Harlequin Romance April 2021 Box Set

by Rebecca Winters

‘Buongiorno, Vostro Maestà. Thank you for inviting me here.’

  The royal visage was completely impassive and Liam didn’t have a clue what was going through the king’s head. ‘Princess Isabella speaks highly of you.’

  ‘That’s good to know, sir.’ All this formality made the neck of Liam’s shirt feel tight; Liam rarely wore a suit at work, but today was definitely a suit and tie day. What he really wanted to do was to get his camera out and start work.

  There was a slight twinkle in King Vittorio’s eye when he added, ‘Though Izzy also says your coffee is atrocious.’

  It broke the ice and Liam laughed, relaxing for the first time since he’d walked into the palace. ‘I’m afraid my barista skills aren’t quite up to my darkroom skills, sir.’

  ‘So you’ll be using traditional film rather than digital?’

  Liam was pleased that the king was aware of the difference. ‘A mixture, sir,’ he said. ‘I use a digital camera a lot of the time, but I like analogue. There’s something special about developing a print.’

  ‘Indeed.’ King Vittorio inclined his head. ‘I liked the photographs you took for that article on Shakespearean actors. Quite remarkable how you dressed them all in plain black and yet they still looked like the characters of their most famous roles.’

  And that was enough to finally convince Liam that he’d been given the job on merit and not just because of his little sister’s friendship with Izzy. The king had actually seen his work and liked it. ‘Thank you, sir. I asked them to declaim their favourite speeches and took the shots as they talked. I think a face should always tell the story in a portrait.’

  The king made a noncommittal noise. ‘Let’s take you to Vittoria. She’s waiting for us in the Throne Room. Walk with me,’ he added imperiously.

  Didn’t protocol mean that you had to walk behind a king? Liam wondered. But the king had said to walk with him. Perhaps he could compromise by being half a step behind.

  Liam hauled his tripod and camera over his shoulder and walked through the corridor with the king. The place was amazing and, although he specialised in portraits, there were plenty of little details that made him itch to photograph them. The black and white marble floors, the full-length windows hung with voile curtains, the silk wall hangings. And he’d just bet there was a suite of rooms with a classic enfilade, where the doors between each room were so perfectly aligned that you could see every doorway from one end of the suite. He could just imagine taking a series of portraits of the princess, one in every doorway...

  Then they walked into the Throne Room. The red carpet was so thick that Liam literally sank into it with every step. The walls were hung with red damask silk; the high ceilings were painted in cream and gold, and Venetian gilt and glass chandeliers hung down, glittering. On one wall there was an oil painting of King Vittorio, next to portraits of various others that Liam assumed were former kings; all were set in heavy, ornate gold frames. There was a white marble fireplace with a mirror above it reflecting the chandeliers, and on the mantelshelf sat an ornate ormolu clock flanked by matching candelabra.

  It was all very traditional, and a portrait taken here would send out a very strong message.

  There were two thrones in red velvet on a raised dais at the far end of the room. Sitting on one of the thrones, reading, was a young woman.

  Vittoria di Sarda.

  ‘Vittoria, may I introduce Liam MacCarthy, photographer? Mr MacCarthy, this is my granddaughter, Princess Vittoria,’ King Vittorio said.

  She closed her book, setting it down on the throne next to her, and stood up.

  The press photographs and even Izzy’s snaps hadn’t done her any justice.

  Vittoria di Sarda was absolutely stunning.

  You could drown in the depths of those violet eyes.

  Liam opened his mouth and found himself silenced. Not good. He wanted her to see him as he was: a professional, not some tongue-tied bumbler.

  He’d met lots of beautiful women in his working life, and dated several equally beautiful women in his private life, but none of them had made his pulse race like this.

  ‘I’m delighted to meet you, Vostra Altezza Reale,’ he said, just about managing to string the words together. Thank God Izzy and her bodyguard Pietro had spent the last week schooling his Italian pronunciation and teaching him important phrases. Otherwise he might have accidentally called her a festering slug or something equally terrible instead of ‘Your Royal Highness’.

