Defying the Prince

‘All right, you’ve made your point. I messed up. Let me go, and I promise to be boringly appropriate. I’ll stand still and talk about the weather or whatever it is that these people talk about without moving their faces.’ Hoping to end it there, she pulled and struggled but he ignored her attempts to free herself and propelled her past an astonished-looking footman, through a door into a panelled anteroom lined with portraits.

‘Stop dragging me! I can’t walk fast in these heels.’

‘Then why wear such ridiculous shoes?’

‘I’m small.’ Izzy tried desperately to keep her balance. ‘If I don’t wear heels people just look over the top of my head. I’m trying to make an impression.’

‘Congratulations, you succeeded.’ His tone left her in no doubt as to what sort of impression she had made.

Rows of his ancestors glared down at her from large gilt frames and Izzy scowled back at their stony faces.

‘Why do they all look so miserable? Isn’t anyone in your family happy? I wish I’d never come.’

‘We all share that sentiment.’ He sent a single glance towards the uniformed footman and the door was closed. They were alone.

‘Another door closes,’ Izzy whispered dramatically, and his fingers tightened on her wrist. She could feel the leashed strength and the flow of tension through his hard frame. His superior height meant that she had to tilt her head to look at him and doing so made her head swim.

‘Er, do you think you could stop gripping me?’ He smelt good, she thought absently. Really good. ‘It’s not like I’m going to run off. I can barely walk in these shoes, let alone sprint.’

He released her instantly, the contempt in his eyes adding a few more bruises to her already battered confidence.

Much as she hated to admit it, she found him horribly intimidating.

He was so sure of himself. This man had never been beaten to the ground and had to pull himself up again. He positively throbbed power and authority and he made her feel as insignificant as a spec of dust. And then there were the other feelings. The feelings she didn’t want to think about. Like the dangerous crawl of lust deep in her belly and the burn of heat where the press of his strong fingers had branded her skin.

Rejecting those feelings instantly, Izzy took a step backwards. ‘I was just singing. I wasn’t naked, or using bad language or telling awful jokes. I wanted you to notice me.’

His eyes flared with shock. ‘You treated my brother’s engagement party as a way of targeting me? How brazen can you get?’

‘Pretty brazen. You don’t get anywhere in life by holding yourself back.’ Izzy put her weight on one leg to try and relieve the throbbing pain in her feet. ‘I know what I want and I go after it.’

‘I have had women throw themselves at me at the most inopportune moments but your performance has eclipsed everything that has gone before.’

‘Eclipsed in a good way?’ The sudden hopeful lift in her spirits was immediately squashed by his condescending glare. ‘Obviously not in a good way. So you’re not interested. Never mind. It’s not the first time I’ve tried and failed. I’ll get over it.’

She wondered why he was so angry. It wasn’t as if she’d hurt anyone. As he prowled around the room Izzy’s eyes followed him in reluctant fascination. The man was a global sex symbol and up close it was all too easy to see why.

‘Do you think you could stop moving? I’m feeling a bit weird and watching you is making me dizzy.’ Or maybe it wasn’t the movement, she thought. Maybe it was the way his undoubtedly super-expensive jacket failed to conceal the power of the body underneath.

‘How much have you drunk?’ The snap of his tone should have shredded the tension but instead it seemed to intensify the lethal, suffocating heat.

Finding it difficult to breathe, Izzy gripped the back of the chair tightly. ‘I haven’t drunk enough to get me through a night like this, believe me. And it’s not my fault that those people in uniform—’

‘They’re called footmen—’

‘—yes, them—they kept filling up my glass and I didn’t like to say no and offend anyone.’ The words tumbled out of her like water in a fast-flowing stream. ‘And anyway, I was thirsty because it’s hot in there but there was no food to mop up the alcohol, just those tiny canapé things that get stuck in your teeth and don’t fill you up. And, might I remind you, this is supposed to be a party. I was trying to lighten the atmosphere. It’s like a funeral in there, not an engagement. If this is the life my sister can expect when she marries your brother then I feel sorry for her.’ She stopped, distracted by a masculine face so impossibly handsome that it almost hurt to look at him.

