Stolen Nights with the King, page 1
Dear Reader,
Fairy tales gave me my first addictive taste of fiction—addressing subjects which were often forbidden to a child. Power. Jealousy. Ambition.
And the lengths to which people would go to achieve their heart’s desire...
Good fought evil in worlds very different from mine. Magical worlds—transformed by a word or the wave of a wand. Houses were made of gingerbread, and pumpkins became glittering carriages—while a frog was really a handsome prince!
It’s that transformative quality which underpins my grown-up fairy tale about Corso and Rosie, based on “Snow-White and Rose-Red” (spoiler: no dwarfs or wicked stepmothers!). Instead, two royal brothers—one with a childhood curse—pit their wits against two beautiful sisters.
The first story features Corso, who has ruthlessly eradicated all emotion, because a king cannot afford to be vulnerable. Can ordinary Rosie Forrester melt the ice surrounding his heart?
Yes...but only by magic. The most powerful magic of all.
You know what I mean. It’s around us all the time, but sometimes we don’t open our eyes wide enough to see it.
It’s called love.
Look out for Bianca’s story—coming soon...
Sharon xx
Sharon Kendrick once won a national writing competition by describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realize that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Harlequin, and her books feature often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life...
Books by Sharon Kendrick
Harlequin Presents
Cinderella in the Sicilian’s World
The Sheikh’s Royal Announcement
Cinderella’s Christmas Secret
One Night Before the Royal Wedding
Secrets of Cinderella’s Awakening
Confessions of His Christmas Housekeeper
Conveniently Wed!
His Contract Christmas Bride
Jet-Set Billionaires
Penniless and Pregnant in Paradise
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
Sharon Kendrick
Stolen Nights with the King
This book is dedicated to the amazing anthropologist Winifred Creamer, whom I was lucky enough to meet on a long-distance train journey in Australia (Darwin to Adelaide, if you’re interested!).
Her skill was in explaining the past and making it come alive with breathtaking clarity. It’s what helped make this story extra special.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EPILOGUE
EXCERPT FROM THE KISS SHE CLAIMED FROM THE GREEK BY ABBY GREEN
CHAPTER ONE
AGAINST THE GLARE of the beach, the man seemed to blaze more brightly than the sun. His tall body was bronzed. The sunlight caught his thick hair and gilded it with licks of fire, making him appear almost incandescent. But unlike everyone else on the beach, Rosie wasn’t particularly mesmerised by his presence. She wasn’t trying to get him to notice her, or stare at her. Mostly she was trying to melt into the background and pretend she wasn’t there, wishing she were back home in England.
She glanced across the sand, where everyone looked like models you might see within the pages of a glossy magazine. She’d always been taught to concentrate on the similarities rather than the differences between people, but here there were no similarities and never had she felt it more keenly than today. She was different from everyone else who frolicked on the fine-grained silver sand.
She wasn’t royal.
She wasn’t even well connected.
And she certainly wasn’t rich.
Fiddling with the strap of her black swimsuit, she continued to observe the action playing out on Monterosso’s most desirable stretch of beach, where the assembled gathering was paying homage to the man in their midst. The man with a mane of hair which some called russet, or titian, but was often described in gushing newspaper profiles as resembling dark fire. He exuded an aura of poise and power. Of arrogance and assurance. Every woman was in love with him and every man strove to be like him.
Corso.
Or, more accurately, Corso Andrea da Vignola, Prince and heir to the fabulous kingdom of Monterosso, with its casinos and nightclubs and the famous red mountain which had given the country its name.
Women wearing bikinis, which looked as if they had been constructed from dental floss, opened their glossy mouths and roared with laughter whenever the Prince spoke. They thrust out their perfect breasts and sucked in already concave stomachs as they unsubtly vied to capture his interest. They looked like thronging cattle in a market stall, Rosie thought in disgust, quickly quashing the thought that she might perhaps be jealous of them. Of course she wasn’t. For a period in her life she’d felt almost close to him, before time and circumstances had intervened. These days she felt as if she didn’t know him, apart from the fearsome reputation he seemed to have acquired in the press—the playboy with the heart of stone, they called him, although Rosie thought that was a bit cruel. Just because a man of twenty-five hadn’t chalked up much in the way of long-term relationships, didn’t necessarily mean he had a heart of stone, did it?
Her bottom pressing into the sand—for all the loungers had been taken and she was too shy to ask for another—she folded her arms around her knees, hoping the pose struck a confidence she was far from feeling. She wondered how much longer she was going to have to stay here with her head getting hotter and hotter beneath her cheap sunhat. Probably until Corso decided he wanted to leave—because it was forbidden for a guest to leave a function before the royal Prince.
Why had she come here?
She should have let the past go. Let it slip away like a silent stream, into the hidden backwaters of her mind.
