knew his name, nothing more—no, that wasn’t quite true. She knew that he had craved an hour’s peace and solitude. Knew that she couldn’t tear her gaze away from his, knew that every fibre in her body was aching to be given a purpose, a meaning. She was a creature of movement, she belonged in the dance, in the pairings of a duet or the exhilaration of many feet and arms all placed in exactly the right way at exactly the right time. For so many years that had been enough. Or so she’d thought.
But it wasn’t. Pouring her body and soul into her craft had left her lacking. She had no fire; she hadn’t lived. Those overheard words had burned through her, the truth of them hurting the most.
With the sunset blazing behind him Nico looked like a fire god personified, Mars come to earth blazing. Could some of that fire touch her? Warm her? Bring her to life?
Posy took another step. He leaned against the arch, watching her every move. She swallowed, the dryness in her throat a mixture of apprehension—and anticipation. ‘Not too chivalrous, I hope.’
He stilled. ‘Depends on the task.’
‘If I was a selkie, would you hide my seal skin, just for the night?’
‘I never thought that was playing fair. I’d prefer the selkie to come to me of her own free will.’
‘Would she?’
‘I think so.’
Another step. He was close now, close enough that, even as the dusk drew in, Posy could see the heat in his eyes, the tension in his stance for all his supposed nonchalance, the muscle beating in his cheek. He felt it, this connection. He wanted her. ‘I think so too. Just for one night.’
He nodded, understanding her every meaning. ‘You can’t trap a wild creature.’
Her entire life Posy had put ballet first. Her few relationships fizzling out, hardly mourned, they were so unimportant compared to her career. Bruno might feel that she lacked passion but everything she had was poured into her work. Without it she had no outlet, her emotions, her physical energy pent up, her worries needing an outlet. She’d thought a swim might help. She’d been wrong. But Nico might. If she let him.
If she let herself.
Posy Marlowe did not go skinny dipping. Posy Marlowe certainly didn’t flirt with strangers in the sea, on the beach. Posy Marlowe would never tug her dress off and stand naked in front of a complete stranger as the sun dipped below the horizon, the only sound the hush of the waves on the shore. With shaking hands she clasped the fabric and tugged, letting the cotton slither onto the beach as she stood before him. His intake of breath emboldened her. ‘You might tame it for an evening, though.’
‘Not too tame, I hope.’ He stepped away from the arch as he spoke, stepped close and looked into her face for one long moment, searching for truth, for consent, for surety. She appreciated it even as impatience surged, her hand reaching for his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles. She knew muscles, their purpose, look and feel. She’d never quite appreciated them before today as he quivered ever so slightly under her touch before capturing her hand with his even as his head bent towards hers, his mouth firm and sweet, his touch knowing and sure as he took control. Posy knew all about being led, the steps in a duet, and she sank into his kiss, into his touch, into his arms. Living. For one night only.
NICO BOWED SMOOTHLY in his uncle’s direction before backing out of the Great Hall, working hard to keep the irritation off his face. He’d lost his temper too many times in the past and it had never got him anywhere. His uncle made a toddler in the middle of a tantrum seem reasonable, which meant rational debate was as unlikely to work as anger. When King Vincenzo V made his mind up it was well and truly up and neither logic nor reason could shift it. In the past Nico had simply circumnavigated his uncle’s wishes but things were infinitely more complicated now.
‘Dammit, Alessandro,’ he said softly as he finally made his way out of the double doors and into the opulent hallway. ‘You could always handle him so much better than me.’ The guards standing smartly to attention either side of the open doors, hot and ridiculous in the full burnished splendour of their dress uniforms, didn’t betray that they had heard his words with as much as a flicker of an eyelid. Maybe he should take lessons from them.
The hallway was wide enough for two cars to drive down it with ease, the vaulted ceiling at double height, the marble floor kept so highly polished Nico doubted it had ever been subjected to a health and safety risk assessment. As small boys he and Alessandro had skated along here under the disapproving eyes of ancestors frowning down from huge portraits, careering along, narrowly missing the spindly chairs and occasional tables that were dotted along like valuable obstacles in their headlong race. At intervals discreet doors were set into the ornate panelling, leading to suites of offices, other function rooms and rooms that Nico had discovered no discernible use for. He had his own suite now, one here for work, meetings and audiences as well as his private rooms, in the west wing. At least they hadn’t tried to give him Alessandro’s rooms yet. It was hard enough to feel at home in the high-ceilinged formal rooms without mementoes of his cousin scattered around his living quarters.
Not that he’d ever really felt at home here. He’d spent too much time alone in the family suite while his parents had jetted off to Paris, to London, to New York and even when they’d been resident in the palace they’d barely seemed to notice he was there, too busy enjoying the luxuries and privileges of royal life to settle for anything as mundane as private family meals or playing with their son. Luckily he’d been a firm favourite of his grandmother’s—and he’d idolised his cousin, two years older yet with plenty of time for his younger shadow. They were all the family he had needed. And now one was gone and the other fading fast.
‘Your Highness?’
It still took a few seconds for the title to register in Nico’s brain and for him to respond. In a way he hoped that never changed, that he wouldn’t supplant his cousin so easily. He stopped and allowed the harried official rushing along the corridor to catch up with him.
‘Your Highness.’ She was breathing hard, swaying in her too-high heels. Every official dressed as if they were being judged on their power dressing skills, aggressively cut suits the unspoken palace uniform; Nico’s own faded jeans and checked shirt were a pointed contrast. ‘Her Grace would like to see you at your earliest convenience.’
Which meant now. Nico’s grandmother, in her own way, was just as stubborn as his uncle. ‘Thank you.’
The official hesitated; obviously she had orders to bring him then and there but Nico had no intention of being ordered around by anyone, not even Graziella del Castro, Dowager Queen. ‘I’ll be along shortly,’ he added. She didn’t look too placated but nodded and marched away, her heels perfectly balanced on the marble floor. Nico paused, his mini rebellion feeling as paltry as it was. It wasn’t his grandmother he was angry at—nor even his uncle. It was fate. Fate for snatching away his cousin and landing him here in this unwanted spot with this unwanted future. He pivoted and caught up with the official in three long strides. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll head there now.’
She gave him a startled look; palace officials were never worried—at least they were well trained not to look it—but nodded as Nico headed off in the direction of his grandmother’s rooms.
Like her son, the King, and Nico himself his grandmother had two sets of rooms, her formal receiving and business rooms in the main part of the
