The Prince's Proposal

She blinked and said in a little confusion, ‘Yes. Do you know him?’

The man hesitated.

Francesca tried to focus her eyes. It was hopeless. But there was something about the man that made her really want to see him. Ridiculous, of course.

She shook her head and said with determined practicality, ‘Because if you do I really want to talk to him.’

The man bent towards her. ‘What?’

She caught a hint of some outdoorsy smell, cedar or wood smoke, faint as a half-forgotten memory. And as powerful. She was taken aback. When had she last noticed a stranger’s scent? It made her feel somehow feral, animal in a way she did not quite like.

He took her elbow. ‘Let’s go somewhere where we can hear ourselves talk.’

He took her out onto a small balcony. The dark, seething room fell away like a suffocating cape. It was raining but an awning kept the worst of it off them. And he turned her towards him.

An impression of strength? She must have been out of her mind. This man had more than strength. He was like rock. Warm, magnetised rock. And he knocked all the breath out of her just by being there. Something inside began to vibrate, imperceptibly, in response to that magnetism.

‘Cold?’ he asked.

Francesca shook her head. She did not trust herself to speak.

His voice sent little trickles of awareness up and down her spine. It startled her. She did not usually react to complete strangers with that sort of physical response.

This is rebound time. Barry’s gone and you haven’t had time to find your feet. Don’t do anything stupid.

He pushed the glass door shut behind them. The party noise modified somewhat. The drum throb stayed. So did the abrasive guitars. But the conversation died down to a background hum.

Even without her glasses, she could make out the way he moved. It was slow, smooth as oiled machinery, almost lazy. And yet there was such purpose there. Yes, definitely an outdoors man, she decided.

And then he turned and said, ‘So why are you looking for Conrad Domitio?’

And she felt as if she had walked into a wall.

She stared up at him. Wishing she were taller. Wishing like mad that she was wearing her glasses and the dark features were more than a blur. Wishing that she could be calm. For some reason the adrenalin seemed to be back in charge again. It was making her pulses gallop crazily.

The bright, impervious smile wavered. ‘I—I want to invite him to a book signing,’ she said literally, shaken.

‘A book-signing?’ He sounded lazy.

So why didn’t he feel lazy? He felt watchful and wary. It was as if there he was, watching and criticising and formulating acute observations right here and now in his head. He was just not going to share them with anyone. It was unsettling. And very, very sexy.

If only I could see his face properly. I’m getting new glasses first thing tomorrow.

‘Er—yes.’ Francesca made valiant attempts to pull herself together. Except for a slight ringing in the ears she managed it, too. ‘I’m a bookseller.’

She realised quite suddenly that it was the first time she had said it. It felt good. She stood taller and her pulses slowed a little.

‘Rather a new bookseller. I bought into an independent bookshop a few months ago.’

‘So you’re trying to prove your mettle,’ he said thoughtfully.

That hadn’t occurred to her. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Is it fun?’ He sounded genuinely interested.

She widened her eyes at him. It did not make her see any better but at least it hid the fact that she was as blind as a bat.

‘So far.’

‘You’re very cautious.’ He was so close that she could hear the smile in his voice, in spite of the heavy rock beat in the room behind them.

A laugh was surprised out of Francesca. She grinned up at him. ‘OK. So far it’s a blast. How’s that?’

There was an odd pause. She had the impression that he had suddenly become very intent. The temptation to wrinkle up her eyes to bring him into focus was almost overwhelming. I will not squint, she told herself fiercely.

‘Much more encouraging.’

Someone tried to slide the door open. He shifted, so that he blocked their way out onto the balcony. There was a muttered apology and the door went back into place.

Of course, she couldn’t be absolutely sure, not without being able to see his expression. But it felt as if he wanted to talk to her alone. As if he was uninterested in everyone else. And was making sure that nobody gatecrashed their tête-àtête.

Oh, wow, thought Francesca.

And then caught herself. That was the woman who had just been dumped speaking, right? She was much too mature to get excited because a man backed her into a corner at a party. Even if it was on a balcony under the stars.

‘Where is this bookshop of yours?’

