His Princess in the Making (8 page)

Even then?

Could you give her what she needs when she’s having another man’s baby, sharing his bed?

Looking at her now, there was only one answer.

Yes…even then.

“It’s not the anorexia.” She could never speak above a whisper when she went into shutdown. She was so ashamed of her weakness, her imperfection.

He kissed her forehead, her cheek. “Tell me.”

“You know. I know Charlie told you.”

He nodded. No wonder she was throwing up. “It’s not going to happen.” He’d spend his life in prison for killing Orakis before he’d let him within touching distance of her.

“There’s only one way to stop it.”

Max.
He felt like throwing up too. But he pulled himself together. Not for the sake of eight-million people—he wasn’t that noble; not even for the best friend he’d ever had—but for the sake of the woman in his arms. The woman he’d loved with hope for half his life, and would love without hope for the rest of it. And right now a double prison sentence seemed a preferable option to night after night alone thinking of what she’d endure with Orakis—or, God help him, enjoy with Max.

The quiver that ran through her wasn’t like when they’d been dancing, in the sweet lead-up to exquisite, unforgettable kisses. “I wish they’d never found us. I’m glad Charlie’s happy,” she rasped, “But why should he get happiness and I get Jazmine’s choice?”

Trying to make her smile, he said softly, “Including the rough fireman from Sydney as option three?”

“The only way we could marry now is if we disappear, change our names and our lives—and that’s impossible. I’d have to leave Charlie and Jazmine to face all the problems on their own.” She sighed. “You wouldn’t cope with it if you couldn’t keep being a fireman. You’d hate me for it sooner or later. And it’s not in me to run away from my responsibilities, Toby, even for you.”

No, it wasn’t. She’d hate herself for life if she left Charlie
to face this mess alone. The only destruction she’d ever wreaked was on herself, never others.

“And that’s not all.” She leaned over the toilet and dryretched again once, twice, until she fell back against him, heaving deep breaths. “Someone knows you kissed me, proposed to me the other week. They’ve threatened your life.”

Strange that, though the shock ran through him like a streak of lightning, he wasn’t surprised. In a place like Hellenia, where emotions ran as high as expectation, he’d known a commoner courting a princess would have massive repercussions.

But Giulia was throwing up for the first time in ten years, and to him that was a far greater threat than anything a reactionary Hellenican could throw at him. “Let’s not think about that now. Let’s just concentrate on getting you well again.”

Giulia lifted her head and stared at him. “Get me well? I’m not
sick.
I told you, this isn’t anorexia, it’s shock. Toby, someone’s threatening your life. You need to go home right after Charlie and Jazmine’s coronation.”

And though he knew it wasn’t an idle or empty threat, he’d faced death on a near-daily basis for years, in factory fires, house- and bushfires out of control. He’d been to twenty funerals of guys with young families, comforted grieving widows of his mates. Giulia didn’t know, couldn’t understand that, to a fireman death was an intimate enemy, a hated friend. It happened too often for it to hold terror for him the way it did for her. “I’m not going anywhere while you need me. Don’t let it bother you so much, Giulia. I know how to look after myself.”

“From a fire, yes—but how do you protect yourself from a bullet or a bomb?” Her mouth tightened. “Don’t patronise me, Toby. I don’t need you to protect me.” She pushed at his chest and got to her feet. “We’ll need a carpenter to fix the door.”

He was sitting at her feet. Feeling like a supplicant was something he hated. He’d been that when he’d gone to the Costas at fifteen and had asked if he could live with them. He
never wanted to be lower than anyone ever again. He rose to his feet and stood behind her, watching her. “What
do
you need from me?” he demanded, to remind her of the kiss half an hour ago. To see how she’d respond.

She turned to the massive, marble double sink, opened the mirrored doors above and got out her toothbrush. As she applied toothpaste, she said, “What I need is what I thought we’d been having the past few years—I want us to be friends who care for each other, not for me to be the one you constantly watch in case I get sick again. And I need you to go home.”

“Friends? Then what was the kiss about?” he snarled, ignoring her demand that he go home.

She brushed her teeth and rinsed her mouth. Then she pulled out her make-up from behind the mirrored doors and began making repairs to her face. “I don’t really know. Maybe the last blast from a fifteen-year-old girl who wanted nothing more than to kiss the boy she was so crazy about. Maybe the girl needed that before the woman could move on.”

The words hit him like a sudden punch to the gut because he didn’t know if they were true. Because they could be true. Because he could have had the love of his life—she could have been his wife, the mother of his children already—if only he’d kissed her back on that damned New Year’s Eve for longer than a few seconds.

