Cinderella's Secret Royal Fling

by Jessica Gilmore

  Number one, he was an Archduke and she was an event planner from London who still shared a house with her friends. Her place was in the basement and the attic, not the ballroom. Number Two, he hadn’t denied the rumours that he was going to marry another girl. Not just any girl: her own stepsister. A little fact she was keeping from him.

  Their friendship might seem easy but it was based on evasion and half-truths and she was just as much to blame. And now it was going to be very difficult, if not impossible, to tell Laurent that she was the daughter of the man he was attempting to woo and the stepsister of his potential bride. Difficult and awkward.

  Apart from anything else there was the small matter of the reconciliation she needed to attempt with her father. If Bella really was considering agreeing to be Laurent’s Archduchess then nobody would be impressed if Emilia was seen swanning around with her stepsister’s soon-to-be intended. They would assume that Emilia had done it on purpose, another attempt to grab the limelight and ruin her dad’s birthday. No one would believe her friendship with Laurent was pure coincidence. Or innocent.

  She wasn’t too sure about the innocent part herself, even though they were both working very hard to keep it that way.

  So the sensible thing to do would be to stop the evening picnics and stay home tonight with a box set and a box of chocolates. And Emilia could always be counted on to be sensible.

  Couldn’t she?

  She looked down at her carefully chosen outfit. To be fair, nobody had actually said anything about a date. Tonight was a city tour—and she had been instructed to dress sensibly, which was not usually the precursor to anything romantic. So, sure enough, here she was, in a pair of jeans, trainers and a pretty flower-covered short-sleeved shirt, hair coiled up in her favourite messy bun, just enough make-up to look as if she wasn’t wearing any. She was the epitome of ‘just threw this on and yet somehow I look casually chic’, a look that required forethought and ingenuity.

  Forethought that would be wasted on dinner in the castle’s staff dining room.

  And, after all, she hadn’t had an opportunity to explore the world-famous city of San Tomare yet and once her family arrived in just a couple of days it was unlikely she would find the time to eat, let alone explore.

  Besides, there was nothing romantic between Laurent and her. Okay, to the untrained eye a week of picnic dinners in a walled garden might look like romance, but their hands had never so much as brushed together, they never held each other’s gaze too long, and they hadn’t spent their time together unburdening their souls. Emilia might not be that experienced in relationships but surely they couldn’t—shouldn’t feel so easy at the beginning, as if they had always known the other person? Shouldn’t she be tongue-tied and overwhelmed, not so at ease she felt as if she might say anything and be understood? And all right, her heart might thump a little harder when she saw him, her palms tingle and her throat dry up. She might sometimes allow her gaze to dwell on his wide shoulders and long, muscled legs and allow herself to daydream about the shape of his mouth, but Laurent was absurdly handsome and she was young and single. It would be weirder not to be attracted to him. It didn’t mean he was attracted to her. He liked her because she wasn’t deferential, because she treated him like just a normal human being, not a deity.

  So what was she so afraid of?

  She spent her whole life fearing rejection, worrying she wasn’t good enough, that she didn’t deserve happiness. She hid away, avoiding all opportunities, reasoning that it was far better to be safe than sorry. What had happened to that teenage firebrand who said what she thought and didn’t care who got caught up in her wake? It had scared her, the anger, the way it had consumed her, the havoc she had wrought, the things she had said. And in the end hadn’t she been the one to suffer? The one who ended up a teenage dropout, with no formal education, no family she could rely on, making her own way in the world.

  She’d woken up the day after her father’s fiftieth and taken a good, hard look at the last four years—and she’d been ashamed of what she’d seen. So ashamed that she had promised herself she would change, that from now on she would be calm and hardworking and always in control. And she’d achieved that, but at what price? She hadn’t just dampened her spirit down; she’d extinguished it completely. Was this how she wanted to live the rest of her life? Maybe she should just make a leap of faith and let tonight just be. No planning or worrying or thinking about the worst thing that could happen...

