she was so bad at receiving?
‘You do not feel your performance was that great?’ he queried.
She turned, caught a swift flash of humour in his eyes and lowered hers. ‘Actually, I—Oh, I really don’t know,’ she muttered, embarrassed.
‘You didn’t seem to agree with me, that’s all,’ he said, eyes laughing as she looked up once more.
Despite her nervousness, Victoria smiled back. ‘It’s difficult to judge one’s own performance. People say it was good. I always feel it could have been better.’
‘Ah! You are a perfectionist?’ he teased.
‘No,’ she responded. ‘It’s my job. I want to do my best. I just don’t see what all the fuss is about. Oops.’ She bit her lip, realising she shouldn’t have said that.
‘How refreshing,’ he murmured, glancing at her with new interest. Here was a superstar not obsessed with her own fame and glory. A novelty by any standard. Also, she reminded him of someone. ‘Do I take it that you are not enchanted with having to keep up appearances on a permanent basis, Miss Woodward?’ he asked, placing his white linen napkin on his knee.
‘Well…’ She shrugged, glanced at him sideways and caught the flicker of mischief in his eyes. ‘It does become a bit heavy going after a while.’
‘You amaze me. I thought this was what all actors and actresses dreamed of—fame and recognition. It does not please you?’
‘Of course it does. It’s just that…’ She caught Anne’s eye and quickly stared at her plate, hoping the pill she’d taken beforehand would keep up its effect for long enough to get her through the evening.
‘Just that you don’t feel at ease in this role?’ he asked searchingly. There was something about her that struck a chord.
Their eyes met and her pulse missed a beat. ‘How can you tell?’
It was his turn to shrug. ‘I observe people. Like you, I am often subjected to the stares and curiosity of others. It can become extremely trying,’ he finished dryly.
‘Oh, my goodness, Your Royal Highness!’ An elderly woman decked in diamonds and with several obvious facelifts in her wake cooed across the table at him.
‘Good evening, Madame Jensen.’ He bowed his head in greeting.
Victoria blinked. Royal Highness? He’d said his name was Fragottini and, being her usual distracted self, she hadn’t bothered to glance at the place cards. Now she really had put her foot in it. Anne would have wanted her glittering for royalty, she reflected wryly, eyeing her lobster cocktail with a glint of humour. She looked at it and sighed. She was so sick of all this rich food, of the wining and dining. What she wouldn’t give for a good old steak and kidney pie at the Bells pub in Hetherington.
‘You do not like lobster, signorina?’
Realising Rodolfo Fragottini was politely waiting for her to start, Victoria picked up her fork and smiled briefly. ‘I’m sure it’s delicious,’ she replied, forcing herself to slip a forkful into her mouth.
‘I doubt it. These large dinners rarely are. Would you consider me very pushy if I said I think you are lying?’
Victoria nearly choked. She hastily grabbed her water glass and took a long sip to quell her laughter.
‘Better?’ he enquired solicitously.
‘Fine. Sorry.’ She cast him an apologetic glance tinged with a smile. ‘It’s just I seem to have had so many different cocktails lately I’m a bit saturated.’
‘I can understand that,’ he sympathised, rolling his eyes expressively. ‘Lobster cocktail, foie gras, quenelles. I too have to admit that I’ve had my share of rich food for a while to come.’
‘But surely you eat things like this the whole time? I mean, you’re a prince or a king or something, so I suppose you live in a palace and eat off gold plate?’ she challenged.
‘Not quite. Even we royals have had to adapt to modern times,’ he replied, tongue in cheek, enjoying the banter. ‘Actually, I rather like going to the supermarket, choosing ingredients and cooking myself.’
‘Gosh, in the royal kitchen?’
‘No. I have an apartment in the castle where I live, and I try to prepare my own dishes as much as possible. Nothing like a nice plate of spag bog,’ he added with a wink.
‘Spag bog?’ she exclaimed, spluttering with laughter and trying to remember that he was a royal. She pressed the napkin to her lips to suppress a giggle. ‘Where did someone like you learn to eat spaghetti Bolognese?’
‘At Oxford. I’m really rather good at pasta, though I say it myself. You should come and try it some time. Do you cook? Or does your Hollywood schedule not allow for such personal indulgences?’
‘You’re right,’ she sighed, ‘it doesn’t. But actually I love to cook. Or used to, until all this came down.’ She raised her hand, then let it drop in her lap.
‘And where was that?’ he asked curious about this girl who jogged his memory.
‘Oh, back in Hetherington. That’s the village where my mother lives. I do quite a lot of baking too.’
‘Where is this village?’ he asked, picking up his fork once more.
‘In England—Sussex. It’s very pretty—cottages with thatched roofs and no lighting on the streets at night. We live in a manor house just outside.’
‘It sounds wonderfully quaint. I can understand why you would want to return there.’
‘Can you? I thought people like you were trying to transform their countries into havens for the rich and glitzy.’
‘Really? Is that what you’ve heard?’ She caught the edge to his voice.
‘My agent has some idea that I ought to move to a principality called Malvarina. Apparently they have very attractive tax laws. Maybe you’ve heard of it?’ she responded.
‘Actually, I know it quite well. What have you heard about Malvarina?’ He arched a brow thoughtfully.
‘That it’s another Monte Carlo—filled with rich tycoons flitting about on glitzy yachts. I suppose the local potentate is luring them in by the dozen. Personally I think it’s criminal to spoil somewhere which up until now seems to have been preserved from an invasion by the outside world just for the sake of money. It sounds a bit like a theme park to me.’
‘You don’t say?’ He raised an amused, quizzical brow and leaned back in his gilt dining chair, the better to observe her. Quite the little spitfire, Miss Woodward, if her conversation up until now was anything to go by. ‘Let me get this right. You think that the Prince of Malvarina is some sort of exotic dictator, making a theme park out of what was once a beautiful, unspoiled Mediterranean retreat?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Maybe you should go and take a look at it yourself before forming such
