by Various
‘Luis?’
Emily’s voice—soft, tentative and so sexy it hurt. He turned his head. She was standing a few yards away, her long bare legs in the tiny denim shorts silhouetted against the glow of the fire in the distance, her face indistinguishable in the shadows.
‘Yes, I’m here.’ His voice sounded rusty and cracked.
‘Do you want to be alone? I wondered where you were, but if you’d rather be—’
‘No.’ That’s exactly what he’d come down here for, what he thought he wanted, but now he knew he’d much rather be with her. Hell, what was happening to him lately? He didn’t even know himself any more.
‘Actually,’ he said sardonically, ‘I came down here to be with Rico. This is the place where his helicopter came down, almost exactly a year ago, so I thought I ought to come and have a drink with him.’
He raised his half-empty bottle. A second later another one clinked against it in the half-light and he realised that she was carrying one too. ‘Can I join you both?’ she asked quietly.
‘I’d like that.’
She sat down on the sand beside him, not close enough to be touching, but just her presence seemed to enfold him in an odd sense of calm. For a moment neither of them spoke, and the only sound was the rhythmic breaking of the waves, and beneath that the gentler sigh of their breathing. In and out. Together.
‘Tell me about him,’ she murmured after a while. ‘Tell me what Rico was like.’
‘What was he like?’ Luis echoed, his grip tightening around the bottle in his hand. ‘Nothing like me, is the short answer. He was…always the same.’ He spoke slowly and with difficulty, realizing that it was an odd way to describe his brother yet suddenly understanding that this was significant. ‘All the time, whoever he was with. There was no difference between the man he was in private and the persona he presented to the world. Everything about who he was came naturally to him.’
‘Who he was? You mean the heir?’
‘Yes, just like everything about being the spare came naturally to me…’ Acrid self-loathing rose up inside him, dripping from every word and almost choking him. ‘Taking the privilege without taking any responsibility, enjoying the deference of my title without doing anything to earn it. But Rico was the opposite.’
‘But you’re taking that responsibility now.’ It was a statement, not a question, and she made it with a serene certainty that was infinitely soothing. Until he remembered what he’d done and the doors of his private prison slammed shut again.
‘On the surface, yes. But everything in me rebels against it. I’ll never be able to do it wholeheartedly.’
Not like she would. Whatever she does she does passionately, with her whole heart and soul. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he’d had that conversation with Oscar, and yet every word was still etched indelibly onto his memory. Whether he wanted it there or not.
His stomach clenched with helpless desire as he watched her raise the beer bottle to her lips, close them around it and take a mouthful. ‘Do you have to do it at all, then?’ she asked softly. ‘Can’t you—’
‘Walk away?’ His short laugh rang with icy despair. ‘Not an option. I just have to accept the stage management and the manipulation of the truth and the blatant bloody lies the palace press office spin in the name of my “image”.’
‘But why?’ She had moved while he was talking, rising up so she was half kneeling beside his outstretched legs, facing him. She still had her shirt knotted beneath her breasts from when they’d danced earlier. ‘Why can’t you just be yourself?’
‘Because the real me isn’t up to the job, I’m afraid.’ With difficulty he wrenched his gaze away from her flat, smooth midriff and gave a twisted smile. ‘Being royal is essentially like being a character in a fairy tale—you only exist as long as people believe in you. So you have to make sure they believe, and in the age of mobile-phone cameras and the Internet that’s pretty impossible because there are people lurking round every corner waiting to show how human you are.’ He took a mouthful of beer, and added with a weary attempt at humour, ‘Let’s face it, even you had given up believing in fairy tales.’
‘Ah, but I believe again now,’ she said softly. ‘Thanks to you—the real you.’ Without getting up she shifted her position so that in one neat movement she was on her knees straddling his outstretched legs. ‘You’re wrong, you know, about not being up to it. You might not be the same kind of king as your father was and your brother would have been, but if you do it your way you’ll be brilliant. You’ll make everyone believe, like me.’
Luis stiffened, trying to suppress the lust that surged though him. He turned his head, away from her searchlight gaze, and gave a rueful, mocking laugh. ‘I can’t sleep with everyone.’
Her smile widened and she trailed a languid finger down his chest. ‘That’s not what you would have said when I first met you…’
‘No,’ he said tersely. ‘But everything’s changed since then. I’m not like that any more.’
‘Because you’re taking on the responsibility of—’
‘No.’ The word sounded like a curse in the velvet twilight. Heart hammering, adrenaline stinging through him, Luis pulled his legs from beneath her and got to his feet. ‘Because it was my fault,’ he ground out through gritted teeth, raking his fingers through his hair. ‘What happened was my fault, and that’s something I have to live with every day for the rest of my hollow sham of a double life.’
She had got up and was beside him, reaching out to him. ‘What do you mean?’
He shrugged her off. ‘I was supposed to go to the award ceremony that Rico and Christiana attended that night. It was in my schedule. My engagement. But so was judging the Miss Santosa contest earlier that day.’ Disgust rang through every word and he turned to face her, needing to see the reaction on her face. ‘The winner was exceptionally pretty and exceptionally grateful. I rang Rico from the Jacuzzi of the honeymoon suite and asked him to do the award ceremony in my place.’
