allow for female inheritance if there is a direct male Marandis to take the throne. The Grand Duke of Falcandis is a descendant, but through the female line. King Angelis began a search for his first cousin, the Grand Duke of Malascos, and his descendants.’
Had they fallen down the rabbit hole? Charlie kept waiting for someone to jump out of a cupboard, yelling ‘Surprise!’. ‘Just call me ‘Charming’,’ he muttered.
Lia chuckled. ‘Yeah, like that’s ever going to happen.’
He grinned at her.
Mr Damianakis spoke again. ‘If you require further proof, sir, there’s a limousine waiting outside to take you to the private jet waiting at Kingsford-Smith airport. It will fly you both to the Hellenican Embassy in Canberra. A representative of the royal family is waiting to answer any questions you have, and give you the papers you need for an immediate flight to Hellenia. His Majesty the King of Hellenia, as well as Her Royal Highness Jazmine, and the Grand Duke of Falcandis, await your arrival.’
As the lawyer said something else, Charlie’s mind wandered. He shook his head, trying to clear it, to wake up and find he’d been knocked on the head. Half the time he barely felt qualified to be a fireman, and now he was…was…
Maybe he’d taken a hit by a supporting beam at that Christmas fire, or suffered brain damage with the smoke inhalation, and kept relapsing into delusions?
‘Charlie…’
He turned on his heel to see his sister’s cheeks holding the dreaded greenish hue. ‘Lia?’ He ran to her and knelt at her chair, checking her pulse automatically. ‘What did you say to her?’
Damianakis licked his lips, distinctly nervous. ‘You didn’t hear me?’
‘Would I need to ask if I had?’ He heard the lash of impatient anger in his tone, felt Lia’s hand press his, and tightened his lips. How many times did he have to shoot the messenger because he couldn’t keep his temper under check? ‘This isn’t your fault. Just tell me what upset Lia.’
Damianakis shifted in his seat. ‘I said you need to prepare yourselves. The ambassador thought it best that I tell you here, in a quiet environment.’ As if gathering his courage, he looked up at Charlie. ‘His Majesty, King Angelis, has arranged royal marriages for you both, to take place as soon as possible.’
Orakidis City, Hellenia The next morning
The beautiful old black Rolls pulled up outside the front of the sprawling, four-winged mansion that was the royal family’s summer palace, where the king was keeping residence until the main palace was fully repaired from a fire attack a few years before.
There were too many repairs still yet to make to the nation’s towns, cities and homes for the royal family to think of repairing a palace as a priority.
Jazmine’s heart beat hard as she stood beside Max at the foot of the stairs, four feet behind the king, as adherence to royal protocol demanded. As Princess Royal and the Grand Duke of Falcandis, they held positions the world would envy; yet here they were again, the king’s dolls to rearrange as he wished. Old friends, they’d been engaged to each other until a month ago; now they were both engaged to strangers.
Was this a case of a magnificent escape for them, or being tossed from the king’s frying pan into his fire?
‘Courage,’ the Grand Duke murmured in her ear.
She stiffened. A princess to the core, she’d had correct deportment and proper distance drilled into her since birth. ‘This is my duty. I don’t need courage to face what I can’t change.’
His deep, smooth voice was rich with amusement. ‘You’re right—resignation would be more useful in our case.’ He waited, but she didn’t answer. ‘Talk to me, Jazmine. Surely, as the most recent object of your duty, I can intrude on your pride and share our changed circumstances with someone who understands?’
She felt a tinge of heat touch her cheeks. Her grandfather, the king, had dissolved their engagement when the news of Prince Kyriacou’s existence had been confirmed. His press secretary had hinted that childhood friendship made the engagement awkward: a truth His Majesty used when he found it convenient.
Jazmine smiled up at the fair, handsome face, so like his English mother. She’d been so embarrassed by her grandfather’s dictum, she hadn’t been able to look at him until now. ‘You’re right, Max. Thank you.’
‘Here come our respective futures,’ he murmured, smiling at her with the sibling-like affection they’d shared since she was thirteen. ‘Our third or fourth cousins, or something. Almost not related at all, apart from the name.’
Thank goodness, Jazmine almost said aloud. She’d found the thought of marrying any relative revolting, but, with Prince Kyriacou’s grandfather marrying an Italian count’s grandchild, and his father marrying a Greek woman—a real commoner!—the lines had blurred. Jazmine’s mother had been of the Spanish nobility—more line-blurring still. The more the better, in her opinion.
She started as the trumpets of Grandfather’s private band blared the national anthem of Hellenia—In Our Courage We Stand—in acknowledgement of royalty’s arrival. It was odd, considering that no one else was there but family and royal staff.
A young woman emerged first, wearing the tailored skirt and silk blouse Jazmine had chosen. This was Giulia, no doubt.
No doubt at all, from the moment she looked up. Though she resembled her Italian grandmother, Giulia was a complete Marandis. She had willowy curves, thick dark curls tumbling down her back, the heavy-lashed, slumberous eyes, the deliciously curved top lip. On the Marandis women, it looked like a hidden smile waiting to burst out, a wonderful secret they wouldn’t tell. Tall and graceful and golden-skinned, Giulia was beautiful in the quiet, understated, Marandis way.
Then her brother emerged from the car, and Jazmine heard the death knell of her plans before she’d even been introduced to the prince.
Oh, he was handsome—dark, lean and oozed hot sensuality. But he was no story-book prince come to win the princess’s heart, and—her heart sank— she doubted he ever would be.
Thick curls cropped short, dark eyes and the regal nose. Yes, Kyriacou was as much a Marandis as his sister, but on him it didn’t achieve elegance. In the charcoal Savile Row suit supplied for him on the jet, with the white shirt and sky-blue tie, he didn’t look suave, he looked turbulent. Every inch of him was lean and muscled, big and fit— ‘buff’, her friends from Oxford would have said. She might have said it herself, if she wasn’t a princess.
And, if he weren’t a Crown Prince, she’d call him hostile.
He looked as regal as a lion, ready to attack, as frighteningly compelling as a wind-tossed storm cloud about to unleash a torrent.
Yes, that was it exactly. God help her, she was engaged to a wild beast set to pounce. And the windstorm was about to break right over her head.
Well, she was used to flying in storms, and flying blind. Five years ago she’d been a minor royal, then after the civil war had ended, she’d become Princess Royal. She’d become the unwanted, ‘couldn’ t-inherit’ female heiress two years before. She’d been engaged to Max until a month ago; now she was engaged to this stranger.
If
