tried to make her too short skirt cover a bit more thigh. The prince had already given her legs a couple of glances. Unfortunately she couldn’t tell if he’d disapproved or enjoyed the experience.
The secretary knocked on the door and placed a tray on the solicitor’s desk, her hands clumsily knocking against the phone as she did so. Simpering, she handed the prince a cup, looked disappointed when he coolly declined her further services via milk and sugar and stalked out in a sulk, leaving Sophia and Frank to reach for their own less than pristine mugs.
Frank sighed. ‘I give up!’
Sophia’s eyes were laughing at his mock despair. ‘If you’re stuck any time in the future, I could always pop in and give you a hand,’ she offered. ‘I used to do Father’s typing and accounts for him.’
Frank looked bemused. ‘I thought you ran a day nursery before you stopped working to care for him?’
Her face grew soft with the happy memories of those days. ‘I did. I adored it, too,’ she admitted. ‘But I helped Father in my spare time. Frankly, I’d do anything now—so long as it doesn’t involve night or daylight robbery, pushing drugs or—’ She stopped, realising she’d gabbled on without her usual sense of caution. This definitely wasn’t the place to mention prostitution!
‘Or?’ prompted the prince.
‘Anything illegal.’ She made the words as prim as possible.
‘Ah.’
From the look in his eyes, it was plain that he knew exactly what she’d meant! Demurely she continued. ‘Apart from the voluntary work I do at the school, I’ve been out of work since Father died.’ She grimaced. ‘You know what it’s like finding a job here, Frank. If I lived in a town it would be easier, but I can’t afford to move.’
A low laugh escaped when she remembered her last attempt at finding employment.
‘Share it, please, Miss Charlton,’ murmured the prince, the expression in his eyes veiled by his impossibly long lashes.
Both men seemed interested, so she gave a shrug and shared. ‘I was desperate for any kind of work,’ she told them solemnly, ‘so last week I applied for a job as a bin man—person,’ she corrected, remembering to be politically correct.
‘Bin...person?’
The prince’s English was amazing, but obviously aristocrats didn’t know about such things. Solemnly she explained. ‘Refuse collector.’
The prince’s only response was a millimetre lift of his eyebrows. Not a man to wear his humour on his sleeve, then. She was seized by a wicked desire to shock him, or to force a smile to crack that composure.
Frank was more forthcoming. ‘And?’ he queried, grinning.
‘Looking around at the competition, I thought I had a good chance,’ she said, keeping her expression deadpan. ‘Then in came a guy with a shaven head, tattoos and a vest, bursting at the seams with Herculean muscles. I knew all was lost. Given an hour or two I could manage the first three of those, but not the last!’
Frank laughed. She thought the prince was smiling, but she kept her eyes firmly ahead. For some reason he was making her feel edgy. What could he possibly have to do with her?
‘I think,’ Frank observed, still chuckling, ‘you’ll soon have better things to do than to collect other people’s rubbish.’
The prince leaned forward a fraction. Sophia treated herself to a quick glance. From the slight lift of his shoulders she deduced that he was tense, even though no such emotion showed on the perfection of his smooth, oliveskinned face.
But as a vicar’s daughter she’d had practice in reading small gestures. Perception came with the job. How else did you know when a widower was being brave but really wanted to talk and weep over his bereavement? Or that the jar of home-made jam, which one of the parishioners had brought in, was only an excuse for needing a heartto-heart about their wayward daughter?
Her wandering mind suddenly snapped back, to focus on the present situation. And suddenly she was tense too, wondering how an Italian nobleman fitted in with Frank’s mysterious phone call, which had promised she would hear something to her advantage.
‘Like...the offer of a job as a nursery nurse?’ she had asked hopefully.
‘Much better,’ was all Frank would say at the time.
But that was what she wanted—to return to the career she’d adored, surrounded by children, loving them, mothesring them.
‘Sophia?’
Her hand went to her mouth in dismay and then she gave a small laugh of apology, used to missing conversations when she retreated into her inner fantasy world.
‘sorry! I’m a terrible drifter!’ she said amiably.
‘Thinking of Hercules and his vest?’ suggested the prince.
Her eyes twinkled Beneath that cool exterior lurked a decent sense of humour! She felt irrationally pleased.
‘I was thinking of children,’ she told him, with unconscious tenderness. ‘I wish I could find work with them.’
Frank coughed meaningfully but his eyes were smiling at her in a kindly way. Reluctantly she pushed back the memories of the blissful times she’d spent with the kiddies in her care.
‘Yes, I’m listening!’ She sat very calmly, her hands in her lap. ‘Go ahead.’
The solicitor fussily squared the sheaf of papers in front of him. ‘Let me see...Where to start?’
She sensed that the prince had become unnaturally still. Her glance flicked across to him again. He had a strong and hard profile, which suggested a ruthless determination.