Lia spoke with a cool detachment that belied her pounding heart. Would he believe her? She willed him with every part of her being to believe it. She had to make him want to go home, to feel he didn’t belong here. Even if she had to convince him she wanted to marry Max, she’d do it for his sake…and for her own. The thought of living a life without him—somewhere in the world—was unbearable.

Even if he’s with another woman?

Yes, she acknowledged to herself, almost without pain—well, compared to the other option. She’d survived seeing him
with other women before. She could do it again just so long as he was alive and well.

Then the pain slammed into her heart, crying
No
at the top of its voice. She was going crazy. She had to get out, get away from him. She needed to hold him and never let go, beg him to stay. She couldn’t,
couldn’t
bear it if he died.

“Charlie and Jazmine should be about to leave. We need to lead the confetti tossing.” She couldn’t control the quiver in her voice, and didn’t expect to. Neither would he. Their love was too strong to let go easily; they both knew that, friends or lovers.

“Giulia, don’t do this to us.” His voice was rough, hurting. “Not now when we finally have a chance.”

Oh, God help me do this…

She closed her eyes. “There is no chance. There never was an ‘us,’ and never will be.”

“Then tell me where my life ends and yours begins.” It was a quiet voice, but no less demanding for that; no less absolute truth, pulling her heart from her chest. “Tell me where we divide, because I don’t see one part of my life that isn’t filled with you.”

You won’t have a life if they kill you.

“We divided when you dated those other women, Toby—and we end at the place where I’m marrying Max.” Before he could speak again she walked out, wrenching open her bedroom door, all but running past the waiting security detail and down the hall and stairs to where the farewell crowd was gathering preparatory to heading to the lawn where the crazily decorated chopper waited.

“C
AN NO
one control that ridiculous animal?”

The King sounded irritable, and no wonder. Not only was it well after midnight, closer to one before the last guests who weren’t staying in the palace had left, but the tea room stank. After hours of confinement in a kennel during the wedding, Puck was ready for action the moment Lia released him.

He’d not exactly been the comforter she’d sought when she’d run to the kennel.

She called him, but though she’d walked him and let him relieve himself after letting him out, to Puck release meant at least half an hour of frolic and nervous leg-liftings in every conceivable corner and on every furniture leg before he settled.

Obviously still in a black mood, Toby called him, hard and commanding. Puck came, but bolted as soon as he saw the leash in Toby’s hand. Max tried, but he was smothering laughter, and Puck treated his half-hearted attempts with the contempt they deserved.

“Puck.”

The deep, hard voice was used to instant obedience, and even Puck slithered to a confused halt. His head tilted; the bright, intelligent eyes sought out the voice.

“Come.”

The dog tilted his head further, testing limits. Awaiting the second and third call before he’d consider it.

The King never repeated himself. She supposed he’d never had to, in his long life of duty and privilege. He merely held the dog’s eye and waited.

Puck blinked—he really did—and slowly, showing his protest, he crossed the room to the King, and waited in front of the wing-backed chair.

“Sit.” It wasn’t harsh, just a simple, confident command.

After a few moments, Puck sat.

“Stay.”

Having no idea what it meant—he only stayed anywhere when he was asleep—the dog tilted his head again, considering.

The King held his hand in front of the dog’s face, but didn’t repeat the word. Not even for a dog would he lower his dignity.

Evidently Puck got the message. He remained sitting in front of the uplifted hand, waiting for the next piece of attention, for praise.

“Good boy,” was all the King said, but Puck licked the hand in front of him: an adoring transfer of drool.

Despite the trauma of the day, or maybe because of it, Lia started laughing. “Could you train him for me, please? He’s never obeyed anyone before.”

The old man looked at her from behind his glasses. “He knows you don’t mean what you say. You tell him something and then let him have his way. The dog has to understand that you know what’s best for him, even when he doesn’t know why. He needs you to be in control, to give him direction.”

Lia felt her colour rise. They both knew he wasn’t talking about the dog.

“It doesn’t matter if they’re purebreds or the scruffiest of mongrels.” He flicked a glance at Toby, who didn’t move or respond in any way. “They need to know who’s master. They
want the safety of boundaries, of rules that don’t bend or change.”

“Interesting theory,” she said, short and terse.

The King looked down to where Puck sat staring at him in canine devotion.

She put her Royal Albert cup of hot chocolate back in its saucer untasted. “It seems he’s chosen his master, Your Majesty. Keep him.”

The King didn’t answer, but she felt the hurt in his silence.