‘Oh, Luis…’
It was a whisper on the still air, barely audible above the sigh of the sea.
‘No, please. Don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say, really. So, now you know. I killed my brother and his wife, and in doing so I not only destroyed their lives and Luciana’s life, but I pretty comprehensively screwed up my own too, which is only fair.’
‘You didn’t kill them.’
She had come to stand behind him now, and a violent tremor went through him as she laid her palms flat on his back, on his shoulder blades. ‘Not with my own hands,’ he said savagely. ‘But it amounts to the same thing.’ He broke off and gave a bitter laugh. ‘At least I’m sure that’s how Luciana will see it when she’s old enough to understand. That’s why I didn’t want to get close to her. Because then, when she finds out what I did to her parents, it’ll feel like even more of a betrayal.’
‘You haven’t betrayed her.’ Emily’s voice was low and firm, and as she spoke her hands moved across his shoulders so she was gripping him, hard. ‘And you’ve given her more warmth and affection in the past few weeks than she’s had in five years before that.’ Her grip tightened. ‘She loves you.’
‘No.’ The word was wrenched out of him. With a jerk of his shoulders he twisted free of her grasp and turned to face her, shaking his head. ‘Don’t say that. I don’t deserve it.’
Slowly, emphatically, she nodded, her eyes burning into his through the violet night. ‘Yes, you do. What happened was one of those random, appalling acts that none of us can control. The only thing we have any power over is how we respond, and you responded by becoming stronger, braver, more honourable. That’s how you won her love.’ She paused for a heartbeat. ‘And mine too.’
‘Emily, no…’ It was the ferocious growl of an animal in pain, but she didn’t flinch. She simply raised her hands in silent surrender.
‘Sorry. I know I’m breaking all the rules by saying it, but I’m no good at pretending or manipulating the truth.
I love you.’
Before he could stop himself he had taken her by the shoulders. ‘Don’t,’ he rasped, shaking her so she stumbled against him. ‘Because if you do your life will be destroyed too, and I can’t…I don’t think I could stand that…’
But it was a mistake to have touched her. At the feel of her body against his bare skin reason deserted him and suddenly he wasn’t holding her away from him any more. His arms were around her, clutching him with the feverish desperation of a drowning man reaching for a raft. Her hands were cradling his face, her mouth hot against his, her miraculous body pressing against him until they were almost one. Almost…
He hauled himself away, leaving Emily gasping, reeling, frantic. ‘Luis—’
‘No.’ He staggered backwards, pressing his clenched fists against his temples. ‘Christo, I was wrong to do this to you. Nothing can come of it, you know that, don’t you? There’s no future in this.’
Emily’s heart was beating so hard it racked her whole body with every painful thud. ‘Of course,’ she said in a voice that shook with need. ‘Meaningless sex. We said it all along. And right now I don’t care about the future, I just care about now. Tonight, and however long this lasts.’
For a long moment he didn’t move. Bare chested and beautiful, in the dying light he looked like a tortured saint. Emily felt like Faust, signing his terrible deal with the devil, a short spell of earthly bliss at the expense of an eternity of torment.
But as Luis took her hand and led her silently up the dark beach she couldn’t be sorry. And as he laid her down amongst the layers of rugs and blankets in his tent and undressed her, holding her, stroking her with his hands, worshipping her with his mouth and his tongue, she felt like she was dancing with the angels.
Her dreams were hazy, suffused with rapture and the constant sigh of the sea. She awoke at first light, and before she opened her eyes she was aware of Luis’s body, warm and hard against her back, his arms tight around her, and she smiled. Outside she could hear voices, low and grave, and realised that must have been what woke her. And then the tent flap was parting to reveal a slice of colourless sky, and Tomás’s face. It too was drained of colour.
Behind her Luis sat up, letting her go.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Your Highness. I’m afraid it’s your father.’
Chapter Fourteen
THE machine that was keeping King Marcos Fernando alive was slowly and relentlessly driving Luis mad. It emitted a beeping sound at a pitch that seemed to be exactly calibrated to cause the most discomfort to the human ear as it measured each laboured breath.
The room was impossibly hot. Getting stiffly up from the plastic chair Luis felt the sweat cool in the small of his back as he went over to the window, parting the slats of the blind to look out. The sun was high in a hazy sky. How many hours had he been there now? he wondered bleakly. How many thousand times had he heard that bloody beep, and how long was it since he had woken up with his cheek against Emily’s hair and her body clasped against his?
He rested his head against the glass and closed eyes that felt gritty with exhaustion and wondered if he was going out of his mind.
‘Your Highness?’
Tomás stood in the doorway, glancing anxiously over to the still figure in the bed before turning back to Luis. ‘Perhaps it’s time for a break, sir—some coffee or something. I brought you a change of clothes.’
Luis looked down, realizing with a beat of surprise that he was still wearing yesterday’s surf shorts and T-shirt. ‘Does it really matter what I’m wearing?’ he asked wearily, looking at the suit carrier draped over Tomás’s arm. ‘At least this is cool.’ And a whisper of Emily’s perfume still clung to it.
