Royally Bedded, Regally Wedded. Julia James

have to stay here, but presumably not even the San Lucenzan royal family could know exactly what the press would do, or how long it would take for the story to die away.

      Her mouth tightened. Had Prince Enrico really implied that she might try and talk to the press herself? It was the very last thing on earth she’d do.

      She gave a mental shrug. There was no point her getting angry over it. Royals lived in a goldfish bowl; their wariness was understandable.

      She went back to Ben, next door. He seemed to be taking all this in his stride, and she was grateful. Nor did he seem bothered by their enforced incarceration.

      He seemed to take the following days in his stride too. They were left very much to themselves. Captain Falieri and the man who was probably Prince Enrico’s bodyguard had disappeared as well, and she saw no sign of anyone else in the house except for the efficient Italian-speaking staff.

      She was glad of the time to herself. Her mind seemed completely split in two. On the one hand she was as normal as she could be with Ben—playing with him, reading to him, taking him swimming, to his huge excitement, in the covered swimming pool built into a conservatory-style annexe off the main house—but inside her head her thoughts teemed with emotion.

      She was still reeling from it all, but she did her best to hide it from Ben. He was, thank heavens, far too young to understand. He took what had happened at face value, absorbing it into his life as naturally as he had anything else, just as when they’d moved to Cornwall. The centre of his life was her, not his surroundings, and providing she was there, everything, for him, was as it should be.

      It was inevitable, however, Lizzy acknowledged, that Ben would ask questions about the man who had so unnecessarily told him that he was his uncle.

      ‘Where has he gone?’ Ben asked.

      ‘To Italy.’ Lizzy told him. ‘That’s where he lives.’

      ‘Will he come back?’

      ‘I don’t think so, Ben.’

      Inwardly she cursed the man. Why had he gone and told Ben he was his uncle? Obviously a child would be interested—especially one who had no other relations. But what possible concern was Ben to Prince Enrico, other than being the unfortunate target of a salacious news story which threatened scandal to the San Lucenzan royal family?

      Ben frowned. ‘Well, what about Captain Fally-eery? Will he come back? He played trains with me.’

      Lizzy shook her head. ‘I don’t think he’ll come back either, Ben. He lives in Italy too.’ Deliberately, she changed the subject. ‘Now, shall we go and have our tea?’

      Ben looked at her. ‘Is this a hotel, Mummy, where they cook for you?’

      She nodded. ‘Sort of.’ It seemed the easiest explanation to give.

      ‘I like it here,’ said Ben decidedly, looking around him approvingly. ‘I like the swimming pool. Can we swim again after tea?’

      ‘We’ll see,’ said Lizzy.

      Rico stood at one of the windows of his apartments in the palace. It gave a dazzling view over the marina, with its brightly lit-up yachts, and the elegant promenade beyond. Paolo’s apartments had been nearby, and had enjoyed similar views. His eyes shadowed.

      To think that Paolo’s young son was alive in England. That he had been there all along, brought up by a woman who did not even know who he was. It seemed incredible.

      His thoughts went back to that ramshackle cottage he’d extracted his nephew from. His eyes darkened. It had shocked him to find Paolo’s son living in such conditions.

      Paolo’s son.

      He had known it the instant he had set eyes on him. And so he had told Luca.

      ‘There won’t be any need for DNA tests,’ he’d told him.

      ‘Well, they’ll be done anyway. It’s necessary.’

      Rico had shrugged. He could understand it, but he also knew that when his family saw Ben in the flesh they would know instantly he was Paolo’s child.

      ‘And this aunt? What about her?’ Luca had gone on.

      ‘Shocked. That’s understandable. She really seemed to have no idea at all.’ He’d decided not to tell his brother that she’d failed to recognise him. Luca would find that darkly humorous.

      ‘Can’t believe her luck, more likely. She’s got it made now.’ There had been a cynical note in Luca’s voice, and Rico frowned in recollection. Ben’s aunt had given no indication of any emotion other than disbelief, and dread of the impending news story.

      Then Luca had picked up one of the modelling shots of Maria Mitchell that was in the dossier Falieri had compiled, and glanced at it.

      ‘Blonde bimbo like the sister?’ he’d asked casually.

      Rico had snorted. ‘You’re joking. Utterly plain.’

      His brother had laughed sardonically. ‘Well, at least that should stop the press being interested in her, and that’s all to the good. She won’t make good copy if she’s nothing to look at.’

      Rico, his attention half taken by the latest version of a particular super-car that he liked to drive, which was wending its way along the edge of the marina, found himself frowning again at Luca’s comment. It was a cruel way to speak about the girl, even if it was true.

      He shifted his mind away from her. Ben’s aunt was a complication that would be sorted out very soon now.

      His father, during a brief interview with him, had made his wishes clear. And his instructions.

      ‘I leave you to handle the matter,’ his father had said.

      Rico’s mouth twisted. He need not take it as a compliment. As Luca had pointed out, ‘It has to be you, Rico. You’re the only one of us that can come and go freely. And besides—’ the sardonic glint had been clear in his brother’s eye ‘—if there’s a female in the equation you’re the expert—just as well she’s plain, mind you. You’ll be immune to her.’

      He stepped away from the window. The woman who was his nephew’s aunt was of no concern to him.

      Only his nephew.

      The news story on Paolo Ceraldi’s unknown son broke the following morning. The lurid exclusive in a French tabloid was instantly picked up, and exactly the kind of media feeding frenzy ensued that his father so deplored. As Rico knew too well from personal experience, when he had been the subject of press attention.

      There was nothing to be done about it except ignore it. His father ordered a policy of silence, and to carry on as if nothing had happened. The royal family’s public life was not altered in any way. Rico’s mother attended her usual opera, ballet and philharmonia performances, his father carried out his customary duties and Luca his. As for himself, he flew down to southern Africa to participate in a gruelling long-distance rally, as he always did at this time of year.

      ‘No comment,’ became his only words in half a dozen languages during the checkpoints, and he couldn’t wait to get back into the driving seat and head out across the savannah again.

      But there was something else he couldn’t wait to do either. Get back to his nephew again. He was counting the days.