In her judgement, he was ruthless with himself, too. The line of his hair at the nape of his neck was unnaturally neat, his collar too dazzling, the set of his tie so exact that it might have been glued in place after careful positioning with the aid of a set square and ruler.
Then she spotted that a small, wayward curl was flick ing around his ear in defiance of his attempted perfection. She felt a wicked pleasure at its mutiny. This man was so immaculately turned out, he might have been carved in marble—clothes and all!
He looked at her then. To her delight his mouth winened into a broad smile in response to hers. She was totally disarmed, as if he was awarding her a rare privilege.
She felt an almost irrepressible urge to tousle his hair. It would look marvellous streaming back from his face in the wind. She could see him now, on nearby Barley Hill, the sun highlighting that incredible bone structure.
‘Are you as impatient as I to know what strange quirk of fate should bring us together in this office?’ he asked her.
His mellow, cultured voice slid deliciously through her. She wallowed in the sensation while pretending to be considering his remark. It was a rarity having a prince turn her insides to treacle and
she meant to enjoy every melting second.
‘Not impatient. I’m sure Frank will tell us in his own good time,’ she said good-naturedly. Anyone who’d sat through vicarage teas with long-winded parishioners knew the meaning of patience. ‘But it does seem extraordinary!’
‘My thoughts entirely.’
More than extraordinary, she decided. Improbable! They were from different planets. His clothes certainly were. They fitted his superb body so well that they must have been made for him. The neat line of his broad shoulders was a work of art in itself. More set squares and rulers, she supposed.
His carefully groomed hair and manicured nails suggested a man who had time to spend on himself—or he paid others to take care of his appearance for him. All that and a title too. Other than chalk and cheese, how different could you get?
Sophia leant towards him and whispered on impulse, ‘I think Frank’s got his files mixed up, to be honest.’
He smiled, his eyes softening in a way that made the breath catch in her throat. ‘That had crossed my mind.’
‘Won’t be long,’ Frank muttered, preoccupied with his papers. ‘Just looking for something...’
He looked excited. Sophia frowned. When ever did solicitors lose their cool? Frank’s tension communicated itself to her and a sudden attack of nerves made her fill the painful silence and blurt out to the prince, ‘Do you think I might be your long-lost sister?’
His eyes flickered over her from head to toe and a heat followed his leisurely appraisal, coursing down her body as if a blazing torch had blasted it.
‘I think that’s unlikely, don’t you?’ he murmured, staring at her ankles as if they alone proved she had no aristocratic bones in her body.
‘It was a joke,’ she mumbled, disconcerted by what was happening to her.
The dark chocolate eyes lifted to hers languidly. ‘I know.’
He stared harder, frowning, examining in detail her face and mouth. Then he drew in a harsh breath and jerked himself to the edge of his seat as if something amazing had suddenly occurred to him.
‘Mr Luscombe!’ he shot out abruptly, all princely charm vanishing with a startling suddenness. ‘You told me on the telephone that you had news concerning my father’s friend D’Antiga. Are we talking about his daughter?’
‘In a way,’ said Frank, flustered. ‘But—’
‘She’s dead, I presume.’
Frank frowned, obviously taken aback by the prince’s suddenly curt manner. ‘You’ve guessed right, but if I may—’
‘Was there a child?’
Frank shifted uncomfortably and looked as if he’d been put on the spot. ‘Please, let me break this as gently as I can—’
‘Break what?’ Sophia cried in sudden alarm. ‘Why do you have to be gentle? And what’s the connection between Prince Rozzano and me?’ she insisted, beginning to panic.
As she spoke, she remembered where she’d heard his name before. Some time ago, there had been a picture of him on the front page of every tabloid in the newsagent’s. It had been an image of utter grief. His harrowed face had roused pity in her, she recalled.
The memory of that photo haunted her but the reason remained elusive. What had it been? And did it have any bearing on why he was here?
‘Sophia, my dear.’
‘Yes? Oh. Sorry.’ Her wavering attention was caught by the solicitor’s kindly tones. That increased her anxiety. He was about to tell her something unnerving. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ she asked, her face pale with apprehension.
‘It’s now eleven months since your father died.’
‘Yes, Frank, I know—’
‘For the prince’s benefit, I need to say this.’ Frank turned to the prince to explain further. ‘He suffered from multiple sclerosis. Sophia was his full-time carer for the last six years.’
The prince looked grave, his eyes remaining on hers for several seconds as if he found the information interesting. That’s a long time.’
She looked from Frank to Rozzano, afraid of the reason for their concern. ‘Please get on with it!’ she begged, her lips dry and stiff.
Frank sat back in his chair with a smug expression. ‘Probate of your father’s will is now complete, Sophia,’ he said, excitement threading through every word. ‘It was unusually complicated.’ Frank cleared his throat. ‘Sophia...he kept a secret. Your mother’s secret. She made him promise never to reveal it to you. Being a man of integrity, he kept his word. But just before his death he asked me to put you in the picture when I judged that you were ready. He thought you should know the secret because he loved you and wanted you to be given the chance to—’
The prince made her jump by exclaiming sharply in Italian. As if unable to contain himself, he sprang to his feet and began to pace up and down, his beautifully cut jacket flaring open to reveal a pale gold silk waistcoat hugging his lithe figure.
