Royally Claimed. Marie Donovan

Julia, no need to fuss. We are just old friends who have met again for lunch. What would you like to eat?”

      She pressed her pretty pink lips together. Oh, how could he have forgotten how her dimples appeared when she did that. He had to hide a delighted smile before she really lost her temper and walked out on him. Again.

      Well. Remembering that wiped the smile off his face.

      “Frank?” She gave him a questioning look.

      “Lunch, oh, yes.”

      “Where is the menu?”

      He pointed to the chalkboard outside. “Whatever they feel like cooking today. Chicken with rice, salt cod stew and chouriço de carne—sausage with fava beans.”

      “Mmm. I haven’t had chouriço in years,” she said wistfully.

      “You can’t get Portuguese sausage in Boston?” There was not only a huge Portuguese-American community there, but a large portion of that was specifically of Azorean heritage.

      She shrugged. “I live in a different part of town.”

      That wasn’t much of an answer. How long could it take her to drive to a Portuguese deli? He’d driven to Massachusetts and Rhode Island Portuguese restaurants from New York when he’d had a craving for sausage or the sweet, eggy desserts that were an Azorean specialty. “Well, you must have it here.” He waved to the waiter and ordered the sausage and fava beans for her and the salt cod stew for him. “Sure you don’t want any wine?”

      She shook her head, so he ordered another bottle of water and switched to that, as well. Julia alone was making him light-headed enough.

      He acknowledged she had become even more beautiful in the eleven years since they’d parted. “How is it that you aren’t married yet?” he blurted, then winced. Smooth move, dummy. If she were married, she would either not be here at all or else her husband would be sitting across from him shooting daggers with his eyes at Frank. Maybe they’d have a few small kids, too, who would wonder in embarrassingly loud voices how this foreign guy used to know their mom.

      “I’m not married yet because nobody ever asked me.” Now her lips were really tight, her dimples even deeper.

      “I did.”

      “Out of some misguided sense of obligation. That doesn’t count.”

      He’d taken her virginity and changed her life forever—why wouldn’t he feel obligated toward her? And it wasn’t misguided, but he knew she would run away from him forever rather than discuss that now.

      She jumped to her feet. “Look, Frank, it was nice to see you, but I have to go home.”

      He jumped up, too. “Julia, please stay. I spoke out of turn. I apologize.” He shifted his body in front of her but the look of panic in her eyes made him move out of her way immediately. “But of course, I will not keep you here if you don’t want to be.” Frank wanted to kick himself. Good God, his prize bull at the estate had more finesse than he did.

      She relaxed slightly, but was still wary, and he didn’t blame her. The last time they’d parted, he’d been desperate to keep her and had been too overbearing. But twenty-year-old men in the agonies of first love were often thoughtless, and he’d been no exception. If he’d had a cooler head, he would have backed off, realizing the poor timing. Asking her to forgo the rest of her college education had been a bad idea, to put it mildly. “Come, sit. I promise, no more talk of awkward things. We will just be old friends who are catching up on the past ten years.”

      “Eleven,” she corrected him automatically. So she remembered exactly, as well. That was intriguing.

      “Eleven, of course.” He took her elbow and guided her back to her seat. The waiter, sensing a juicy story, plied them with a basket full of hearty chunks of bread and fresh whipped butter. Frank practically had to shoo him away.

      Julia seemed more amenable once she had a bit of homemade bread and butter in her, asking, “So who is getting married?”

      Frank smiled. “Do you remember me telling you about my best friends from the university?”

      She nodded. “The Italian guy and the French guy. Both were rich noblemen like you.”

      “Basically, yes. Giorgio—George—is the prince of Vinciguerra, a tiny country in the north of Italy. Jacques, who still goes by Jack, is a count, with his holdings in Provence, the south of France.”

      “And you, the Duke of Aguas Santas in Portugal.”

      “Yes.” It wasn’t any secret in the Azores who he was considering he owned a small island there. But the islanders were easygoing and not inclined to give him the paparazzi treatment. He was sure they gossiped about him, but friendly gossip was a national Portuguese pastime.

      “Is one of them getting married?”

      “Not exactly. Jack just got married last summer to an American travel writer named Lily, and Giorgio and his fiancée haven’t set a date yet. It’s for Giorgio’s younger sister, Stefania, who lived with us in New York. She is marrying a German football star.”

      “Soccer.” She lifted her chin. “Germans play soccer, not football.”

      He remembered Julia had been a star soccer player in high school and college. “No, football,” he teased. “In Europe, we play football. And Stefania is getting married in the cathedral at home. Between the royal-watchers and the football fans, they will have very little privacy in their everyday lives, but Stefania and Dieter would like a private honeymoon. The villa is very private and romantic.” At least that was how he’d remembered it when he and Julia had stayed there.

      “Of course,” she murmured, maybe remembering the same thing? “And that’s why your assistant went off to pick paint colors.”

      Frank grimaced. “Benedito isn’t exactly an interior designer. We’ll have to see.”

      The waiter arrived with their entrees. Julia leaned over her bowl and eagerly inhaled the steam rising from the chouriço. She found a piece of the sausage with her fork and picked it up, waiting in anticipation before she moved it to her mouth. As she chewed, her expression was delighted and wistful in turns, as if she had been deprived of something important for so long, that the acquiring of it was almost bittersweet.

      What else had Julia deprived herself of?

      Frank watched her as long as he dared, then busied himself with his salt cod stew when she turned her attention back to him. Bacalhoada, or salt cod stew, was a Portuguese staple. The basics were the same everywhere, but it always tasted a bit different. Salt cod was dried and preserved with salt. To prepare it, you had to soak it overnight to rehydrate it, and then cook like any other fish. This dish was more of a casserole, with chunks of cod and chouriço, olive oil, potatoes and sliced tomatoes cooked along with them. Topping the dish were wedges of hardboiled eggs and black olives.

      If Julia hadn’t gone to any Portuguese places, it was unlikely she’d had bacalhoada either. He broke off a chunk of potato and salt cod with his fork, swirling it through the olive oil. “Here, try this.” He offered her a taste, wondering if she’d accept.

      She looked at him cautiously with her big sherry-colored eyes. He smiled as meekly as he could manage, when all he wanted to do was toss their bowls aside and drag her into his arms.

      But none of that must have shown on his face because she delicately took the bite from his fork, chewing thoughtfully. “Um, very fishy.”

      He had to laugh. “Preserving the cod with salt concentrates its flavor.”

      “No, it’s good. You know I like seafood.”

      “Yes, you do.” They were both children of the ocean. She had made her mother’s New England clam chowder for him once, and he had practically finished the stockpot in one sitting.

      Julia