Defying the Prince Sarah Morgan Page 2

  It was partly her fault, she acknowledged miserably. She should never have entered that stupid reality show Singing Star. She’d done it because she’d thought that finally someone would hear her voice but the producers had been less interested in the sound she could belt out than in the picture she’d made on the stage and the gimmick factor of having tabloid-favourite Bobby Jackson’s daughter on the show. They’d made her do all sorts of dubious things to raise the ratings, none of which had focused on her singing. And she’d been too wrapped up in her own fleeting moment of fame to see the truth.

  Until it was too late.

  Until she’d become a national joke.

  The fame had vanished faster than water down the drain, and with it her reputation. Forever more she was going to be ‘that awful girl from Singing Star.’

  Unable to think about that without squirming, Izzy turned away, closed her eyes and sang, pouring out the notes and losing herself in the music until her concentration was shattered by someone closing a cold, hard handcuff around her wrist.

  She was being arrested for crimes against music.

  Her eyes flew open in shock and she realised it wasn’t a handcuff, but someone’s fingers, brutally hard and as cold and unyielding as metal. Her startled gaze collided with unfriendly dark eyes and the sound died in her throat.

  It was the prince.

  Raw sexual attraction ripped through her because close up he was quite simply the most spectacular man she’d ever met, even more incredible to look at than all the photographs had led her to believe. A television camera might hint at the thickness of those dark lashes and the perfect shape of his mouth but no lens, however powerful, could capture the innate masculinity that set him apart from others.

  ‘Enough.’ He spoke through his teeth, his tone so abrupt that even the normally buoyant and resilient Izzy felt herself shrivel.

  The Prince and the Pauper, she thought, struggling to keep her balance on her towering platform shoe-boots as he all but yanked her from the stage.

  Clearly he had no intention of formally introducing himself—presumably because he didn’t see the need. Everyone knew who he was. And he was living up to his formidable reputation, his spectacular features set and severe as he bodily removed her from her position by the musicians.

  So that was that then—

  Watching her dream of stardom fizzle out and realising that the last glass of champagne she’d downed had pushed her over the edge from tipsy to drunk, Izzy stumbled as she attempted to twist her wrist from his grip. ‘Ouch! What are you doing? I was just singing, that’s all. Do you mind not gripping so hard? I have a very low pain threshold and don’t drag me because these shoes definitely aren’t made for walking.’ Swamped by the wave of disapproval flowing from the other guests, she was grateful for the anaesthetising effects of the alcohol.

  ‘Off with her head,’ she whispered dramatically, smiling sweetly as he sent a black glare in her direction. ‘Oops—we are definitely not amused.’ Her heart sank.

  So much for hoping he might be able to relaunch her stalled singing career.

  It was clear from his body language that he wouldn’t be likely to give her a job cleaning the toilets at the palace let alone a role in the upcoming concert.

  Izzy Jackson wasn’t going to feature on his list of headline acts. And she couldn’t even blame him because she knew she hadn’t sung her best. She’d tried too hard. Forced her voice.

  As he towed her across the room he spoke in a low, driven voice intended only for her. ‘You are a guest, not the entertainment. And you’re drunk.’ Although it wasn’t his first language, he spoke English as fluently as she did but that was where the similarity ended. His aristocratic demeanour had been bred into him and polished by the best education money could buy. His mother was a monarch. Hers was a market stall trader. His accent was cut glass. Hers was shatterproof plastic tableware.

  ‘Actually I’m not drunk.’ Izzy was swamped by disappointment that her plans had gone so badly wrong. ‘At least, not very. And even if I am then it’s your fault for serving buckets of alcohol and no food.’ She glanced desperately around for a friendly face and caught sight of her sister, but Allegra wasn’t looking at her either, clearly trying to distance herself from Izzy’s behaviour. Stung by that betrayal and mortified her surprise song that she’d been working on for weeks had been received with the same enthusiasm as a virus, she momentarily lost her bounce. What did she have to do to make people listen?

