The Prodigal Prince's Seduction / The Heir's Scandalous Affair: The Prodigal Prince's Seduction

She sped ahead as if to escape his suggestion, muttering, “I’ll take a dip-check, thanks.”

He chuckled, pointed out another section. “This is where the whirlpools, saunas and Turkish bath are.” He pointed to another area. “And there are the only modern additions to the yacht’s outfitting—a fitness room and comprehensive water sports equipment storage. We can windsurf, water-ski, jet-ski, scuba dive and sail, if you’re into any of those.”

“I’m into them all. I was raised on a Mediterranean island, too, remember? In my opinion, water sports are the ultimate freedom a human being can enjoy. It’s been too long since I’ve had the pleasure.”

“You’ll never again be deprived of your freedoms and pleasures, bellissima. This yacht and all its facilities are at your disposal to enjoy whenever and however you please.”

Her eyes glowed up at him with that light that seemed to shine from inside her. “That’s too generous, but I can’t—”

“It isn’t, and you can and will accept. Say, ‘Yes, Durante. I’ll do you the honor of considering your yacht my own.’”

Her grimace was at once teasing and moved. “You have the rest of your life to wait? That’s how long it will be before I say something like that.” He opened his mouth to override her and she rushed to add, “But if your offer stands after tonight, I will take advantage of one or two weekends’ windsurfing or jet-skiing.”

She still didn’t believe this was going to last beyond tonight. He’d have to convince her by action, not words. So he said nothing for now, just smiled down at her.

They were crossing the foyer of the uppermost deck when she turned to him. “When you said ‘yacht,’ I thought, ‘yacht.’ Then, when I became certain this floating fortress is where we were headed, I wanted to ask just how you define the word.”

His lips twisted. “Yacht-obsessed magazines define this one as the ninth largest private boat in the world. From my specs, it’s four hundred feet long with twelve suites of more than six hundred square feet each, not counting the thousand-square-foot master suite. There is also more than eighty thousand square feet of covered and open space.”

“Whoa. It’s beyond anything I’ve ever seen and I’ve been to some exorbitant places. Just this staircase is mind-boggling. I tried to count the steps and got lost.”

“Now I feel guilty that I had you climb all one hundred and twenty steps. I should have carried you.”

“When I run up to my tenth-floor apartment for exercise? I pick my teeth with a hundred steps.” His admiring gaze devoured the results of her hard work. Her constant blush deepened. “This endless balustrade looks like it’s made of one piece of solid brass. Which it can’t be. Care to explain how it came into being?”

He grinned at her attempt to swerve to safer topics. “It was hand-beaten from solid brass by twenty top metal craftsmen who re-created it from remnants of the original balustrade.”

She whistled as he seated her at the table that had been set for them. He signaled for Giancarlo to serve dinner right away.

Her eyes panned the huge chamber, lingering on the heavily gilded and embossed wall paneling and the intricately carved and adorned Baroque- and Ottoman-style furniture.

“Everything is so…ornate.” She turned to him, her eyes reflecting the flickering candles, that intelligence simmering in her ponderous look. “I somehow didn’t think you’d go for something so humongous and elaborate.”

“You mean pretentious and gaudy, don’t you?”

She didn’t seem to give denial a moment’s thought. “It is mighty pretentious, though I guess it stops a step shy of gaudy.”

He guffawed, loving this. “Everyone I bring on board bursts into raptures extolling my extreme taste. Not you, though.”

The look of absolute horror on her face was priceless. “Maledizione…spiacente…I’m sorry…” She groaned. “God…I’m so rude.”

“You’re candid. And it goes straight to my head. You’re also right. There’s nothing here that appeals to me, either. But this yacht was my mother’s. It was her father’s gift to her on her marriage. He was flaunting his wealth, wanting to prove he was on par with the king his daughter married. He named the boat La Regina del Mare, to underline my mother’s new royal status. He also wished her to keep the Boccanegra family name and old-world nobility in the minds and envies of the jet-set, the new world’s aristocracy. But she had no interest in that and sent the boat to languish at the docks of Napoli, where it fell into disrepair.

“After her death I renamed it Angelica for her, commissioned its restoration to its exact former glory, which I didn’t have the vaguest recollection of. I regretted my act the moment I stepped on board the finished product. But even with its…excessive size and interiors, I discovered I loved living on board and roving the seas. I thought to re-outfit it to my needs and tastes, but I decided to leave it as is. Eventually I will donate it as a museum in my mother’s memory, one that can be rented for huge sums that will go to the charities I founded in her name. I’m in the process of buying another yacht that doesn’t scream ‘party animal.’”