She stared down at the grains of sand, which looked like crushed diamonds as they glittered in the sunshine. Had she been hoping to find a sense of peace, of belonging—here in this Mediterranean paradise where she had spent so many happy summers, before life had hurled a series of grenades into her life? Perhaps she had. But, like all daydreams, her hopes had dissolved the minute they’d made contact with reality. She had no place here, not really. Her imaginings had been nothing but illusions. Although her father had been considered Monterosso’s most respected archaeologist and the Prince’s favoured mentor, when it boiled down to it, he had been nothing more than a servant.
And she, a servant’s daughter.
‘Now, the question I am asking myself is what you’re doing over here, hiding away in the shadows like a lynx in the forest. Why aren’t you joining in with the party?’
Rosie was startled by the sound of a richly accented drawl, which had always been the most distinctive voice she’d ever heard. She glanced up to see Corso standing in front of her and quickly turned to look behind her to see who he was talking to, but there was nobody there.
‘Yes, I’m speaking to you, Rosie.’
His deep voice was tinged with amusement but it sounded as if it might be underpinned with a faint sense of impatience and Rosie realised that she must have looked the odd one out among all the supermodels, world-class sportswomen and other over-achieving females who were on the beach-party list. She should have listened to her sister, who had told her she would be insane to pitch up at one of the most glittering social events of the year, taking her hopelessly inadequate wardrobe with her. But Rosie had felt drawn back to Monterosso, as if she were being tugged there by an insistent and invisible string. Was that because some of her happiest times had been here, in this beautiful mountain kingdom—or because the current reality of her life was grey enough to make her want to lose herself in the past?
And, of course, Bianca had been right, because everything did seem strange and different—which was probably more to do with the way Rosie was feeling, rather than the way she looked. Had she imagined that she might have some sort of special bond with the Prince, just because he used to enjoy her mother’s chicken pie and had taught her how to tie knots? Because if she had, then surely that was the real insanity.
Once she might have chattered to him with the lack of inhibition of a child, but now she didn’t dare. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say. She shifted awkwardly, self-conscious of her under-developed body and how gauche she must seem compared to all the stunners who were draped across the sand. Which was why she stayed exactly where she was, unwilling to stand up and subject herself to the scrutiny of the royal Prince, who suddenly seemed like a stranger to her. How could it be that the man she had once regarded as a quasi-big brother—if their positions in life hadn’t been so dramatically different—now appeared so distant and remote? She could feel her cheeks growing hotter and she swallowed. If this was what growing up was about then she didn’t want it.
‘
‘Thank you,’ he responded, with a regal inclination of his head.
But his dark brows remained raised in question and Rosie realised to her horror that he might be expecting her to bow down before him. Was he? As a child, she had only ever curtseyed to his father, the King, and the Corso she had known would have loathed such formality. Cheeks still burning, she scrambled to her feet, painfully aware of the plain swimsuit which emphasised her bony ribs and skinny legs. As she sank towards the soft sand, she wished it would swallow her up.
‘Forgive me for my lack of protocol,’ she said as she rose to her feet once more. ‘I’m not quite sure what to do. Not any more.’ He was looking at her in bemusement—as if he was unused to someone saying exactly what was on their mind—and something about the molten quality of his golden gaze made her blurt out the truth. ‘It’s so weird being back here.’
‘Yes, I can imagine it must be.’ There was a pause. ‘How long has it been?’
‘Six years.’
‘Six years? Is it really?’
Was that a sigh she heard? Surely not. Sighing was something she associated with sentiment or nostalgia—and the steely Corso was not the type of man to indulge in either.
‘Time passes with the speed of a tornado,’ he continued, with a frown. ‘How old are you now? Sixteen?’
Rosie shook her head. She knew she was young-looking for her age, but for some stupid reason his comment hurt. Surely she hadn’t expected him to remember how old she was! ‘Eighteen,’ she amended. Which made him twenty-five. But Corso looked like a fully grown man, in the first great flush of his vibrant prime, whereas she felt gawky and naïve in comparison.
His handsome face grew grave. ‘I miss your father,’ he said suddenly.
Rosie nodded, her heart giving a sudden wrench. ‘We all miss him,’ she said, and the thought of the man she had idolised made her remember her manners. ‘It was very...very kind of you to invite me here, to your birthday celebrations.’
‘I thought it might please you all to revisit a place he loved so much.’ His eyes narrowed into a metallic gleam, which was suddenly tinged with hardness. ‘Although I was surprised your mother and sister were unable to accompany you.’
Rosie bit her lip. It was a statement which managed to be a question and a rebuke all at the same time because clearly the Crown Prince of Monterosso wasn’t used to people turning down one of his coveted invitations. ‘Er, no,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid they couldn’t make it.’
