Greek’s Royal Runaway
Trish Morey
PROLOGUE
TWO HOURS OUTof Sydney the small jet banked, jolting Theo Mylonakos’ attention from the photographs he was studying. He looked out the window, his gaze snared by the tiny speck of emerald amidst the sea of sparkling sapphire.
Lord Howe Island.
Tropical islands ordinarily held no attraction for him, but this one was different. His eyes narrowed as the plane grew closer, taking in the way the island cradled a coral-fringed bay, the twin mountains at one end looming so high over the peaks at the other, one might wonder why the weight didn’t send the island toppling over and spinning to the bottom of the ocean.
And somewhere down there, pretending to be an everyday nobody rather than a member of one of Europe’s oldest royal families, his quarry was hiding, Princess Isabella d’Montcroix, no doubt congratulating herself that she’d managed to evade those looking for her for the best part of six weeks.
Her brother, Prince Rafael, had led them to believe that the Princess was simply that—a typical twenty-something princess. Refined. Demure.Innocent.And when he looked at the photographs of the pretty hazel-eyed blonde, he’d believed what he’d been told, that she was your everyday princess, living in a privileged bubble filled with parties and balls and designer everything, and most of all, without an ounce of street smarts. Exactly why he’d delegated to his trusted operatives the task of finding her and delivering her home, until all attempts to find her had failed and it was clear he’d have to chase her down himself. Nobody had entertained any idea the Princess had the slightest clue about staying out of sight and eluding those searching for her for so long.
If he had to admit it, he held a grudging admiration for the way she’d done it, never staying in one place long enough to be noticed, jumping sideways and backward in her travels and always one infuriating step ahead, this latest move the most audacious, the most surprising.
But at the same time, she’d outsmarted herself, and the time for admiration, along with the hunt, was over. He had his prey all but in his sights. An island that hosted no more than four hundred guests at one time along with a handful of locals and casual workers.
And as the plane came in to land, the blood in his veins pumped fast and furious.
He had her.
CHAPTER ONE
ISABELLA CYCLED ALONGthe palm-lined road leading from the café where she’d just finished her third lunch shift waiting tables, unable to stop a grin from splitting her face. Her third shift in a row, and now she’d been asked to do both lunch and dinner tomorrow!
She couldn’t believe it. She, Princess Isabella d’Montcroix, actually had a job and was working.Reallyworking at arealjob, just like a normal person, and she hadn’t messed up. Sure, they didn’t know she was a princess, and in truth, she’d had to work at it. Memorising table numbers and orders and working out how to stack a table full of plates on one arm and not drop them on the way back to the kitchen while she was being yelled at by Chef to hurry up had almost done her head in—but she’d survived, and now she was being rewarded with more shifts.
Dappled sunlight played through the shadows, brief flashes of light amongst the twilight of the lush rainforest surrounds allowing glimpses of the cerulean lagoon to one side. It had rained this morning, a light shower that coupled with the day’s sunshine, had heightened the earthy rainforest scent. Izzy breathed deeply of the heady combination of forest floor with the lagoon’s salt air, a smell she would forever associate with the smell of freedom, and she grinned some more. Finally, she could feel the tension of the last few weeks slip away.
Finally, she was starting to believe that she was safe and could stop looking over her shoulder every other minute.
Hopefully for long enough to enjoy it.
But more than that, hopefully long enough to convince her brother to abandon his abhorrent plan to marry her off to one of his cronies.
Because there was no way she was going home until he did.
A van trundled past at the requisite twenty-five-kilometres-per-hour island speed limit, the driver lifting a hand to her as he passed. Jack, she realised, the owner of the café, on his way to meet the afternoon plane to pick up fresh fruit and vegetable supplies. She waved back, her heart skipping a beat as the bike wobbled, before she replaced her hand on the handlebars, steadying both her heart rate and the bike. Riding a bike had been another challenge, but here on the island, it was either that or walk, and she was rapidly conquering this new learned skill too, discovering muscles she’d never realised she had as she turned her bicycle up the road heading up the hill and away from the lagoon, towards the row of cabins let out to the casual workers who serviced the island’s resort and hostel labour needs. Backpackers like they assumed she was, just another tourist from Europe working a few weeks or months to replenish travel funds before once more, moving on.
She jumped off when she met the steep path leading to her cabin, pushing her bike past pink and red flowering hibiscus bushes and waving to her neighbours, Sven and Inga relaxing on their small balcony. That was another thing she loved about the island. Everybody waved and said hello, whether you were a casual worker, a tourist or one of the sprinkling of island residents who’d lived on the island for generations.
‘Come and join us,’ said Inga, holding up her bottle of lager. ‘We’re celebrating surviving the climb up Mt Gower.’
‘You did it?’ Izzy asked, parking her bike against her veranda railing and unclipping her helmet. She had hair to colour tonight, part of the disguise she’d assumed to camouflage her blonde hair, but that could wait a little longer. Right now she wanted to hear about her neighbours’ climb. The island boasted dozens of bush walks through its kentia palm and banyan tree subtropical rainforest coverage, with the eight-plus-hour return hike up the nearly kilometre-high mountain the number one challenge.
‘Congratulations,’ she said, pulling up a chair beside them as Inga pulled a beer from a six-pack and handed it to her.
Izzy smiled as she clinked longnecks with her neighbours before taking a sip of the amber liquid straight from the bottle. Another new skill she’d acquired since being in Australia. Her brother would be horrified if he could see her right now, and that made her smile widen. ‘So tell me, what was it like?’
‘Amazing,’ Inge said. ‘You have to do it. The views are breathtaking.’
Sven nodded after taking a long swallow. ‘It’s tough, but worth it. You should definitely do it while you’re here.’
‘I will,’ she said, excited at the prospect and loving the buzz of being able to decide what she wanted to do and then simply go do it without an entire palace deciding on whether or not it was an appropriate occupation for a princess before then planning it down to the tiniest detail, right down to laying out the appropriate outfit she should wear. It was liberating, this new freedom. Intoxicating. Addictive. ‘I am definitely going to do that,’ she said, making a promise to herself and sealing the deal with another sip of her beer. ‘Cheers.’
Later that evening Isabella applied a fresh layer of chalk to her hair. She’d read that the best way to disguise yourself was not necessarily to add glasses or another disguise, but to take something away. She was taking away the platinum blonde, which was far too Princess Isabella for her liking. And now that every second woman seemed to have brightly coloured hair, nobody looked twice at hers. Job done, she checked out her hair in the mirror, now red and purple with the odd strip of teal. She smiled. Perfect. Nobody would guess she was a princess.