Despite his almost unnatural stillness, she knew he was angry. She could feel the anger in him beneath that sophisticated, polished veneer. Izzy was wondering whether it would make him even angrier if she removed her shoes before they cut off her blood supply when those dark eyes burned into hers.

‘You planned this whole thing, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I did.’ Hadn’t she just told him that? ‘Every day I set a goal. It helps me stay focused. Today you were my goal.’

‘Cristo. You admit it?’

‘Of course.’ What was wrong with having goals? ‘I confess to the crime, Your Honour.’ She gave a little salute and almost lost her balance.

‘Is everything a joke to you?’

‘I try and laugh at life when I can.’ And her career was definitely a joke, she thought gloomily. A big, fat joke.

‘You are loud and indiscreet. If you’re going to be linked with our family you need to learn to filter what you say.’

Izzy thought about all the times people had said one thing to her and meant another.

Dress like this and you’ll be a star, Izzy.

I love you, Izzy.

Her insides lurched. She wasn’t going to think about that now. Or later. ‘By “filter,” you mean lie? You want me to be like those women out there with frozen smiles and non-existent expressions who don’t actually say anything they mean? Sorry, but that’s just not me.’

‘I’m sorry too. The fact that your sister is marrying the future king makes you of interest to the public.’

‘Really?’ Izzy brightened at the prospect that someone might actually be interested in her. ‘Now that’s what I call a happy ending.’

Disapproval throbbed from every inch of his powerful frame. ‘If this marriage has a chance of being accepted by the public then you will need to be kept out of the public eye. We cannot afford the negative publicity. The focus needs to be on Alex and Allegra. And if your sister is marrying the future king you need to learn how to behave. And how to dress.’ That gaze skimmed her body and she felt as if she’d been singed by the flame of a blowtorch.

Either he was giving off mixed messages or her emotional radar was jammed. There was disapproval there, yes, but there was also something else. A dangerous undercurrent that she couldn’t read properly.

‘It’s not my dress that’s wrong, it’s your party. No one in this place knows how to laugh, dance or have a good time. Those chandeliers are all very well but you could have done with a few disco balls to liven things up.’

‘This is a royal palace, not a nightclub. Your behaviour should reflect that.’

‘So I’m supposed to curtsey?’ Her flippant tone was met with derision.

‘Yes.’ His voice was silky smooth, his manner dangerously cool and his temper ruthlessly controlled. Everything about him was restrained. ‘And the correct mode of address is “Your Royal Highness.”‘

She barely heard him. Her mind had ripped itself free of her control and her thoughts flew free as her eyes drifted to the strong lines of his jaw and from there to the sensual shape of his mouth. Something about that mouth told her that he’d know exactly how to kiss a woman. Heat flashed through her and suddenly all she could think of was sex, which shocked her because after her own disastrous experience and the permanent example of her parents’ highly dysfunctional marriage, getting involved with a man definitely wasn’t one of her goals.

For a moment they just stared at each other and then he frowned. ‘After the first time you can call me “Sir.”‘

‘The first time’?’ Her heart was hammering and her mouth was so dry that she could barely form the words. ‘There’s never going to be a “first time.” I wouldn’t sleep with you if I was desperate which, by the way, I absolutely am not. I’m not like that. I’m a really romantic person.’

Exasperation flickered across his face. ‘Were desperate,’ he breathed. ‘The correct grammar is “were” not “was.” You use the past subjunctive when stating conditions that are contrary to fact. And I was talking about the correct manner of address the first time you meet me. Nothing else.’

Izzy, who had never heard of the subjunctive and whose only interest in English was its use in writing song lyrics, felt her face burn. ‘Right. Well, it’s excellent to have that cleared up so early in a relationship.’ Utterly mortified by the misunderstanding, which she could see now was entirely her doing and had been caused by the fact that she’d been thinking about sex with him, she ploughed on. ‘Do I seriously have to call you “Sir”? It’s just that the only person I ever called “Sir” is my old headmaster and thinking about him brings back a lot of memories I usually try and forget.’

