The Prince's Forbidden Cinderella (Mills & Boon Modern) (The Secret Twin Sisters, Book 1), page 1
KIM LAWRENCE lives on a farm in Anglesey with her university-lecturer husband, assorted pets who arrived as strays and never left, and sometimes one or both of her boomerang sons. When she’s not writing, she loves to be outdoors gardening or walking on one of the beaches for which the island is famous—along with being the place where Prince William and Catherine made their first home!
Books by Kim Lawrence
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Claimed by Her Greek Boss
Jet-Set Billionaires
Innocent in the Sicilian’s Palazzo
Spanish Secret Heirs
The Spaniard’s Surprise Love-Child
Claiming His Unknown Son
A Ring from a Billionaire
Waking Up in His Royal Bed
The Italian’s Bride on Paper
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.
The Prince’s Forbidden Cinderella
Kim Lawrence
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ISBN: 978-0-008-92856-8
THE PRINCE’S FORBIDDEN CINDERELLA
© 2023 by Kim Lawrence
Published in Great Britain 2023
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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The loss of control was dangerous, because the woman who had instigated this kiss was in his employ.
Kate worked for him. Marco had crossed a line and didn’t even bother rationalizing it because it was a waste of energy. Instead, he went into damage control mode. It wouldn’t happen again, he told himself. The few extra feet of physical distance he created seemed a sensible backup plan.
When she spoke, he registered she sounded dazed, appalled even. “Did I start that?”
Could her action have been construed as an invitation to whatever was supposed to follow? She had no words to describe the kiss. She hadn’t known a kiss could feel like that, that she could feel want and need in her bones and skin, right to the soles of her feet.
“Yes, but I finished it, and it is...” he said, his steely eyes seeking and finding hers, “...finished.”
He said it for his benefit as much as hers.
For Sally, who dedicated her birthday to raising money for a cause close to my heart. Thank you!
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Introduction
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EPILOGUE
Extract
About the Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
RENZOI WAS OFTEN referred to as a jewel, and it was rare for those enjoying their first glimpse of the island kingdom from the air to disagree.
There was one airport on the island, and the coastal route from the international airport hub to the walled city capital of Fort St Boniface was considered by many to be one of the most beautiful stretches of road in the world, beloved by film crews over the years, and by those with a head for heights, the nerves for hairpin bends, and a love of dramatic seascapes.
Many travellers who arrived on the island took the less dizzying option of a transfer on one of the water taxis that ferried their passengers across the glittering waters of the grand harbour.
You could no longer gawp at the luxury yachts moored in the deep water as they were now floating, with their billionaire occupants, in a brand-new purpose-built marina on the opposite side of the island, contributing to the island’s thriving economy and reputation as a haunt for the rich and famous.
These days the only obstacles to negotiate on the short crossing were a few sailing and fishing boats. Part of the charm of St Boniface was that it remained a working harbour.
The short crossing offered the best view of the walled capital with its towers and domes. Dramatic though the capital’s architecture was, it was the royal palace centrepiece, rising like the top tier of a wedding cake above the medieval sprawl of picturesque narrow streets and cobbled squares, that everyone wanted to be snapped outside.
In daylight hours the sparkling stretch of water swarmed with brightly painted speedboats. Even as the sun was replaced by stars and a full moon, several continued to work the stretch, ferrying groups of eager tourists staring with wonder at the illuminated fairy-tale castle with its dramatic dome and myriad towers.
One such vessel held no tourists, it was not draped with colourful bunting, instead, it carried a solitary passenger and, for the observant, a discreet royal logo illuminated by the strings of twinkling fairy lights reflecting off the water as it reversed towards a pontoon that was set a little away from the main landing area where the tourist fleet was moored.
Seemingly not having the patience to wait for the final manoeuvre, the passenger leapt casually out over the several feet of water and landed with athletic jungle-cat grace on the gently swaying pontoon.
A figure who had been standing on the dock lifted a hand in greeting, pausing as the tall, loose-limbed, suited figure negotiated his way over the pontoon towards him.
‘I wasn’t expecting a reception party—’ the arrival began, only to pause as the phone in his pocket began to vibrate. He raised an apologetic hand. ‘One moment, Rafe.’
The waiting figure, who might have been considered tall himself had he not been standing beside the Prince, who stood six four in his bare feet, watched as a spasm of irritated comprehension moved like a slow ripple across the contours of the handsome carved features of the heir to the throne of Renzoi, before the silver-grey eyes lifted to make contact with his.
‘I was about to ask if there was a problem, but...’ Marco glanced at the screen of his phone one last time before he slid it back into his pocket. ‘The airport is closed...?’
The other man gave a rueful nod. ‘Everything is grounded. This storm is heading straight for us.’
‘You’re heading out there now?’
‘It kind of comes with the job description.’
‘There is a job description for Minister for Transport and Tourism?’ Marco drawled, his darkly delineated brows lifting.
The other man gave a self-conscious shrug. ‘When someone says “Minister” I keep looking over my shoulder.’