She sighed with the satisfaction of someone who’d been listening to a poignant tale. “Which is just about the last thing you are.”

“Sì. The sporadic sponsored charity event is the limit of my social mingling.” He only then noticed that Giancarlo must have served their entrées. “Which must be why the etiquette my mother struggled to infuse me with as a small child has rusted from disuse. Andare avanti…go ahead, please. I’ll talk and you eat.”

She immediately pounced on her plate, snatched up one of the golden, crisp lobster puffs. “I thought you’d never ask.”

He chuckled, shaking his head at his all-out reaction, started to eat himself. “So tell me…what made you move to Sardinia and/or Italy when you were five?”

She chewed, moaned in enjoyment, beamed at him. “I thought it was you talk and I eat. Lucky for you my mother never succeeded in teaching me not to eat and talk at the same time.” She reached for a second puff. “About the move—gotta say outside influences helped me make that decision. Like my parents hauling me there.”

“Ragazza difettosa.” His no-touching-yet rule was growing difficult. His hands ached to smooth those glowing cheeks, cup them and dip his tongue in those tormenting dimples and smile grooves. “You must know where I want to haul you.” Her eyes all but groaned Yes, please. He inhaled, reminded himself of his resolve. “So why did they haul you there?”

She reached for her champagne flute, her eyes losing heat and brightness. “It’s a convoluted story. I think it started with my father’s business in the States having many outlets in Italy and the surrounding Mediterranean islands. He went bankrupt around the time I was five. He also suffered from depression. In the years following his death, I’ve often asked my mother if she thought that influenced the decisions that led to his bankruptcy, or if it was the other way around. Not that I expected an answer, or thought it would make a difference.”

“When did he die?” He watched her put down the puff. It was clear her appetite was gone. He groaned. “Don’t answer that.”

The surprise in her eyes seemed directed at her own reaction, not his words. “No, I-I want to tell you. He died when I was eleven.”

He gritted his teeth, hating to see her suffer echoes of the anguish the child she’d been must have felt. “You were old enough to be aware of all the problems going on around you then.”

She nodded. “I was.”

“It still haunts you.”

She put down her glass unsteadily. “It’s not fun remembering nothing of my father but a man buried under so much gloom and despair. I try to cling to memories of the man he was beneath all that, but they’re rare. During those times he was wonderful, which makes it all more painful, knowing how much of him was wasted. Remembering how angry I was at him doesn’t help, either. I’ve since realized that he couldn’t help his condition, but try to convince a kid of that. I blamed him for his moods, his inaccessibility. And later on, I blamed myself for that blame.”

Everything she said struck chords inside him. He’d suffered something very similar. “Where was your mother during all that?”

She started to eat again, an adorably determined look on her face. “Struggling to protect me from the torment festering within Dad as it spread out to engulf us, and to keep him from disintegrating while not succumbing herself under the burdens thrown on the so-called ‘healthy adult’ in this setup.”

“You have a good relationship with her.”

She swallowed her mouthful convulsively, her eyes tearing up. “I had the best relationship a girl could hope for with her mother. She died seven months ago.”

He ached to stop this, to spare her reliving her anguish. But he felt she’d refuse to abandon the subject. She more than wanted to tell him. It felt as if she needed to. He wanted to give her anything she needed. He asked quietly, “How?”

“Sh-she had rheumatoid arthritis. A severe condition. Then, during a regular checkup, she was diagnosed with stage-four pancreatic cancer. She was dead within two months.”

“You were with her when she passed away?”

She nodded. “She didn’t live here with me, because her condition deteriorated whenever she left the Mediterranean climate. I went to her every minute I could. When we knew there was no hope of remission, she wanted to live at home. I wanted to be the one to take care of her, so I moved into her villa. I’d taken paramedic courses and administered the palliative measures that were all that could be done until…until the end.”

“You had medical supervision during that time?”

She bit her lip, hard. “Her doctor was on call and two nurses came twice a day to check on my measures.”

“And they found everything to their satisfaction.”

“It was easy to get it right. There wasn’t much to be done.”

“Yet you’re still afraid you messed up those simple measures, didn’t give the mother you loved—who trusted you to take care of her during her last days—the best care.”

He saw shock rip through her, as if he’d reached inside and yanked out her heart. Then, to his horror, her face crumpled, her teary eyes spilling over. “Sometimes I wake at night crying, terrified I gave her a wrong painkiller dose, that she was in agony and bearing it as usual, that I made her make the wrong decision in going home. That she died suffering because of me.”