‘The man has my deepest sympathy. Teaching you must have been a challenge to exceed all others.’ He stood directly in front of the largest painting in the room and Izzy saw the similarities immediately. The same cropped black hair. The same dark, dangerous looks. The same aristocratic lineage.

No wonder he was arrogant, she thought numbly. His breeding went back centuries whereas she was just a mongrel. The product of two people who had each wanted something from the other.

To make herself feel better she wanted to dismiss him but there was no ignoring the width and power of those shoulders. She didn’t want to find him attractive, but what woman wouldn’t? Her insides squirmed and a slow, dangerous heat spread through her pelvis.

It had to be the champagne, she thought. It was intensifying everything she felt. ‘Doesn’t the formality drive you mad? No one actually smiles or moves their faces. It’s like being in a room of those stone statue things we passed on the way in.’

‘Those priceless marble statues date back to the fifteenth century.’

‘That’s a long time to keep your face in one position. And I’m not surprised they’re priceless. Who the hell would want to pay money to have something that miserable staring at you? Sir.’ She added it as an afterthought, seriously worried by how fast the room was spinning. ‘I would curtsey but honestly these shoes are completely killing me so right now I’m trying not to move. If you were a girl, you’d understand.’

He growled deep in his throat. ‘You are the most frivolous, pointless woman I’ve ever met. Your behaviour is appalling and the damage that someone like you could do to the reputation of my family is monumental.’

Izzy, who had been called many things in her life but never ‘pointless,’ was deeply hurt but at the same time oddly grateful because surely she could never truly fall for a man who was so horribly insulting? ‘I happen to think it’s your behaviour that’s appalling. Why is it good behaviour to make someone feel small and inferior? You think you’re better than me, but if someone comes into my house I smile at them and make them feel welcome whereas you look down on everyone. I’ve had more impressive hospitality in a burger bar. You may be a prince and actually far too sexy for your own good, but you don’t know anything about manners.’ Lifting her nose in the air she was about to say something else when the door opened and a white-faced member of the palace staff stood there.

‘The microphone, Your Royal Highness,’ he said in a strangled voice, addressing himself to the stony-faced prince. ‘It’s still switched on. Everything you’re saying can be heard in the ballroom. On high volume.’

CHAPTER TWO

APPALLED by the realisation that his family and guests had overheard their exchange, Matteo froze. He, who prided himself on his self-control, had lost it. Publicly.

As he re-ran the conversation in his head, he wanted to groan.

Sex …

How had the conversation turned to sex?

He couldn’t remember when he’d last allowed his emotions to dictate his behaviour but from the moment he’d laid eyes on those strawberry-red lips and that enticing dress he’d felt his grip on control slipping. He prided himself on his focus. He’d flown jets faster than the speed of sound, negotiated sensitive deals with foreign governments, raised millions for charity and yet he hadn’t managed to control the behaviour of one aggravating young woman.

The best he could hope for now was damage limitation.

With an authoritative nod he dismissed the palace footman and pointedly removed the microphone from Izzy’s hand.

This time she didn’t resist and Matteo switched it off, his mouth tightening as he reflected on the awkwardness of their current situation. Having finally secured their privacy he looked at her, expecting to see a similar degree of mortification reflected in those over-made-up eyes, but Izzy Jackson hadn’t finished surprising him.

Instead of shrinking with horror at her public exposure, she gave a gurgle of laughter.

Infuriated by that entirely inappropriate response, Matteo’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘This is not funny.’

‘No, it isn’t.’ Clearly aware that she wasn’t supposed to be laughing, she pressed her lips together but still the sound escaped, so she lifted first one hand and then the other and covered her mouth. But that didn’t work either because her eyes swam with tears of laughter, and in the end she gave up the fight and allowed it to escape. Doubling over, she laughed and laughed, apparently highly amused by an incident that had left him cold with horror. And she didn’t just laugh with her mouth she laughed with her whole body.

‘Sorry. I’m really sorry—you’re right, of course, it’s absolutely not funny—’ But she was laughing so hard she could barely speak and neither could Matteo because his eyes were on the seams of her dress which were severely threatened by the unaccustomed strain being placed on them. Her body was lush and ripe and dangerously close to revealing itself.

