Modern Romance Collection July 2024 Books 1-4

CHAPTER ONE

BEFOREBOARDINGTHE yacht Amelia stared east across the sparkling ocean, as she did each and every day—looking towards home. It was a long way away, separated from her by land, sea, miles and too vast an array of problems for Amelia to ever imagine traversing, but that didn’t mean she didn’t miss it, didn’t yearn to be back with all her heart. She could never go home, though—she couldn’t risk it.

She narrowed her eyes a little, imagining what her parents were doing, her brothers, imagining the palace she’d grown up in and always loved, with the light sloping in through the fourteenth-century windows. She visualised the gardens at this time of year. Amelia always thought they were prettiest in summer when the fragrance of blossom was heavy in the air, and the roses were abundant.

She imagined walking amongst them, running her hands over the petals, picking one, lifting it to her nose. But when she inhaled from her vantage point, all she caught was the heady tang of sea water and citrus.

Thiswas home now. On the outskirts of Valencia, where she had been able to reinvent herself, to emerge from her pain and shock-induced chrysalis as someone new. Someone independent. Most importantly, someone not royal. She might desperately want to go back to the palace and her family but that didn’t mean she hadn’t also fallen in love with her life here. It was quiet and dull, by most people’s standards, but Amelia was not the average twenty-four-year-old. She’d been to more than enough parties, balls and overseas holidays to last a lifetime. Now she was very happy to simply exist.

Perhaps she hadn’t emerged from her chrysalis after all? These could well be indications of still being in a state of retreat, of desperately needing to heal from her shock and heartbreak, from the deep sense of betrayal that had made her withdraw from the world.

A seagull flew overhead, dipping low towards the ocean, scouring with great talent and experience, minimal effort expended in a wide-span glide until the perfect moment, when the bird dived straight down, half disappearing into the ocean and emerging victoriously only seconds later with a small fish in its beak. A natural predator. The fish swimming just beneath the surface hadn’t stood a chance when the bird had decided to strike. Poor defenceless fish!

Amelia grimaced wistfully, pulled on the strap of her backpack and began to move again, away from the pretty wildness of the beach towards the pristine, perfectly maintained marina, where almost all of the boats were pleasure crafts—though she was gratified to see a handful of working fishing boats still amongst them.

But, more and more, this had become a place of wealth and luxury, and the marina reflected that. Amongst the impressive yachts, one in particular stood out. A sixth sense alerted her that it would be the boat she was looking for without even needing to read the name, but as she approached, the words Il Galassia caught her eye.

Bingo, she thought.

Her experience in real-estate photography was relatively limited, though she’d received positive feedback from her clients and enjoyed the work. She’d been hired through her agency to capture high-end apartments and homes prior to sale, and she’d thrived at that task. A yacht, though, was something new, different from the standard homes she’d been photographing.

She’d always loved the water. As a girl, she’d summered aboard the royal yacht, and handsome naval officers had served as crew, teaching Amelia all about the operations with good humour and answering her millions of questions without even a hint of impatience.

She stilled exactly where she was, noting the way the afternoon sun caught the glistening white of the mega yacht, and her fingers twitched. Without another moment’s hesitation, she removed her backpack and lifted out the camera, bringing it to her face and looking through the lens as she shifted it slightly, until the sunbeams seemed almost to cut through the bow, and then she adjusted the focus, took a deep breath and clicked.

For Amelia, photography was an almost spiritual act. It always had been. Capturing a moment, a memory, seemed kind of magical. But ever since leaving behind everyone she knew and loved, all the places that had until a few years ago defined her, Amelia hadn’t understood quite how important her photos would be, for they were reminders of what she’d walked away from, what she’d cared enough about saving to sacrifice from her life.

She held the camera out so she could see the image, and flashed a quick smile of satisfaction, with no concept of the man behind one of the many tinted windows of the yacht, looking out at her with a disapproving scowl on his face.

To Benedetto di Vassi, Princess Amelia looked exactly as he’d thought she would: very beautiful, almost hauntingly so, with her slender, willowy figure and long, waving blonde hair pulled into a loose braid that fell with the appearance of carelessness over one shoulder. Her skin was a deep tan, a colour that spoke of much time spent sunbathing for the sake of vanity, and her dress was floaty, like something from the seventies—falling to her ankles, revealing brown leather sandals. It was as though she’d just stepped off a photoshoot—she was the last word in beach chic. The only concession to her profession was the backpack she wore, from which she’d just removed a camera.