‘A funny little side-street near the river in Fulham. Our shop was originally a couple of Victorian cottages. Behind the gasworks. You turn left off the King’s Road travelling west…’

She gave him precise directions because that was the way she worked. Francesca was nothing if not spot-on accurate. It seemed to amuse him.

He laughed. ‘You’re not a map-maker, by any chance?’

‘I like to get things clear,’ she said, slightly shamefaced. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It’s very useful. I could do with you on my team sometimes. You have no idea the number of people who think that getting you to roughly the right area is good enough.’

Francesca thought of the photographs of mountains and waterfalls she had seen in the entrance area before Jazz confiscated her glasses.

‘Are you a geographer?’

‘Sort of.’

She clocked the evasion and wondered about it. Was he a rival bookseller trying to tease out her secrets? But what would be the point of that, when he knew she had only been in the field for a few months? She was hardly a candidate for industrial espionage yet. Now, if it had been Jazz—She remembered her self-appointed task.

‘Of course, when I say book-signing, I mean more than that really. We are really building a customer community at The Buzz. Evening events, readings, talks, that sort of thing. People are actually phoning us up and asking when the next one is. We might even do something like this. Oh, not the disco atmosphere. But promoting several books on related subjects. It’s a great idea!’

She was babbling. She knew it. But she didn’t know why. Sure, he was tall but then so was nearly everyone here by her standards. She did not normally find tall people intimidating.

And he wasn’t intimidating exactly. Just—well—compelling. There was a quality in his silence that made her talk, too much and too loudly. And all the time she could feel him looking at her, as if there was something going on in his mind that he was not going to tell her about.

Boy, I get perceptive when I haven’t got my glasses.

She cleared her throat and said more rationally, ‘And what are you doing here?’

She sensed that he made his mind up about something.

‘Oh, I’m one of the performing fleas,’ he drawled.

She did not think she had heard him aright. ‘What?’

‘I’m singing for my supper. Or I will be when I’m trotted out to meet the Press in a few minutes’ time.’

‘Oh, you’re a writer,’ she said, relieved.

‘That’s not how I’d put it,’ the tall man said ruefully. ‘I just got caught by a predatory photographer when I was too weak to say no.’

‘Really?’ Francesca was sceptical. She did not think this man was ever weak.

He laughed. ‘You must have seen the pictures when you came in. Ten-foot-high volcanic eruptions and a leaping wolf that makes everyone take two steps backwards.’

‘I missed the wolf,’ she admitted.

‘Just as well. Nightmare stuff.’

She couldn’t imagine him having nightmares either. She did not say so.

Instead she said curiously, ‘You sound as if you disapprove.’

‘Me? Hey, what have I got to disapprove of? I’ve written one of the things. I don’t have to endorse each and every one.’

She did not believe the disclaimer. ‘But…?’ she prompted.

‘You’re sharp, aren’t you?’ He sounded faintly put out. ‘OK, I admit it. I’m not that keen on coffee-table books. I never expected to find myself contributing to one.’

‘So why did you?’

‘Phew. Sharp and to the point.’ No doubt about it, this time he was seriously taken aback. Then he decided to be amused. She sensed it even before he said, ‘They offered me a lot of money. OK? Interrogation over?’

‘Interrogation over,’ she said. But she could not quite get rid of a feeling of disappointment. She would not have expected this man to be persuaded to do something he did not want to just because someone offered him a lot of money, somehow.

‘Now you’re the one who sounds disapproving,’ he said acutely.

Francesca shifted her shoulders uncomfortably. ‘It’s easy to be puritanical about money when you have enough, I know.’

He looked down at her and she could almost feel that undercurrent of a commentary she could not hear.

‘That’s very broad-minded of you.’ There was an edge to his voice.

She hurried to change the subject. ‘And I’m sure your book will be a success. People lap these picture books up for presents. Especially if they’re by a blonde in a wetsuit. Or a royal prince, I suppose.’

‘Prince?’

‘Yes. That’s why I wanted to talk to Conrad Domitio. I see from their handout that they’ve managed to get him to do some Boys’ Own adventure.’

There was a long, long pause.

‘Ah. So that’s why you wanted to find him.’ He sounded more than disapproving. He sounded downright hostile.

