He obviously hadn’t seen any of the articles. She reached into the back seat for the folder of vitriolic drivel she’d brought with her to either cry over or burn in the grate of one of the magnificent fireplaces. “Here’s what someone on the OK Magazine website had to say. ‘The oldest and least distinguished member of the royal Leone family is rankling at her brother being king and made a desperate effort to distinguish herself with one of the most trite and pointless excuses for fashion seen on the Milan runways in years.’ ”
“What? I don’t believe it.”
“You don’t? Do you want me to send you the link?” His incredulity was starting to annoy her. She’d warned him that she was scared of bad press before they’d even started this whole thing.
“No, no. I do believe you, I’m just astonished at the reaction. They all seemed really excited about the show.”
“Well, I guess they’re just a bunch of two-faced kiss-ups until my back is turned.” She slammed her car door and strode toward the house.
“But remember, this is just the press. It’s not the buyers writing these pieces.”
“Who would want to buy my trite and pointless clothes after this?”
“Come on, who actually reads these papers?”
“And websites.”
“The glossy magazines have a long run-up to print. Commentary in Vogue or L’Officiel and other genuinely influential publications won’t be out for months.”
“If they even bother now.” She walked into the house and threw the folder of poisonous articles down on the hall table.
“Damn. I wish I was there.”
“Me too,” she said a little too forcefully.
“I could catch the next flight back.” There was an edge to his voice.
“What would be the point of that? It won’t change anything.” She didn’t want him to know how much she craved the reassurance of his arms around her. Maybe he was just worried about his investment in her. All his time and hard work cultivating her—and his efforts might go to waste if he didn’t rush back now. “I’ll be fine. But when are you coming back?”
“I’m supposed to be here for two nights. Meetings all day tomorrow, then I’m taking the red-eye back the day after. I can cancel them. Tell them I have a family emergency.”
Her heart squeezed. Would he really do that for her? “No, really, I’m okay. I’d love to see you as soon as you get back, though.”
“I’m flying into Zurich. I was going to visit my sister but instead I’ll drive right to your house.”
“I appreciate it. Good luck with your meeting.” He never shared details of his various real estate deals. Not that she ever asked. It wasn’t really her business and she didn’t want to pry. And she didn’t have the strength to ask about his permit request for the lakefront. She just wanted him back. She craved the comfort of his arms more than anything right now.
“Thanks. I’m not expecting any difficulties. Call me any time you need to. You know I’ll always make time for you.”
She swallowed. “I know. I’d better let you go. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Is everything okay?” Nina’s voice jarred her out of a frozen stance. Once again she’d forgotten Nina was there, just one room away.
“Fine. I’m going to have a hot bath.” Maybe that would soothe the tension building inside her. “If anyone calls just take a message.”
“I’d be happy to.”
Beatriz stomped upstairs reflecting that she really shouldn’t ask a private contractor’s security staff to take household messages for her and that maybe she was just a spoiled, bratty princess after all.
The weather had warmed up and spring flowers were blooming everywhere so it was hard to get excited about lighting the gas fire in the bedroom grate, but she did it anyway. As water filled the huge stone tub in her beautiful bathroom, she crumpled up each article and threw them into the flames. Chemicals in the ink and paper threw out colorful flames.
When the cruel articles—and the one lame positive one—were all gone she didn’t feel satisfied, so she snatched up the drawings on her desk—ideas for her spring collection. Pain stabbed her at the memory of the joy she’d felt while drawing them. Pretty white dresses that had seemed both demure and sexy at the same time now looked…trite and pointless.
What had she been thinking? She’d let her tiara go to her head, as Aunt Liesel had once accused her of doing when she threw a childish tantrum decades ago. She crumpled the drawings—no easy feat since they were on quality paper—and shoved them into the flames as well.
Destroying her creations didn’t even give her a momentary sense of satisfaction. Instead it gave her an ugly feeling that she’d let the bastards win. That the happiness she’d enjoyed over the past few weeks was going to be taken from her—all of it—leaving her alone and sad in her newly renovated palatial residence. Poor little Princess Beatriz…
Cry me a freaking river.
Beatriz managed to lose herself in a gory and engrossing psychological thriller, and it was almost dark when she finally went down to the kitchen to forage for dinner. She spread some goat cheese on a slice of bread and poured honey over it and was about to disappear back to her bedroom when Nina emerged from her suite near the kitchen. “I thought you might want to see this.”
Nina held out her phone. Beatriz frowned. She didn’t want to see anything except her pillow, preferably for days. But she didn’t want to be rude so she took the phone and groaned inwardly when she saw it was an article on the website of the local paper. The letters were tiny, and she had to enlarge them to read, “Princess’s Beau Called in for Questioning.”
Her plate wobbled in her hand, and she put it down on the marble counter. The article detailed how Lorenzo had been summoned to meet with the palace security staff but had refused and his lawyer had managed to get a judge to agree that the request was unconstitutional.
“How did they get this information?” she murmured aloud.
