The Wicked Prince Read online

  “How long do you anticipate the shelter on Kilakuru will be needed?”

  Frannie’s attention snapped to the queen. “For the tsunami survivors, another year, at least. However, if I can secure the funds, I’d like to keep the shelter running permanently. No similar facilities exist on the island or on any of its neighbors. I’d hate to see the investment made in the infrastructure go to waste.”

  “I agree, if there’s truly a need,” Vittorio said. “Otherwise the buildings should be turned over to the local government and used for other purposes.”

  The queen glanced at her son, then asked, “Where did orphaned children go before the tsunami?”

  “Relatives or neighbors usually took them in. However, with the economic impact of the tsunami, it’s a burden on those families, which means the children often feel unwanted at the very time they most need love. We observed several cases where children as young as nine or ten attempted to support themselves. You can imagine how that goes. Aside from the orphans, there are a number of children whose parents simply can’t care for them right now, given their financial situation. Until they can rebuild their businesses or permanently relocate, those families need our assistance.”

  Queen Fabrizia turned to the man she’d introduced as Mikhail, the chief financial officer of the Barrali Trust. “What are your budget concerns?”

  “The shelter’s employees aren’t highly paid, and several are volunteers. It may not be a sustainable staffing model.”

  “That was a conscious decision in order to devote more funds toward the facility itself,” Frannie explained to the queen. “There are a number of locals who volunteer, though we never know how many hours a week we’ll have them. For others, we pay a little over minimum wage and provide room and board at the shelter if they wish to stay there. For those who aren’t local, we also cover the cost of transportation to and from Kilakuru, plus we’ll provide one trip home per year if anyone stays over twelve months. So far, foreigners have been on three- to six-month cycles.”

  “Do you have a full staff now?”

  “We’re shorthanded, but managing.” It was a hard admission to make. If she had to come up with funds to pay larger salaries on top of covering employees’ housing and food, it could break the bank. “It’s important to me that the people who come are dedicated to the community. The island is a diver’s paradise, so we keep an open dialogue with Kilakuru’s tour operators about their regulars. We hope to find people who are familiar with local conditions and willing to come work for several months if it means they can dive to their heart’s content. It’s how we found our staff nurse.”

  “Resourceful.” The queen looked to Mikhail. A silent message passed between them.

  “Full operational support?” Mikhail asked. At the queen’s nod, he said, “The Barrali Trust contributed a half million euros toward Jack Gladwell’s rebuilding efforts on Kilakuru eighteen months ago. Much of that went toward the shelter’s construction. However, if Ms. Lawrence’s budget is accurate, enough remains in the discretionary fund to dedicate to the shelter’s operations for five years.”

  “In that case, please allocate the funds for one year. Ms. Lawrence shall discuss progress with you at the nine-month mark and if all appears satisfactory, we shall extend funding for an additional four years.” She turned to Frannie. “If that’s acceptable to you?”

  Frannie stifled a gasp. She hadn’t expected an answer today, let alone such a generous one. “That’s more than acceptable, Your Highness, it’s extremely kind. Your family’s donations have made a world of difference already. Knowing we can maintain a stable environment for Kilakuru’s children for the next five years is nothing short of a miracle.”

  “One year to start. Four more conditional on progress during the first year,” the queen reminded her. “We’re happy to do it. In fact, I may know a potential volunteer or two. I’ll have Mikhail notify you if so.”

  “That would be very helpful, Your Highness.”

  The queen stood and Vittorio followed suit. Frannie shook both their hands and promised to use their donation as efficiently as possible.

  “I have every confidence in you.” The queen’s warm smile went all the way to her soft green eyes. Though in her sixties, the Barrali family matriarch could pass for a woman in her forties. Her soft pink dress accentuated a lean figure, and she kept her hair in a modern cut that suited her heart-shaped face and delicate features. Sophia had complained to Frannie on more than one occasion that her mother could run farther and faster than she could, no matter how diligently Sophia exercised. More than her dedication to fitness, however, it was the queen’s confidence that gave her the glow of youth.

