say anything, her face said. Please…
He didn’t.
In one fluid movement he was tight against her, blocking the reporters’ view, twisting her to face the camera slightly side on. So the scar was invisible.
He was holding her close, as if he cared.
Hell, he did care. Why hadn’t he asked. Why hadn’t he asked?
He forced a smile. The photograph was taken. He handed Michales back to Lily—still standing as close as he could. He took the scarf from Michales’s chubby fingers and tied it gently around his mother’s curls.
‘I’ll not have you sunburned,’ he growled.
‘It’s almost dusk. There’s no need to fear sunburn,’ the reporter said.
‘No matter. It’s time you went up to the house, Lily,’ he said and gave her a gentle push.
She got the message. She gave the reporters a brief smile and turned and trudged up the beach. Leaving three men gazing after her. Two reporters who thought they’d just gained a scoop.
One Prince who felt ill.
She’d called him honourable, wonderful even…
He didn’t feel either.
‘You look confused,’ one of the reporters said. He tried to get his face under control again. He was watching Lily walk up the beach. What the hell… ?
‘You look like you’d like to bed her again,’ the man said.
Enough. There was only so much a man could take and this was well over the boundary.
‘Excuse me,’ he said coldly. ‘This is a private beach. You have no right to land here. I think we’ve given you enough. Can you please leave now?’
‘We’re going,’ the man said and then he hesitated. ‘She’s a bit different from her sister, then?’
This was where he should turn haughty, supercilious, as if reporters were somewhere beneath pond scum. This was where he should produce a dose of royal arrogance.
He couldn’t do it. Not when they were saying something he agreed with so entirely.
‘Do you think I’d have married her if she was like Mia?’ he demanded.
The reporter hesitated. He looked as if he wanted to say something and finally decided he might as well.
‘We came here on the spur of the moment,’ he said. ‘We never dreamed of getting this close. The old King and his bride… they never let us near.’
That was what he should have done, Alex thought. He knew he needed to protect Lily. Standing on the beach, watching Lily’s departing back, the reporters with bare feet and soggy trousers, Alex in his swim shorts and bare chest… It didn’t feel like a them-against-us situation. It felt like three guys admiring a cute woman. Three men thinking about how this situation affected the country.
‘You know what the headlines are going to be tomorrow?’ the reporter asked, still not taking his eyes from the departing Lily. ‘They’re going to be: “Don’t Call Me Ma’am. Call Me Lily.” I just figured the angle. A Princess of the People. As a question. Like we need to get to know her before we pass judgement. You want to add anything to that?’
‘I don’t think I do,’ he said, thinking maybe that was where he’d gone wrong in the first place. We need to get to know her before we pass judgement…
‘You want us to say you threatened to throw us off the beach?’
‘I want you to say I’ll do anything in my power to protect my own.’
‘Nice,’ the guy said, grinning and scribbling himself a note. ‘Now, all you need to say is that you fell in love with her the first time you saw her… ’
‘For our women readers,’ the younger guy said apologetically. ‘They want a love story.’
‘I’m not buying into that,’ he snapped.
‘You can’t keep your eyes off her,’ the older guy said.
‘Neither can you.’
‘Yeah, well… ’ They watched as Lily rounded the last curve in the path and disappeared. There was a communal sigh of regret. ‘I expect our readers will add two and two… ’
‘I hope they will.’
‘I’m sure they will,’ the reporter said cheerfully. ‘We’ve got some great shots here. You know, if I were you, I’d show her off. You need the rest of the island to take her to their hearts.’
‘Just like you have,’ the younger reporter said and grinned. ‘Can I quote you as saying that, sir?’
HE’D seen the scar.
No matter, she thought. She’d never consciously hidden her illness from him. If he’d asked, she’d have told him.
But…
But she hated him knowing. That was why she’d consciously played it down, blocking his questions. She hadn’t lied to him about it, but neither had she told the truth. For the truth still hurt. The memory of her illness was still terrifying. Even thinking about it—how helpless she’d been—left her feeling exposed. Vulnerable. More vulnerable even than she’d felt getting married, which was really, really vulnerable.
Think about the house, she told herself. Think about practicalities.
Think about anything but Alex.
The house was fabulous.
Lily had spent only a few minutes here while she’d dumped her bridal gear and donned her swimsuit. The beach, the sea, the need to stop being a bride and have a swim, had made her rush. Now she had time to take it in.
Her apartment—a guest wing?—was beautiful: a long, wide room with three sets of French windows opening to the balcony and the sea beyond. The windows were open, the soft curtains floating in the breeze.
Everywhere she looked there were flowers. The boundaries between house and garden were almost indistinguishable.
Fabulous.
So think fabulous, she told herself.
Don’t think about Alex.
Was he still at the beach?
Maybe he’d only caught a glimpse of the scar. Maybe he wouldn’t ask.
She showered with Michales in her arms. When she emerged, wrapped in one vast fluffy towel, and Michales enclosed in another, birds were doing acrobatics in the vines on the balcony. Finches? Tiny and colourful, they made her