“I don’t know,” said Nina. “I just thought you’d want—”
“I don’t want to see any more articles from any publications or websites.” She thrust Nina’s phone back. “In future please keep them to yourself.”
“I’m sorry, I thought you—”
“Please don’t make any assumptions about my thoughts.” She grabbed her plate and swept imperiously from the room, regretting her rudeness as she mounted the stairs. Nina just wanted to keep her informed. Still, she’d had it up to here and if she couldn’t get away from the media circus in her own remote house, then where could she?
Lorenzo called as she was getting ready for bed. “Hi, beautiful. I miss you. How are you doing?”
She climbed onto her bed and relaxed back into the pillows, enjoying sweet relief at the sound of his voice. “I’m hanging in there. How are you?”
“How did the local rag find out that your security staff wanted to question me?”
Suddenly she felt tired. Very tired. “I burned all my drawings.”
“What?”
“Not that you care. Maybe the press is right and you only want access to my land and wealth.” A rogue urge to shatter everything surged inside her.
There was a long silence. “Do you really believe that?”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
“Beatriz.” She heard a growl. “I’m so angry with myself for not being there with you right now. I should have listened to my gut instincts this morning and jumped on a plane back. But listen, the show is going over well with buyers. Have you checked the email account we set up?”
She had to think for a moment to figure out what he was talking about. His assistant had set up an account linked to a branded website for interested people to get in touch. It hadn’t crossed her mind to look at it, mostly because his assistant had handled all the details so far. “No. I’m a princess and just sit around reading novels all day,” she said truthfully.
“I wish I could shake you. Go there and read the e
mails right now.”
“Hang on.” She put her phone down and brought her laptop to her bed, then punched up the email account. Her eye scanned the list of senders. “I don’t recognize any of those names.”
“Buyers are not generally household names. But look, Jill Kinsky from Barneys sent you two emails, one about buys she wants to make for this collection and another asking to discuss the next season.”
Beatriz frowned and pulled up the email. “Barneys is in New York, right?”
“Yes, very chichi department store. Sets the trends for other high-end retail. And she loved your collection.”
“Damn.” Beatriz blinked.
“And scroll down, there’s one from Leah MacDonald at Nordstrom. She’s interested in making a big buy for their fall season.”
“Nordstrom? Is that in Sweden?”
“In America. It’s a huge chain of high-end stores.”
“America again. How odd.” Still, a teeny, tiny surge of excitement crept up her spine. Maybe this wasn’t going to be such a big humiliating disaster after all.
“And there’s a letter from the editor in chief of Vogue in New York. They’d like to do a spread of you wearing your own clothes for the September issue.”
She scrolled down and read it, feeling a surge of heat spread over her face and chest. “How embarrassing. But also wonderful.”
“See? Who cares about those dumb paparazzi rags and their pointless websites. You’re gaining admirers and buyers where it counts. No one’s mentioned numbers yet, but I’d say you have a few million dollars in orders sitting right there in that email account.”
“Goodness. I have no idea how to handle that.” Once again she was out of her depth. “I don’t think Signora Pazzi can sew that fast.”
“No.” He laughed. “You’ll need to hire a factory to produce the items, but remember, they’re not delivered until fall so you have time.”
She scrolled slowly through the emails. They were mostly from American buyers and one British department store. And at the very bottom was an email from Instituto Marangoni, the fashion school she’d sent an application to.
She decided not to read it. Clearly the Milanese, and maybe all Europeans, hated her style, and she didn’t want to lose the glow of discovering that Americans liked it.
“Are you feeling better?” She could hear the amusement in Lorenzo’s voice.
“Much better.”
“Still think I’m only interested in you for your lake?”
Her joy ebbed somewhat as she remembered the article from earlier. In her frenzy of distress she’d shoved it to the back of her mind. “There was an article in the local paper saying that you applied for planning permission on the lake.”
“That was ages ago. And it wasn’t for your land. It was for my family’s land on the far side of the lake.”
“But their land is in Italy, and the permission was applied for in Altaleone.” Something didn’t add up. Ugly suspicion gnawed at her.
“I don’t know what’s going on. Maybe they made it up. You know how the press are.”
“Yes.” She didn’t want to get into an argument when he was so far away. And he was probably right. “And I’m glad you told me about the emails. I can’t believe I didn’t even check. I’m not a very good businesswoman.”
“You’re a creative genius. You can’t do everything.”
Beatriz hesitated. Was he implying that he’d be the business side of the operation and she’d do the designing? On the one hand that sounded heavenly. On the other hand, maybe he was just trying to use her and— She stopped her runaway train of thought in its tracks. “I’m a work in progress. And I miss you very much. Good night, Lorenzo.”
“Good night, my princess.”
After they hung up she scrolled back to the email from Instituto Marangoni. She wondered why they’d sent it to this email and not to her personal one that she’d put on her application. She hadn’t wanted Lorenzo to know she’d applied there because—not unlike her dad—he thought fashion school was a foolish waste of her time and she could just hire professionals to do all the heavy lifting. And he hadn’t mentioned the email so he clearly thought it beneath her notice.