  “Thank you.”

  “Mikhail will work out the financial details with you. Then I believe Sophia is planning to take you to lunch?”

  “She is. She told me she’d meet me here in twenty minutes.”

  “I’m so glad the two of you have maintained your friendship over the years. It means a great deal to her.”

  “And to me.”

  Once the queen and Prince Vittorio took their leave, Mikhail went over the logistics of the disbursements with Frannie, then left her to explore the spacious library until Sophia arrived. The long, rectangular room was spectacular. Soaring windows overlooked the palace’s famous gardens, where wide gravel paths snaked between low boxwood hedges surrounding beds of roses in full bloom. Benches tucked into the boxwood offered quiet spots for reflection. In the center of the garden, a fountain sprayed jets of water.

  Tempting as it was to linger by the windows, Frannie’s attention was drawn to the library itself. Opposite the windows, elegant shelves held thousands of books. She trailed her fingers along the polished wood and studied the spines. Though the expected leather-bound classics were present, works from contemporary authors occupied most of the space. Mysteries, romances, and thrillers appeared to be the royal family’s favorites. Biographies and well-thumbed travelogues also occupied several shelves. The magic of the library rested in its wondrous Impressionist paintings displayed in the gaps between the bookshelves, the colors so vivid Frannie put a hand to her chest as she looked at them one by one. She paused in front of a work she’d noticed when she’d first entered the library, a smaller canvas of a young girl reading in the grass. A wildflower tucked behind her ear shone in a lively yellow against her dark hair. Her shoes lay off to the side and her stockinged feet were stretched behind her. The girl looked utterly at peace.

  Frannie’s mouth dropped into a soft sigh as she stepped back and admired the artist’s technique. “You look like a Berthe Morisot! Amazing.”

  “It is a Morisot.”

  Frannie whipped around at the sound of the rich male voice. “Prince Vittorio. I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

  Her heart dropped to her stomach as she got a good look at the man leaning against a windowsill behind her. He wore gray slacks and a blue shirt in the same shade as the sky behind him. A silvery-blue tie was partially hidden by his arms, which he’d crossed over his chest…a rather firm chest. He’d entered the library so quietly she hadn’t heard him, yet his presence permeated the room. “My apologies, Prince Alessandro.”

  “You’re observant. Even our parents confuse us on first glance now and then.”

  “Your brother was here a few minutes ago and he was in a suit.” There were other differences—the tousle of his dark hair, for starters—but she wasn’t about to enumerate them.

  One side of his mouth lifted, then she caught the same wicked glint in his eye he’d had the night of the Christmas party. This time, he made no effort to hide it. “You knew anyway. I’d suspect you’d know who was who if we both stood here naked.”

  She shrugged, not trusting herself to respond. Definitely not picturing him naked. The man was devastatingly attractive. All firm jaw, rich olive skin, and broad shoulders. Problem was, he knew it. His stance radiated the confidence one only encountered when face-to-face with an extremely good-looking man,
one who needed only to enter a room for women’s heads to turn and pulses to leap.

  Looking at him now, it bothered her all over again that she’d danced with him while hundreds of people watched and secretly snapped photos, all the while believing him to be Prince Vittorio. Even if he had a good reason for pretending to be his brother, she felt—betrayed wasn’t the right word—insulted. Belittled.

  “I thought you didn’t like art. Yet you recognized an unsigned Morisot.”

  “I never said I didn’t like art. I said I managed only one art history class while at the Sorbonne.” She remembered their conversation at the bar as if it had taken place yesterday. It surprised her that he did, too, given that it’d taken place a year and a half ago. “And I wasn’t positive it was Morisot. I simply thought it was her style.”

  “You thought accurately.” He rose from the windowsill and closed the distance between them. His gaze went to the painting, then to her. For the first time, she noticed a light scar under his left eye. The lights weren’t so dim at the Christmas party that she wouldn’t have seen it, yet she didn’t remember it.