For a moment a faint suspicion occurred to her. But she dismissed it at once. This was no prince, this tall, rangy man with his backwoodsman’s prowl and his slow drawl. Besides, all the Montassurrans she knew were small and dark like her father.

‘Well, he’s an ex-prince, to be honest. But it seems to impress some people,’ she said, thinking of the normally cool Jazz’s reaction.

‘Some people but not you.’

Francesca gave a hiccup of laughter. ‘No, not me. But then, I’m a special case.’

‘Yeah? No princes need apply?’

She laughed aloud at that. ‘I’m not a rabid anti-monarchist, if that’s what you mean. I just happen to know a bit about this particular monarchy.’

‘Really?’ The drawl was even slower than before. And profoundly sceptical.

It flicked her on the raw. She straightened smartly.

‘The Crown Prince of Montassurro,’ announced Francesca, back in precision-detail mode, ‘is pretend royalty from an obscure bit of the Balkans. Couple of mountains, couple of trout streams which they call rivers. Not so much a kingdom, more a family estate.’

There was a faint pause. She certainly had all his attention now.

At last, ‘You’re very well-informed,’ said the backwoods-man lazily.

‘I certainly am. Main crops, wine and wheat. Main occupation, brigandage.’

‘You’ve done your research—’ He broke off sharply. ‘Brigandage?’

‘The Montassurrans in exile run a good story,’ said Francesca hardly. ‘But basically they have always been a bunch of mountain brigands. Who just happened to settle on the motorway-services station of the Middle Ages. Everyone passing through had to stop there. And pay tribute.’

‘That’s hardly brigandage.’

‘They developed that later. Harried the Turks. Raided the Crusaders. Made a good thing out of kidnap and extortion for about ten centuries. Then got some great PR at the Conference of Vienna and turned themselves into professional freedom fighters.’

There was stunned silence.

Then, ‘You sound like an expert,’ he said slowly. ‘Did you major in Balkan history?’

Francesca gave a snort of laughter. ‘In a way. My father came from Montassurro. I grew up on the stories.’

Another, longer silence. She could almost feel him thinking. It was still unsettling. And, even now, when they were clearly at odds, it was still sexy. Blast!

‘Not very flattering stories by the sound of it.’

‘Well, my father is an anti-monarchist.’

‘And you’ve inherited his prejudices,’ he said as if that explained everything.

Francesca stiffened. ‘Not at all. I don’t care about monarchy one way or the other. What I can’t bear is a lot of people living in the past. Ex-kings, huh! You can’t spend your life as an ex-anything. You have to draw a line and go on.’

‘You’re very—unforgiving.’

She stared, confused. ‘Why? Because I don’t like a lot of phoney nostalgia?’

He was looking at her in that way again. She couldn’t see him properly but the reservations were coming off him in waves. As if there were two conversations going on and she was only hearing one—and the less interesting one, at that.

Oh, God, here I go again. Listening to the facts. Not hearing the meaning. What the hell is wrong with me?

‘Because you think you can draw a line under a bit of yourself and leave it behind.’ He was drawling again. ‘How old are you?’

Francesca’s eyes snapped. ‘Twenty-three. How old are you?’

He gave a soft laugh. ‘Thirty-two. Going on a hundred, just at this minute.’

‘Why this minute?’

But there was no chance for him to answer. The glass door was pushed violently back. Music and revellers spilled out onto the balcony with equal disruptive force. He sidestepped them and took the opportunity to look at his watch.

‘I ought to be doing my duty in the Press room.’

‘Oh.’ She was horribly disappointed and furious about it. Rebound indeed! She curbed it and held out her hand. ‘Good luck.’

He took it. ‘Will I see you later?’

She shook her head vigorously. As much at her own unwanted fantasies as at him. ‘As soon as I’ve caught up with my prince I’m going home.’

He smiled faintly. She could hear it in his voice. ‘Exprince.’

And he held on to her hand. It was heady stuff.

‘Whatever,’ she said, distracted.

‘You like to be accurate.’

‘Yes.’ She was still oddly shaken. ‘Yes, I suppose I do.’

‘It’s obvious. Well, then, we’d better say goodbye.’

He tugged her hand, bringing her a critical step closer to him. Bent—he had a long way to bend—and brushed her cheek with his lips.