Could they all see how she could barely stand to look at the King, couldn’t bring herself to use the intimate family name of Theo Angelis? She’d felt the resentment since he’d told her about the death threats. It might not be his fault, but it
felt
like it was: the universe arranging itself on the side of what the King wanted for her.

Now he’d even taken her dog from her.

“We need to discuss when your wedding will take place.” The King stared hard, first at Max then Lia.

Walking out of the room would make her look childish, and would put her in a weak position. She’d had enough of that tonight. “This isn’t the right time.”

“There won’t be a better time. The sooner you put your teenage crush behind you and become a woman, the princess you are, the better.”

“Marrying a near-stranger could never be seen as a reasoned act for a woman or a princess,” she replied with a quiet dignity she’d noticed he found hard to argue with. “If by becoming a woman you mean doing what you want of me, just say so. Then we can discuss who’s behaving like the child in this scenario.”

Dead silence met her challenge.

“I agree with Lia.”

Max’s words startled her into looking round. Max met the King’s challenging gaze with cool, well-bred wisdom. “It
was obvious to everyone tonight that Lia isn’t ready to marry me. It would make us look ridiculous to force the issue now.”

Hot colour now scorched her cheeks. “Max…”

“There’s no need to apologise.” He smiled at her, with no shadows. “Charlie stepped up to the plate because he loves Jazmine as well as the country. You’ve done a magnificent job with all the duties thrown your way, but your heart isn’t in a royal marriage of convenience.” He turned back to the King. “This is the twenty-first century. The era of arranged marriages, with kings’ mistresses and queens’ discreet lovers, went out a hundred years ago. It only ends in messy, public divorce.”

The King’s cheeks whitened, and Lia frowned at the seeming overreaction. Then he snapped, “It might have gone out of fashion in most of Western Europe, but so did most of the monarchies around the same time. Is that what we want here?”

Max sighed. “I didn’t say that, Theo Angelis. I only said I won’t force Lia into a marriage she isn’t ready for.” He smiled at her, and despite the long, hard day it had been, filled with such joy and despair, she smiled back.

Toby stood abruptly. “Goodnight, everyone.”

As he left the room, Lia ached with the need to explain again, to give him the uncomplicated goodnight cuddles they’d once shared, but she couldn’t. They couldn’t go back, and she couldn’t make herself try to heal the breach.

She saw the King’s small smile. He didn’t bother to hide his satisfaction at Toby’s desertion, and her silence.

The gym was quiet, dark apart from the light of a full moon, flooding through the high, west-facing windows as it began to slowly sink, heading towards dawn.

Clad in warm-up clothes and stockinged feet, carrying the portable CD player she’d found in her room the day she’d arrived, Lia closed the door on her minders.

Within a minute she had all she needed: a big, empty space
filled with only the silvery spotlight provided by nature. She pulled on her points, tipped her head back and lifted her hair into a band. A press of the remote control, and the room filled with soft classical music.

It was so long, so long since she’d been herself, since she’d had an hour without pressure or expectation.

She lifted her arms to the moon and lifted up on her toes, pas seul to arabesque, and with a movement she became part of the night.

Every part of Toby ached, just watching her. She was a wood nymph dancing between the moonlight and the stars. A fairy princess weaving the magic of her own unique, living beauty. So close, always so close, yet just out of reach.

Sleep had eluded him, so he’d come here to work off too many weeks of stress. He hadn’t turned on the lights. The darkness suited his mood; his heart was filled with loss and anger and a love that owned every pore and cell of him.

And then, like a silent miracle, she’d walked into the darkened gym. Once again she’d come to him when his heart was screaming for her.

She’d always had that gift. Somehow she always knew when to come to him and give him hope when he needed it most.

She’d been all of twelve when she’d found him at the local park in Ryde, punching out a classmate, Mick Reilly, for making fun of his tears. How she’d known he desperately needed someone—needed her—he hadn’t known, then or now. But some dim part of him had known that, somehow, she’d come.

“Toby,” she’d said softly, when he’d been on the verge of losing control, so lost in black grief he hadn’t known what he was doing. The gentle, husky voice had stopped his fist mid-punch. She’d had that knack with him from the first day they’d met. He couldn’t upset little Lia with the dark violence in his soul.

And “little Lia” had taken him away from Mick, away from curious eyes, and had made him tell her what was wrong. When she’d heard about his parents’ divorce, and their demands that he choose a parent over the other, she’d seen the solution without trying. “Come and live with us, Toby. You can share Charlie’s room until Dad and Papou build you one.”