  He caught her looking. “Did you know it was me at the Christmas party?”

  “No.”

  He studied her for a beat, then his dark brows knit. “Why did you ask Vittorio so many questions about me?”

  “Your family has a long charitable tradition. You have a predilection for far-flung travel. Given those two facts, I thought you might be interested in doing some real, hands-on philanthropic work. I wanted Vittorio’s impression of your suitability for such a task. Apparently, you aren’t. Suitable, that is.”

  He moved another step closer. She could feel the heat of his skin and see the golden striations in his rich brown eyes. She wanted to look away, but sensed that doing so would be a mistake.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard the words predilection, philanthropic, and suitability used all in one breath,” he said. “Enlighten me. Why am I unsuitable for philanthropic work?”

  “First, because you lied to me.”

  His eyes widened in mock offense. “Lied, Francesca?”

  “You claimed to be Vittorio. And you know it’s Frannie.” He’d called her Francesca on purpose. Again, she wasn’t sure whether to be honored he’d remembered or galled at the way he used the information.

  “It wasn’t personal. I lied to everyone. In the end, my brother and I explained to the world what we’d done and why. He’s a better crown prince for it, and Sarcaccia is better for it.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you danced with me twice. You knew what people would think.”

  A smile reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat lit his features and he laid a hand on his heart. “Now I see. It’s not the lie that’s the problem. You thought Vittorio might be interested in you. You were embarrassed.”

  She shook her head, but before she could get a word out, he added, “Are you the charity case? If so, you should know that I’m very good at hands-on.”

  Chapter 3

  “You’re abominable.” Shock at what he’d said—and then at what she’d said, right to the prince’s face—had her forming fists at her sides. It took her a moment to add, “Your Highness.”

  “You’re lying to yourself. You were dressed to blend in that night, but when you stood beside me at the bar, something motivated you to speak up.”

  “Altruism.”

  “Attraction.”

  He was too close, infringing on her personal space. Then his mouth was on hers, quick and hot and lush. Instinct made her gasp and step away, but his arm at her back prevented escape. He grinned, then kissed her again. This time, his tongue darted across the seam of her lips, urging her to open to him and respond in kind. All at once, she remembered what it was like to be in his arms. The pressure at her lower back as he’d spread his palm there when they’d danced. The warm, masculine scent of him teasing her senses. The daring attitude. The way they fit so perfectly.

  He kissed her like he meant it. As if his entire approach had been building toward this. As if he had been attracted to her that night. Because he was right…she had been attracted to Vittorio. To him. He’d appealed to the part of her that said it was okay to take a risk, to reach beyond her comfort zone and do something unexpected.

  And she was attracted to him now, despite everything common sense told her.

  She pressed her hands to his chest to push him away, but faltered as he smiled against her lips. A sudden, painful wave of desire made her want to open to him, to return the kiss—

  He released her at the same time she heard a female voice in the next room say, “I’ll find my mother after lunch. Thank you, Umberto.”

  Sophia.

  Alessandro stepped back, then gazed at the wall behind her with the same studious expression a man might have while strolling through an art museum on a quiet afternoon. Frannie put a hand to her cheek, certain her face burned.

  “Attraction,” he whispered before Sophia breezed into the library. The princess stopped short when she saw them and smiled.

  “Alessandro! I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I came to see Massimo.” He leaned against a nearby chair as he turned his attention to his younger sister. “Fortunately, I ran into Ms. Lawrence and we were able to catch up.”

  “You two know each other?” Sophia’s brow puckered, then she remembered. “The Christmas party you attended as Vittorio.” To Frannie, she said, “I still feel bad about not telling you afterward who it was you’d danced with.”

  “You shouldn’t. You were protecting your brother.” She didn’t note which brother.

  The princess’s gaze went past Frannie. “Were you looking at the paintings? That’s one of my favorites.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “She recognized it as a Morisot.”