‘The press, sir. Obviously they’re outside, and that…Well, it doesn’t quite give the right impression at a time like this.’
The right impression. Of course. Luis’s chest constricted with impotent fury as he followed Tomás out into the lobby of their private suite and into a small sitting room on the other side.
Tomás laid the suit carrier down on the sofa and set about filling the kettle on the countertop. Encased once more in tailored grey flannel it was impossible to connect him with the man who had danced on the beach with his barefoot wife a little over twelve hours ago.
‘I’ve just come from a meeting with Josefina and the King’s private secretary,’ he said. ‘We felt we had no alternative but to cancel tomorrow’s jubilee celebration.’
Luis nodded numbly, peeling the T-shirt off over his head. A light scattering of sand fell onto the carpet. The only thought that formed in his head with any clarity was the fact that he wouldn’t have to watch Emily dancing in the arms of another man.
‘I also spoke to the Duchess de Mesa, sir. She’s flying out as soon as possible.’
‘Why?’
Tomás turned and held out a mug of steaming black coffee. Luis didn’t take it.
Very carefully Tomás put it on the low table beside the sofa. ‘Josefina feels that in the difficult days ahead, it would be good to have her here. In the background, as your f—’
He faltered, unable to meet Luis’s eye.
‘My future wife.’ Luis almost spat the words. Prison doors seemed to be slamming behind him, shutting out the light, making it difficult to breathe. Suddenly choking on despair he leaned against the wall, bracing his arms against it as if he could push it back, give himself more air. In that moment he wanted Emily so much that he thought he might black out.
‘So that’s it, is it?’ he said, in a voice of infinite desolation. ‘It’s one relentless march now from my father’s funeral to my wedding.’ His business-merger marriage. And from there to his own funeral, whenever that might be. All of a sudden it hardly seemed to matter. The only thing that was certain was that there would be precious little happiness along the way.
‘It’s been planned that way for a long time, sir,’ Tomás said quietly. ‘You know that. It comes with the role.’
He flinched as Luis smashed his fist against the wall. ‘And what if I don’t want the role?’
Tomás blanched. ‘Then you would have to abdicate, sir. And Princess Luciana would take the throne.’
Utterly defeated, Luis slumped against the wall. He had a sudden image of Luciana’s dark curls bouncing, her little arms windmilling with joy as she ran down the sand dune yesterday. Something normal and fun, that’s what Emily had wanted to give her and she had adored every second. How much opportunity would she get to be normal if she was queen? How many chances to have fun?
From the direction of the King’s room across the lobby the electronic beep that had provided the steady background to their conversation suddenly intensified to a persistent whine. There was a flurry of activity and a surge of running feet outside, and without thinking Luis found himself rushing across the lobby towards his father’s room. The bed was surrounded by white-coated figures silently checking machinery and adjusting tubes, their faces as blank and grave as angels.
And as he leaned against the door frame watching them, he was suddenly reminded of the morning when his mother’s body was discovered—standing in the doorway of her bedroom and looking into the bathroom beyond as the paramedics lifted her from the water, checking for a pulse, trying to restart her heart. She wasn’t really cut out for royal life, his father had said. She was too emotional and sensitive. She had been dragged into a life of duty and it had killed her.
He couldn’t do that to Emily.
He turned and walked away, his jaw set like steel against the wave of total desolation that smashed through him. There was no escape.
Behind him the electronic noise that had filled his head and sliced through his thoughts for such a long time abruptly ceased, so that there was suddenly nothing. An absence of any sound, any feeling, any hope.
And then Tomás was beside him, pale and composed.
‘He’s gone.’ He bowed his head gravely. ‘I’m so sorry, Your Majesty.’
‘Would you
like some tea and biscuits, Senhora Balfour?’
Emily blinked, dragging her gaze back from the bright square of sky beyond the window to the immaculately made-up face of the woman who stood behind the desk in the palace’s press office.
‘Oh. Yes,’ she stuttered dazedly. ‘Yes, thank you, that would be…good.’
The realization that she was hungry broke upon her with a flash of surprise. Since they left the beach at first light the day had taken on an odd, end-of-the-world feeling of silence and waiting, in which ordinary things like food and drink had had no place. Here, in the bright, efficient room, the feeling receded a little.
‘Thank you for coming, Senhora.’ The woman—Josefina something, she had introduced herself as—was smiling at Emily now, with glossy mulberry-coloured lips. Emily wasn’t sure how to reply. She hadn’t been aware of having a choice about obeying the summons to the press office.
‘No problem,’ she muttered, suddenly distinctly aware that she was still wearing yesterday’s frayed denim shorts and checked shirt. ‘Why did you want to see me?’
Josefina sat down, looking at Emily with an expression of intense pity. ‘I’m afraid I have to tell you that the King died a short time ago.’
Emily heard the words, but it took a moment for their weighty implications to sink in. As they did she found herself stumbling to her feet, her mouth opening and her head spinning. She had to find something acceptable to say to the woman opposite, something correct and respectful, but all she could think of was…