  ‘My sister’s said a lot about you, Mr MacCarthy,’ she said, offering him her hand to shake.

  His skin tingled where hers touched his, and he didn’t know what to say.

  This was crazy. He wasn’t a talker, as such, but he was always good with his clients, conversing just enough to put them at their ease. If he carried on like this, the portrait he ended up with would be even worse than the stuffy waxwork Izzy was worried he might end up taking.

  He dragged himself together with an effort. ‘Thank you for sparing the time to see me, ma’am.’

  ‘You could hardly take my portrait without me actually being here,’ she pointed out.

  Was she teasing him or irritated by him? He couldn’t tell. That beautiful face was inscrutable.

  Best to play it safe and be businesslike. ‘With your permission, ma’am, I’ll set up my equipment.’ At her nod, he did so in silence, but he kept glancing at her. She was dressed perfectly for the formal, old-fashioned portrait that Vittorio had requested, in a white haute couture gown teamed with a midnight-blue velvet cloak, a sash and a royal badge. Her hair was styled very simply, and she wore a tiara with matching earrings, necklace and bracelet.

  Dripping in diamonds.

  Was that what people wanted from a modern princess? Wealth, haughtiness and an air of distance? Or did they want something warmer, a view of a woman who had something in common with them?

  Liam itched to take a different set of photographs from the one he’d been commissioned to do. To remove the sash and the diamonds, replace them with single pearl earrings and a single-strand pearl necklace, and end up with a softer and sexier look—like Beaton’s 1954 portrait of Elizabeth Taylor or Karsh’s gorgeous 1956 portrait of Grace Kelly.

  Maybe he could talk her into letting him take a second set of portraits. Especially as he’d promised to take one for Izzy.

  Though he wanted to take one for himself, too. He wanted to see the woman behind the tiara. The woman she kept hidden. The woman whose smile was like sunshine.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ King Vittorio said.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Give my love to my granddaughter when you’re back in London.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  Liam waited until the king had left. Vittoria, while she was waiting for him to finish setting up, had her nose back in her book. He couldn’t resist a quick snap.

  The sound of the shutter alerted her, and she stared at him. ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘Testing for white balance, ma’am,’ he fibbed.

  ‘I won’t insult you, Mr MacCarthy, by saying that I hope none of the photographs you take today appear anywhere without the prior approval of the palace press office,’ she said coolly.

  She really was a royal, he thought. An ice princess. But he’d like to see more of the woman he thought she might be behind that image. The sister Izzy had described—the woman who’d been sitting lost in a book. That moment had reminded him of his sister, when she was small: how Saoirse had always lost herself in a book, like her favourite fairy tale princess Belle.

  Was that who Vittoria was, behind the tiara?

  ‘Of course, ma’am.’ Wanting to reassure her, he added, ‘The contract I signed stipulated that all negatives and original files will be the property of the House of di Sarda, to use as you wish, and I’ll be credited with the images.’

 
‘Good. Then let’s get this over with.’

  Interesting, he thought. As a woman who was destined to be a queen, she must surely have grown up very used to having her photograph taken. He couldn’t help wondering: did she, like Izzy, want a different portrait from the one her grandfather had commissioned?

  He looked at her. ‘Once we’ve taken the official portraits, ma’am, would you allow me to take a portrait for Izzy? I mean, Princess Isabella,’ he corrected himself swiftly. He didn’t have the same easy, familiar relationship with this woman that he did with her sister, so he needed to be more formal in the way he referred to Izzy.

  She tipped her head very slightly to one side, and his pulse went up another notch as he realised how beautiful her mouth was. Kissable. He really had to get a grip.

  ‘What does Izzy want?’ Princess Vittoria asked, surprising him with a lapse into informality.