Lips tightening into a line on his handsome face, Benedetto pushed away from the window, rubbing a hand over his chin.

He’d agreed to help Anton and he didn’t regret it, but he wasn’t a total Neanderthal. The idea of kidnapping a woman wasn’t something he relished. Nor was he thrilled about involving his staff in the whole business, so he’d carefully selected only his two most trusted team members: Cassidy and Christopher. Between them, they’d pilot the yacht, take care of the housekeeping duties, cooking, cleaning, anything that was needed. But it didn’t matter how comfortable he made the princess for this voyage.

At the end of the day, he was taking her liberty.

He was taking her back home.

And given that she’d spent the last couple of years assiduously disappearing into obscurity, it was natural to presume she wouldn’t be thrilled.

His loyalty was not to Amelia, though. It was Anton he owed everything to, Anton he had promised to help. No matter what.

‘Cassidy, you said?’

‘Yeah.’ The woman’s accent was Australian. She had hair that was only a slightly darker brown than her skin, and her eyes were mesmerisingly beautiful. She grinned, revealing perfect white teeth. ‘Ben’s waiting for you.’

Amelia raised a brow, feasting on the details of the yacht.

Her agent hadn’t specified how many pictures would be needed, so, as with any listing, Amelia figured she’d take an abundance and work it out later. There was certainly no shortage of stunning angles. The yacht looked to be almost brand new—she wondered what could have happened to require its sale.

‘Is Ben the sales agent?’ Amelia asked, falling into step beside the other woman.

‘Nah, he’s the owner.’

‘Oh.’ Amelia frowned. Her agent hadn’t mentioned that the owner would be on board. Usually, the residences she photographed were empty, giving Amelia the run of the place, and she preferred it that way. She’d been drawn to real-estate photography particularly because it was a solitary task, with little interaction required with anyone besides her agent. A friend of a friend, he always respected her boundaries, never pushed her about her other life.

‘Well, I’ll try to stay out of his way.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ a man said. His voice was deep and rough, and as he spoke a summer breeze rustled past them, so Amelia’s hair brushed her cheek and she felt as though his voice had somehow transformed into a caress, the lightest of touches. She shivered, turned without meaning to, bracing herself, though she couldn’t have said why she felt that was necessary.

Electricity flooded the very air around them, the summer breeze morphing into a fierce storm in which Amelia was caught.

She hadn’t expected to meet anyone on board the yacht except perhaps the crew, and she certainly hadn’t expected to meet anyone like this.

Casting about, she tried to rationalise her reaction, to understand what it was about the man that was so immediately unsettling, so threatening. Physically, he was obviously very strong, with broad shoulders and a toned abdomen hinted at by the white business shirt he wore, making her mouth weirdly dry. He wore chinos, a caramel-brown colour, with a dark brown belt, but his feet were bare—an odd discrepancy with the rest of his formal outfit. Amelia tried to swallow but a lump had formed that made it difficult.

Jerking her attention back to his face, she catalogued everything she saw there with what she told herself was a photographer’s interest: the symmetry of his features, strong, harsh, angular yet somehow incredibly compelling, as though he had secrets to tell, and she was suddenly desperate to hear them. His jaw was square, belying an inner strength that was further conveyed by the harsh set of his lips. But it was his eyes that threatened to turn her knees to jelly. They were almost jet-black, and fierce. It was the only word she could think of. They radiated an intense anger, an emotion that made no sense, and yet she was sure he was looking at her as though...

But then he blinked, and his eyes softened, just enough to make her doubt her first, silly interpretations.

How long did they stand there, neither speaking? What was he thinking about her? Had he been looking at her the way she had him? Amelia had been so caught up in her own inspection she hadn’t noticed, but surely one of them needed to say something. The electricity in the air arced and sizzled. Amelia felt parched and over-warm.

‘This is the photographer,’ Cassidy interjected in her cheery Australian voice. ‘Millie, right?’

Grateful to have someone else there to cut through the strange vortex of tension, Amelia cast her glance sideways. Hearing the diminutive version of her name, that she’d used since leaving home, was slightly mollifying. ‘Yes, right. Millie.’

‘This is Ben, and this beautiful thing is his.’ Cassidy ran her hand over the railing of the boat, then turned back to Ben. ‘I was just going to give Millie a tour.’

Ben shook his head. ‘I’ll do it.’

Amelia’s insides clenched. She wasn’t sure if she was happy with that pronouncement, or filled with dread, but her whole body seemed to react to his statement in an alarming way. Heat flooded her veins, and her fingers shook, so she clasped them together in front of herself.

