eyes widened. There was a pack of people, men and women, holding cameras, They were moving toward the limo quickly, microphones and recorders held out.
“Are you Alison Whitman? Prince Maximo Rossi’s fiancée?” A woman shouted just before snapping a picture with her camera.
“Why are you getting married so quickly?”
“Does it bother you that you aren’t as glamorous as his first wife?”
“Is he good in bed?”
Questions—lots of questions, inappropriate questions—were flying at her from all directions, and the paparazzi was moving in closer, crowding them up against the side of the limo.
“Back up!” Alison yelled, afraid she was about to get crushed against the side of the car. Afraid for her baby. But no one was paying attention because her statement hadn’t included any hint of scandal.
Isabella managed to get the door open, and Alison slid into the car after her, closing the door and locking it behind them. “Drive!” she said, banging on the partition between the front and backseat. The princess drew a shaky hand over her face. “No wonder I’m not allowed to do this.”
“That was … overwhelming,” Alison said, leaning back against the seat. She hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t factored it in when she’d imagined being married to Max. She wanted to cry. Nothing was going like it was supposed to. Living like this was so foreign, and such a complete departure from how she’d imagined her life. It was only just now sinking in, how much she was changing her life to give her baby a father.
Isabella’s expression turned sad. “It was always like that for Max and Selena. The press couldn’t get enough of them.”
Alison couldn’t imagine how hard it must have been for them. Cameras following them all the time, the constant, insistent crush of bodies every time they went out in public. She wasn’t sure she could cope with it.
But it’s your life now.
She put her hand on her stomach and tried to calm the wild, fluttery wings of panic that were making her entire body tremble.
Isabella picked up her cell phone and punched numbers rapidly. “Max,” she all but shouted into the phone. “We just got ambushed by the paparazzi.”
She cast Alison a sideways glance, her expression guilty. “I wanted to go shopping. I didn’t think …”
Alison could hear the muffled tirade that Max was subjecting his sister to. Isabella grimaced, but let him talk until he was through yelling. “She’s fine. The baby, too, I’m sure. We’ll see you in a moment.”
Isabella hung up the phone. “I’ve never heard him sound like that before. He’s worried. He must really love you.”
Alison’s heart squeezed and a restless, burning ache seemed to open up inside of her, one that she was desperate to have filled. But she didn’t know what she needed to fill it.
That was a lie. She was starting to think she knew exactly what would fill it. But that was a something she was too scared to face. Everything seemed to be closing in on her at once; the stark reality of what all the changes becoming a princess would entail, and even more terrifying, the reality of the feelings she was starting to have for her future husband.
When they got back to the castillo Maximo was pacing in the vast entryway, his expression thunderous. “That was incredibly foolish and immature of you, Isabella,” he ground out. “You could have both been hurt.”
“I didn’t know it would be like that!” Isabella protested. “How would I? I’m never allowed out anywhere!”
The fierceness in his expression diminished slightly and he blew out a hard breath. “Did you see any press badges?” he demanded, the moment they walked into the room. “If you have names I will see that the people responsible for this are thrown in jail.”
Isabella shook her head. “I don’t think any of them had ID on display.”
“They were just doing their jobs, Max,” Alison said. “There’s no need to throw anyone in jail. We’re fine. It was scary but they weren’t trying to hurt us or anything.”
“I don’t tolerate that kind of gutter press in my country,” he bit out. “If a reporter wants to take pictures that’s fine, but there is no excuse for chasing down a couple of innocent women. Whether they intended to hurt you or not isn’t the issue. They could have hurt you.”
Alison put a hand on his arm, the need to touch him, to offer some kind of balm for his rage, was too strong for her to fight against. “We’re fine. The baby is fine.”
“We’re leaving,” he said curtly. “Until the media firestorm is over we’re not staying in Turan.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and punched in a number, then barked orders in Italian to whoever was unfortunate enough to be on the other end.
He hung up and turned to face Alison. “Go and pack, cara mia. We’re going to start our honeymoon early.”
THE flight to the island of Maris was short. The small plane touched down in a field of moss-colored grass only ten minutes after takeoff. The island itself was less mountainous than Turan, with white sand beaches that bled into expansive fields and thick olive groves.
There was no car waiting for them when they disembarked from the plane.
Maximo had spent most of the half-hour flight on his phone making arrangements for any work he needed to do to be finished remotely from the island. She’d spent the whole flight feeling shaky and … excited? No. Just shaky about the prospect of being almost alone with him in such a beautiful, isolated, romantic place.
“You were joking about the honeymoon thing, right?” she asked, surveying the vast expanse of green around them.
He turned to face her, the expression in his dark eyes so hot it burned her down to her toes. “I promised I wouldn’t force you, Alison, but I didn’t say I wouldn’t seduce you.”
Her stomach flipped, and as her nausea was starting to fade already there was no way she could place the blame on her pregnancy. “Well, that isn’t … it’s not … you won’t be able to.”
He leaned in, his lips just a breath away from hers. “What did I tell you about issuing challenges?”
“I …” She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his mouth, couldn’t stop herself from leaning in just slightly …
He withdrew suddenly and began to walk, as though nothing had just passed between them. As though she wasn’t about to melt into a puddle of satisfied longing in the grassy field. “It’s just a short walk through the grass. The villa is just through the grove.” He pointed to the knot of olive trees that were directly in front of them.
They came through the brush and into a landscaped clearing with stone paths and beautifully kept gardens. A large circular fountain was at the center of the courtyard, and beyond it was the three-story villa with cream