Francesca gulped. For a moment she was in a cloud of cold, pure air, surrounded by cedar and a sense of imminent danger, as if she were facing a climb that was beyond her. And then she was on a crowded balcony again on a wet London night. And the stars had gone in.

‘Er—goodbye,’ she said, more breathless than she would have liked.

He straightened. ‘Good luck yourself. I hope you get your ex-prince.’

Francesca, who never gave up on any of her self-appointed tasks, was for the first time in her life going to pass. She had no intention of doing anything more this evening than going home and trying to get her breath back. But she was not admitting that to anyone else. And, besides, there was always another day. One way or another, she would get the crown prince to one of The Buzz’s book-signings if it killed her.

‘Cast-iron certainty,’ she said, sticking her chin in the air. She was not going to lose focus because Barry de la Touche had dumped her and a tall stranger had not quite kissed her. She was not. She said as much to herself as to him, ‘I always get my man.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘I WANT,’ said Conrad, pleasant but very firm, ‘to know about a bookshop. It’s near the gasworks in Fulham. I’m not moving until I know the name of the woman who owns it.’ He looked as if he meant it.

The publicist had been looking for him with increasing desperation. The Press interviews were not going well. The editorial director had called one journalist a freeloader. Then he told a researcher for a daytime television programme that he didn’t expect her viewers to be able to read words of more than one syllable. It was definitely time to break out their secret weapon. Only it looked as if the secret weapon had ideas of his own.

‘I’ll find out for you,’ she promised. ‘Just please come and talk to the Press now.’

‘How will you find out?’

‘Ask. Someone in this crowd is bound to know.’

‘But I don’t know the name of the bookshop.’

‘Doesn’t matter. It’s a small world, books.’ She urged him towards the room where the Press interviews were taking place. ‘What does she look like? How old? What’s she interested in?’

‘Small. Dark. Huge brown eyes. Sometimes they go all big and misty as if you’re the most wonderful thing she’s ever looked at. Sometimes they snap. She’s twenty-three, and she’s fierce.’

‘Oh,’ said the publicity assistant, rather taken aback. ‘Well, that ought to find her. Fulham, you said?’

By the time he had played his part in the discussion of Ash on the Wind, she was back.

‘Sounds like Jazz Allen’s place. It’s called The Buzz. But Jazz is nearly six feet, black and beautiful.’

‘Not her. Look again.’ He thought. ‘She also knows a lot about Montassurro. Or thinks she does. Her father was some sort of refugee.’

One of the journalists who had slipped out in the hopes of a private exchange with the ex-prince overheard. He inserted himself between them.

‘Do you mean Peter Heller’s daughter?’

Conrad’s brows twitched together. ‘Heller?’ he said in tones of acute distaste. ‘That crook?’

The journalist grinned. ‘Can I quote you? He’s an esteemed international financier these days.’

Conrad did not smile. He was looking really disturbed.

‘Are you telling me that Peter Heller’s daughter would waste her time with a small bookshop? In the shadow of the gasworks? I don’t believe it.’

‘Not that small,’ said the journalist drily. ‘Everyone’s talking about The Buzz. They’ve got quite an internet presence already, too. It was the Heller girl who set that up, by what I hear.’

‘You mean Jazz Allen’s new partner?’ said someone else, joining them. ‘I hear she’s a phenomenon.’

‘Yes,’ agreed the journalist. ‘Everyone thought it was going to be a three-day wonder for her. Well, she’s rich enough to invest in a little business like that without caring too much if she gets her money back. But it hasn’t turned out like that.’

‘You are so right,’ agreed someone else, with feeling. ‘Francesca Heller is no sleeping partner. My reps say she challenges them all the time. Fearsome woman. But she’s certainly improved their ecology list. And Jazz thinks she’s wonderful.’

‘So does Prince Conrad, from the sound of it,’ said the journalist with a sly glance sideways.

But he did not get the response he was hoping for. The tall man looked at him in silence for a moment. The heavy-lidded eyes were quite unreadable. Then he turned away, shrugging.

‘Well, would you get the email address for me?’ he asked the publicity assistant indifferently. ‘I said I would do a talk for them some evening.’