Cassidy left quickly, with one last look in Amelia’s direction—an expression of apology. Had she seen the anger on Ben’s face too? Was he a grumpy person, habitually, and was Cassidy regretting the necessity of leaving them alone together?

Amelia’s mouth pulled to the side, her eyes shifting quickly to the gangplank, wondering how bad it would be for her career if she were to quickly abscond.

Strictly speaking, she didn’t need the money.

She had a trust fund that had come through her mother’s family, nothing to do with the royal lineage. She had accessed it only since leaving the palace, to buy a small apartment, and any of the necessities absolutely required. But the thrill of earning her own money had caught Amelia by surprise. The pay was hardly extravagant, and yet it was all hers, accrued through her hard work and skill, and she’d become addicted to that.

There was no way she could turn her back on this commission, even when there was something about the owner of the boat that set her nerves on edge.

‘Let me show you the entertaining spaces first.’

Amelia’s instincts went into overdrive, but she ignored them with effort.

‘Lead the way.’ She spoke, finally, realising that, apart from confirming her name, she had yet to offer any intelligible words. Her voice sounded prim to her own ears, formal, driven back to the comfort and familiarity of the persona she’d adopted when forced to attend state events. She attempted to soften the words with a smile, but even that felt tight. She looked away instead, giving up.

Impressing him wasn’t part of her job description. She was there to take photos, nothing more.

And yet, as he led the way to a wide set of doors, she was aware of him on a soul-deep level. Every step he took, even his inhalations, seemed almost as though they were her own. The hairs on the back of her neck were standing, and her stomach felt as if it were rolling around in a washing machine.

‘This is one of the lounge areas,’ he said, apparently unaware of the tension eddies assaulting Amelia from the inside out. She did her best to focus on the tour instead, regarding the space with a trained eye. Perhaps if she’d been less exposed to wealth and luxury, she might have been overawed by the sheer opulence of this room, but Amelia had known such extravagance all her life and so barely gave it a second thought. She shifted her backpack from a shoulder to her hand, unzipping it and removing her camera with an easy grace, too focused on her job to notice how he was looking at her, the way his eyes lingered on her bare shoulder with its faint pink line from the backpack.

When she turned to face him, his gaze had returned to her face, his eyes narrowed analytically, as though he was waiting for her to speak, so she nodded. ‘It’s very nice.’

Nice was a bland way to describe the beauty of the room, which was large and expansive, furnished in cream leather, pale Scandinavian-style minimalist decor, with timber floorboards leading the eye towards the enormous wall of windows offering a breathtaking view of the water from this side, and the marina on the other.

It was stunning, and yet, somehow, she wasn’t sure it felt like what she imagined this man would choose. She barely knew him, but her first impression had been of someone quite wild and untamed, someone virile and overtly masculine. So what? she thought, hiding a smile by tilting her head. Had she expected black leather and animal prints?

‘You are amused?’

Damn it. She grimaced inwardly, composed her features, then turned to him with an expression of wide-eyed innocence. ‘Not at all. Shall I start here?’ She lifted her camera, to remind them both of her reason for being in his private space.

‘Let me show you the rest of the boat first, then you can decide.’

‘Okay.’ She shrugged, her mouth drying as his eyes dropped from her face to one of her shoulders, lingering there just long enough for her skin to respond by lifting in goosebumps. Shockingly to Amelia, in addition to that visible response, she experienced the unfamiliar sensation of her nipples tingling almost painfully, hardening against the soft cotton of her dress—she wore no bra. Life in Valencia was warm and free. Besides, Amelia hadn’t been endowed with the kind of figure that required restraint. How often she’d looked at her curvier friends and wished, more than anything, that she’d been the recipient of well-rounded breasts. Alas, it was not her lot in life to set the world on fire with spectacular cleavage. ‘You’re such a clothes horse, you lucky thing,’ her mother had remarked on multiple occasions, probably trying to make Amelia feel good about her naturally slender frame.

Now she wished for the protective armour of a bra, or ten of the things, as her whole body seemed to come alive as though being licked by flames, white-hot and destructive.

She turned away from him, breath snagging in her throat so her voice emerged breathy and light. ‘Where to next?’

‘Well, not that way,’ he drawled, sardonic amusement in his tone. ‘Unless you are planning a swim.’

Her eyes focused beyond the wall of glass on a pool, spectacularly aquamarine, with the appearance of disappearing out into the ocean. Now that she was impressed by.

