A Bride Fit For A Prince?

From desire on the high seas...

To royal duty at the altar?

Savoring his last taste of freedom, reluctant Prince Luca Fortebracci escapes to the Mediterranean on his lavish yacht. He’s destined to wear a crown and wed a flawless royal bride, so mysterious British beauty Samia is everything he shouldn’t want—but everything he craves...

Samia’s thrilled by the longing Luca awakens within her but knows a temporary fling is their only option. A future with him is impossible. For the shadows of her past make Samia wholly unsuitable to be Luca’s princess...don’t they?

SUSAN STEPHENS was a professional singer before meeting her husband on the Mediterranean island of Malta. In true Mills & Boon style, they met on Monday, became engaged on Friday and married three months later. Susan enjoys entertaining, travel and going to the theatre. To relax she reads, cooks and plays the piano, and when she’s had enough of relaxing she throws herself off mountains on skis or gallops through the countryside singing loudly.

Also by Susan Stephens

A Diamond for Del Rio’s Housekeeper

The Sicilian’s Defiant Virgin

The Secret Kept from the Greek

A Night of Royal Consequences

The Sheikh’s Shock Child

Pregnant by the Desert King

The Greek’s Virgin Temptation

Snowbound with His Forbidden Innocent

Passion in Paradise collection

A Scandalous Midnight in Madrid

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

A Bride Fit for a Prince?

Susan Stephens

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09809-0

A BRIDE FIT FOR A PRINCE?

© 2020 Susan Stephens

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Note to Readers

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To all my wonderful readers, editors,

publishing professionals, family and pets, who

inspire me every day, and who make writing such a joy.

Thank you!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

HE ENTERED THE restaurant at the front. The young backpacker rushed in from the alley at the back. They met in the middle at the bar.

More accurately, she crashed into him.

‘Sorry! Sorry!’ she exclaimed, bouncing off him with a yelp.

‘No need to apologise.’

He took stock of the new arrival. Bright eyes, firm chin and a face smudged with dust from her travels. It was an interesting face full of character and not unattractive. The impression of soft curves yielding to his muscular frame stayed with him as he stared into eyes the colour of an emerald ocean on an uncomplicated summer’s day—which this should have been. But when was anything as straightforward as it appeared?

‘I’m gagging for a drink of water,’ she gasped to no one in particular. Turning to study his face with engaging frankness, she added, ‘Do I know you?’

‘I don’t believe so.’

‘Are you sure?’

He thumbed twenty-four hours’ worth of stubble. ‘As I can be.’

She continued to stare at him intently, as if his face rang a bell but her brain refused to yield the required information.

This break in proceedings allowed him to inhale her wildflower scent, and to appreciate more than a sweet rosebud mouth pursed in thought. Though, sweet was not a word he would use to describe her, he decided, noting the stubborn set of her chin and narrowed eyes as she ran his features through some internal search engine.

‘I’m sure I know you from somewhere,’ she insisted, still frowning. ‘I just can’t place you yet. But I will,’ she warned with a smile that lit up her face. ‘You’re as out of place here as me, and yet you’re totally relaxed...’

‘Okay, Sherlock Holmes. Anything else?’

‘You’re obviously more used to eating in swanky eateries than I am...’

Undaunted by his silence, she turned to take stock of their surroundings. And gasped. ‘Paint me staggered—I must have stumbled into Oz. Do people really drink magnums of champagne at midday?’

‘It would appear so.’

She had freckles on her nose, he noticed as she wrinkled it with amusement. Having strayed off the alleyway behind the restaurant, she had landed in Babylon, where vintage wines were discussed in hushed tones, as if they were the answer to all the world’s woes, while waiters served delicacies to clientele who, for the most part, couldn’t care what they ate, so long as it was expensive enough to brag about. They were standing in a temple to excess on what was arguably the most stylish marina on the planet. He guessed the staff had left the rear entrance open to allow for the non-stop arrival of stock, as no place on earth could hope to keep sufficient food and booze on the premises to satisfy the appetites of the super-rich.

‘Water and a job are what I need, and in that order,’ the young woman announced, appearing to look to him for the solution. ‘Do you know of anything going?’ Chin angled to one side, she studied his face with brazen interest. Keen intelligence blazed from emerald eyes, and she had an eminently kissable mouth, he mused as she smiled again. ‘Maybe I could get some work on board one of those huge boats in the marina...’ She waited, and when he said nothing, she admitted, ‘I’ve run out of funds. This trip has lasted longer than I expected. There’s just so much to see, and so little time to fit everything in.’