  Sophie grinned at Alessandro’s comment. “I’m not surprised. Frannie’s one of the most observant people I know.”

  “I’m discovering that.”

  Frannie’s throat couldn’t constrict further if Alessandro had wrapped his hands around her neck and squeezed. Thankfully, Sophia saved her from speaking. “Shall we go? I have a patio table at Ristorante Villa Enrica and a driver ready to take us.”

  “That sounds divine. I love the view of the Mediterranean from there and haven’t been in years.” A glass of wine and the wash of a sea breeze across her face wouldn’t hurt, either.

  “Have a good afternoon with Massimo,” Sophia said to her brother before turning to lead the way out of the room.

  Frannie moved to follow, but Alessandro shifted as she passed, causing Frannie to brush against him. She didn’t miss his mischievous wink.

  She nearly made it to the door before a shiver ran through her. It only took a split second for his laughter to reach her ears.

  * * *

  Alessandro knocked on the door to Massimo’s palace apartment a second time. A low woof sounded from the interior, then nothing.

  “Gaspare, where’s Massimo?” he asked through the thick door. Alessandro had called when the yacht arrived at the marina to see if his younger brother would be available for lunch. Massimo had been out of the army for two years, but continued to run on military time. It wasn’t like him to miss an appointment.

  Alessandro pulled his phone from his pocket to check for messages. Sure enough, Massimo had begged off after receiving an urgent call from the veterans’ support center he and his wife, Kelly, had recently opened. They’d left to tend to the emergency.

  Great.

  The apartment door was unlocked, so Alessandro opened it and knelt to greet his brother’s dog, a massive Sarcaccian Shepherd. He massaged Gaspare’s dark head for a moment, then said, “Okay, boy, let’s find your leash. I’ll take you to the garden.”

  Alessandro had planned to ask Massimo how he’d found his footing in Sarcaccia after returning home from years abroad. Until he’d been injured in the line of duty, Massimo had been driven. Challenged. Off in foreign la
nds, intent on his mission, with allies at his side. The king had forbidden both Vittorio and Alessandro from entering the armed services in any capacity in which they might face combat conditions. Alessandro had secretly envied Massimo’s position…even as he feared for Massimo’s safety.

  When Massimo’s life had been upended, he’d found a new purpose at home. It’d taken time, but he’d done it. Now Alessandro needed one.

  Instead, he’d gone and kissed Miss Economics in the palace library.

  He never treated women—anyone—the way he’d treated Frannie. He might be a hellion at times, carousing with friends at all hours, but he wasn’t rude. Ever. What had possessed him to needle her, intentionally using her full name and teasing her about her formal vocabulary when it was obvious he’d made her uncomfortable?

  Then to kiss her?

  He swore aloud, then dropped to one of the benches in the empty garden and tipped his face toward the midday sun.

  When he’d entered the library on his way to Massimo’s apartment and spotted the slender brunette, it had caught him off guard. Rarely were guests alone in the palace. She stood in profile, staring up at the Morisot painting. Her hair was drawn into a businesslike bun at her nape, and she wore a modest navy dress and low heels, but there was an electricity about her that drew him. It had taken him only a moment to place her. Frannie-Not-Francesca, the woman from the Christmas party. The one who’d grilled him about Alessandro’s travels, believing she was speaking to Vittorio. The one with whom he’d shared two dances. He’d later uttered the phrase “stick-in-the-mud” when describing her to his twin as a great candidate for Vittorio’s future bride…before Alessandro realized that Vittorio had already met Emily, the woman of his dreams.

  A few heartbeats later, Alessandro realized that Frannie was oblivious to the fact she was no longer alone in the library. Her expression changed from intense concentration to rapture as she continued to study the painting. Intrigued, he’d moved to the windowsill, waiting for the right moment to make his presence known. When she identified the artist and gasped, he couldn’t help himself. She’d spun to face him, and he couldn’t stop the grin that had leaped to his face when she recognized him.