Royally Bedded, Regally Wedded. Julia JamesЧитать онлайн книгу.
was a soft, deadly snarl ‘—thinks they are going to dig any dirt on him, they are—’
He could hear the wariness in the other man’s voice as he interrupted.
‘I wouldn’t call it dirt, Rico. But I would…’ he paused minutely ‘…call it trouble. Seriously big trouble.’
Emotion splintered through Rico.
‘Dio, Paolo is dead. His broken body got pulled from the wreckage of a car over four years ago.’
Pain stabbed him. Even now he could not bear to think about, to remember, how Paolo—the golden prince, the only one of his father’s three sons who had ever won his parents’ indulgence—had been snuffed out before he was even twentytwo. Like a bright flame extinguished by the dark.
The news had devastated the family. Even Luca had wept openly at the funeral, where the two of them had been the chief pallbearers who had carried their young brother’s blackswathed coffin into the cathedral on that unbearable day.
And now, years later, some slimeball hack dared to write some kind of sleaze about Paolo.
‘What kind of trouble?’ he demanded icily. On the desk, his hand fisted more tightly.
There was a distinct pause, as if Jean-Paul were mentally gathering courage. Then he spoke.
‘It’s about the girl who was in the car crash with him…’
Rico froze.
‘What girl?’ he asked slowly, as every drop of blood in his veins turned to ice.
Haltingly, Jean-Paul told him.
CHAPTER ONE
‘OH MYdarling, oh my darling, oh my darling Benjy-mine—You are mucky, oh, so mucky, so it’s Benjy’s bathy-time.’
Lizzy chirruped away, pushing the laden buggy along the narrow country lane as dusk gathered in the hedgerows. Crows were cawing overhead in the trees near the top of the hill, and the last light of day dwindled in the west, towards the sea, half a mile back down the coombe. It was still only late spring, and primroses gleamed palely in the verges and clustered in the long grass of the lower part of the hedge. The upper part was made of stunted beech, its branches slanted by the prevailing west wind off the Atlantic, which, even now, was combing along the lane and whipping her hair into yet more of a frizz—though she’d fastened it back as tightly as she could. But what did she care about her awful hair, charity shop clothes and total lack of looks? Ben didn’t, and he was all she cared about in the world.
‘Not mucky, Mummy. Sandy,’ Ben corrected her, craning his head round reprovingly in the buggy.
‘Mucky with sand,’ compromised Lizzy.
‘Keep singing,’ instructed Ben.
She obeyed. At least Ben was an uncritical audience. She had no singing voice at all, she knew, but for her four-year-old son that was not a problem. Nor was it a problem that everything he wore, and all his toys—such as they were—came from jumble sales or from charity shops in the local Cornish seaside town.
Nor was it a problem that he had no daddy, like most other children seemed to have.
He’s got me, and that’s all he needs, Lizzy thought fiercely, her hands gripping the buggy handles as she pushed it along up the steepening road, hastening her pace slightly. It was growing late, and therefore dark, but Ben had been enjoying himself so much on the beach, even though it was far too cold yet to swim, that she had stayed later than she had intended.
But its proximity to the beach had been the chief reason that Lizzy had bought the tiny cottage, despite its run-down condition, eleven months ago, after selling her flat in the London suburbs. It was much better to bring a child up in the country.
Her face softened.
Ben. Benedict.
Blessed.
That was what his name meant, and it was true—oh, so true! He had been blessed with life against all the odds, and she had been blessed with him. No mother, she knew, could love her child more than she did.
Not even a birth mother.
Grief stabbed at her with a familiar pain. Maria had been so young. Far too young to leave home, far too young to be a model, far too young to get pregnant and far too young to die. To be smashed to pieces in a hideous pile-up on a French motorway before she was twenty.
Lizzy’s eyes were pierced with sorrow. Maria—so lovely, so pretty. The original golden girl. Her long blonde hair, her wide-set blue eyes and angelic smile. Her slender beauty had been the kind of beauty that turned heads.
And sold clothes.
Their parents had been aghast when Maria had bounded in from school, still in her uniform, and told them that she’d been spotted by a scout for a modelling agency. Lizzy had been despatched to chaperon the eighteen-year-old Maria when she went up to the West End for her try-out shoot. The two girls had reacted very differently to the experience, Lizzy recalled. Maria had been ecstatic, instantly looking completely at home in the fashionable milieu, while Lizzy couldn’t have felt more out of place or more awkward—as if she were contaminated by some dreadful disease.
Lizzy knew what that disease was. She’d known it ever since her blue-eyed, golden-haired sister had been born, two years after her, when, overnight, she had become supremely unimportant to her parents. Her sole function had been to look out for Maria. And that was what she’d done. Walked Maria to school, stayed late at clubs Maria had belonged to, helped her with her homework and then, later, with exam revision. Although Maria, being naturally clever, had not, so her parents had often reminded her, needed much help from her—especially as Lizzy’s own exam results had hardly been dazzling. But then, who had expected them to be dazzling? No one. Just as no one had expected her to make any kind of mark in the world at all. And because of that, and because going to college cost money, Lizzy had not gone to college. The pennies had been put by to see Maria through university.
But all their hopes had been ruined—Maria had been offered a modelling contract. She’d been over the moon, telling her parents that she could always go to university later, and pay for it herself out of her earnings. Her parents had not been pleased, they had looked forward to spending their money on Maria.
‘Well, now you can pay for Lizzy to go to college instead,’ Maria had said. ‘You know she always wanted to go.’
But it had been ridiculous to think of that. At twenty, Lizzy had been too old to be a student, and not nearly bright enough. Besides, they’d needed Lizzy to work in the corner shop that her father owned, in one of London’s outer suburbs.
‘Lizzy, leave home,’ Maria had urged, the first time she’d come back after starting her new career. ‘They treat you like a drudge like some kind of lesser mortal. Come up to London and flat with me. It’s a hoot, honestly. Loads of fun and parties. I’ll get you glammed up, and we can—’
‘No.’ Lizzy’s voice had been sharp.
Maria had meant it kindly. For all her parents’ attention to her she had never been spoilt, and her warm, sunny nature had been as genuine as her golden looks. But what she’d suggested would have been unbearable. The thought of being the plain, lumpy older sister dumped in a flat full of teenage models who all looked as beautiful as Maria had been hideous.
But she should have gone, she knew. Had known as soon as that terrible, terrible call had come, summoning her to the hospital in France where Maria had been taken.
If she’d been living with Maria surely she’d have found out about the affair she’d started? Perhaps even been able to stop it? Guilt stabbed her. At least she’d have known who Maria was having an affair with.
Which would have meant—she glanced down at Ben’s fair head—she would have known who had got her pregnant.
But she did not know and now she would never know.
She