‘You’re on some sort of deadline?’

‘Not exactly,’ she replied, ‘but I do have to get back to work eventually—don’t we all? I can’t spend my entire life roaming. Though, I’d like to.’ A wistful look crept into her eyes. ‘At some point I’ve got to stop travelling and make a go of things again...’

‘Again?’ he probed as she stared off into the middle distance.

‘Oh, you know what I mean,’ she insisted with a careless flip of her wrist.

‘I’m not sure I do. Have you travelled far?’

‘From London, originally.’

‘Where you live and work?’

She didn’t answer his question, her gaze sweeping the marina. ‘I adore the South of France, don’t you?’

As attempts to change the subject went, that was clumsy. ‘The Riviera’s one of many places I like to visit.’

She pulled him up on his apparent disinterest right away. ‘Like? How can anyone like the South of France when it’s so obviously gorgeous and fabulous? Don’t you feel doubly alive when you’re here?’ Her face lit up, and all the tension he’d detected when she’d first burst into the bar dropped away. ‘Music, food, heat, blue skies and sunshine—the way everyone throws back their shoulders and speaks out clearly instead of mumbling. People walk tall here with confidence and optimism, instead of huddling beneath raincoats in a grey, chilly drizzle—’

‘You put forward a good case,’ he conceded, shaking himself out of his black mood. ‘Are you a lawyer?’

‘No, but I’ve often thought legal skills would be useful.’

‘In what way?’

‘Oh, you know,’ she said vaguely.

‘If not a lawyer, are you a writer? Your descriptive skills?’ he prompted.

She laughed and looked away.

‘Why don’t you ask here about jobs?’ he suggested.

She swept a hand down her crumpled clothes. ‘Like they’d hire me looking like this! And, anyway, I want to get as far away as I can. Out to sea would be my preference.’

‘Are you under pressure to get away?’

‘What makes you say that?’ she asked quickly.

‘I’m just following the ball of string as you reel it out.’

‘So I’m not the only detective. I’d better be careful what else I say.’

‘You’d better,’ he agreed as measuring glances flashed between them.

Young, attractive, intelligent and feisty, she was a welcome distraction on a difficult day.

‘I’m guessing you don’t work here,’ she said as she gave him a comprehensive once-over. ‘Ripped shorts and a sleeveless top don’t suggest to me that you’re trying out for the job of waiter.’

‘Me?’ He laughed. ‘No. I don’t think they’d trust me at the sink.’

‘A pot carrier, perhaps?’ she mused. ‘You’ve got the muscles for it.’

‘I’m hired, then?’ he teased with the lift of a brow.

‘You wish.’

When she laughed a dimple appeared in her cheek, he noted.

‘So how come they let you in?’ she asked with an appraising look.

‘Like you, I just walked in. If you do so with confidence, I find no one will stop you.’

‘But you can’t help me with a job?’

‘Sorry. I’m afraid I can’t.’

‘Afraid?’ she demanded askance. ‘I’ve known you less than five minutes, but it’s long enough to know you’re not afraid of anything.’

He might have agreed with her at one time, but when the rock he’d built his life on tottered and splintered into pieces, all bets were off.

‘Maybe you’re the type of guy I should know better than to talk to?’

‘Yet, here we are.’ Making himself comfortable against the wall at the side of the bar, he spread his hands wide.

‘Not for long,’ she said briskly. ‘All I need is a glass of water and then I’m out of here. I bet the barman could see you above their heads,’ she hinted as she took in the crowd at the bar. ‘Please,’ she begged. ‘You make the other men look like shrimps. They’ll part like the Red Sea when they see you on the move. They wouldn’t even notice me jumping up and down.’

‘You flatter me.’

‘Do I?’ she demanded, opening her eyes wide. ‘Entirely unintentional, I assure you.’

‘All right,’ he agreed. ‘Stay there.’

‘I’m not going anywhere without a drink of water,’ she assured him.

She amused him, and had stormed his reserve with nothing more than a bold line in chat and an engaging smile. The pert breasts didn’t hurt. Nor did a taut butt, displayed to best advantage beneath tantalisingly short shorts. It was all too easy to imagine those coltish legs wrapped around his waist, though they were tipped with a pair of battered old boots, which were possibly the ugliest he’d ever seen. He glanced back as he waited at the bar. Her face was a picture of puzzled concentration. She was still hammering away at the computer in her mind as she attempted to place him, he guessed.