There was little point in enlightening him that her mother had gone to pieces ever since her husband had died, or that Bianca had sworn never to set foot on Monterosso again. She remembered what her sister had said when Corso’s gilt-edged invitation had unexpectedly thudded onto the mat.
‘Who wants to be reminded of a place where we had to be grateful for every damned thing we got?’ Bianca had demanded. ‘Which robbed us of everything that mattered to us?’
Deep down, Rosie disagreed with Bianca’s anti-Monterossian views, but she didn’t attempt to talk her out of them, because her older sister was far too strong-minded. And besides, Bianca was at university now. She had talent and ambition. She was destined for bigger and better things.
Unlike you, mocked a voice inside Rosie’s head.
‘A pity,’ mused Corso. ‘I thought they might have enjoyed seeing the island again.’ He fixed her with a curious look. ‘Are you looking forward to the ball tonight, Rosie?’
Not really, since I’m certain my dress will stand out like a sore thumb and I’ll look like an absolute fright next to some of the other women who are here.
‘Of course. Can’t wait,’ she said, forcing a smile.
Corso repressed a click of irritation, because it was obvious she wasn’t speaking the truth and he found that disappointing, because hadn’t he always thought that Rosie Forrester was completely straightforward? It had been one of the things he’d most liked about her.
The last time he’d seen her she had been gangly and ungainly—and unfortunately, she still was. There had been no transformation or blossoming in the intervening years, as so often happened to women in the time between adolescence and womanhood. Her legs were still long and skinny—her knees as knobbly as a teenage boy’s. She was the only woman on the beach without the adornment of jewellery and if you factored in her plain swimsuit and unflattering straw hat, she was someone you noticed for all the wrong reasons. Yet for a moment, Corso found himself admiring her refusal or inability to conform to an invitation to today’s picnic which had read: Beach party chic.
He wondered if it had been a mistake to invite her. When her father had finally died last year, he had wanted to reach out to offer the family more comfort than a formal letter of condolence. But he hadn’t known how and, naturally, there was the thorny issue of royal protocol to consider. The relationship between him and the Forrester family had always been too imprecise to fall into any recognisable category, but his own father had been unequivocal when Corso had brought the matter to his attention.
‘Lionel Forrester is dead,’ the King had announced, with the dismissive attitude he applied to everyone, including his own son. Corso gave the ghost of a smile. Especially his own son. ‘And yes, he was the greatest archaeologist Monterosso has ever known and a good teacher to you, but our association with his family is now at an end. The palace has paid the school fees for his two daughters and provided a generous stipend for his widow. We can do nothing more for them, Corso, nor should we.’
But Corso had disagreed. To the King’s anger, he had invited Rosie, Bianca and their mother to his birthday ball, thinking it would be an enormous treat for them to revisit the country after so long—something to tell their friends about back in England. After all, how many commoners were invited to stay in one of Europe’s most lavish royal palaces and be entertained by a crown prince?
He had imagined gratitude and a satisfactory sense of closure. He certainly hadn’t expected two refusals in rapid succession—and for the only attendee to be a sulky-looking teenager who looked as if she were being subjected to a particular type of torture.
‘Try to look as if you mean it, Rosie,’ he advised acidly. ‘Most people would kill to go to one of my balls.’
‘Let’s hope not. I’d hate to witness any form of homicide on your birthday,’ she answered, with a sudden return of her customary spirit. ‘And I think someone over there is trying to get your attention.’
A touch impatiently—for he did not care for flippancy or her sudden change of subject—Corso turned his head to follow the direction of her gaze and saw one of the most beautiful women he’d ever laid eyes on heading their way. Tiffany Sackler, with her flawless skin and all that long, dark hair which tumbled to her tiny waist. A small smile edged his lips as she sashayed across the sand towards them, a pair of sunglasses perched provocatively on the end of her nose.
As well as her very obvious physical attributes, the brunette had played hard to get from the moment he’d met her. This was rare enough to excite his interest—despite him never doubting that it was anything other than a game on her part—for Corso was familiar with the plotting of women. And although Tiffany’s occupation as one of the world’s best-paid supermodels meant she was popular tabloid fodder, her arrival on Monterosso had been as discreet as he could have wished for, which was another point in her favour. Her credentials as a prospective lover were therefore impeccable, which left only one question in Corso’s mind.
Did he want her?
He felt the beat of something like indecision before ruthlessly eradicating it. Yes, of course he wanted her. He had been spending far too much time on affairs of state lately, as he prepared himself for his eventual accession to the throne. He wondered if his appetite for women had simply become jaded the more avidly he was pursued—as had happened for most of his life. Yet surely it was a sad day when a man allowed work or caution to subdue his legendary libido. And since he was determined to follow his father’s example of enjoying a long and faithful marriage, then surely it only made sense to sow his wild oats before that day came around.
