The Prince's Proposal. Sophie Weston
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my father is an anti-monarchist.’
‘And you’ve inherited his prejudices,’ he said as if that explained everything.
Francesca stiffened. ‘Not at all. I don’t care about monarchy one way or the other. What I can’t bear is a lot of people living in the past. Ex-kings, huh! You can’t spend your life as an ex-anything. You have to draw a line and go on.’
‘You’re very—unforgiving.’
She stared, confused. ‘Why? Because I don’t like a lot of phoney nostalgia?’
He was looking at her in that way again. She couldn’t see him properly but the reservations were coming off him in waves. As if there were two conversations going on and she was only hearing one—and the less interesting one, at that.
Oh, God, here I go again. Listening to the facts. Not hearing the meaning. What the hell is wrong with me?
‘Because you think you can draw a line under a bit of yourself and leave it behind.’ He was drawling again. ‘How old are you?’
Francesca’s eyes snapped. ‘Twenty-three. How old are you?’
He gave a soft laugh. ‘Thirty-two. Going on a hundred, just at this minute.’
‘Why this minute?’
But there was no chance for him to answer. The glass door was pushed violently back. Music and revellers spilled out onto the balcony with equal disruptive force. He sidestepped them and took the opportunity to look at his watch.
‘I ought to be doing my duty in the Press room.’
‘Oh.’ She was horribly disappointed and furious about it. Rebound indeed! She curbed it and held out her hand. ‘Good luck.’
He took it. ‘Will I see you later?’
She shook her head vigorously. As much at her own unwanted fantasies as at him. ‘As soon as I’ve caught up with my prince I’m going home.’
He smiled faintly. She could hear it in his voice. ‘Exprince.’
And he held on to her hand. It was heady stuff.
‘Whatever,’ she said, distracted.
‘You like to be accurate.’
‘Yes.’ She was still oddly shaken. ‘Yes, I suppose I do.’
‘It’s obvious. Well, then, we’d better say goodbye.’
He tugged her hand, bringing her a critical step closer to him. Bent—he had a long way to bend—and brushed her cheek with his lips.
Francesca gulped. For a moment she was in a cloud of cold, pure air, surrounded by cedar and a sense of imminent danger, as if she were facing a climb that was beyond her. And then she was on a crowded balcony again on a wet London night. And the stars had gone in.
‘Er—goodbye,’ she said, more breathless than she would have liked.
He straightened. ‘Good luck yourself. I hope you get your ex-prince.’
Francesca, who never gave up on any of her self-appointed tasks, was for the first time in her life going to pass. She had no intention of doing anything more this evening than going home and trying to get her breath back. But she was not admitting that to anyone else. And, besides, there was always another day. One way or another, she would get the crown prince to one of The Buzz’s book-signings if it killed her.
‘Cast-iron certainty,’ she said, sticking her chin in the air. She was not going to lose focus because Barry de la Touche had dumped her and a tall stranger had not quite kissed her. She was not. She said as much to herself as to him, ‘I always get my man.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘I WANT,’ said Conrad, pleasant but very firm, ‘to know about a bookshop. It’s near the gasworks in Fulham. I’m not moving until I know the name of the woman who owns it.’ He looked as if he meant it.
The publicist had been looking for him with increasing desperation. The Press interviews were not going well. The editorial director had called one journalist a freeloader. Then he told a researcher for a daytime television programme that he didn’t expect her viewers to be able to read words of more than one syllable. It was definitely time to break out their secret weapon. Only it looked as if the secret weapon had ideas of his own.
‘I’ll find out for you,’ she promised. ‘Just please come and talk to the Press now.’
‘How will you find out?’
‘Ask. Someone in this crowd is bound to know.’
‘But I don’t know the name of the bookshop.’
‘Doesn’t matter. It’s a small world, books.’ She urged him towards the room where the Press interviews were taking place. ‘What does she look like? How old? What’s she interested in?’
‘Small. Dark. Huge brown eyes. Sometimes they go all big and misty as if you’re the most wonderful thing she’s ever looked at. Sometimes they snap. She’s twenty-three, and she’s fierce.’
‘Oh,’ said the publicity assistant, rather taken aback. ‘Well, that ought to find her. Fulham, you said?’
By the time he had played his part in the discussion of Ash on the Wind, she was back.
‘Sounds like Jazz Allen’s place. It’s called The Buzz. But Jazz is nearly six feet, black and beautiful.’
‘Not her. Look again.’ He thought. ‘She also knows a lot about Montassurro. Or thinks she does. Her father was some sort of refugee.’
One of the journalists who had slipped out in the hopes of a private exchange with the ex-prince overheard. He inserted himself between them.
‘Do you mean Peter Heller’s daughter?’
Conrad’s brows twitched together. ‘Heller?’ he said in tones of acute distaste. ‘That crook?’
The journalist grinned. ‘Can I quote you? He’s an esteemed international financier these days.’
Conrad did not smile. He was looking really disturbed.
‘Are you telling me that Peter Heller’s daughter would waste her time with a small bookshop? In the shadow of the gasworks? I don’t believe it.’
‘Not that small,’ said the journalist drily. ‘Everyone’s talking about The Buzz. They’ve got quite an internet presence already, too. It was the Heller girl who set that up, by what I hear.’
‘You mean Jazz Allen’s new partner?’ said someone else, joining them. ‘I hear she’s a phenomenon.’
‘Yes,’ agreed the journalist. ‘Everyone thought it was going to be a three-day wonder for her. Well, she’s rich enough to invest in a little business like that without caring too much if she gets her money back. But it hasn’t turned out like that.’
‘You are so right,’ agreed someone else, with feeling. ‘Francesca Heller is no sleeping partner. My reps say she challenges them all the time. Fearsome woman. But she’s certainly improved their ecology list. And Jazz thinks she’s wonderful.’
‘So does Prince Conrad, from the sound of it,’ said the journalist with a sly glance sideways.
But he did not get the response he was hoping for. The tall man looked at him in silence for a moment. The heavy-lidded eyes were quite unreadable. Then he turned away, shrugging.
‘Well, would you get the email address for me?’ he asked the publicity assistant indifferently. ‘I said I would do a talk for them some evening.’
He did not say another word on the subject of Francesca Heller all evening. Instead, to his hosts’ surprised delight,