Even windswept, she was beautiful. Smudged with dirt from the trail and make-up-free. Her hair, in particular, was an abundant, fiery magnificence. Its unusual shade of copper reminded him of sunset at sea. Held back carelessly with a few pins, it begged to be set free so he could tangle his fingers through the lustrous locks as he eased her head back to kiss his way down the long, slender line of her neck. But it was more than good looks that had captured his attention. She had character and spirit and gave as good as she got, which, in the world of sycophants he was about to inhabit, made her a welcome change.

He was on a deadline. Soon he would return to the principality of Madlena to take the throne after the death of his brother. The responsibility that entailed hog-tied him a little more each day. This might be his last trip on his yacht the Black Diamond before duty put an end to his freedom for good. The last thing he needed was a complication in the form of a sassy young woman with a seemingly bottomless pit of questions. No doubt sex would ease his tension, but his usual pick would be an older, experienced woman who knew the score, not an ingénue on a backpacking trip around Europe.

‘Water! At last!’ she cried theatrically as he handed over a misted bottle and a glass.

As she reached for it, her body brushed his, causing a riot she was seemingly unaware of, while his groin had tightened to the point of pain.

‘Thank you,’ she gasped on a grateful exhalation as she drained the glass.

‘You could use another?’ he guessed.

‘You read my mind. But don’t worry. I can handle it,’ she assured him.

‘Go to it,’ he invited, standing back.

As she’d pressed against him, he’d been given more than a clue about the body beneath her shabby clothes. His adored nonna, Princess Aurelia, might have said this young woman was ‘well made’. Although she was tiny like his grandmother, at least a head smaller than anyone else at the bar, which meant her repeated attempts to attract the barman’s attention were a massive fail.

‘All right,’ she conceded finally. ‘Seems I’ve got no option but to throw myself on your mercy again. Go to it!’ she urged. ‘I’ll cheer you on from the sidelines—as much as I can with a throat that feels like sandpaper.’

Her voice was unmistakeably British, while her mouth was extremely sexy. An almost perfect Cupid’s bow, it tugged up at one corner, which made the endearing dimple appear in her cheek. ‘Hurry,’ she begged, clutching her throat like the leading light in some amateur dramatic society. ‘Can’t you see I’m desperate?’

‘You belong on the stage,’ he commented dryly.

‘Yeah, scrubbing it,’ she agreed.

That she made him laugh on a day when laughter had seemed impossible pointed up the fact that this was no overentitled drip. She wasn’t helpless in any way. Here in this preserve of the rich and famous, where labels didn’t just count, they were mandatory, and where a designer outfit would never dare to show its face twice, she was as poised as a princess—and a lot more fun, if the selection of po-faced contenders drawn up by his royal council was anything to go by. She could also be a lot more trouble, he considered on his return from the bar. Her mouth had pursed disapprovingly when she saw him served before anyone else.

‘I didn’t ask you to crash the line,’ she scolded with a grin.

‘I didn’t. The barman just happens to be superefficient.’

‘Okay,’ she conceded. ‘Well, thank you. You’ve done me a real favour, and I appreciate it.’

‘I splashed out on two glasses of water,’ he pointed out, bringing her back down to earth. ‘Hardly a good enough reason to throw yourself at my feet.’

‘You should be so lucky,’ she assured him. ‘Anyway, sometimes a glass of water is all it takes. Do you know everyone here?’ she added as she glugged it down.

‘No. Why?’

‘Because they’re all staring at you.’

‘Perhaps they’re staring at you.’ When he turned, heads swivelled away as the übersophisticated clientele pretended they hadn’t seen him.

‘Hmm,’ she mused thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think so.’ She downed the second glass in record time. ‘I’m well outclassed.’

That was a matter of opinion.

‘Anyway,’ she added with a gasp of relief as she put the empty glass down, ‘don’t let these nosy parkers worry you. You’ve got me to protect you now.’

‘That’s a joke?’ he asked.

‘Take it any way you want,’ she said, ‘but my suggestion is, just ignore them.’

Fiery hair was a fair indicator of temperament, he suspected, guessing she could be a little terrier if she was put to the test. There was no risk of overdosing on sugar when it came to this woman.

‘So,’ she added, barely pausing for breath, ‘are you going to tell me who you are? I mean, apart from being the only person in here as badly dressed as me?’

There was no denying they were both showing a flagrant disregard for the dress code. As a minimum, patrons were required to wash the sand from their bodies before sitting down to eat—but who questioned royalty? And she was with him.

