quietly. ‘For as long as you are on Prim’amore you are my responsibility.’
A frisson of anticipation danced along her spine. She moved quickly down the stairs, her feet sinking into the sand once she reached the level shore.
‘Prim’amore... First love.’ She glanced at him. ‘It’s a romantic name. Any idea of the history of it?’
‘No,’ he lied.
Secrets, secrets. So many secrets. Hell. He’d been a secret most of his life. Only in recent years had his father lifted the ban on his identity being known, and by then the exposure had outlived any usefulness or appeal.
‘Why are you selling it?’
She was at least a foot shorter than he was. He adjusted his stride to match hers, shoving his hands in his pockets as they moved towards the water.
‘I do not want it.’
She frowned. ‘You don’t want a pristine, untouched island off the coast of Italy?’
‘No.’
Her laugh was carried by the breeze. He turned to chase it, wishing it was louder.
‘Why ever not?’
He met her eyes, his smile feeling heavy somehow. ‘I already have an island. A bigger one.’ He thought of Arketà, with its state-of-the-art home and pier, the helicopter pad and three swimming pools. ‘Two seems excessive.’
‘And here I was thinking you to be a man who thrived on the excessive,’ she heard herself tease.
At the edge of the water she paused, kicking her shoes off and bending to retrieve them. She moved closer to the ocean, flexing her toes as she reached the water’s line, then stepping beyond it so that the waves caressed her ankles.
‘So why buy it if only to sell? Or was it an investment?’
He looked at her for a moment, wondering at the instinct throbbing through him to speak honestly to her. To admit that he hadn’t bought the island so much as inherited it. That in the month he’d possessed Prim’amore it had sat heavily on his shoulders like a weight he didn’t wish to bear. That the gift was unwelcome and that selling it was his primary desire.
‘Not exactly.’ His smile gave little away. ‘I do not need it. Your father has been shopping for a resort site in the Mediterranean for years. The match is too good to ignore.’
She nodded, but he could practically see the cogs turning. ‘You said your island is called Arketà?’
‘Yes.’
‘I like the sound of that.’
He nodded. ‘It means pretty in Greek.’
She arched a brow, her grin contagious.
‘I inherited the name when I purchased it. The previous owner christened it so for his daughter.’
‘I see.’ Tilly nodded, but her smile didn’t drop.
‘That and I’m a hopeless romantic,’ he responded with an attempt at sarcasm.
Tilly shook her head. ‘Nope. I would bet my life that “romantic” is not a word ever associated with you.’
‘Oh? And how would you describe me?’ He prompted, curiosity leading him down a conversational path that his brain was urging him to reconsider.
She slowed for a moment, her eyes skimming across his face as her full lips pouted. She was a study in concentration and it almost made him laugh.
‘I think it’s better that I don’t say,’ she said finally, turning her gaze back to the beach. ‘Do you spend much time there?’
It took him a few seconds to realise she was back on the subject of Arketà. He shook his head. ‘I thought I would when I bought it.’
‘But?’ she prompted.
His shrug lifted his broad shoulders. She tried not to notice the strength in those shoulders, but she was only human.
‘Work.’
‘Ah. Yes.’ She knew the demands of Art Wyndham’s schedule intimately, and could only imagine how much more hectic Rio’s was. ‘So you’re in Rome most of the time?’
‘Si.’
Tilly could imagine that. He had an effortless chicness about him that was completely ingrained. It wasn’t an affectation. He didn’t have to try. He was both masculine, wild, untamed and...handsome. Nothing about him screamed ostentation, yet he exuded power and wealth.
‘And you?’ he surprised her by asking.
Tilly almost lost her footing, but she righted herself before he felt the need to intervene. ‘What about me?’
Out of nowhere she thought of Cressida. Cressida who was so visibly similar to her that Tilly had thought she was looking into a mirror the first time they’d met. Their red hair was long, their eyes green, their skin a similar colour—though Tilly’s tanned more easily. They were both of medium height, and though Tilly was naturally more curvaceous, Cressida had bought breast and rear enhancements two years earlier, making their figures almost matching.
‘I gather you’ve made an art form out of living fast and loose?’
Tilly frowned. As always, a whip of sorrow for the billion-dollar heiress flayed her. True, Cressida’s lifestyle was a masterpiece in modern-day debauchery, but Tilly somehow just understood her. And there was a lot more to the glamorous fashionista than partying. If only she’d let anyone see it.
‘Not really,’ she heard herself say. ‘The papers don’t always give me a fair shake.’
Now it was Rio’s turn to slow. He angled his face to study her profile. ‘Papers make up stories, but photos never lie.’
Her heart thumped hard against her chest. Had he seen photos of her? Could he tell the difference? For, as much as she and Cressida were uncannily similar, they were not the same person, and it was easy to see the differences when you set your mind to looking.
Though Tilly had an answer ready for that. She wasn’t wearing more than the bare minimum of make-up, and Cressida was never papped without a full face. Even her morning coffee run was completed in full glamour style. It was completely plausible to explain away the slight differences in their appearance by claiming a lack of cosmetic help. At least to a man, surely?
‘I think people look at photos of celebrities and see what they’re looking for,’ she said softly. ‘I could leave a nightclub at three in the morning, stone-cold sober, arm in arm with a guy I’ve been friends with for years, and the next thing you know I’m drunk and three months pregnant with his baby.’
She rolled her eyes, her outrage at such misreporting genuine. She’d personally placed enough calls to Art’s solicitor, lodging complaints and libel suits, to know how frequently Cressida was photographed and lambasted for something that was perfectly innocent.
‘Am
