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Now she wished for the protective armour of a bra, or ten of the things, as her whole body seemed to come alive as though being licked by flames, white-hot and destructive.
She turned away from him, breath snagging in her throat so her voice emerged breathy and light. ‘Where to next?’
‘Well, not that way,’ he drawled, sardonic amusement in his tone. ‘Unless you are planning a swim.’
Her eyes focused beyond the wall of glass on a pool, spectacularly aquamarine, with the appearance of disappearing out into the ocean. Now that she was impressed by.
‘It does look inviting,’ she murmured truthfully, as heat threatened to send her pulse haywire.
‘Another time, perhaps,’ he responded, so she immediately snapped herself out of it.
Another time?
No. Amelia shut the thought down instantly. There would be no other time.
For as determined as she was to escape her past, she knew that meant limiting her exposure in the present. She missed her friends, and there were times when she was unspeakably lonely, but this was the life she’d chosen for herself. It was the way it had to be. She could never risk getting close to anyone again. Not after what had happened. How could she ever trust anyone again, after her boyfriend had betrayed her, had blackmailed her with revealing Amelia’s most personal secret?
Although, it wasn’t really her secret.
She was the by-product of it, the evidence, but it was her mother who’d cheated, and fallen pregnant to someone other than the King. Her mother who’d conceived Amelia outside the marital bed, who’d lied to all and sundry about Amelia’s parentage. It was her mother who’d foisted Amelia upon the royal family, who’d raised her to believe her father a man who was no such thing, who’d raised Amelia to see her brothers as that, rather than half-brothers, who would likely disown her if they knew the truth.
It was for the Queen, her mother’s sake, that she’d run away.
And also King Timothy, the man who’d raised her, for if he learned the truth it would surely destroy him.
Tears threatened to spark in Amelia’s eyes and she blinked rapidly to forestall them. Of all the times to let her life story seep into her present, this was not it. She dragged practised defences around herself like a wall of steel.
‘Have you organised with the realtor to send someone for the floor plan?’ Her voice wobbled a little. She cleared her throat, dug her nails into her palm and tried again. ‘Then again, the yacht looks very new, so perhaps you have one from construction?’
‘I do,’ he confirmed, with no mention of the emotion in her voice. She was glad. Much like when you fell over and the worst thing a bystander could do was ask if you were okay, she didn’t want him to check on her, as she feared she might weaken and confess that she wasn’t. Why now? Why this man?
She blinked quickly, assumed a businesslike expression. ‘Lead the way, Mr...?’ She let the question hang in the air between them.
He was quiet, thoughtful. Too thoughtful for such a simple query, but, a moment later, answered. ‘Di Vassi. Benedetto di Vassi.’
‘Di Vassi,’ she murmured, wondering why the name was familiar to her. It was an unusual surname and yet she was sure she’d heard it before. ‘Have we met?’
‘No,’ he said with easy confidence, and so she believed him, yet the slight warning bell dinging in the back of her mind didn’t ease up, even as he led her into yet another opulent living space, this time with a large dining table and bar. The next room showed a grand piano and several leather sofas. Finally, there was a room that was both a library and office, a timber desk in the middle of the room, a floor-to-ceiling window revealing more stunning views of the ocean, and a wall that was lined with books. As a bibliophile from way back, Amelia itched to move closer to the shelves and scan the spines, but there’d be time for that later, once he’d finished the tour and she was exploring on her own.
They stepped into a corridor. Several doors were shut on the other side.
‘Bedrooms,’ he said. ‘Shall we?’
But her body revolted at the idea. She was terrified of the very notion of being in a bedroom with this man when her pulse was going crazy and her insides were a melting pot of awareness.
‘Later,’ she managed to say.
‘Fine. Come downstairs, then.’
Was she imagining the hesitation in his voice? The hint of emotion?
Her feet wouldn’t shift. She remained where she was, planted in the middle of the hallway, so when he stepped forward to lead her to the wide staircase, Amelia still didn’t move, and their bodies were brought within a couple of inches of each other. She caught a hint of his fragrance—masculine, pine and pepper, spicy and seductive—and she closed her eyes as a wave of desire, unmistakable and powerful, washed over her. Her lips parted as she tried to process these feelings, to understand why they should be besieging her here, now, of all places.
‘I—perhaps I should finish looking around on my own,’ she suggested haltingly, self-preservation driving the suggestion because, inwardly, what she wanted most of all was more time with this man, whom she found unspeakably compelling.
‘For what reason?’ he asked, and stepped forward once more, so their bodies were now almost touching.
She let out a soft groan, because she felt as though she were fighting a losing battle. When had she last been kissed? Touched? Looked at with longing?