  ‘All right, you’ve made your point. I messed up. Let me go, and I promise to be boringly appropriate. I’ll stand still and talk about the weather or whatever it is that these people talk about without moving their faces.’ Hoping to end it there, she pulled and struggled but he ignored her attempts to free herself and propelled her past an astonished-looking footman, through a door into a panelled anteroom lined with portraits.

  ‘Stop dragging me! I can’t walk fast in these heels.’

  ‘Then why wear such ridiculous shoes?’

  ‘I’m small.’ Izzy tried desperately to keep her balance. ‘If I don’t wear heels people just look over the top of my head. I’m trying to make an impression.’

  ‘Congratulations, you succeeded.’ His tone left her in no doubt as to what sort of impression she had made.

  Rows of his ancestors glared down at her from large gilt frames and Izzy scowled back at their stony faces.

  ‘Why do they all look so miserable? Isn’t anyone in your family happy? I wish I’d never come.’

  ‘We all share that sentiment.’ He sent a single glance towards the uniformed footman and the door was closed. They were alone.

  ‘Another door closes,’ Izzy whispered dramatically, and his fingers tightened on her wrist. She could feel the leashed strength and the flow of tension through his hard frame. His superior height meant that she had to tilt her head to look at him and doing so made her head swim.

  ‘Er, do you think you could stop gripping me?’ He smelt good, she thought absently. Really good. ‘It’s not like I’m going to run off. I can barely walk in these shoes, let alone sprint.’

  He released her instantly, the contempt in his eyes adding a few more bruises to her already battered confidence.

  Much as she hated to admit it, she found him horribly intimidating.

  He was so sure of himself. This man had never been beaten to the ground and had to pull himself up again. He positively throbbed power and authority and he made her feel as insignificant as a spec of dust. And then there were the other feelings. The feelings she didn’t want to think about. Like the dangerous crawl of lust deep in her belly and the burn of heat where the press of his strong fingers had branded her skin.

  Rejecting those feelings instantly, Izzy took a step backwards. ‘I was just singing. I wasn’t naked, or using bad language or telling awful jokes. I wanted you to notice me.’

  His eyes flared with shock. ‘You treated my brother’s engagement party as a way of targeting me? How brazen can you get?’

  ‘Pretty brazen. You don’t get anywhere in life by holding yourself back.’ Izzy put her weight on one leg to try and relieve the throbbing pain in her feet. ‘I know what I want and I go after it.’

  ‘I have had women throw themselves at me at the most inopportune moments but your performance has eclipsed everything that has gone before.’

  ‘Eclipsed in a good way?’ The sudden hopeful lift in her spirits was immediately squashed by his condescending glare. ‘Obviously not in a good way. So you’re not interested. Never mind. It’s not the first time I’ve tried and failed. I’ll get over it.’

  She wondered why he was so angry. It wasn’t as if she’d hurt anyone. As he prowled around the room Izzy’s eyes followed him in reluctant fascination. The man was a global sex symbol and up close it was all too easy to see why.

  ‘Do you think you could stop moving? I’m feeling a bit weird and watching you is making me dizzy.’ Or maybe it wasn’t the movement, she thought. Maybe
it was the way his undoubtedly super-expensive jacket failed to conceal the power of the body underneath.

  ‘How much have you drunk?’ The snap of his tone should have shredded the tension but instead it seemed to intensify the lethal, suffocating heat.

  Finding it difficult to breathe, Izzy gripped the back of the chair tightly. ‘I haven’t drunk enough to get me through a night like this, believe me. And it’s not my fault that those people in uniform—’ ‘They’re called footmen—’

  ‘—yes, them—they kept filling up my glass and I didn’t like to say no and offend anyone.’ The words tumbled out of her like water in a fast-flowing stream. ‘And anyway, I was thirsty because it’s hot in there but there was no food to mop up the alcohol, just those tiny canapé things that get stuck in your teeth and don’t fill you up. And, might I remind you, this is supposed to be a party. I was trying to lighten the atmosphere. It’s like a funeral in there, not an engagement. If this is the life my sister can expect when she marries your brother then I feel sorry for her.’ She stopped, distracted by a masculine face so impossibly handsome that it almost hurt to look at him.