As if to confirm his fears a single red sequin pinged onto the floor and his loins tightened. The white heat of sexual desire threatened to burn him up and the fact that she was the last woman in the world he would have wanted to feel anything for just made his response all the more exasperating.

Struggling for control, she wiped her eyes with her palm. ‘You have to see the funny side. I expect you’ll be taking orders for a Quarter Pounder with cheese any minute. With extra fries.’

Matteo somehow held his temper in check, his unfavourable impression of her deepening with each passing second. Any dignified woman would be appalled by what had happened. Not Izzy Jackson. She didn’t even bother trying to hide how funny she found the whole episode. In fact she made laughter a physical workout, apparently unaware that leaning forward gave him a prime view of her cleavage. ‘You are a one-woman disaster zone.’ But he noticed that his icy censorship appeared to have no impact on her mood.

‘I know. I’m sorry.’ But she wasn’t sorry enough to stop laughing. ‘Look on the bright side—it could have been worse. What if we’d sneaked in here to have hot sex and we’d left the microphone switched on? What if you’d grabbed me and said “Izzy, I want you”?’ She delivered that dramatic statement complete with hand gestures which rocked her off balance and she swayed into him. ‘Oops.’

With a soft curse he closed his hands around her arms and steadied her. He expected her to immediately regain her balance and pull away but instead she plopped her head against his chest.

‘It’s nice to rest for a moment. I wish I hadn’t drunk that champagne.’

Her hair smelt of wild flowers and reminded him of the summers he’d spent at the palazzo when he was a child. The memory almost suffocated him. ‘I wish you hadn’t drunk it either.’ Her arms were bare and her skin was smooth and soft under his fingers. He needed to let her go. Right now.

But if he let her go, she’d fall over.

As if confirming that, she nestled closer. ‘I really am sorry. I totally and utterly messed up and you deserve to feel very, very cross. But it would be great if you could be cross quietly because I don’t feel too good, Your Highness—Sir.’

‘You don’t deserve to feel good after what you just did.’ But there was something about that apology and the way her slim fingers clutched the front of his shirt that touched him and the feeling unsettled him even more than the raw stab of lust because he always remained emotionally detached in his dealings with women. Especially women blatant enough to admit their ‘goal’ was to marry a prince. ‘You’re a disaster, Izzy Jackson.’

‘I know.’ Her voice was muffled against his chest. ‘The crazy thing is I don’t mean to be a disaster. I start every day with a goal.’

‘So you keep telling me.’ He tried to unpeel her fingers but her grip tightened.

‘I just wanted to impress you.’

‘Did you seriously expect your plan to work?’ Even the roughness of his voice didn’t tempt her to move.

‘I hoped you’d take one look at me and just think wow. But I think I might have chosen the wrong dress. I didn’t get my image right. I need to try again.’

Matteo inhaled deeply. ‘Please do not. Please give up that goal right now.’

‘I never give up. I just wish I could put the clock back and do it all again.’

He contemplated telling her that he wouldn’t have been interested no matter what she was wearing but the feel of her snuggling closer drove the blood from his brain to a different part of his anatomy.

‘Hasn’t that ever happened to you?’ Her words were slightly slurred. ‘Haven’t you ever wished you could put the clock back?’

Everyone was scrupulously careful in the way they dealt with him. People tiptoed around him. Men were universally respectful. Women fawned, flattered and flirted. They certainly didn’t ask him intimate questions about his thoughts and feelings.

Maybe he was finally getting his comeuppance, Matteo thought. He’d occasionally wished that there was one person in his life who would behave naturally around him, but now that he was faced with the reality he was fast rethinking the perceived benefits. ‘Miss Jackson—’ his attempt at formality seemed ridiculous given the circumstances ‘—Izzy.’

‘What?’ Reluctantly she lifted her head and huge eyes heavily outlined in kohl stared up at him. Sky-blue eyes were fringed by long, thick eyelashes that surely had to be false.

The scent of her perfume curled itself round his senses and for a moment his brain refused to work. She smelt of a summer’s day and suddenly he could see her naked and lush lying in a carpet of bluebells, all that strawberry hair tangled around her flushed cheeks.

