Chapter Two
‘The King will personally greet you on his yacht,’ Massimo Caccia informed her with a huge smile of approval.
Still grappling with the news that she was not yet deemed fit for an immediate arrival in the country of her birth, Zia forced a smile in response. ‘I don’t want to put anyone out. It was very generous of him to allow us onto his yacht.’
‘It wasn’t generous,’ Massimo contradicted. ‘It was sensible. You have to learn so much before we can roll you out as a princess and His Majesty understands that better than anyone. It’ll be like being sent back to school.’
Zia’s smile set on her full lips. She wasn’t some ignorant country girl requiring refinement and education and she would refuse to be treated like one by a condescending, ridiculously privileged Orazio.
New clothing, yes, that would be a necessity, she conceded grudgingly.
But my goodness, was she glad she had contrived to kick him when he was a boy because she had to be better behaved now that she was an adult.
The helicopter took off, making further conversation impossible, and Zia was relieved because Massimo Caccia had spent the whole flight from London bigging up Orazio in every way possible.
In fact Massimo seemed to be the King’s biggest fanboy.
And Zia wasn’t stupid, she had got the underwritten message of hope: people would love it if she married the very much single King.
Immediately she had grasped why Orazio had switched her dose of ‘princess school’ from his royal home in the capital, Kyrene, to his yacht.
Orazio didn’t want to encourage false hopes.
Orazio wanted a more hands-off role. Orazio didn’t want to marry her either. And that was fine with her.
‘Look at the yacht!’ Massimo shouted in excitement as the helicopter made a stomach-churning turn before coming in to descend over the Sea Empress. ‘My word, it’s impressive!’
A shriek escaped Alina, who was a very nervous passenger.
Zia patted her thin shoulder in reassurance and looked out of the window at the huge glistening silver-grey yacht that was anchored in the Bay of Marmaris.
It was vast, more like a cruise ship than a privately owned vessel.
The helicopter touched down on the helipad and Zia immediately rose to assist Alina, but Massimo was already helping the older woman with her belt and taking charge.
He seemed to be, at heart, a kind man, she thought wryly, if somewhat abrupt and strident in manner.
Accepting a crewman’s extended hand to steady her, Zia jumped out and the very first person she saw was Orazio, the King.
Heaven knew he was gorgeous, all six feet four inches of him in height, not to mention his lean, muscular physique.
Add the features of a Grecian god to that advantage and caramel-blond hair that gleamed pure gold in the Turkish sunshine and you had a male likely to attract attention everywhere he went.
And that was even before you added in the wealth, the aura of power and authority and the title, she conceded.
Orazio stepped forward, brilliant green eyes welded to her.
Yes, the Princess would need work and attention.
She wore jeans, a tee shirt and scuffed canvas shoes and she was still absolutely tiny.
Even so she was undeniably beautiful, from her mane of long blue-black gleaming hair loose round her slight shoulders to her perfect oval face dominated by blue eyes so deep a shade they carried a hint of violet.
A delicate little nose in combination with a luscious pink mouth completed her features.
He hadn’t expected such a beauty and he stared in search of a flaw and lowered his lashes when he failed to find one, faint colour edging his strong cheekbones.
‘Orazio…’ she began uncertainly.
‘That’s too familiar a way to address the King,’ Massimo chipped in unhelpfully from behind her, plunging her into embarrassment.
‘Nonsense,’ Orazio said easily. ‘We have met before. Annunziata and I don’t need to stand on ceremony on board the yacht.’
‘Well, that’s just as well,’ Zia answered, making a fast recovery. ‘Because I didn’t know what to call you, nor do I know how to curtsy.’
‘That is the sort of thing you will learn before you return to Mandovia but we only practise such habits at formal events,’ he explained. ‘My friends call me Raz, and I hope we will be friends.’
‘I’m called Zia,’ she said lightly. ‘Even my mother called me Zia. Annunziata is such a mouthful. I think the long string of names I was christened with was my father’s choice.’
‘Best not to mention the dictator,’ Massimo slotted in.
‘I won’t mention him very often,’ Zia replied calmly, ‘but I can’t pretend he didn’t exist.’
‘No, of course she can’t,’ Orazio commented, shooting a quelling look at the older man and turning to greet Alina, who was leaning on her walking stick and visibly uncomfortable to find herself in such lofty company.