  Right. She was going to do this. Carpe diem and all that. Grabbing her light jacket and shoulder bag, she marched out of her small but functional attic bedroom and down the several flights of winding back stairs until she came to the small side door through which she accessed and exited the castle. She showed her pass so she could be signed out, took a deep breath and stepped outside. She was doing this. She was really doing this.

  It took longer to walk down the imposing driveway than it did to amble along the flower-filled roadside verge until she reached the crossroads where she had arranged to meet Laurent. Like everything else she had seen so far in Armaria, the crossroads had an old-world charm exemplified in the wooden road sign, which looked like something out of a fairy tale, with its white paint and curling script. Feeling a little foolish, Emilia propped herself next to the sign and waited, unsure of the right posture to pull off I only just got here nonchalance.

  The evening was still lovely and warm, verging on hot. Slipping off her jacket, Emilia inhaled the sweet, fragrant air which bore little relation to the heavy, fume-filled air she breathed every day on the streets of London. Rural idylls certainly had their place. Closing her eyes, she tilted her head, letting the evening sun bathe her face, enjoying the prospect of just being for once. Apart from the stolen hour she spent each evening in the walled garden, Emilia had barely stopped since Simone had dropped in so unexpectedly. In fact she had barely stopped since they’d opened the agency, or indeed since she had turned sixteen and realised that the only person she could rely on was herself. Working hard was in her DNA but right now she was prepared to allow herself a few moments to slow down and smell the—well, whatever the flowers were—and take in every sensation, like the buzzing of a bee, for instance. A buzzing that seemed to be getting louder and louder...

  Emilia’s eyes snapped open as the buzz sharpened to a roar. Either that was one huge bee or... She stepped back as a sleek motorcycle swooped down upon her, stopping with a stylish turn. The rider, dressed in black to match the bike, she noted, swung one lean, muscled leg round in order to dismount, pulling the helmet off his head as he did so.

  Laurent.

  ‘Hi, you’re here!’

  Emilia was absurdly flattered by the frank pleasure in his smile. ‘I almost thought better of it,’ she confessed. ‘But I wasn’t sure what the penalty was for standing up an Archduke. I didn’t want the guards to be put to the trouble of dragging me here.’

  His smile ratcheted up a notch and Emilia’s breath caught in her throat. ‘I was hoping you’d come willingly.’

  ‘On that?’ She eyed the motorbike sceptically.

  ‘It’s quite safe.’

  ‘Hmm.’ But she couldn’t help the thrill that ran through her at the thought of riding pillion, her arms around his waist, legs pressed to his. Emilia swallowed, convinced her thoughts must be showing on her face. The problem with not dating for several years was that it left a girl with no defences; she was as new to this kind of banter as a fifteen-year-old with a crush.

  ‘Here.’ Ren went over to the motorbike and returned with a second helmet, which he handed to Emilia, who clutched it, her arms barely managing to contain it. It was heavier than she had expected. ‘Ever worn one of these before?’

  ‘No. And I’m not sure I’m going to do so right now either.’

  ‘I promise I’ll be really careful. And you never know, it might be fun.’

  ‘It’s a very big bi
ke,’ Emilia said doubtfully. ‘I’d be more comfortable if it was one of those little pastel ones like in Roman Holiday.’

  Ren merely raised an eyebrow. Of course he could raise just one eyebrow. And probably naturally; he didn’t seem the type to practice in front of a mirror. She’d practised but never quite got the hang of it, much to her disgust. A sardonic raised eyebrow was much more useful than her dimples. They merely made her look cute, unthreatening.

  She contented herself with matching his expression, only with both eyebrows raised as high as she could manage. ‘What?’

  ‘We’re back to old films again?’

  ‘Have you watched it yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’ His smile was rueful. ‘It seems a little too close to home.’ Her pulse sped at his words, at the hint that Laurent wasn’t as reconciled to his path as he seemed.

