The Royal House of Niroli: Innocent Mistresses: Expecting His Royal Baby / The Prince's Forbidden Virgin. Robyn DonaldЧитать онлайн книгу.
which was enough in itself to keep him away. He had built up his own architectural practice in London free from royal privilege or favour and could state categorically that everything he owned he had earned.
He had been drunk on adrenalin when he’d landed, feeling invincible because he’d survived against the odds the highest jump without oxygen ever recorded, but calm reason had kicked in reminding him that, like any emotion, euphoria was a dangerous deception; it clouded the mind.
Tucking his helmet under his arm, he started forward with his usual purposeful stride. He couldn’t account for the insatiable force driving him. He’d had a happy childhood, idyllic compared to most, with a mother who adored him and poured all her love into the family. Perhaps that was it, Nico thought, halting at a point where he and the ambassador could have some privacy, perhaps men like him came with an inborn gene that insisted they must break away from everything that was feminine and soft and loving and drive themselves to the limit just to know they were alive. His father had done this, taking his yacht to the limit of its capabilities, killing himself along with his brother and sister-in-law. It was a miracle his mother had survived and was a lesson he would never forget.
As the ambassador approached Nico ordered himself to go easy on the man, but there could be no compromise. He might be the grandson of the king, but he neither asked for nor expected any favours. ‘Ambassador?’ he said curtly as the portly man arrived.
‘You recognised me …’ The ambassador gave a nervous laugh.
‘Of course.’ Nico’s voice was clipped and controlled. As always he was polite, toning down his need to know in deference to the other man’s advanced age. ‘My mother?’
‘Is quite well, sir. Your grandfather too….’
Nico’s brow furrowed. Why the hesitation? As if he didn’t know. ‘His Majesty wishes to see me.’ It was a statement rather than a question. Nico never wasted his breath on unnecessary questions.
‘That is correct, sir.’
The ambassador was distracted briefly by the whoops of celebration from other skydivers in the competition. Nico’s had been a landslide victory, but he remained unmoved, his thoughts hidden behind his slate-blue gaze.
As he stroked one hand across the sun-bleached hair he kept aggressively short, Nico had no idea how intimidating he appeared to the older man. Lean and tanned from working outside in all weather, Nico Fierezza towered a good six inches over the ambassador. It didn’t matter that an architectural scheme had been conceived in the clinical surroundings of his high-tech office—Nico liked to see his cutting-edge designs up close. So while the ambassador’s hands were soft and white, Nico’s were weather-beaten and rough, and the ambassador hardly seemed to have a beard in contrast to Nico’s black, piratical stubble. But the ambassador worked for a wily monarch and was used to handling every type of situation. He had recovered from his trot across the airfield and his shrewd grey eyes missed nothing. He rested super alert like a pulsing brain as Nico began to speak.
‘Please tell His Majesty that I will attend him the moment my business allows.’
As a cheer went up and calls rang out for Nico to join the other men on the podium he made a holding gesture with the flat of his hand.
The ambassador weighed the facts. Nico Fierezza was easily the best of all the men there. Surely, he must be feeling the same charge they did, the same adrenalin rush? And yet he appeared to be in no hurry to join the celebrations and there was no hint of self-congratulation in his expression. He’d heard this grandson to the king was a stranger to emotion, and it seemed the rumours were true. Nothing could have suited his purpose better. King Giorgio was eager to put an heir in place before his health deteriorated further, and this man had all the qualities they looked for in a monarch. He put duty first and chose to reveal nothing to the outside world. There wasn’t a woman alive who could cause Nico Fierezza embarrassment. The ambassador maintained his impassive expression, but inwardly he was already celebrating.
‘Please apologise to His Majesty,’ Nico continued, ‘and tell him that I will attend him in Niroli at the earliest opportunity.’
The ambassador dipped his head. compromise was an easy thing with victory in sight. ‘His Majesty will understand. He has empowered me to ask you to attend him at a time convenient to yourself.’
The hint of a smile fed into Nico’s stern gaze. Since when had King Giorgio been any more accommodating than he was? His grandfather had to be desperate to see him if he was prepared to wait. ‘It may be one week, or two,’ he said, ‘but no longer than that.’
‘That’s excellent news,’ the ambassador said. ‘I’m sure His Majesty will be delighted.’ A flicker in Nico’s eyes warned him not to overstate the case. ‘Perhaps if we could settle on a date,’ he added.
‘I’ll let you know.’ Nico’s voice had turned hard. His message was clear: one concession was enough for today. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Ambassador …’
As he strode away Nico didn’t see the ambassador dip into the type of bow he normally reserved for the king.
CHAPTER ONE
THERE WAS A single white rose on a coffin splattered with raindrops….
It made Carrie sad to see the tender bloom lying on the brass plate that spoke to a world that would never read it: the name of an aunt who had never loved her. But love could not be controlled at will, and Carrie had loved her aunt in spite of the woman’s rejection of her. Sad as she was, Carrie was glad there were some things words could never destroy and that love was one of them.
‘Carrie Evans?’
Carrie turned to find a man standing behind her. He was sheltering beneath the oily spread of a black umbrella, which made the shadows on his saturnine face all the deeper, adding to his air of gloom. There were only four people at her aunt’s funeral other than herself—the minister and three undertakers—and it was hard to feel brave as the small group peeled away to allow her some privacy. Lifting up her chin, she gazed squarely into the face of the man. ‘I’m Carrie Evans. Can I help you?’
‘Sorry, miss … I tried the house.’
Carrie didn’t know the man, but she could guess what he had come for. He was here to serve papers evicting her from her aunt’s house on the instructions of relatives who hadn’t been to visit Aunt Mabel in Carrie’s living memory. A solicitor had rung her yesterday to explain.
Yesterday, the day when everything in her life had changed for good….
Carrie was twenty-five, but she looked much younger. Her complexion was pale and she dressed conservatively, keeping her luxuriant hair scraped back neatly in a practical twist. She found the lush tresses an embarrassment. Her natural hair colour was a rich golden red that painters called titian, and she believed it better suited to an actress or a glamour model. She had even thought about dying her hair a pale shade of brown, but the upkeep would have been too much on a secretary’s salary. Her eyes were large and cornflower-blue and were perhaps her most expressive feature. Widely set and fringed with sable lashes, they were quick to darken with emotion, but could turn steely when there was something or someone to defend.
The man addressing Carrie saw a capable young woman, a little too plump to ever be called stylish, but determined, nonetheless, he concluded.
‘I have already cleared my belongings from my late aunt’s house,’ she told him without rancour, ‘and as soon as we’re finished here I will collect my suitcase and deliver the house keys to my aunt’s solicitor….’
She couldn’t do any more, and he felt some sympathy for her. He’d heard she had nowhere to go since her aunt’s heirs had turned up and laid claim to the house where she lived. ‘You’re so well organised,’ he said, trying to soften the blow for her, ‘I hardly need to give you this….’
‘I think you do,’ she told him.
Her tone was serious and exposed his