‘It does look inviting,’ she murmured truthfully, as heat threatened to send her pulse haywire.

‘Another time, perhaps,’ he responded, so she immediately snapped herself out of it.

Another time?

No. Amelia shut the thought down instantly. There would be no other time.

For as determined as she was to escape her past, she knew that meant limiting her exposure in the present. She missed her friends, and there were times when she was unspeakably lonely, but this was the life she’d chosen for herself. It was the way it had to be. She could never risk getting close to anyone again. Not after what had happened. How could she ever trust anyone again, after her boyfriend had betrayed her, had blackmailed her with revealing Amelia’s most personal secret?

Although, it wasn’t really her secret.

She was the by-product of it, the evidence, but it was her mother who’d cheated, and fallen pregnant to someone other than the King. Her mother who’d conceived Amelia outside the marital bed, who’d lied to all and sundry about Amelia’s parentage. It was her mother who’d foisted Amelia upon the royal family, who’d raised her to believe her father a man who was no such thing, who’d raised Amelia to see her brothers as that, rather than half-brothers, who would likely disown her if they knew the truth.

It was for the Queen, her mother’s sake, that she’d run away.

And also King Timothy, the man who’d raised her, for if he learned the truth it would surely destroy him.

Tears threatened to spark in Amelia’s eyes and she blinked rapidly to forestall them. Of all the times to let her life story seep into her present, this was not it. She dragged practised defences around herself like a wall of steel.

‘Have you organised with the realtor to send someone for the floor plan?’ Her voice wobbled a little. She cleared her throat, dug her nails into her palm and tried again. ‘Then again, the yacht looks very new, so perhaps you have one from construction?’

‘I do,’ he confirmed, with no mention of the emotion in her voice. She was glad. Much like when you fell over and the worst thing a bystander could do was ask if you were okay, she didn’t want him to check on her, as she feared she might weaken and confess that she wasn’t. Why now? Why this man?

She blinked quickly, assumed a businesslike expression. ‘Lead the way, Mr...?’ She let the question hang in the air between them.

He was quiet, thoughtful. Too thoughtful for such a simple query, but, a moment later, answered. ‘Di Vassi. Benedetto di Vassi.’

‘Di Vassi,’ she murmured, wondering why the name was familiar to her. It was an unusual surname and yet she was sure she’d heard it before. ‘Have we met?’

‘No,’ he said with easy confidence, and so she believed him, yet the slight warning bell dinging in the back of her mind didn’t ease up, even as he led her into yet another opulent living space, this time with a large dining table and bar. The next room showed a grand piano and several leather sofas. Finally, there was a room that was both a library and office, a timber desk in the middle of the room, a floor-to-ceiling window revealing more stunning views of the ocean, and a wall that was lined with books. As a bibliophile from way back, Amelia itched to move closer to the shelves and scan the spines, but there’d be time for that later, once he’d finished the tour and she was exploring on her own.

They stepped into a corridor. Several doors were shut on the other side.

‘Bedrooms,’ he said. ‘Shall we?’

But her body revolted at the idea. She was terrified of the very notion of being in a bedroom with this man when her pulse was going crazy and her insides were a melting pot of awareness.

‘Later,’ she managed to say.

‘Fine. Come downstairs, then.’

Was she imagining the hesitation in his voice? The hint of emotion?

Her feet wouldn’t shift. She remained where she was, planted in the middle of the hallway, so when he stepped forward to lead her to the wide staircase, Amelia still didn’t move, and their bodies were brought within a couple of inches of each other. She caught a hint of his fragrance—masculine, pine and pepper, spicy and seductive—and she closed her eyes as a wave of desire, unmistakable and powerful, washed over her. Her lips parted as she tried to process these feelings, to understand why they should be besieging her here, now, of all places.

‘I—perhaps I should finish looking around on my own,’ she suggested haltingly, self-preservation driving the suggestion because, inwardly, what she wanted most of all was more time with this man, whom she found unspeakably compelling.

‘For what reason?’ he asked, and stepped forward once more, so their bodies were now almost touching.

She let out a soft groan, because she felt as though she were fighting a losing battle. When had she last been kissed? Touched? Looked at with longing?

That was easy to answer. She’d broken up with Daniel a week before leaving Catarno. It had been the beginning of the worst week of her life, and ever since, she’d avoided men like the plague. But even before their break-up, it hadn’t been a passionate relationship. They’d fallen in love slowly and safely, which had only made his betrayal worse. He’d been her friend first, and then he’d used her for financial gain.

