CHAPTER ONE
P RINCIPE V ITTORO M ICHELI Scorsolini, heir to the throne of Isole dei Re,
trained from the cradle to be self-possessed even in the face of countrywide
catastrophe, tripped over his own feet as the most beautiful woman he had ever
seen walked by.
Twenty-five years of training kicked in almost immediately, and
he righted himself, pivoting to follow the vision of loveliness crossing
Palermo’s Piazza Pretoria. The view was as beguiling from the back as the front,
although her hat’s wide brim obscured most of her hair.
He’d already seen that it was brown with golden highlights,
falling in silky waves to her shoulders and framing a face worthy of a
Botticelli. If Botticelli’s models had worn Chanel sunglasses and Oscar de la
Renta. Wearing strappy sandals that added three inches to her already statuesque
height, his beauty’s hips swayed enticingly in the pristine white skirt of her
sundress with each step.
She stopped in front of the Fontana Pretoria and lifted a
camera.
Never slow to take advantage of an opportunity when presented,
Micheli asked, “Would you like me to take a picture of you in front of the
fountain?”
She spun to face him. “Oh, you speak English!”
It had been a calculated risk. Most tourists spoke at least
some English; though had he gotten a better look at her perfectly oval face,
defined cheekbones and narrow nose, he might well have used Castilian Spanish to
address her.
He managed a passably coherent sì. With Sicilian inflection, not Spanish.
Those who spoke both languages fluently, as he did, knew there
was a difference.
“I would be happy to...” he offered again, waving between her,
the camera and the fountain.
Lightly glossed, bow-shaped lips parted slightly, a soft gasp
escaping. “Oh, would you? That would be great!”
The response wasn’t anything out of the norm, but the breathy
quality in her voice and the way she leaned toward him, without seeming to
realize she was doing it, told him that maybe this instant, overwhelming
attraction was not one-way.
He put his hand out for the camera.
She handed it to him, careful so their fingers did not brush.
“It’s just point and click.”
“I’m sure I can figure it out.”
Slipping off her sunglasses, she posed in front of the
fountain.
The connection he felt with her at that single look from eyes
the color of storm clouds was so compelling, if he’d been walking, he would have
tripped again.
Tia Maggie always claimed she’d
fallen in love with Tio Tomasso at first sight, but
it had taken him a lot longer to catch up.
Micheli had thought his aunt was being fanciful until this
moment. This overwhelming reaction could not be love, but it was something. Something he could not ignore or deny.
The object of his newfound obsession was such a natural that he
took several shots in quick succession. “You’re not a model, are you?”
“Nope, just a student.” But there had been an odd flicker of
reaction to the word model in her gray gaze.
Micheli took his time getting the perfect shot, using the
opportunity to chat her up.
He discovered her name was Kiki Menendez. So his guess on the
Spanish heritage had not been off.
He told her he was Micheli Scorsolini, leaving off his royal
title and first name that was only used in official state ceremonies. Scorsolini
was a common-enough name that, unless she was familiar with his tiny country,
she would not realize who he was. He was not the brother whose face made it into
the tabloids. That was Adamo.
For some reason, Kiki knowing Micheli the man, not Principe Vittoro, was important.
She was in her last year of university in New York, making her
twenty-one or twenty-two, on a tour of Italy and Sicily with friends for spring
break, and—most important—only in Palermo for the day.
She put her hand up to keep her bright white sun hat on when a
small gust of wind threatened to send it flying. “I’ll be finished in June, if
my dad doesn’t talk me into
P RINCIPE V ITTORO M ICHELI Scorsolini, heir to the throne of Isole dei Re,
trained from the cradle to be self-possessed even in the face of countrywide
catastrophe, tripped over his own feet as the most beautiful woman he had ever
seen walked by.
Twenty-five years of training kicked in almost immediately, and
he righted himself, pivoting to follow the vision of loveliness crossing
Palermo’s Piazza Pretoria. The view was as beguiling from the back as the front,
although her hat’s wide brim obscured most of her hair.
He’d already seen that it was brown with golden highlights,
falling in silky waves to her shoulders and framing a face worthy of a
Botticelli. If Botticelli’s models had worn Chanel sunglasses and Oscar de la
Renta. Wearing strappy sandals that added three inches to her already statuesque
height, his beauty’s hips swayed enticingly in the pristine white skirt of her
sundress with each step.
She stopped in front of the Fontana Pretoria and lifted a
camera.
Never slow to take advantage of an opportunity when presented,
Micheli asked, “Would you like me to take a picture of you in front of the
fountain?”
She spun to face him. “Oh, you speak English!”
It had been a calculated risk. Most tourists spoke at least
some English; though had he gotten a better look at her perfectly oval face,
defined cheekbones and narrow nose, he might well have used Castilian Spanish to
address her.
He managed a passably coherent sì. With Sicilian inflection, not Spanish.
Those who spoke both languages fluently, as he did, knew there
was a difference.
“I would be happy to...” he offered again, waving between her,
the camera and the fountain.
Lightly glossed, bow-shaped lips parted slightly, a soft gasp
escaping. “Oh, would you? That would be great!”
The response wasn’t anything out of the norm, but the breathy
quality in her voice and the way she leaned toward him, without seeming to
realize she was doing it, told him that maybe this instant, overwhelming
attraction was not one-way.
He put his hand out for the camera.
She handed it to him, careful so their fingers did not brush.
“It’s just point and click.”
“I’m sure I can figure it out.”
Slipping off her sunglasses, she posed in front of the
fountain.
The connection he felt with her at that single look from eyes
the color of storm clouds was so compelling, if he’d been walking, he would have
tripped again.
Tia Maggie always claimed she’d
fallen in love with Tio Tomasso at first sight, but
it had taken him a lot longer to catch up.
Micheli had thought his aunt was being fanciful until this
moment. This overwhelming reaction could not be love, but it was something. Something he could not ignore or deny.
The object of his newfound obsession was such a natural that he
took several shots in quick succession. “You’re not a model, are you?”
“Nope, just a student.” But there had been an odd flicker of
reaction to the word model in her gray gaze.
Micheli took his time getting the perfect shot, using the
opportunity to chat her up.
He discovered her name was Kiki Menendez. So his guess on the
Spanish heritage had not been off.
He told her he was Micheli Scorsolini, leaving off his royal
title and first name that was only used in official state ceremonies. Scorsolini
was a common-enough name that, unless she was familiar with his tiny country,
she would not realize who he was. He was not the brother whose face made it into
the tabloids. That was Adamo.
For some reason, Kiki knowing Micheli the man, not Principe Vittoro, was important.
She was in her last year of university in New York, making her
twenty-one or twenty-two, on a tour of Italy and Sicily with friends for spring
break, and—most important—only in Palermo for the day.
She put her hand up to keep her bright white sun hat on when a
small gust of wind threatened to send it flying. “I’ll be finished in June, if
my dad doesn’t talk me into
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