‘My name is Luca,’ he revealed. ‘And you are?’

‘Before we get to that—’ she gave him one of her cheeky smiles ‘—I want to know how you’ve managed not to be thrown out when you look as if you’ve just stepped out of the sea.’

‘Because that’s exactly what I did.’

‘Okay...’ She drew the word out. ‘My best guess, in that case, is that even if they combined their forces, security and the staff here wouldn’t dream of taking you on.’

‘More compliments?’ he suggested dryly.

Pressing her lips together, she grinned. ‘My mistake. But you still haven’t told me how you get away with it.’

‘Perhaps they like me here, and make an exception?’

‘And perhaps pigs might fly,’ she countered dryly. ‘The maître d’ looks like a regimental sergeant major, and I don’t imagine he lets anyone slip by. You’re either respected or feared,’ she conjectured. ‘So, which is it, Luca?’

Probably a bit of both, he mused. ‘I have been here before,’ he conceded.

‘So are you crew from one of those floating office blocks?’

Following her stare to the line of gleaming superyachts moored up in a row down the quay, he shook his head.

‘Not crew,’ she reflected, ‘yet everyone seems to know you, so are you the local criminal mastermind, or some fabulously wealthy billionaire out slumming it for the day?’

He raised a brow. ‘I imagine I could play either role.’

‘I bet you could,’ she agreed. ‘But not with me.’

‘Has it occurred to you that it might be you that everyone’s staring at?’

‘Me?’ she scoffed. ‘I hardly fit the style brief here. Apart from a few disapproving glances when I first walked in, no one’s looked at me since.’

‘Your fabulous hair might cause comment.’

‘Why, thank you, kind sir,’ she said, dipping into a curtsey.

‘Did I let a compliment slip past me?’ he mocked lightly.

She twisted her mouth before carrying on with her interrogation. ‘It’s definitely not me they’re looking at. Now I’ve had my drink there’s nothing desperate about me to suggest some sort of mystery attached to my coming here, or that might lead anyone to believe I’m seeking sanctuary in this steel and glass temple to excess.’

Sanctuary? ‘Are you running from something?’

Instead of answering his question she went off on another tangent. ‘The trouble with Saint-Tropez is that it’s so misleading. I’d never been here before, so when I first arrived it was hard to believe the town retained the charm of the original fishing village. There’s such an abundance of megayachts and boys’ toys—the dream cars,’ she explained. ‘But everything coexists happily. Bourgeois French life cheek by jowl with ostentatious wealth.’

‘Don’t you approve?’

‘Of course I do. The contrast is what makes Saint-Tropez so special and fun to visit. But don’t change the subject. We’re talking about you.’

‘I changed the subject?’ he challenged.

She shrugged and laughed this off. ‘So, come on—tell me. Are you a celebrity, or a fugitive from the law?’

‘I don’t fall into either category.’

‘You might as well come clean. I’m very good at extracting information,’ she told him with a comic accent.

‘MI6?’

‘I’ve always fancied being a sleuth,’ she admitted, adding a comic face to the mix. ‘I could never resist a good puzzle.’

‘Perhaps I’m hiding out like you.’

‘I’m not hiding out!’

The heat of her defence reinforced his growing belief that that was exactly what she was doing.

‘You could hardly blend into the scenery with your looks,’ she commented, making it sound like the worst insult possible. ‘Simply stating facts,’ she told him when he raised an ironic brow.

Some women simpered and preened when they met him. She did neither, but continued to stare at him narrow-eyed, as if he were an interesting specimen in a lab.

‘The name Luca isn’t much of a clue...’

‘Can you put a name to everyone you meet?’

‘Of course not, but I really feel I should know you,’ she mused, still frowning. ‘Anyway, let’s forget that for now. I’m on my own, trekking around Europe, so I’d better be careful who I talk to. I think it’s time to move on.’

‘That’s your choice, but if you’re so concerned about safety, why strike up a conversation with a stranger in the first place?’

‘You look trustworthy, and you don’t frighten me.’

‘Evidently,’ he agreed, finding it hard to curb a smile.

Where had she been these past few months when his image had been splashed across the press? The tragedy of losing his older brother had resonated across the globe. First his grandmother, and then Pietro had raised him when their parents were killed in an air crash, only for Pietro to die in tragic circumstances. Two brothers cruelly torn apart, with the added fascination of great wealth and royal lineage, had made sure that their story reached everyone’s ears.