‘I don’t want either of us to get in the way of the waitstaff,’ he argued.
Of course there was another reason. Everyone with a smartphone was a member of the paparazzi these days, and shots of the Pirate Prince were priceless. How much more so, when the man in question appeared to be on the point of embarking on yet another affair? This was not the sort of thing he wanted his countrymen to see. They’d had enough upheaval, and must already be dreading the day when Prince Pietro’s demon brother moved back home to take the throne.
‘What brings you to Saint-Tropez?’ he asked Samia. In unguarded moments, there appeared to be more than a backpack weighing her down.
‘The name Saint-Tropez is magical, thanks to the film star Brigitte Bardot, who was just eighteen when she married the dangerously handsome Roger Vadim back in the fifties. They were lovers before I was born, but everyone knows their story and how they brought glamour to a small fishing village in the South of France. Who could resist that story?’
‘Me,’ he said bluntly. ‘I see the place for what it is—a bustling, successful town.’
‘You’re a realist,’ she confirmed.
‘And you’re a romantic, it would appear.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Less than five years after they married, your glamorous couple divorced.’
‘Don’t spoil it,’ she scolded. ‘Why can’t you think about the happiness they shared instead?’
‘Because, as you pointed out, I’m a realist.’ But he did enjoy this woman’s company. ‘Doesn’t your romantic life ever hit the skids?’
‘Can we remain on topic, please?’
Her expression changed. Blood drained from her face. The dreamy expression had left her eyes. She looked almost frightened. ‘What can of worms did I just open?’ he enquired, pinning her with a shrewd stare.
‘The one that says I’m hungry as well as thirsty...’
He didn’t believe her for a moment, but they’d only known each other five minutes, which was far too soon for true confessions. ‘How much time did you spend planning this trip?’
‘It was a spur-of-the-moment decision,’ she admitted.
‘Who doesn’t need a time-out occasionally?’ he agreed. By taking things slowly, he might find out more about her.
‘I’m happy to go wherever the wind takes me.’
He didn’t believe that either. Everyone had some sort of plan. As she glanced at the door she’d used to come in, he wondered if she was running from something...or someone, and if the mark from the ring played a part in that. She hid it well, but she was jittery, reminding him of one of his highly strung polo ponies: always loyal, always willing, always ready to bolt. Beneath Samia’s engaging personality, there was a story, and he wanted to know what that story was.
‘So you always make a plan before you do anything?’ She raised a brow. ‘In that case, why should I believe that you just happen to be here, propping up the bar without good reason?’
If he told her he’d come to meet the man who had adopted his brother’s child, would she believe him? Both the surrogate his brother had used and her husband wanted nothing from Luca, other than for him to know that his dead brother’s child was safe and loved, and that they would never put a claim forward to the throne of Madlena.
Why would they? Maria, the child’s mother, had demanded. Who in their right mind would choose to be royal?
Who indeed?he’d thought at the time, knowing only too well the restrictions that would place on the child.
Maria had decided not to go through with the surrogacy, she had explained, and had told his brother this before Pietro’s death. Her husband was in full agreement. The child was theirs and needed no royal connections to improve his lot. What had hurt Luca the most was that Pietro hadn’t felt able to share his longing for a family, and he blamed himself for being away while his brother had nursed this sad wound. All he could do for Pietro now was to keep his brother’s secret. The people of Madlena needed reassurance, not another upheaval. ‘I came here to settle some family business,’ he told Samia.
‘I think you’re a bit of a romantic on the quiet,’ she observed, smiling warmly. ‘Family is—or should be—everything.’
There was a wistful note in her voice as she said this. ‘It is to me,’ he confirmed, more curious than ever about her backstory.
‘Are you far from home? Judging by your accent, you’re not French.’
‘I sailed here,’ he reminded her, ‘I could have come from anywhere, but I guess my voice and my name tell their own story?’
‘It’s more about the tone of your voice,’ she mused, eyes half-closed. ‘Rich dark treacle with husky bass overtones...’
A laugh burst out of him. ‘If I had a clue what you’re talking about.’