  Despite his almost unnatural stillness, she knew he was angry. She could feel the anger in him beneath that sophisticated, polished veneer. Izzy was wondering whether it would make him even angrier if she removed her shoes before they cut off her blood supply when those dark eyes burned into hers.

  ‘You planned this whole thing, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’ Hadn’t she just told him that? ‘Every day I set a goal. It helps me stay focused. Today you were my goal.’

  ‘Cristo. You admit it?’

  ‘Of course.’ What was wrong with having goals? ‘I confess to the crime, Your Honour.’ She gave a little salute and almost lost her balance.

  ‘Is everything a joke to you?’

  ‘I try and laugh at life when I can.’ And her career was definitely a joke, she thought gloomily. A big, fat joke.

  ‘You are loud and indiscreet. If you’re going to be linked with our family you need to learn to filter what you say.’

  Izzy thought about all the times people had said one thing to her and meant another.

  Dress like this and you’ll be a star, Izzy.

  I love you, Izzy.

  Her insides lurched. She wasn’t going to think about that now. Or later. ‘By “filter,” you mean lie? You want me to be like those women out there with frozen smiles and non-existent expressions who don’t actually say anything they mean? Sorry, but that’s just not me.’

  ‘I’m sorry too. The fact that your sister is marrying the future king makes you of interest to the public.’

  ‘Really?’ Izzy brightened at the prospect that someone might actually be interested in her. ‘Now that’s what I call a happy ending.’

  Disapproval throbbed from every inch of his powerful frame. ‘If this marriage has a chance of being accepted by the public then you will need to be kept out of the public eye. We cannot afford the negative publicity. The focus needs to be on Alex and Allegra. And if your sister is marrying the future king you need to learn how to behave. And how to dress.’ That gaze skimmed her body and she felt as if she’d been singed by the flame of a blowtorch.

  Either he was giving off mixed messages or her emotional radar was jammed. There was disapproval there, yes, but there was also something else. A dangerous undercurrent that she couldn’t read properly.

  ‘It’s not my dress that’s wrong, it’s your party. No one in this place knows how to laugh, dance or have a good time. Those chandeliers are all very well but you could have done with a few disco balls to liven things up.’

  ‘This is a royal palace, not a nightclub. Your behaviour should reflect that.’

  ‘So I’m supposed to curtsey?’ Her flippant tone was met with derision.

  ‘Yes.’ His voice was silky smooth, his manner dangerously cool and his temper ruthlessly controlled. Everything about him was restrained. ‘And the correct mode of address is “Your Royal Highness.”’

  She barely heard him. Her mind had ripped itself free of her control and her thoughts flew free as her eyes drifted to the strong lines of his jaw and from there to the sensual shape of his mouth. Something about that mouth told her that he’d know exactly how to kiss a woman. Heat flashed through her and suddenly all she could think of was sex, which shocked her because after her own disastrous experience and the permanent example of her parents’ highly dysfunctional marriage, getting involved with a man definitely wasn’t one of her goals.

  For a moment they just stared at each other and then he frowned. ‘After the first time you can call me “Sir.”’

  ‘The first time’?’ Her heart was hammering and her mouth was so dry that she could barely form the words. ‘There’s never going to be a “first time.” I wouldn’t sleep with you if I was desperate which, by the way, I absolutely am not. I’m not like that. I’m a really romantic person.’

  Exasperation flickered across his face. ‘Were desperate,’ he breathed. ‘The correct grammar is “were” not “was.” You use the past subjunctive when stating conditions that are contrary to fact. And I was talking about the correct manner of address the first time you meet me. Nothing else.’

  Izzy, who had never heard of the subjunctive and whose only interest in English was its use in writing song lyrics, felt her face burn. ‘Right. Well, it’s excellent to have that cleared up so early in a relationship.’ Utterly mortified by the misunderstanding, which she could see now was entirely her doing and had been caused by the fact that she’d been thinking about sex with him, she ploughed on. ‘Do I seriously have to call you “Sir”? It’s just that the only person I ever called “Sir” is my old headmaster and thinking about him brings back a lot of memories I usually try and forget.’