She opened the message. It was from the director of the institute, not the admissions office. “It has come to my attention that you have contacted our institute. I am taking the liberty of replying personally…” Blah blah blah. Basically, she was being treated differently, as usual, because she was a princess. But instead of admitting her instantly by virtue of her princess card, they’d simply offered her an interview “at her earliest convenience.”
She had to laugh. She loved the arrogance of the Milanese fashion world. It was the perfect fit for a proud princess like herself. And dammit, she was going to go on that interview as soon as humanly possible and not tell a single soul about it.
Lorenzo cursed himself for going on this business trip right after her fashion show. What was he thinking? Yes, these meetings had been set up months ago, but his life was different now! Months ago, Beatriz was just a distant and rather supercilious princess who’d blown him off at her brother’s coronation.
Now she was the center of his whole world.
He couldn’t bear to think of her alone and smarting from the cruelty of the press. Worse yet, she’d warned him from day one that she expected this kind of response. It had never really occurred to him that she might be right.
As wealthy and well-connected as he was, the press could care less what he did or didn’t do, and he rarely appeared outside of bland shots in the social pages. He couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to live under that harsh and unforgiving spotlight from the day you were born. He’d dismissed her concerns and left her to face their hostility alone.
Pacing back and forth in his hotel room, high over Central Park, he realized he’d been wrong about a lot of things. He should have let Gibran interview him. Why did he care so much about his stupid reputation when Beatriz feelings were at stake? She’d had to make excuses for him to her family after he made them more suspicious than ever. He should have trusted her and gone right to the palace. Maybe he could even have helped their investigation, instead of fighting against it.
An expletive fell from his lips. Sometimes—maybe most of the time—he was too stubborn and arrogant for his own good. When he got his teeth into a good bone—like the lake property—he hung on through thick and thin whether it made sense or not. He was stubborn, like his father, in that way.
But he didn’t have to live his life laser focused on goals that didn’t make sense anymore. This spring with Beatriz had been the happiest time of his life and already his plans for the future were filled with her—seeing her collection in stores, sailing to the Greek Islands with her this summer, hunting in the mountains next winter…
He let out a sigh so deep that his whole body shuddered. He didn’t want her property. He didn’t want any damn property near as much as he wanted Beatriz.
He was going to call his assistant tomorrow and have her clear his schedule. Then she was going to prioritize his properties and he’d start selling off his holdings. He’d already made enough money for ten lifetimes and he didn’t need to waste his time and energy chasing some invisible brass ring that kept getting further and further away.
His life now was with Beatriz. Yes, there were still some mountains to climb—her brother Darias, for one—but he’d grown up skiing and climbing in the back country and he knew how to tackle the roughest terrain.
And no matter what he had to do, Beatriz was worth it.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The next morning Beatriz awoke with a resolve to decline the interview from Instituto Marangoni. The poor reception of her show by the Milanese fashion establishment coupled with Lorenzo’s disdain for the idea meant it would only bring criticism and drama into her life.
But her first cup of coffee and the prospect of learning how to cut and stitch and understand the qualities of different fabr
ics restored her courage. At ten o’clock she called the director of the institute. His assistant put her through immediately and—afraid of losing her nerve again—she scheduled an interview for that afternoon.
Dressed in her usual featureless black uniform, she set out for Milan almost immediately, determined that nothing should stop her. She arrived in Milan with two hours to kill and decided to sit in a café. Since she didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts and Nina had to sit there waiting for her anyway, she asked Nina to join her, and they ordered cappuccinos and chatted. It didn’t help her nerves that Nina kept wanting to talk about the criminal investigation and the mystery texter, so Beatriz kept changing the subject to something less stress-inducing.
Ten minutes before the interview she walked the short distance to the institute and asked for directions to the director’s office. The granite hallways, lined with back-lit floor-to-ceiling fashion images, thrilled her.
Don’t get too excited. He might be bringing you in just to torture you. Some people loved the idea of taking royalty down a peg or two. The director’s chic assistant ushered her into his office, and she was surprised to find a rather young man, very handsome and serious.
She thrust out her sweating hand and greeted him as calmly as she could manage.
“Princess Beatriz…is that how I should address you?” He lifted a brow.
Anxiety coiled in her gut. “Just Beatriz is fine. I don’t want any special treatment. I really want to learn how to work hands on with fabrics and techniques.” She didn’t want him to think she just wanted to wear the degree like a piece of jewelry.
“I saw your show.” He stared at her.
She felt perspiration beading on her brow. “What did you think?”
He smiled. “I’m glad you asked me that instead of launching into a spirited defense of it. I liked it. There was a simplicity that others have criticized, but which I see as the hallmark of a designer who knows that her customer is the jewel in the setting.”
Beatriz smiled. “Yes! That’s exactly it. I like simple clothing that plays up the woman’s figure and beauty, no matter what unique form they take.”
The Princess's Scandalous Affair (Royal House of Leone Book 4) Page 17