A crew member came to escort the former nursemaid indoors to a seat and a promise of tea.
‘I’ll leave you here in safe hands,’ Massimo said cheerfully and reached for Zia’s hand to shake it. And with that he swung himself with some difficulty back into the helicopter to await his departure.
‘I didn’t realise he’d be leaving straight away,’ Zia exclaimed in disappointment, because the older man had become familiar to her as a guide.
‘I believe he is keen to get back to work,’ Orazio commented, feeling a little guilty that he had not invited the older man to at least spend the night on board.
He was aware that he had been rude, allowing personal feelings to come between him and common courtesy.
In a sudden move he strode forward to advance the belated invitation, but he was waved back for safety reasons because the pilot was already preparing to take off.
Frustrated, Orazio retreated to lower a guiding hand to Zia’s elbow as a door was held open for their entrance. ‘I’m sure you’re ready for a break from the travelling.’
‘Not really,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve never travelled before. I don’t remember arriving in the UK when I was a kid, so today has kind of been exciting for me.’
‘A novel outlook.’
‘Well, there’s no point me pretending that I’m a seasoned anything really, because Massimo told me that everybody already knows that I was working as a chambermaid in London.’
‘Yes, a Mandovian journalist reported that fact in our leading newspaper a few months ago and it caused a great deal of shock.’
‘I can’t think why. There’s no shame in making an honest living.
And the hours suited me, left me free to attend classes and look after…
other things,’ she muttered, falling silent, not wishing to mention Sandrine’s demands.
Already even thinking about their years of servitude to a vile, spoilt socialite made her so angry that she now wanted to explode.
She had had to escape to feel safe enough to recognise that angry resentment.
In the imposingly large saloon furnished like a palatial drawing room, Alina was already pulling herself out of her armchair to say that she would like to lie down for a while. A stewardess in a smart uniform stepped forward and offered to take her to her cabin.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Zia asked.
‘No…no, let someone else take care of me for a change,’ Alina whispered urgently, her attention roving to Orazio and skittering nervously away again.
Reluctantly, Zia stayed where she was, recognising that Alina was too ill at ease to relax around a royal.
Orazio indicated a seat, shifted an imperious hand to order refreshments and waited for her to sit before settling opposite her.
‘I’m glad you’re used to taking classes.
That’ll make your stay on board more relaxed, although I imagine that you will find much of what you have to learn here very boring. ’
‘What do I have to learn?’ Zia asked bluntly. ‘Aside from curtsies and how to address important people?’
‘Mandovian history.’
‘I probably know as much about Mandovian history as you do.’
Orazio shot her an incredulous glance. ‘I seriously doubt that.’
Zia tilted her chin in the kind of challenging response that Orazio was not accustomed to receiving from women. ‘Ask me anything,’ she invited. ‘I’m good with your family tree back to your great-great-grandfather and my own family tree back to when my mother’s ancestors still sat on a throne.’
‘There’s more to Mandovian history than family trees,’ Orazio scoffed, taken aback by both the invitation and that level of information.
‘So, ask your questions. Don’t treat me as though I’m stupid.’
‘I wasn’t aware that I was doing that,’ Orazio breathed deflatingly. ‘It’s childish to ask me to quiz you like a schoolgirl.’
‘I don’t think it is,’ Zia disagreed. ‘It would be a waste of time and money to pay someone to teach me what I already know!’
Totally self-possessed, Zia indicated a preference for coffee as she was offered a choice by the stewardess.
Orazio studied her in growing frustration.
He had never dealt with a woman less impressed by him or his status and it was strangely unsettling.
He watched her sip her coffee utterly unconcerned by his frown, noted the stubborn angle of her chin, the fiery glint in her gorgeous eyes.
Yes, damn his masculine brain for asserting that truth.
Those eyes of hers set into that pale porcelain face currently a little pink with her annoyance were beautiful.
‘Very well,’ Orazio caved for the sake of peace and shot a question at her about the revolution almost twenty years before.
She answered it. When he dared to expand on her answer, she contradicted him with another point of view, reasoning that the Upper Mandovians viewed the revolution through a different prism from the Lower Mandovians, who had felt threatened by a virtual war of lawlessness erupting just over the border.