Chapter Three
Zia woke up with a headache, still fully dressed, and groaned out loud, worried that she had made a fool of herself the night before. She had a burning, chafing memory of telling Raz that he was ‘smoking hot’.
When she emerged from the shower and walked back into her cabin, a stewardess was waiting with a tray that bore a smoothie green drink and painkillers. Her stiff face folded into a reluctant grin as she recognised Raz’s intervention and she accepted both offerings.
Breakfast was being served upstairs in the main saloon and she was meeting with a stylist and a tailor as soon as she had eaten.
Princess school was kicking off, she acknowledged wryly.
It would be fun to have new clothes but not if they tried to stick her in anything frilly or flouncy.
Reckoning that there would be measurements taken, she put on a black skirt and a white shirt, rather than her usual denim.
Orazio was already at the dining table. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked lightly.
‘Surprisingly good…considering,’ Zia told him. ‘I think I said some things I shouldn’t have said—’
‘I didn’t notice,’ Raz assured her calmly. ‘I was worried about you.’
‘You were very kind,’ she said awkwardly, warm colour flooding her oval face. ‘I’m sorry I drank too much—’
‘No. You learned some upsetting truths last night,’ Orazio reminded her softly. ‘And it was better for you to discover your alcohol limits with me rather than someone else. At least, you can trust me to act in your best interests.’
And bizarrely, Zia wanted to slap him for that assurance because she doubted there was a normal, breathing woman alive who wanted to be assured that Orazio was not remotely tempted by her attractions.
He had set aside her appreciation and encouragement and even excused her forward behaviour as if she were a misbehaving adolescent rather than a grown-up.
She gave him a bland smile and inwardly slapped herself for being so easily hurt.
They weren’t kids, they were adults, and he might not be attracted to her but she was hopelessly attracted to him and needed to keep that reality utterly to herself from now on.
Orazio breathed again only when her lashes dropped, concealing those strikingly beautiful eyes of hers.
She wasn’t easy to head off at the pass, as it were.
And fortunately for him, as long as he remained seated, the tight fit of his tailored trousers was not noticeable, although it was becoming dangerously habitual for him to be aroused by her mere presence.
Acknowledging the reciprocal attraction between them would only make things awkward since they were not free to act on it.
He had to treat her like a little sister, which was difficult when he was very much an only child.
How did she contrive to look so appealing even when she was dressed like a waitress?
Those sexy curves at hip and breast drew him like a magnet, not to mention the coconut scent of her soft skin and the little breathy sounds she had made when he’d placed her on her bed.
It was all wrong, not normal for him, at least not on home turf, and he had to suppress it or he might just end up like his mother: trapped in a bad marriage by pure sexual attraction alone.
‘I’m returning to Mandovia this morning,’ Orazio imparted, long fingers raking restively at his luxuriant hair to push it back from his brow.
‘You’re leaving?’ she said in dismay.
‘I’ll be back in a couple of weeks and I’ll phone you whenever I can—’
‘I don’t own a phone. I couldn’t afford one.’
‘That will be remedied today,’ Orazio informed her. ‘When I call, you can tell me what the tutoring is like,’ he heard himself promise, taken aback by that instinctive urge to soothe her and make her happy.
‘You’ll ring?’ she checked and her sunshine smile broke out, lighting up her beautiful face, and for a split second he couldn’t look away.
‘When you’re finished learning, I’ll take you out sightseeing as a break from all the boring stuff you’ll have to learn this month.’
Twenty minutes later, she stood watching the helicopter disappear over the mountains in the distance and then her official day began.
As she had expected, precise measurements were taken of her height and size and afterwards a stylist sat with her, trying to establish her preferences while continually reminding her that it was to be a traditionalist wardrobe, as if someone somewhere was terrified she would break out into micro-miniskirts and glittery dresses slashed to the navel.
She picked clear, fresh colours and tailored garments, taken aback by how many different outfits had to be obtained.