  ‘The man has my deepest sympathy. Teaching you must have been a challenge to exceed all others.’ He stood directly in front of the largest painting in the room and Izzy saw the similarities immediately. The same cropped black hair. The same dark, dangerous looks. The same aristocratic lineage.

  No wonder he was arrogant, she thought numbly. His breeding went back centuries whereas she was just a mongrel. The product of two people who had each wanted something from the other.

  To make herself feel better she wanted to dismiss him but there was no ignoring the width and power of those shoulders. She didn’t want to find him attractive, but what woman wouldn’t? Her insides squirmed and a slow, dangerous heat spread through her pelvis.

  It had to be the champagne, she thought. It was intensifying everything she felt. ‘Doesn’t the formality drive you mad? No one actually smiles or moves their faces. It’s like being in a room of those stone statue things we passed on the way in.’

  ‘Those priceless marble statues date back to the fifteenth century.’

  ‘That’s a long time to keep your face in one position. And I’m not surprised they’re priceless. Who the hell would want to pay money to have something that miserable staring at you? Sir.’ She added it as an afterthought, seriously worried by how fast the room was spinning. ‘I would curtsey but honestly these shoes are completely killing me so right now I’m trying not to move. If you were a girl, you’d understand.’

  He growled deep in his throat. ‘You are the most frivolous, pointless woman I’ve ever met. Your behaviour is appalling and the damage that someone like you could do to the reputation of my family is monumental.’

  Izzy, who had been called many things in her life but never ‘pointless,’ was deeply hurt but at the same time oddly grateful because surely she could never truly fall for a man who was so horribly insulting? ‘I happen to think it’s your behaviour that’s appalling. Why is it good behaviour to make someone feel small and inferior? You think you’re better than me, but if someone comes into my house I smile at them and make them feel welcome whereas you look down on everyone. I’ve had more impressive hospitality in a burger bar. You may be a prince and actually far too sexy for
your own good, but you don’t know anything about manners.’ Lifting her nose in the air she was about to say something else when the door opened and a white-faced member of the palace staff stood there.

  ‘The microphone, Your Royal Highness,’ he said in a strangled voice, addressing himself to the stony-faced prince. ‘It’s still switched on. Everything you’re saying can be heard in the ballroom. On high volume.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  APPALLED by the realisation that his family and guests had overheard their exchange, Matteo froze. He, who prided himself on his self-control, had lost it. Publicly.

  As he re-ran the conversation in his head, he wanted to groan.

  Sex …

  How had the conversation turned to sex?

  He couldn’t remember when he’d last allowed his emotions to dictate his behaviour but from the moment he’d laid eyes on those strawberry-red lips and that enticing dress he’d felt his grip on control slipping. He prided himself on his focus. He’d flown jets faster than the speed of sound, negotiated sensitive deals with foreign governments, raised millions for charity and yet he hadn’t managed to control the behaviour of one aggravating young woman.

  The best he could hope for now was damage limitation.

  With an authoritative nod he dismissed the palace footman and pointedly removed the microphone from Izzy’s hand.

  This time she didn’t resist and Matteo switched it off, his mouth tightening as he reflected on the awkwardness of their current situation. Having finally secured their privacy he looked at her, expecting to see a similar degree of mortification reflected in those over-made-up eyes, but Izzy Jackson hadn’t finished surprising him.

  Instead of shrinking with horror at her public exposure, she gave a gurgle of laughter.

  Infuriated by that entirely inappropriate response, Matteo’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘This is not funny.’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’ Clearly aware that she wasn’t supposed to be laughing, she pressed her lips together but still the sound escaped, so she lifted first one hand and then the other and covered her mouth. But that didn’t work either because her eyes swam with tears of laughter, and in the end she gave up the fight and allowed it to escape. Doubling over, she laughed and laughed, apparently highly amused by an incident that had left him cold with horror. And she didn’t just laugh with her mouth she laughed with her whole body.