‘I truly didn’t mean to ruin the party.’ Her words were slightly slurred. ‘Are you very, very angry? Are you going to lock me in the dungeon and throw away the key?’

Matteo had never found it so hard to concentrate. ‘Right now I can’t decide whether to shake you or throw a bucket of cold water over you.’

She pulled a face. ‘That doesn’t sound nice. For me or your carpet. Can’t you think of something else to do with me?’

Crush his mouth to hers and kiss her until they were both crazy with it?

Strip off that outrageous dress and find out if the rest of her was as soft as her arms?

His gaze dropped from hazy blue eyes to the perfect curve of her soft, pink lips.

His mouth had moved dangerously close to hers when the door opened.

Matteo released her instantly, but not before he’d seen the surprise in her eyes—surprise he was fairly sure was mirrored by his own expression.

Fury mingling with exasperation, he turned.

His brother’s fiancée, Allegra, stood there, her face pale.

Struggling to balance without Matteo holding her, Izzy took a wobbly step backwards, her expression concerned. ‘Ally, are you all right?’

‘Izzy, how could you?’ Allegra kept her voice low but if anything that show of restraint intensified the emotion behind her words. ‘What did you think you were doing?’

Matteo was asking himself the same question.

What had he been doing?

Half a minute later and he would have done something both parties would have lived to regret.

Relieved to have been rescued from a course of action that was not only uncharacteristic but would have ended badly, Matteo watched as a shocked flush spread over Izzy’s rounded cheeks.

‘I was going to sing you a song.’ Her tone was defensive and hurt. ‘It was something that I—’

‘I wasn’t talking about the song, although that was embarrassing enough because normal people don’t just walk up to someone and grab the microphone. I’m talking about the way you spoke to His Royal Highness.’ Allegra’s mortified gaze slid to Matteo and she sank into a respectful curtsey. ‘I beg your pardon, Sir. My sister isn’t used to being around royalty.’

‘So I gathered.’ He tried to ignore the thought that it was precisely her freshness and lack of stilted conversation that made Allegra’s sister so dangerously attractive.

Izzy’s heavily made-up features were stiff. ‘Don’t apologise for me,’ she said flatly. ‘If there’s any apologising to do, I’ll do it myself.’

‘If?’ Allegra breathed deeply. ‘Of course you should apologise. In fact, if the story in the press tomorrow is about you then you’d probably better make a public apology.’

Matteo watched as Izzy wrapped her arms around herself in a protective gesture that was too much for the dress and another scarlet sequin sprang loose and landed on the priceless Aubusson carpet.

‘They say whatever they like, regardless of whether it’s true. I don’t care. And normally you don’t care either.’

‘Well, I care now! It will be another bad story about the Jacksons. It’s always awful but this time it’s doubly embarrassing because you’ve dragged the royal family into it. This engagement party was supposed to introduce the Jackson family to the people of Santina. It was supposed to be about Alex and me. The headlines were supposed to be Prince in Love but now they’re more likely to be Hospitality Better at Burger Bar.’ Allegra threw a mortified look of apology to Matteo before turning back to her sister. The girl stood rigid as a flagpole.

‘I was just singing. Not the greatest crime known to mankind.’

‘They had a singer! And you pushed him out of the way because you just had to be the one in the limelight. You need to stop this stupid singing obsession and get a proper job!’

‘Singing can be a job.’

‘Singing is a dream and dreams don’t pay the bills.’

The only sound in the wood panelled room was the deep, resonant tick-tock that came from the eighteenth century clock dominating the ornate mantelpiece.

Pale as milk, Izzy picked at her nails. ‘Some people turn a dream into their job.’

‘How many? How many people manage that? Thousands, millions, of people try and only a handful make it. Stop kidding yourself. Look around you. See the competition.’

Her sister’s chin lifted. ‘It’s only over when you give up. And I won’t give up.’

‘So you’re going to throw away your whole life? You’re deluded, Izzy. Ruin your own life if you have to, but I beg you, don’t ruin mine.’

Izzy looked shattered, like a delicate vase that had been dropped onto concrete. ‘It’s not my fault that the press follow me around. It’s not like I ask them to.’