He remembered trying to laugh. At fifteen, full of hormones, anger and loss, it had seemed so simple an answer. Only a kid would have found it; it was such a miracle only a kid would believe it could happen. “Why would your dad and grandfather build anything for me? They won’t want me. I hang around your place too much as it is.”

“We like having you. You’re family, Toby. Come home now and see.” And she’d smiled at him, had taken his hand, led him home, and pulled off the first miracle he’d ever known with her unswerving faith.

That day was the first time Giulia had made him lose his breath with her wisdom, her smile and her touch, but far from the last.

Looking back now, he wondered if he’d fallen in love that day, because when he’d seen her unconscious in hospital and had known this love was for life, it had felt so right, so inevitable; he hadn’t been able to believe he hadn’t seen it before.

Fifteen years of small miracles; the one certainty in his life had been that Giulia always knew when to come to him. Half a lifetime of looking at her, wondering what she saw in him to need; but she did, and every day she turned to him had felt like a gift from God—because, no matter how much she needed him, he needed her more.

Like tonight. He’d ached and burned so badly, and she’d danced into his waking nightmare and made it beautiful.

This wasn’t the princess, not the woman of duty and honour and sacrifice who’d told him to go home. In her ballet gear,
her hair scraped back, this was his shy, giving, wonderful Giulia, the girl who danced into his heart whenever she moved.

He watched and ached as she spun and leaped across the moonlit space. His whole body twitched with the need to go to her, but he couldn’t bear to break her spell with clumsy words or movement.

She danced on, oblivious grace, a shadow of spun glass, eternal memory.

He’d never seen anything more beautiful than this woman moving amid the moonlight and stars. This moment was so perfect as she soared above the night sky for an audience of one, the man who loved every single part of her and might never again come closer to her than this, a distant watcher.

Yet he’d wait the rest of his life for a single chance.

And then he saw what she was dancing: the first act of
Giselle,
the innocent girl with her lover, the man she didn’t know was far out of her reach, the man who’d send her mad with love unrequited, unfulfilled.

But she danced it alone, a lonely Giselle…

Was he awake or dreaming? His hands took her waist; there was no gasp to break the dream. Natural as breathing, she leaped high and he lifted her above him as he’d practised with her so many times when she’d won the part but there hadn’t been a male dancer tall enough to lift her. He’d joined the troupe for a season: an awkward Loys to exquisite Giselle, the man high above her yet unworthy of her love.

To the beat of the music, he brought her down against his body, clinging for a moment before she broke away, elusive, a graceful shadow, woman-child, peasant princess. Then her hand stretched back to him and he caught her, spinning her to him, and she leaped away after one perfect moment.

The ache of inevitability filled him, his chest and throat, as he tried to be worthy of being her partner, to have her in his arms one last time.

This was their story in reverse.

Yet when she pirouetted around him, her long-fingered hands touched the sweaty old T-shirt covering his skin, as slow and longing as if the differences did not exist or matter. She came face to face with him and opened her eyes.

Was it Giselle or his Giulia, with all that sweet yearning, offering her lips to him? He brought her to him with shaking hands and kissed her as Loys would have, swift, fleeting, aching for more. But she fluttered away, a girl in the bloom of life and love, believing there would be tomorrow, there would always be tomorrow.

There would be no more kisses. Tomorrow she would discover the deceit: Loys would become Albrecht and she’d die of madness. She’d save his life and then go for ever from his reach. Tomorrow Giulia would become a princess, and he…

Oh, God, it was their story.

Yet still he stumbled through the motions, awaiting each chance to touch her as she danced amid the stars.

As they wove harmoniously together in the slow-waning moonlight, another person unable to sleep watched them through the modern miracle of camera.

After dismissing the amused night guard, Max stood riveted. Such luminous perfection between woman and man; the spotlight of God was on them as they danced. Somehow in the shadows of the past he saw the girl and boy they’d been dancing beside them. It would always be this way for them, no matter what a king willed, no matter what honour or duty demanded.

No matter whom she married.

The Grand Duke, currently fourth in line to the throne but who knew himself to be the King’s puppet, watched the second—no, the third—woman who would have been his wife dance away with her heart intact, and wondered what was missing in him.

Whatever it was, he would not be the one to destroy their final hour together.

Max switched off the cameras as the music faded. He didn’t want to see the magic vanish and duty return to the eyes of a woman who would never want him. This night, this hour, belonged to Lia and Toby. This was their story alone.

“Thank you, Toby.”

Her voice was rich and sweet, and quivered in a husky but definite farewell.

He’d known it would happen. With the return of the woman had come the principles he wouldn’t change if he could; they made her the wonderful person she was. But his lovely Giselle was gone, and he was left feeling like a fool.