This was all overpowering, and, to Amelia’s surprise, she found she liked the way it felt to be overcome by attraction, even when it was simultaneously terrifying.

What would happen if she gave into temptation? If she lifted up onto the tips of her toes—even though she was quite tall, he was taller still, by several inches—and kissed him? Would he be shocked? Or was he as attracted to her as she was to him?

Somewhere, far away from Amelia and the fantasy world she’d begun to inhabit, she was aware of a soft rumbling sound, a feeling that made her legs vibrate a little beneath her. Or was that yet another indication of her attraction to this man?

His eyes flared, as if she’d spoken the thought aloud, and then he lifted a hand, large and capable, fingers dark with short nails, and took hold of her face. Not gently, not even sensually. This was a touch of possession and curiosity, as though he had every right, and she was reminded of how he’d looked at her on the deck, the anger in his eyes, and she wondered if that same emotion was driving his touch now.

But then he expelled a long, slow breath, warm against her temples, and his gaze narrowed as if he was confused. ‘Your eyes are so different.’

She blinked, not understanding. ‘From what?’

Something must have happened to cause the water beneath them to roll—perhaps another large boat departing the marina—because she lost her balance a little, and it took Benedetto’s hand reaching out to steady her. It was quickly done, a clinical touch at first, but then with another, faster, rougher breath, he shifted the hand from her arm to her hip, then around her back, pressing her forward with the same easy command as he’d touched her face seconds earlier.

‘I—Ben—’ she said, frowning, because she had no idea what to say. Her first instinct had been to protest his overfamiliarity, because it was completely inappropriate.

But that was the response of Princess Amelia Moretti, who always had to be conscious of her reputation, and how she was perceived by the public. There was no such requirement here. But still, how could she trust him not to betray her if she gave into this? How could she ever trust anyone? The saving grace was that he didn’t know who she was. To him, she was just a photographer, not a princess with a small fortune at her fingertips.

His hand at her back moved lower, to the dip above her bottom, and his fingers were splayed wide, moving slowly, hypnotically, seductively, so she struggled to make sense of anything.

‘What do you want?’ he asked, rough, deep.

Amelia was totally swept away, and yet there was a small part of her brain capable of rational thought and in it she marvelled at this sudden strange turn of events. She’d never been the kind of woman to go for strong-man types, yet here she was, desperate to strip naked and make love to a man who was really more beast than anything else.

‘I—shouldn’t—’

His smile was mocking. God, he was insufferable. ‘You shouldn’t?’ he prompted, and now when he stepped forward, he pulled her with him, or rather shifted her, so her back pressed against the wall of the corridor, and his body formed an equally hard frame, one hand pressed to the wall beside her head, the other still on her face. His knee, somehow, had come between her legs, and she thanked heaven for that because without the support she wasn’t sure she could stand upright. And yet, she found herself dying to press lower against him, to rub her sex against his skin, and her cheeks flushed a deep pink at the very X-rated direction of her thoughts.

‘We shouldn’t,’ she said, but then her hand lifted, bunched in his shirt, her eyes hooked to his, begging, willing him to kiss her. Full lips parted on a sigh, a hope, and then, when he didn’t move, she leaned forward a little, inviting him more obviously.

‘You say we shouldn’t with your mouth...’ his eyes fell to that part of her body ‘...and yet your body is suggesting you want something else entirely.’

He was right. She was sending mixed messages. But that wasn’t Amelia’s fault. Her brain was completely scrambled.

‘Saying we shouldn’t doesn’t mean I don’t want to,’ she said honestly, a moment later, the confession whispered. ‘Does that make sense?’

‘You have no idea how much sense,’ he admitted darkly, eyes flashing to hers as he moved forward, and her heart skipped a beat as she waited to be kissed. But he didn’t take her mouth. Instead, it was Amelia who pushed up, heat in her veins, desperation firing through her as she fused her mouth to his and felt as though a thousand lightning bolts were striking through her soul.

She hadn’t known what to expect...but it wasn’t this. Her whole body rejoiced at the contact, her mouth exploring his with passionate hunger and need, her hands roaming his body possessively, from his arms to his shoulders to his nape, tangling in the hair there, so her breasts were crushed to his chest. He made a noise low in his throat and Amelia felt as though she might almost lose consciousness. It was a kiss that managed to throw everything from her mind, all thought and knowledge dissipated in the face of such an onslaught of white-hot passion, and Amelia could not have cared less.