  He was taking a risk, but he caught her fleeting expression and it gave him the courage to be honest. ‘Something that makes you—and I quote—not look like a stuffed waxwork.’

  She laughed, and for the first time he saw a glimpse of the sister Izzy adored. At that moment he knew that this was the woman he wanted to photograph, not the official Princess.

  ‘That sounds like Izzy.’ She paused. ‘Your little sister’s best friend.’

  He inclined his head. ‘I’m sure your security team has a dossier on me.’ What did surprise him was that she might have bothered to read it.

  She inclined her head. ‘Let me see. Aged thirty. Never married. Didn’t go to university—but you finished your A levels while looking after your sister, and then you took an apprenticeship.’

  He shrugged. ‘University wasn’t an option. It’s irrelevant.’ But he knew just as much about her, thanks to some research on the internet and a conversation or two with her sister. ‘Did you enjoy studying in London—economics for your first degree and then for your MBA?’

  ‘Toccato,’ she said. ‘You clearly have a dossier on me.’

  ‘I need to know my subjects before I take their portrait,’ he said. ‘The whole point of a portrait is to tell a story. To show the world who you really are.’

  ‘Goodness. That’s frightfully intimidating.’

  He threw the ball back in her court. ‘Only if you have something to hide.’

  ‘Call me Dorianna Grey?’

  There was an edge to her humour.

  He couldn’t work her out. They’d never met before. And yet the way he found himself instinctively responding to her... My dear Lady Disdain. Except Vittoria was a few rungs higher up the social scale than a lady.

  He looked into those stunning violet eyes and, for a second, he couldn’t breathe. And then, shockingly, he realised how much he wanted to kiss her. To feel her mouth against his. To coax a response from her. To kiss her until they were both dizzy.

  That desire was completely inappropriate, for a multitude of reasons. Vittoria di Sarda was his client, and he never mixed business with pleasure. She was the sister of his little sister’s best friend, which made her pretty much off limits; because when it got messy—and it would get messy—that would make life difficult for Saoirse. And Vittoria was from a completely different world, one where he didn’t belong.

  Focus, he reminded himself.

  This was business.

  ‘Izzy loves you,’ he said.

  ‘And Saoirse loves you.’

  He liked the fact that she pronounced his sister’s name properly. Sur-sha. ‘She’s a good kid.’

  Vittoria raised an eyebrow. ‘You could have gone to university.’

  Not to Edinburgh, where he’d planned to study. They’d lost their mum five months before his A levels, in a car accident; how could he uproot Saoirse and drag her off to a city where she knew nobody and where he’d be too busy studying to spend enough time with her to help her settle in properly? Becoming a teenager was hard enough; he’d wanted to keep things as stable for her as he could, which meant she needed to stay at the home and school she knew. ‘I have a diploma and plenty of professional experience. A degree wouldn’t have added anything.’

  ‘You put your duty before your own needs,’ she said softly.

  His duty to look after Saoirse. There hadn’t been anyone else to do it; their father had died when Saoirse was small and their grandparents had either been very elderly and needing care themselves or had passed away.

  But it hadn’t just been duty, and he wanted Vittoria to know that. He’d never seen Saoirse as a burden and he never would. ‘My sister isn’t my duty,’ he said, equally softly. ‘She’s my family.’

  Again, there was a fleeting expression in her eyes before the royal mask came back. But it was there for long enough for him to see it and recognise it as wistfulness.

  So was Izzy right? Was Vittoria suppressing herself for the sake of duty? Because she loved her family?

  Not that it was any of his business.

  ‘What else is in your dossier?’ she asked.

  ‘That you’re a patron of several charities.’ Izzy hadn’t been clear about whether Vittoria had chosen them herself or whether their grandfather had chosen them.

  And then there was the duty aspect. ‘That you lost your dad when you were young—’ like him ‘—so you’re next in line to the throne and your coronation will be at Christmas,’ he added.

