THE AIR RANG blue with curses, leaving no one in any doubt that Prince Cesar of Ardente Sestieri was beyond furious.
‘Understandable, Your Royal Highness,’ Dom placated as he bent to remove the newspaper from Cesar’s desk.
‘Leave it!’ Cesar thundered. ‘My apologies,’ he added grimly. ‘This is not your fault.’
With a brief nod of acknowledgement at a rare climb-down by the Prince, Dom made himself scarce at the back of the room.
And still his presence continued to irritate Cesar. Maybe it was Dom’s excessively obsequious behaviour lately. Royalty had staff. That was a given. Trusted staff were party to every aspect of Cesar’s life. It was a boon he never took for granted, though right now he wished himself back in the army where he could trust his comrades with his life, and where he could take out his frustration on a daily basis with mind-and body-stretching exercises, without anyone knowing what he was thinking.
‘The article is...upsetting,’ Dom ventured from the shadows.
‘You think that piece of garbage upset me?’ he asked his aide with incredulity.
Snatching up the tabloid, he flung it down again in disgust. He’d skim-read the article that claimed to have been written by Sofia Acosta. In her spare time, presumably, which he happened to know had been non-existent. Blake had gone too far this time. But where the hell was she? It was Sofia’s absence that was sending him into a rage. Concern for her that made his blood boil. The article was nothing more than a scurrilous piece of filth that he refused to dignify with a comment.
Why had she left without telling him where she was going? Why hadn’t she woken him?
‘It’s hard to believe Signorina Acosta would write something like this,’ Dom murmured at a level where he had to strain to hear him.
‘Impossible,’ he snapped.
Where was his control? What had happened to regal manners? All the niceties of life had deserted him around the same time as Sofia. As for the article, the author, whoever that might be, had gone for the jugular this time, crediting Cesar with a harem of imaginary lovers to rival the seraglio of Genghis Khan. It would take around three lifetimes for him to satisfy so many women. And, no, he refused to give it a try.
Whoever had written the article had stepped well over the line, insinuating that his relationship with Sofia was nothing more than a ruse planned by Sofia to ensnare him. She would never write such trash. The florid tone employed in the article was enough to clear her of guilt. No, this had come from the pen of some evil fantasist with a grudge and expensive tastes. The claims were so ridiculous they suggested that whoever was behind the plot to discredit him was fast becoming desperate.
‘File a flight plan to Spain,’ he instructed Dom. ‘I’m leaving today.’
‘In the middle of training?’ Dom enquired with surprise.
‘I’ll be back before you know it.’ The man was really starting to annoy him. Dom had never questioned Cesar’s decisions before.
‘But the newspaper owner lives in Mayfair,’ Dom pointed out, staring at him keenly.
‘He’s next on my list.’
‘May I ask who’s first?’
‘No,’ he said flatly. He’d had enough of Dom’s intrusive change of manner. ‘You may not.’
‘Okay. Hand it over,’ Sofia demanded as she took in the scene in the ranch house kitchen.
Cesar’s aide, Domenico de Sufriente, was seated at the table, pounding his laptop, and leapt up guiltily when she walked into the room. He must have been confident she was on her way home. In fact, the cab ride to the airport had been long enough to figure out that there was another possible leak for Sofia to investigate, and that it was much closer to home.
Drawing himself up with affront, Dom pursed his mouth ‘Hand over what, may I ask?’
‘Your laptop,’ Sofia said briskly.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Straightening his tie, Cesar’s equerry laughed, and it was a mean, sarcastic little laugh, Sofia registered. ‘I don’t think so,’ he sneered.
As he was standing, she took her chance to glance at the screen. ‘Howard Blake?’ she queried, heart pounding as her suspicions were confirmed. ‘You’re sending an email to Howard Blake?’ She pretended incomprehension. ‘What on earth for? What can you possibly have to say to him? Were you perhaps warning him that I was on my way?’
‘Is it customary where you come from to read people’s mail?’ he enquired cuttingly.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever done so before,’ she admitted, ‘and if you’ve nothing to hide, I can’t see why you’re making such a fuss.’
‘Why should I have anything to hide?’ Dom asked defensively as he slammed the lid of his laptop down. ‘Your imagination has got the better of you. Personally, I’m surprised you’ve got the nerve to come back after the trash you’ve written about Prince Cesar.’
‘Those were not my words, as you well know.’ Dom’s reddening cheeks suggested she’d caught him out. ‘I wrote one article, which was changed completely. I’m not a career journalist. I’m a rider and a painter and a—’
