backwards. She did not like being so physically close to this man. It was overpowering, disturbing. Her heart was hammering in her chest.
What did he mean, Ben’s parentage? She stared at him. Apart from his being so extraordinarily, devastatingly good-looking, she did not recognise him. He looked like Ben, that was all. A dark version. Very Italian. He must be quite well-off, she registered. The four-by-four was a gleaming brand-new model. And he was wearing expensive clothes; she could see that. He had the sleek, impeccably groomed appearance of someone who wore clothes which, however deceptively casual, had cost a lot of money. And he had that air about him of someone who was used to others jumping to do his bidding. So he could easily be rich.
But why would that bring the press down in droves? Rich Italians were not so unique that the press wrote stories about them.
A frown crossed her face. But what about his brother, Paolo? His dead brother who was Ben’s father. Had he been someone the press would be interested in?
He’d said that surely she must know that Paolo was dead. But how should she? She knew nothing about him.
Carefully, very carefully, she spoke.
‘My sister was not a supermodel, she was just starting out on her career—just making a name for herself. No journalist would be interested in her. But your brother—the man she…she had a child by. Was he—I don’t know—someone well known in Italy? Was he a film star there, or on the television? Or a footballer, a racing driver? Something like that? Some kind of celebrity? Is that what you mean by Ben’s parentage?’
She stared at him, a questioning look on her face. Slowly, it changed to one of bewilderment.
He was looking at her as if she were an alien. Fear stabbed her again.
‘What—what is it?’
His eyes were boring into her face. As if he were trying to penetrate into her brain.
‘This cannot be,’ he said flatly. ‘It is not possible.’
Lizzy stared. What was not possible?
He was holding himself in; she could see it.
‘It is not possible that you have just said what you said.’ His expression changed, and now he was not talking to her as if she were retarded, but as if she were—unreal. As if this entire exchange were unreal.
‘My brother—’he spoke, each word falling as heavy as lead into the space between them ‘—was Paolo Ceraldi.’
Nothing changed in her expression. She swallowed. ‘I’m sorry—the name does not mean anything to me. Perhaps in Italy it might, but—’
A muscle worked in his cheek. His eyes were like black holes.
‘Do not, Miss Mitchell, play games with me. That name is not unknown to you. It cannot be. Nor can the name of San Lucenzo.’
Her face frowned slightly. San Lucenzo? Perhaps that was where Ben’s father had come from. But, even if he had, why the big deal?
‘That’s…that’s that place near Italy that’s like Monaco. One of those places left over from the Middle Ages.’ She spoke cautiously. ‘On the Riviera or somewhere. Lots of rich people live there. But…but I’m sorry. The name Paolo Ceraldi still doesn’t mean anything to me, so if he was famous there, I’m afraid I just don’t—’
The flash in his eyes had come again. With cold, chilling courtesy he spoke, but it was not civil.
‘The House of Ceraldi, Miss Mitchell, has ruled San Lucenzo for eight hundred years,’ he said sibilantly.
There was silence. Complete silence. Some incredibly complicated arcane equation was trying to work itself out in her brain, but she couldn’t do it.
Then the deep, chilling voice came again, icy with a courtesy that was not courteous at all.
‘Paolo’s father is the Ruling Prince.’ He paused, brief and deadly, while his eyes speared hers. ‘He is your nephew’s grandfather.’
CHAPTER TWO
MIST was rolling in, like thick cotton wool. She felt the room start to swirl around her. Instinctively, she grabbed out with her hand and caught the edge of the kitchen table. She clung on to it.
Not true.
Not true. Not true. Not true.
If she just kept saying it, it would be true. True that it was not true. Not true what this man had just said. Because of course it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. It was absurd. Stupid. Impossible. A lie. Some stupid, absurd, impossible lie—or joke. Maybe it was a joke. That must be it. Just a joke. She threw her head back to suck in deep draughts of air. Then she steadied herself, forcibly, and made herself look across at the man who had just said such a stupid, absurd, impossible thing.
‘This isn’t true.’
Her voice was flat. As flat, she realised, with a hideous, gaping recognition in her guts, as his had been when she’d said she had no idea who…
Ben’s father. Ben’s father was.
‘No.’ She’d spoken out loud. Her legs were starting to shake. ‘No. This is a joke. It’s impossible. It has to be. It’s just not possible. I haven’t understood it properly.’
‘You had better sit down.’ The voice was still chill, but less so. Lizzy gazed at him with wide, shock-splintered eyes. Her eyebrows shot together in a frown.
That complicated, arcane equation was still running in her head.
He had just said that Ben’s father had been the son of…she forced her mind to say it…the son of the Prince of San Lucenzo. But he had said he was Ben’s uncle. His dead father’s brother. Which meant that his father was also…
She stared. It wasn’t possible. It just wasn’t possible.
He let her stare. She could see it. Could see he was just standing there while she clung to the edge of the table in the kitchen in her tiny little Cornish cottage where, a few feet away, from her stood.
‘I am Enrico Ceraldi,’ he enlightened her.
She sat down. Collapsing on the kitchen chair with a heavy thud.
He cast a look at her.
‘Did you really not know who I was?’ There was almost curiosity in his voice. And something flickered in his eyes.
‘Of course I bloody didn’t.’ The return burst from her lips without her thinking. Then, as if she’d just realised what she’d done, her face stiffened.
‘I’m sorry,’ she spoke abruptly. ‘I didn’t mean to be—’ She broke off. Something changed in her face again. She lifted her chin, looking directly into his eyes. ‘I didn’t mean to speak rudely. But, no,’ she said heavily, yet still with her chin lifted, ‘I did not recognise you. I’ve heard of you—it would be hard not to have.’ Her voice tightened with disapproval. ‘But not with the surname, of course. Just your first name