  ‘Nonno wishes to stand down,’ she said.

  ‘And how do you feel, becoming the Queen of San Rocello at the age of twenty-eight?’

  ‘That,’ she said, ‘is irrelevant.’

  Echoing his own answer to her. And that told him everything: like him, she’d chosen duty before her own desires. And she’d made that choice for the love of her family.

  Though he did need to know how she felt. It would affect the portrait.

  Maybe he could try a different tack. But what?

  Not her love life. Although the paparazzi had photographed her with several eligible men over the years, she didn’t appear to have a partner. Though Izzy had muttered something dark about their mother, their grandmother and an arranged marriage.

  Could someone royal marry for love? Or did they have to marry someone politically suitable?

  Not that that was any of his business, either.

  ‘What were you reading?’ he asked instead.

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you think I was reading?’

  This felt like a test. Fiction, non-fiction, poetry, a play? He had no idea what she liked reading, but he definitely had the impression that words were important to her. ‘If you were Izzy, it’d be something frothy. If you were Saoirse, it’d be something political. If you were me...’ He looked her straight in the eye. ‘Words, words, words,’ he quoted softly.

  She laughed. ‘So which of us is Polonius?’

  He was pleased she’d picked up the reference. ‘Neither, I hope. Though he did have a point about being true to yourself.’

  ‘Is that why you take portraits?’

  ‘People interest me,’ he said.

  ‘And you read Shakespeare? Or was Hamlet your A level text?’

  ‘The dossier again?’ he asked.

  ‘Photography, English Literature, History and History of Art.’ She ticked off his subjects on her fingers.

  ‘Economics, Maths and History,’ he countered. Subjects perfect for a future queen: a background in tradition, with modern business sensibilities. ‘Mine were pretty much your opposite, though obviously there’s a bit of science in photography—physics and chemistry.’

  Chemistry.

  That was a stupid word to use. Because it made him think of a different sort of chemistry. The one that made him notice the exact curve of her mouth, the length of her eyelashes, the tilt of her nose.

  Focus, he reminded himself again. ‘Would you prefer your official photographe
r to have a degree?’

  ‘No. I was wondering if you minded. Four top-grade A levels—you could’ve had your pick of any university.’

  He’d be honest with her. ‘I minded a bit when I was eighteen,’ he said. ‘But Saoirse was more important to me. Twelve isn’t a great age to move to a different school, let alone a different city. I still ended up with the career I wanted; the apprenticeship meant I learned my trade hands-on instead of in a lecture room. And my old photography tutor lent me books and invited Saoirse and me over for dinner once a month so I could talk theory with her and discuss composition, while Saoirse did the usual teenage girl things with her daughters. I owe her a lot.’

  ‘The woman you dedicated your first award to.’

  He nodded. And not just because of the tuition. Patty had helped him convince the authorities that he was perfectly capable of looking after Saoirse. Luckily his mum had already taught him how to cook a few simple dishes, so he’d be able to look after himself as a student. His mum had owned the house outright since his dad’s death; and the proceeds of her life insurance meant that he and Saoirse could pay the bills until he was earning a decent salary and could support them both. ‘And if she could see me now, she’d be cross that I was chatting about myself instead of focusing on my subject.’

  ‘Very diplomatically put,’ she said. ‘I can see why Izzy likes you.’

  ‘I like Izzy. And she’s safe with me.’

  ‘I already knew that,’ she said.

  ‘Because of the dossier?’

  ‘Because Pietro likes you,’ she corrected.

  She’d discussed him with her sister’s security detail?

  And then he realised. This was what her life must be like. A series of dossiers, learning about people so you could be politically discreet. Knowing that everything you did, everything you said, would be analysed, and not always correctly. Living your life in the public eye, twenty-four-seven.

  Which was exactly why King Vittorio had asked for a traditional portrait, Liam realised. To put across the message that the public face of the monarchy might change, but the monarchy itself would go on.

  * * *