  ‘In that case I should be the one driving the motorbike and taking you on the tour.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Laurent looked directly at her, expression unreadable. ‘Do you think she regretted it? The Princess? Did her escape make her life more bearable or did she spend the rest of her days knowing she’d tasted freedom and longing for it?’

  Emilia took a deep breath, trying to work out the right thing to say. ‘It may have only been one night, but she lived every moment of it. I guess that’s all we can ask, isn’t it? An opportunity to really live, even if we know it’s not for ever.’ And as she said the words Emilia knew that she hadn’t been living every moment, not even half. She had shut herself away just as much as Audrey Hepburn’s Princess Ann. Only she wasn’t hemmed in by custom and duty, but by fear. Fear of finding love and losing it, fear of mistaking something darker for love. It was so easy to believe that she wasn’t worthy of love, after all; hadn’t she been shown that over and over?

  But Harriet and Amber and Alex loved her and they were the best people she knew. And Laurent was standing close to her, his eyes focused on her, looking at her as if she had the answers he was searching for.

  ‘Is that what you think? That we should grab every opportunity while we can?’

  When had he got so close? Emilia blinked as her body registered his proximity, heating up as she glanced up at him and saw the smile deep in his navy eyes. A smile and a glint of heat that sent her temperature ratcheting up yet another notch. Her stomach tumbled, a mixture of desire and fear.

  But at the same time she didn’t want to step back.

  * * *

  What was he doing? A ride into the city was one thing, a guided tour harmless enough, even dinner was innocent. But if he kissed Emilia then that would be quite, quite different. It would be dishonourable and an Archduke should always act with honour. So it was best to step away and try not to notice how full and inviting her mouth was, how soft. Best not to notice the dimples at the corner of said mouth and how they gave her usually grave features a lightness and sweetness. Definitely best not to comment on the length of her dark eyelashes, a deep brown touching on black, only with a hint of gold, a hint echoed in the flecks in her hazel eyes which right now were more green than brown.

  Better not to notice how her breath hitched as their eyes locked and need shimmered in the hot evening air, how her jacket hugged her, nipping her in at her narrow waist whilst emphasising the curve of her hips and her breasts. No, definitely best not to think about her breasts.

  But it was hard to think of anything else. The air was sweet with night blooming flowers and the subtle scent of her light perfume. Like a Mediterranean garden, a little citrus, a little floral, a little sea salt. She smelt like Armaria and right now was infinitely more desirable.

  But he wasn’t free. Not entirely. Because desire was one thing but duty another, and duty always came first. And so, reluctantly, he stepped away, nodding at the helmet she still cradled in her arms. ‘Are you going to wear that or hug it?’

  Her eyes flashed golden green. ‘Wear it.’

  It took a couple of moments for Emilia to figure out how to fasten the helmet but Laurent didn’t quite trust himself to help her, ungentlemanly as leaving her to struggle might seem. The problem was that he didn’t want to be gentlemanly or princely or Archduke-ish. What he wanted to do was pull that damn helmet off her head and kiss her until he forgot who and where he was. Until he was lost in her. He’d kissed more than a few women in his life and had never got lost in any of them, but none of them had been as potentially dangerous as Emilia.

  He stepped back again. ‘Are you managing?’

  ‘Quite well, thank you.’ Her voice was muffled by the helmet but her glare quite visible through the visor. ‘Very comfortable. This isn’t hot and uncomfortable at all.’

  ‘Better uncomfortable and safe.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘You said you would be really careful.’

  He couldn’t help his mouth curving into a playful grin. ‘I also said it would be fun.’

  She froze for a second and he could see the indecision in every inch of her, until she tilted her chin. ‘I’m ready.’

  She might be ready but Laurent soon realised he wasn’t ready at all. Not for the clasp of her hands around his waist, or her thighs wrapped around his, her breasts pressing against his back. It was torture, the kind that would entice a man to spill every secret and beg for more. Exquisite as it was, it drove him nearly out of his mind, his whole being surrounded by her.

