A Proposal From The Crown Prince. Jessica Gilmore

and therefore...’

      ‘Therefore it can’t be sold or owned by a private individual.’

      ‘Or inherited,’ he confirmed. He hesitated. ‘I know you keep tabs on everything that goes on around here. I wondered if you know who owns it now? I could ask around but I don’t want word to get out that we’re interested.’

      His grandmother shrugged. ‘Apparently that woman left it to a niece or something but it’s been empty or used as a holiday home since she died—they tell me it needs a lot of work. What are you going to do? Serve her notice?’

      Nico shook his head. ‘No. I’ll offer her money to sell. We don’t want the delay or cost of going to court—nor the publicity. But we can pay a fair price, tied up in a lot of legal documents that will hopefully persuade her to say yes sooner rather than later.

      ‘Do you know anything about this owner? Where she’s from?’

      His instincts had been right. His grandmother knew everything. She tilted her chin. ‘England, but I believe she arrived on the island a week ago. By public ferry, coach class, one battered bag.’

      Which meant she had been there when he and Posy...an unwelcome thought hit him. He hadn’t, had he? ‘What’s her name?’

      ‘Marlowe. Rosalind Marlowe.’

      Relief flooded through him. Not the same woman after all. And coach class with one bag? That added up to one cash-strapped Englishwoman. She’d be putty in his hands. The sooner he got his tourism project up and running, the sooner he got married, then the sooner he could work on his ideas and create something real, something sustainable in his homeland. And then this whole Crown Prince deal might start to feel less like an unwanted burden and more like something he could live with.

      It was time to pay the owner of the Villa Rosa one very official visit.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      POSY CROSSED THE courtyard and eyed the garages curiously. They were in pretty good nick, their roofs sounder than that of the house itself. They would, with new doors, a new floor, heaters and a sound system, make pretty awesome studios.

      Just a quick DIY job then. Posy mentally totted up the possible costs, wincing before she got to the sprung floor, mirrors and barre. Converting wasn’t going to be that much cheaper than building from scratch and right now she was more geared up for a ‘lick of paint and a good clean’ type budget.

      Of course, she could always sell the stylish vintage car that she’d inherited along with the villa to pay for the work. Her sisters would never forgive her—she’d already had to hear rhapsodies about engines and paintwork and rpms—but unlike the rest of the Marlowes Posy’s interest in transport was limited to did it work and would it get her where she needed to go? Hanging onto a vintage car for the sake of it when it could be turned into cold, hard cash would be utter folly.

      Maybe she should offer Miranda and Imogen first refusal though...for a reasonable price because goodness knew she needed the money.

      She pivoted and looked closely at the villa in all its faded glory, trying not to glaze over the imperfections. Thanks to Immi the gardens were looking a lot more manageable and her sisters—and their various husbands and fiancés—had all helped make the inside more home-like, but there was no way she could even consider opening to paying guests until she had fixed the roof, put in a new boiler and pulled the kitchen into the twenty-first century. Then she’d have to make sure the bathrooms were all in decent enough condition for non-family use and check each bed for broken springs or damp. She’d need bed linen as well. And she still needed actually to qualify as a Pilates and ballet teacher...

      She sighed. The way she saw it she had two choices. Either she sold the villa or she stopped it being a liability and turned it into an asset. And it could, with some work—okay, a lot of work—be a very considerable asset. The island was famed for its hot springs, the rock pool offered a natural bathing experience all year round and the view and the gardens were tranquil enough to soothe any stressed city dweller. She had bedrooms to spare, more bathrooms than she could use if she bathed in a different one every day and plenty of nooks where people could settle with books or just to doze.

      She had the space, she had the contacts, she had the knowledge and, if she sold the car and ransacked some of the contents of the villa, she might be able to muster up enough money.

      Posy blew out a frustrated breath. Her other choice was to sell. That would solve the money problem but left her with no idea what a twenty-four-year-old ex-ballerina with one good GCSE to her name could do for the rest of her life.

      And the Marlowes were famously long-lived.

      Of course there was nothing stopping her jumping on a plane and returning to London either. When she’d falteringly handed in her notice Bruno had taken a far too keen look at her before telling her to keep in shape and exercise and if she changed her mind within the year there would still be a place for her in the company. For all her resolution to start again, when she lay awake in the middle of the night the prospect of slinking back and resuming her place in the Corps de Ballet was far too tempting. But if she returned to London would that make her a double failure? Prove that she didn’t know how to live?

      But she’d lived last night...

      Heat flared in her cheeks, an answering warmth in her breasts and low deep in her stomach and she fought the urge to hide behind her hands like a small girl caught out in a misdeed. What had she been thinking? Taking her clothes off in front of a complete stranger? Allowing him—no, wanting him—to touch her like that in public? She had never behaved so recklessly, so provocatively. It was all too easy to blame the moonlight, the sea, the need to feel wanted. But she was the one who had wanted. She was the one who had initiated. Not that she’d kept that control for long...

      She shivered as flashbacks of deep, sweet kisses, long, torturous caresses, whispered endearments overwhelmed her. She had never known it to be like that, at once so wild and urgent and yet so tender. It had taken every inch of resolution to walk away, disappearing before midnight because every fairy tale reader knew not to stay beyond the witching hour. They’d agreed on just the one evening but she’d taken her time as she’d moved along the beach, just in case he called after her, asked to see her again.

      She’d been half disappointed when he hadn’t, the feeling intensifying when she’d reached the jetty and turned back to find him gone. Okay, more than half disappointed.

      Posy wandered back towards the house, the day stretching before her, empty and meaningless just like the day before and the day before that. She’d mechanically stretched and gone through her exercises earlier that morning, keeping her muscles warm and her body supple, but her books sat unopened, her crochet hook lay unused and the colouring books were still pristine. Turned out she wasn’t much good at relaxing and doing nothing.

      Maybe she should start going through the house—she had a list of contents somewhere along with valuations. Whether she sold up or sold enough to convert the villa into a retreat she still needed to know what was where and if she wanted to keep any of it—not that her tastes ran to shelves filled with vases, ornaments, boxes and the numerous other knick-knacks that filled the villa. When she had come to visit her godmother as a child she’d loved to play with them all, creating intricate games and scenarios for the various china animals. Now they were just clutter, gathering dust.

      The double doors that led into the grand double-height conservatory stood open, the sun reflecting off the panes of coloured glass randomly interspersed with the plain glass. It must have been gorgeous in Sofia’s, her godmother’s, heyday, filled with climbing plants winding their way up the leaded panes, providing much-needed shade and contrast. Sofia had held parties in the room attended by movie stars, European aristocrats and millionaires; if Posy closed her eyes she could still see the glittering jewels around the throats and in the ears of the women, the long, elegant cigarette holders, the cocktails circulating on silver trays. If rumour was to be believed Sofia had had her own