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CHAPTER ONE
BEFORE BOARDING THE yacht Amelia stared east across the sparkling ocean, as she did each and every day—looking towards home. It was a long way away, separated from her by land, sea, miles and too vast an array of problems for Amelia to ever imagine traversing, but that didn’t mean she didn’t miss it, didn’t yearn to be back with all her heart. She could never go home, though—she couldn’t risk it.
She narrowed her eyes a little, imagining what her parents were doing, her brothers, imagining the palace she’d grown up in and always loved, with the light sloping in through the fourteenth-century windows. She visualised the gardens at this time of year. Amelia always thought they were prettiest in summer when the fragrance of blossom was heavy in the air, and the roses were abundant.
She imagined walking amongst them, running her hands over the petals, picking one, lifting it to her nose. But when she inhaled from her vantage point, all she caught was the heady tang of sea water and citrus.
This was home now. On the outskirts of Valencia, where she had been able to reinvent herself, to emerge from her pain and shock-induced chrysalis as someone new. Someone independent. Most importantly, someone not royal. She might desperately want to go back to the palace and her family but that didn’t mean she hadn’t also fallen in love with her life here. It was quiet and dull, by most people’s standards, but Amelia was not the average twenty-four-year-old. She’d been to more than enough parties, balls and overseas holidays to last a lifetime. Now she was very happy to simply exist.
Perhaps she hadn’t emerged from her chrysalis after all? These could well be indications of still being in a state of retreat, of desperately needing to heal from her shock and heartbreak, from the deep sense of betrayal that had made her withdraw from the world.
A seagull flew overhead, dipping low towards the ocean, scouring with great talent and experience, minimal effort expended in a wide-span glide until the perfect moment, when the bird dived straight down, half disappearing into the ocean and emerging victoriously only seconds later with a small fish in its beak. A natural predator. The fish swimming just beneath the surface hadn’t stood a chance when the bird had decided to strike. Poor defenceless fish!
Amelia grimaced wistfully, pulled on the strap of her backpack and began to move again, away from the pretty wildness of the beach towards the pristine, perfectly maintained marina, where almost all of the boats were pleasure crafts—though she was gratified to see a handful of working fishing boats still amongst them.
But, more and more, this had become a place of wealth and luxury, and the marina reflected that. Amongst the impressive yachts, one in particular stood out. A sixth sense alerted her that it would be the boat she was looking for without even needing to read the name, but as she approached, the words Il Galassia caught her eye.
Bingo, she thought.
Her experience in real-estate photography was relatively limited, though she’d received positive feedback from her clients and enjoyed the work. She’d been hired through her agency to capture high-end apartments and homes prior to sale, and she’d thrived at that task. A yacht, though, was something new, different from the standard homes she’d been photographing.
She’d always loved the water. As a girl, she’d summered aboard the royal yacht, and handsome naval officers had served as crew, teaching Amelia all about the operations with good humour and answering her millions of questions without even a hint of impatience.
She stilled exactly where she was, noting the way the afternoon sun caught the glistening white of the mega yacht, and her fingers twitched. Without another moment’s hesitation, she removed her backpack and lifted out the camera, bringing it to her face and looking through the lens as she shifted it slightly, until the sunbeams seemed almost to cut through the bow, and then she adjusted the focus, took a deep breath and clicked.
For Amelia, photography was an almost spiritual act. It always had been. Capturing a moment, a memory, seemed kind of magical. But ever since leaving behind everyone she knew and loved, all the places that had until a few years ago defined her, Amelia hadn’t understood quite how important her photos would be, for they were reminders of what she’d walked away from, what she’d cared enough about saving to sacrifice from her life.
She held the camera out so she could see the image, and flashed a quick smile of satisfaction, with no concept of the man behind one of the many tinted windows of the yacht, looking out at her with a disapproving scowl on his face.
To Benedetto di Vassi, Princess Amelia looked exactly as he’d thought she would: very beautiful, almost hauntingly so, with her slender, willowy figure and long, waving blonde hair pulled into a loose braid that fell with the appearance of carelessness over one shoulder. Her skin was a deep tan, a colour that spoke of much time spent sunbathing for the sake of vanity, and her dress was floaty, like something from the seventies—falling to her ankles, revealing brown leather sandals. It was as though she’d just stepped off a photoshoot—she was the last word in beach chic. The only concession to her profession was the backpack she wore, from which she’d just removed a camera.
Lips tightening into a line on his handsome face, Benedetto pushed away from the window, rubbing a hand over his chin.
He’d agreed to help Anton and he didn’t regret it, but he wasn’t a total Neanderthal. The idea of kidnapping a woman wasn’t something he relished. Nor was he thrilled about involving his staff in the whole business, so he’d carefully selected only his two most trusted team members: Cassidy and Christopher. Between them, they’d pilot the yacht, take care of the housekeeping duties, cooking, cleaning, anything that was needed. But it didn’t matter how comfortable he made the princess for this voyage.
At the end of the day, he was taking her liberty.
He was taking her back home.
And given that she’d spent the last couple of years assiduously disappearing into obscurity, it was natural to presume she wouldn’t be thrilled.
His loyalty was not to Amelia, though. It was Anton he owed everything to, Anton he had promised to help. No matter what.
‘Cassidy, you said?’
‘Yeah.’ The woman’s accent was Australian. She had hair that was only a slightly darker brown than her skin, and her eyes were mesmerisingly beautiful. She grinned, revealing perfect white teeth. ‘Ben’s waiting for you.’
Amelia raised a brow, feasting on the details of the yacht.
Her agent hadn’t specified how many pictures would be needed, so, as with any listing, Amelia figured she’d take an abundance and work it out later. There was certainly no shortage of stunning angles. The yacht looked to be almost brand new—she wondered what could have happened to require its sale.
‘Is Ben the sales agent?’ Amelia asked, falling into step beside the other woman.
‘Nah, he’s the owner.’
‘Oh.’ Amelia frowned. Her agent hadn’t mentioned that the owner would be on board. Usually, the residences she photographed were empty, giving Amelia the run of the place, and she preferred it that way. She’d been drawn to real-estate photography particularly because it was a solitary task, with little interaction required with anyone besides her agent. A friend of a friend, he always respected her boundaries, never pushed her about her other life.
‘Well, I’ll try to stay out of his way.’