Totally unnerved by Rozzano’s reaction, Sophia turned back to Frank in desperation.
‘The chance to what?’ she asked plaintively, dismayed at the small, betraying shake in every word.
Rozzano spun around, an undercurrent of excitement spilling into his voice and sparking his dark eyes so that they flashed brilliantly. ‘Can’t you see she’s desperate to know, beneath that very English restraint?’ he said in fast, harsh tones. ‘I know who she is. She’s Violetta’s daughter, isn’t she? Violetta D’Antiga!’
‘Spot on!’ cried Frank, as pleased as punch.
Sophia’s apprehension evaporated in a flash. They were both way off the mark! She relaxed back in her seat in relief.
‘Well! You got my nerves hopping for nothing! Mother’s name was Violet Chaitonl’ She realised that Frank must be so overworked, he was losing his grip! ‘You definitely need a good secretary, Frank, to sort your files,’ she chided. ‘I knew there was a mix-up!’
And then, to her amazement, the prince was kneeling at her feet, his hands taking hers. Their eyes met, hers huge and uncomprehending, his fierce and bright.
She found herself trembling at his nearness. But that wasn’t surprising. He was a dish. An immensely compelling man. Any woman alive would have wilted after glimpsing the raw, driving energy that he kept locked up behind that urbane exterior.
It was scary. And she found it shockingly exciting in a disturbing, sexual way. That, she thought wryly, was the trouble with living a cloistered, sheltered existence. You didn’t often come across men oozing effortless sexual desire in villages boasting one post office and a duck pond.
‘There’s no mistake. We are linked,’ he said simply.
Linked. For a brief moment, Sophia’s breath seemed to have left her body. Electricity seemed to be surging between them as if there was, indeed, a vital connection. And then she grinned shakily because it was so unbelievable—both the connection and the two-way electricity!
What a fool she was! Vicar’s daughter meets Sex On Legs. She was bound to be overwhelmed! She chuckled.
‘Of course,’ she agreed. ‘An Italian prince in head-totoe Armani—’
‘Gianfianco Ferre,’ he corrected her in surprise, as if any fool could have identified the style of his elegant suit.
‘OK, Ferre—how am I to know?’ she said mildly. ‘Anyway, you’re telling me that a prince, and an impoverished vicar’s daughter in hand-me-downs are linked?’ she finished in mock astonishment, her eyes alive with inner laughter.
‘A vicar,’ he mused, his black-lashed gaze taking in every feature of her face. ‘That explains a good deal.’
‘Well, explain it to me!’ she suggested, quickly concealing a small tremor of her lower lip.
Her face was tingling where his breath had whispered across it. It felt as if he’d caressed it with his hand...or his mouth. Her eyes became soft and filmy with the lingering sensation.
Again that dazzling, blinding smile. Again the tightness in her chest.
‘Another time,’ he said with great gentleness. ‘Believe me, our lives are connected. That’s why we are b
oth here. Brace yourself for a shock. It is good news—something life-changing.’
CHAPTER TWO
SOPHIA gulped and sat back in her seat, her mind reeling. She didn’t want her life changed. Not drastically, anyway. A job, a man to love and even one child instead of four would do very nicely.
Rozzano’s grasp on her hands reassured her. She could feel his strength pouring into her body. Searching the two men’s faces, she saw compassion and joy in their expressions. It wouldn’t be anything bad, she decided, or they’d be offering her brandy and sympathy and pushing smelling salts under her nose.
‘I’m braced,’ she said with resignation. ‘So tell me.’
The solicitor gestured for Rozzano to continue. The prince studied her with close attention as if he was reading every line of her face. But his expression remained inscrutable. She realised this was a shrewd man, who saw much and revealed little.
‘Your mother died when you were...?’
‘Two.’ Was this relevant? she wondered. But he seemed to be waiting for her to continue, so she decided to humour him. ‘She was walking in the village with me in my buggy when a lorry got out of control and...’
She drew her brows together sharply, the slaty depths of her eyes reflecting her emotions. Her father had been inconsolable. She remembered his endless sobbing which had filled the house for days, the hushed parishioners who’d cared for her and her own confusion when her father kept holding her too tightly, making her cry too.
‘Poor Father,’ she said gently. ‘He loved her so much.’
There was a silence in the room. She was glad that Rozzano didn’t offer any platitudes or sympathy for people he’d never known.
The warmth of his strong hands seemed to increase. Sophia felt her gaze drawn back to his. ‘Tell me about her.’
‘I don’t remember much,’ she confessed. ‘I just have an overall impression of hugs and kisses and laughter... Oh, she always smelt wonderful; she had these fabulous bottles of perfume—’ She stopped to recover her normal speaking voice.
