Like going out to lunch with Stefanos. He’d suggested it last night. She didn’t remember agreeing.
‘He said to tell you it’s a picnic. He said to tell you shorts are man…mandatory and swords are optional. I don’t know what that means.’
‘It means Stefanos is being silly,’ she said, a bit too abruptly, and Zoe looked at her in astonishment.
‘Don’t you like Stefanos?’
‘No. Yes! I don’t know.’
‘Do you want Christina to run you a bath?’ Zoe said seriously. ‘The bath is lovely. It’s really, really deep.’
‘I believe I can run my own bath,’ Elsa said. ‘Though I should take a shower. I hope your cousin Stefanos is taking one too. Preferably cold.’
‘Why would he want to do that?’ Zoe asked, astonished.
‘I have no idea,’ she said and summoned a grin. ‘I know I’m being stupid. But I think it might be me who needs to take a cold shower.’
She went to shower-but then she changed her mind. This wasn’t a place for denying oneself.
Her hip would definitely like a bath.
Back home she survived on tank water. Showers had to be fast of necessity.
Here she had a feeling if she wanted to stay in the bath all day, playing with the amazing selection of bottles of luxury…stuff? no one would say a word of protest. So she did. If not for a day, for almost an hour.
She might have used one too many bottles of smelly stuff, she conceded as she soaked on. She was fighting to keep an airway free through bubbles.
Finally, reluctantly, her conscience got the better of her. She wrapped herself in a fabulously fleecy white towel, used several more towels getting rid of the bubbles and padded back to the bedroom.
She opened her wardrobe and gasped. Yesterday she’d accepted two dresses and a couple of shirts and sandals. Some time during the night her selection had been augmented by…well, by enough clothes to keep a girl happy for a year.
This was really intrusive. She should be angry. But…She tugged out a lovely jonquil blouse and a soft pair of linen shorts. She held them up in front of her and any attempt at anger disappeared.
‘If you need to change direction, then you might as well enjoy it,’ she told herself, and thought she was about to go on a picnic with Stefanos and she had new clothes and she felt terrific and maybe changing direction wasn’t bad at all.
He was leaving.
She wouldn’t think about that. She’d cope. She always had coped with what life threw at her. And if life was now throwing bubbles and new clothes at her…and lunches with princes…a girl might just manage to survive.
She came down the staircase looking wide-eyed with apprehension, self-conscious in her neat lemony blouse, white shorts and new sandals-and very, very cute. She’d twisted her curls up into a knot. He liked it, he thought. He liked it a lot.
He’d like it better if he could just untwist it…
‘Have you been standing there for hours waiting for me?’ she demanded as she saw him.
‘Hours,’ he agreed, and grinned.
Did she have any idea how cute she was? Her eyes were creased a tiny bit from a lifetime spent in the sun, but that was the only sign of wear. Her nose was spattered with her eighteen gorgeous freckles. If he didn’t know for sure she must be close to thirty, he’d have pegged her as little more than a teenager.
And she smelled…She smelled…
‘Wow,’ he said as she came close, and she grinned.
‘Lily of the Valley, Sandalwood and Fig and Anise. There would have been lavender in there too, but I couldn’t get the bottle open.’
‘Thank God for that,’ he said faintly and then counted freckles again. ‘Um…Don’t you believe in cosmetics?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Most of the women I know wear make-up,’ he said lamely, kicking himself for letting his mouth engage before head.
‘Well, good for them,’ she said encouragingly. ‘Do you, too?’
‘Do I what?’
‘I’ve spent so much time in doctors’ waiting rooms over the last four years that I’ve read enough cosmetics advertisements to make me a world expert. There’s men’s cosmetics as well. I’m sure princes use them. Fake tan’s the obvious one. Does your tan rub off on your towel?’
‘No,’ he said, appalled, and she arched her eyebrows in polite disbelief.
‘You’ll need sunscreen,’ he said, sounding lame, and the look she gave him then was almost scornful.
‘Go teach your grandmother to suck eggs. I’m Australian. I put sunscreen on before my knickers.’
And then she heard what she’d said-and blushed.
It was some blush. It started at her toes and worked its way up, a tide of pink. She could feel it, he thought, and her knowledge that it was happening made it worse.
He loved it.
‘So…so this is royal beachwear,’ she managed, moving on with an obvious struggle.
He glanced down at his casual chinos, his linen shirt and his boat shoes. ‘What’s wrong with this?’
‘Looks great for being a prince and lazing on a sixty-foot yacht on the Mediterranean,’ she said. ‘It’s not great for rock pools, though. And that’s where I hoped we’d be going. Somewhere rock pooly?’
She was defending by attack, he thought. But she was still blushing.
Last night he’d kissed her. Right now, all he could think of was that kiss. And how he could repeat it.
He may well get his face slapped, he thought. She’d been way out of control last night, exhausted and vulnerable. Right now…her defences were up and, even if he wanted to-okay, he did want to-she’d be sensible enough for both of them.
‘The kitchen staff have set us up with a picnic basket,’ he told her. ‘There’s a great little beach I know a few minutes’ drive from here. I believe it even has rock pools.’
‘What time will we be back?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Yes,’ she said, definite. ‘I want control here. I should even be deciding where we’re going.’
‘Isn’t it usually the guy…?’
‘Who gives orders,’ she finished for him. ‘I’m sure it is, and if it’s a prince then it probably works double. But
‘If you like.’
‘I do like,’ she said. ‘You’re on probation. After that kiss last night…I don’t know why you did it but it scared me. I’m happy to have a picnic but let’s make it quite clear this relationship is purely business.’
‘Of course,’ he said courteously but he was aware of a stab of disappointment.
He didn’t know what was happening-but what he did know was that he didn’t want to be on a business footing with Elsa.
‘So why are we going on a picnic?’ she asked as they headed out along the coast road. ‘Aren’t there urgent princely things you should be doing?’
There were urgent princely things he should be doing, but for now…They were ensconced in a Gullwing Mercedes-a 1954 300 SL. A car with doors that opened like wings from the centre. A car that looked like a weird seagull-a crazy, wonderful car. It had belonged to the King, but it had obviously sat in mothballs for the last fifty years. Finding it had been a highlight of the past two dreary weeks.
And now…it felt great. The sun was shining, they were cruising smoothly around the curves of the scenic coast road, the Mercedes’ motor was purring as if it was finally allowed to be doing what it should be doing-and for the moment that was how he felt too. As if he’d got it right.
Beside him…A beautiful woman with freckles.
