drew herself up. ‘I’ll speak to him.’
‘Thank you, Grandmamma. There are another couple of things. I need to marry...’
‘Yes?’ Her eyes lit up. This was exactly the kind of project she relished.
‘And I need you to choose me a bride. I know you have a list of suitable names and that’s fine. Better to find a girl who has been raised to manage this kind of life than throw some hapless innocent into the circus. I just have one request...’
‘Just one?’
‘I need a bride who is willing to be wooed. Publicly. The marketing consultant thinks a royal wedding is the perfect international showcase for L’Isola dei Fiori and we should milk it as much as possible. You know, boat rides into the grottos, horse rides through meadows, a royal ball...’ He grinned at the revolted expression on her face.
‘I had no idea you were such a romantic, Nico.’
‘I’m not a romantic. I’m a realist. There’s nothing people like better than a royal love story. So pick me a girl who will play her part and I’ll marry her. The papers follow me around anyway. I might as well make use of my reputation.’
As a young, unattached prince he’d attracted the gossip magazines like wasps flocking around a sweet drink at the tail end of summer. If he’d lived quietly they might have left him alone eventually but he’d hung out with a young, moneyed crowd, enjoying time away from his studies at parties in New York, summer houses in the Hamptons, winter breaks in the Bahamas, on yachts, in clubs throughout Europe. At first it had been an exquisite relief, freedom after the strictures of a childhood at court. At some point it had become habit.
His grandmother nodded. ‘Everyone loves a reformed playboy, I suppose. I’ll find you a suitable bride. But, Nico? Just be discreet, when you find other amusements.’ And for a fleeting second she looked so vulnerable Nico felt a surge of anger against the grandfather who had put that look on her face—and emptied the palace coffers to do so.
‘No need. When I marry I’ll be faithful. It might be arranged but that’s no reason to treat marriage like it’s meaningless. I hope I’m better than that.’ As he said the words a fleeting image passed through his mind, a slim girl on the beach, hair tumbling around her breasts, eyes on his. He’d known then it was his last act of freedom, a sweet goodbye. Something to carry him through the years of duty that lay ahead.
‘And the other thing?’
He winced. He knew she would dislike his next proposal. ‘If we’re going to start the campaign soon we need a few places ready for the tourists we’re hoping to attract. There’s a few decent city hotels, a couple of beach places and some lovely guesthouses but none of the boutique hotels that the kind of holiday makers we want to attract prefer. The consultant has suggested that we invest in several now, do them up over the winter ready for next season.’
‘And?’
‘And one of the places she suggested is Villa Rosa.’
His grandmother didn’t answer but she drew herself up, her mouth tight. Nico watched her sympathetically. Until early last year the villa had been occupied by an aging beauty who, had been involved in a very public and very steamy affair with his grandfather, who had visited her, semi discreetly, by sailing around to the cove at night. The owner had died recently and the villa, as far as he knew, lay empty. His grandmother had always behaved with a dignified ignorance where his grandfather was concerned but installing a mistress on the island had pushed even her resilience to the limit.
‘It has a certain notoriety that will draw people in: the parties that were held there, the famous people that stayed there—and of course the thermal pool and the secret beach.’
‘I see.’
‘I’m sorry to bring it up, Grandmamma, but I think the consultant’s right. It is the perfect location and the Villa Rosa markets itself. Plus the lawyers say it’s likely that my grandfather shouldn’t have gifted the villa away in the first place; because it is so close to the cliff top and because it has access down to the beach it’s situated on Crown land 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.
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