She was also to be provided with swimwear and leisure gear, not to mention undergarments and accessories.
That was followed by a session on the etiquette of greeting people according to their status and importance.
Learning how to curtsy, as she was informed she ought to do the minute Orazio entered a room, gave her the giggles.
According to the powers-that-be, he was the only person in Mandovia she would have to curtsy around and she was relieved, knowing that Raz wasn’t about to be encouraging much of that kind of behaviour in his vicinity because nobody bowed or anything on his yacht.
‘His Majesty doesn’t like a fuss,’ her tutor informed her, ‘but it is wise to do what you should do in case you are being observed.’
The class that followed was devoted entirely to showing her pictures of dozens of Mandovians, all the VIPs from both sides of the country, it seemed, whom she would meet and need to identify, from the politicians to the local bigwigs and the celebrities.
There were so many faces to recognise that she soon realised that that was where the real challenge of work would begin.
She would have to memorise all those faces and learn to recognise them all within a couple of weeks.
Even so, she was seriously worried when she recognised the hotel guest who had accused her of theft in that long, confusing line-up of photos of important people.
Sofia Marone was married to one of the richest men in Mandovia and what would happen if she recognised Zia as the maid she believed had tried to steal her diamond brooch?
And why was Massimo Caccia, whom she had believed worked for the embassy in London, listed as a prominent government special advisor?
She would have to tell Orazio the truth about her sudden decision to visit Mandovia.
She winced at the prospect. Massimo had warned her not to tell anyone about what had happened at the hotel, but she didn’t see how she could avoid confiding in Orazio when there was a possibility that she could be introduced to the woman who believed she was a thief.
That story would embarrass everybody, not least Zia, and it would provoke an ugly scandal.
She dared not keep that experience to herself and hope for the best.
At lunchtime, she tracked down Alina, resting back on a lounger on deck while happily ensconced in a pile of glossy magazines that showed the famous, the great and the good and shared all the gossip about their lives in Mandovia.
Zia listened as her former nursemaid burbled on about some of the well-known faces who had featured in her own lessons.
Alina, evidently, was content on the yacht, delighted to have access to other Mandovians and the latest Mandovian soap operas on the television in her cabin.
For the first time, Zia realised that Sandrine was now only a bad memory from the past.
She thought sadly of her poor mother entrusting her only daughter to a woman who had been sleeping with her husband, and she was pained by the new hurtful truths that now coloured her life.
But it was better to know reality than to remain in ignorance when there had to be others who knew the same facts.
Possibly, though, Orazio as King knew more secrets than most about Zia’s background.
The two women had packed up and vacated the basement flat while Sandrine was still in bed, so there had been no final confrontation: Sandrine never rose from bed before noon.
That period of her life was over and done, Zia reminded herself, and if Raz kept his promise and asked his legal advisors to check out her supposed inheritance, she would eventually discover whether or not she did own the house in London.
That would be important for the future, as six months in Mandovia would soon pass.
That afternoon, she met the PR team, who worked for Orazio at the royal castle outside Kyrene.
Their task was to teach her how to gracefully sidestep awkward questions and to keep her face expressionless.
She was assured that at any public occasion she attended she would have a PR person beside her, ready to prompt or direct her if necessary.
Having been shown several car-crash interviews on a laptop as a demonstration of what not to say or do, Zia appreciated that she would be walking into a public minefield and would have to pick up the required skills as quickly as possible.
It was daunting, she acknowledged, to be expected to learn in a few weeks the smooth expertise that Orazio had probably been honing from early childhood.
She resolved to speak as little as possible to avoid the pitfalls and concentrate on polite, interested smiles instead.
Better people assumed that she was stupid, rather than rude or tactless!
‘Don’t be so friendly,’ she was gently reproved in an embarrassing mock-up of an ordinary conversation. ‘Practice a little distance. You’re a royal.’