  It had been too long since he had been so close to a woman. Dating Laurent came with a whole set of rules and attention that put off all but the most determined women. Add in the likelihood that the couple would be followed by paparazzi wherever they went and her life and previous relationships scrutinised in depth and it wasn’t that surprising that women often decided that maybe they weren’t keen on being with him after all. After a few uncomfortable and too public attempts at relationships with fellow students in his early twenties, Laurent had all but given up, save for a brief, secret fling with an actress who valued her privacy as highly as he did and had no interest in marriage or a throne, and a longer, more public relationship with a minor member of the exiled Greek royal family which had faded away, probably due to his preoccupation with matters of state. But that was a couple of years ago and since then he had been on his own.

  It wasn’t much to look back on at the age of twenty-eight, with probable marriage looming ahead. Maybe he should have been more reckless with his own heart, if not with other people’s. But it was nearly too late for regrets.

  Nearly...

  Laurent took a corner with a flourish and Emilia’s arms tightened as the movement shifted her even closer. Usually he loved the freedom of the bike as he navigated the winding clifftop roads which connected the castle to San Tomare, green hills on one side leading to the mountains which separated his small country from the rest of the continent, the sea down below. He loved the roar of the wind, the kick of the bike, the knowledge that for these moments at least he was the master of his own destiny.

  But this evening he wasn’t just aware of the elements and speed, or ultra-aware of the feel of Emilia, of how close she was, but of how her safety was in his hands. The trust she was placing in him. He wrenched his thoughts away from the warmth of her body, grimly focusing on the road ahead instead.

  For once he was grateful when the city outskirts forced him to slow down, and he cruised along until he finally pulled up outside a gated villa overlooking the sea in a cultural and tourist hotspot on the outskirts of the city. The popular suburb had so many second homes and holiday lets that no one speculated about the owner of the seemingly innocuous white-washed villa set back from the road. Slowing, he turned in, the sensor recognising him and the gates slowly swinging open, and he felt Emilia tense behind him as he rode the bike through the gates and they closed softly behind them. He pulled to a stop on the driveway which ran up the side of the villa and dismounted, holding a still gloved hand out to Emilia. She took it but only lightly, d
ropping it as soon as she was safely on her own two feet, already fumbling at the helmet, shaking her head as she removed it so her light brown hair tumbled free of the loose bun it had been confined in.

  ‘Where is this?’

  ‘The Villa par la Mer.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘My villa. I come here sometimes, when I need to escape. But today it’s just a parking spot. San Tomare is the safest capital city in the world—safest and smallest—but I still prefer to keep my bike off the streets. Besides, this is the scenic way into town; if we walk through the gardens and onto the cliffs we then finish our journey by boat. Or we could walk through the streets or get a taxi. Up to you.’

  ‘The sea way sounds lovely,’ she said at last and smiled, a slow smile which gradually lit up her narrow face, her dimples flashing into view and giving her rather austere beauty a puckish charm.

  ‘Okay.’ It was hard to tear his gaze away from her, but he managed it, hoping he was looking cooler and more relaxed than he felt. ‘This way.’

  He didn’t tell her that she was the first outsider he had brought here. That this villa was his sanctuary, a place he rode to on the rare occasions he could leave the palace. A place he invited no one to, not even his mother. But he knew Emilia would love it as much as he did. And, for reasons he refused to dwell on, he wanted to share this part of his soul with her.

  The gardens weren’t extensive, not as manicured or designed as the famous and formal castle grounds, nor as wild and free as the walled garden. Herb and vegetable beds ran down one side; the whole was shaded by lemon and olive trees, shrubs and flowers grew in large pots. The long garden was terraced as it led to the clifftop, walled off on both sides, the innocuous whitewashed bricks hiding the sensors and cameras which were the price Laurent paid for his occasional freedom. He pretended not to know that the villa on one side was owned by the castle and soldiers occupied it day and night and that the villa on the other was lived in by a now retired bodyguard and his formidable wife. The illusion of escape, of privacy, was better than no escape at all.