He did not say another word on the subject of Francesca Heller all evening. Instead, to his hosts’ surprised delight, he circulated conscientiously. He even stayed until the very end of the party.

But, though he got a very good proposition from a giggling copy editor in low-cut spandex, and the editorial director offered to take him to dinner and throw ideas around about a series, there was no sign of Francesca Heller. He shook his head at both invitations.

‘No, thanks. Unless—there’s no one else left inside, is there?’

‘No. Just us,’ said the copy editor, weaving slightly. ‘You’d better come. You’ll have missed every last train. Come to the club with us and then take the milk train at dawn.’

‘I’m all partied out, thanks. I’ll get a train after breakfast.’

There was consensus that this was a waste.

Conrad’s steep eyelids drooped in the familiar bored expression.

‘Goodnight, everyone. Have a good one.’

He strolled away. He didn’t appear to move fast. But those long legs had taken him out of sight before anyone could think of an argument to call him back.

Francesca, Conrad thought.

Odd name for a girl who was half-English, half-Montassurran. Sounded Italian. Come to think of it, she looked like one of the Italian beauties you found in Renaissance paintings, all abundant hair and wide pure brow, with their enigmatic half-smiles. He had always thought they were probably too intelligent for their own good, those serene, secretive women. There was always something mysterious about them, something that said, ‘You don’t really know me at all.’

Of course, Francesca Heller had not been particularly serene this evening. But she had not come across as a second-generation Montassurran confidence trickster either. His jaw tightened.

Not that she thought of herself as Montassurran, obviously. All that nonsense she had talked about brigands! He should have challenged her on it at once. He could not think why he had not.

Hell, yes, he could. He knew exactly why. She had been looking at him with those wide, wide eyes, as if she was somehow caught up in a dream, and all he wanted to do was keep her looking at him like that forever. OK, maybe she was not serene. But the mystery was there all right. By the bucketful.

Fool, he castigated himself. Stupid fool! All she was interested in was catching a prince for one of her bookshop events. She had even admitted it. From all he could find out, she was as good at business as her father. And Peter Heller’s daughter was the last person in the world he wanted to tangle with.

Yes, that was better. He would walk a while and think of everything he knew about her father.

Conrad reminded himself that he knew a great deal about Peter Heller and his business dealings. The whole Montassurran community in London did. And they knew Heller was ruthless, acquisitive, and not at all scrupulous. Without actually doing anything criminal, Peter had exploited more than one of the Montassurran exiles who had been so ready to welcome him when he first got to London.

Remember that! Conrad thought. Thinking of Peter, the multimillionaire exploiter, would put mysterious, misty-eyed Francesca Heller in perspective.

Except that it did not. Not quite. She was under his skin, like a rose thorn.

Conrad walked hard, hardly noticing the cold night or the desultory rain. Feet pounding on the pavement, he could convince himself that she was a momentary aberration; that he did not want a woman in his life whom he would be ashamed to introduce to his grandfather and the people his grandfather thought of as his subjects; that he did not want a misty-eyed innocent in his life either, come to think of it. And then he remembered the way her chin came up when she thought he was mocking her. The way her breath caught when he touched her. And the wide, wondering eyes that seemed to look into his very soul.

Look, he said to himself. Either Francesca Heller was what she ought to be as her father’s daughter, a real wily operator. In that case she was not the woman for him. Or she was what she had looked tonight. It was a faint outside chance. No woman of twenty-three was so open, so unguarded, so—he said it to himself deliberately—vulnerable. But if she was—

Ah, if she was, then Conrad Domitio was not the man for her.

Francesca gave up soon after the tall man left her. The crowd was too pressing. She couldn’t find Jazz. She was never going to find a prince she did not know. Especially if everyone else was after him too. She collected her coat and bumbled out into the rainy dark.

Without her glasses, of course, it was not easy to find a cab. She flagged down a Range Rover, a delivery truck and a traffic light showing amber before she connected with a taxi for hire. She gave the driver the address and then fell back against the upholstery and closed her eyes. Tomorrow morning she was going to order three pairs of glasses—one for home, one for the shop and one for her handbag. This evening’s nightmare was never going to happen again.