‘Not such a bad idea, palace politics being what they are,’ Marco observed sardonically. ‘Though luckily the knives are mostly metaphorical these days. So, how many times have you been told you have big shoes to fill so far?’
‘Everyone seems shocked. The minister’s death was—’
‘Shocked? The man was ninety,’ Marco cut in. ‘Drank like a fish and the big shoes he died in were golf shoes. As his assistant you’ve already been doing his job for the last five years while he took the accolades.’
‘Neck?’ Marco rotated the part of his anatomy under discussion, releasing some of the tension that he hadn’t been aware was there. ‘Hardly that. You have nothing to prove to me, Rafe.’
His neck was safe but when he had used his veto to override the Council of Ministers’ choice to fill the senior vacancy, Marco had known that any mistakes on Rafe’s part would be eagerly pounced on as evidence of Marco’s meddling in matters he did not understand by the palace mandarins, who preferred he should emulate his much more compliant father.
Nepotism in the palace was an accepted route of promotion. Just five families held virtually every position of power on the island, and they had no intention of ceding that power without a struggle. This was fine, Marco could be patient, and he had his father’s backing, even though the King was too easy-going and, yes, it was true, lazy, Marco acknowledged, one corner of his mouth lifting in an affectionate grin as he thought of his father, who, as the courtiers pointed out, was much loved by his people.
The hardly subtle shorthand being that if Marco took up golf or beekeeping or taking afternoon tea with his long-term mistress, and left the mandarins to run the country, he too would one day be loved by his people.
Marco, whose marriage had ended with the death of his wife, did not have a long-term mistress, nor a short-term one. He wasn’t a monk. One-night or occasionally discreet two-night stands seemed a much less demanding way to satisfy his natural physical needs. Also the old adage that there was safety in numbers held true.
One day he would marry again, but he intended to delay that day for as long as possible.
‘At least you made it home before the closures, Highness...’
‘Highness...? Rafe...really?’ Marco’s expressive lips twitched.
The other man grinned and pushed his wire-framed glasses up his nose. ‘All right, Marco, but...’
‘But there is no one around to hear. You can grovel as much as you like in company, but being called Highness by a man I once saw dance on a table after half a cider—you really are a lightweight—and a man I used to thrash at rugby doesn’t sit right.’ Not that friendship, or even the pleasure of winding up the cabal of blue bloods that took their power for granted, was the reason that Marco had given his old university friend and son of his chauffeur the lynchpin role. It was for the simple reason that Rafe was the best man for the job.
‘Rugby... I think recollections may vary on that one, but as you’re my boss I’ll let it pass. I take it the flight in was...interesting?’
Marco’s grin flashed. ‘You could say that. I think I have had my week’s adrenaline rush.’ Had he not known the service history of the decorated pilot at the controls he might have been worried at their third attempt at landing. His grin faded as he observed Rafe’s glance drifting to the waiting boat.
‘You need to be off?’
Rafe nodded and, excusing himself, climbed into the boat with more caution than Marco had exited it. Marco watched the boat speed away before striding towards the waiting car. As he reached the long, low, armour-plated limo with the blacked-out windows a power surge caused the lights, including those dancing on the water, to flicker.
The door was opened by a suited figure who had emerged from the driver’s seat. ‘Did you see Rafe, Tomas?’
‘My son, the minister,’ he self-corrected, ‘is working.’ Despite the stony expression Marco could hear the pride in the older man’s voice.
‘Of course.’ Marco’s finger traced the white scar on his cheek. Tomas had been Marco’s personal childhood bodyguard before an injury acquired rescuing Marco after he tested out his youthful theory that a waterfall was made for leaping into and sliding down had put Tomas on desk duty.
The thin white line on his cheek was Marco’s only lasting reminder. Tomas’s reminder was the bleep of metal detectors when he walked through them, and a limp that had negated his role as a personal security guard.
Desk duty had not suited him, nor had early retirement. He had jumped at the chance to enter service as Marco’s personal driver.
‘He is grateful for the chance you have given him, Highness.’
‘He deserves it.’
‘Yes,’ the older man agreed factually, adding, ‘The storm has followed you home, I think, Highness.’
Marco made a non-committal sound in his throat. He did not assign human characteristics to forces of nature, he simply respected them. The door closed behind him. The air-conditioned interior of the car was pleasant after the sultry pre-storm heaviness outside. Marco loosened his tie and shrugged off his jacket, dislodging the small gift-wrapped package in his breast pocket. It was hard to know what to get a five-year-old girl who had pretty much everything. In the end he’d opted for a delicate necklace, a silver hand-beaten shell on a silver chain.
Would Freya like it?
He had no idea; he dodged the acknowledgment of his ignorance but not before he experienced a stab of something that felt like loss...what five-year-old was not a mystery?
Freya would smile and say thank you. His daughter was a very polite child...her old-fashioned manners were a credit to Nanny Maeve, his own nanny back in the day, who was reluctantly retiring due to crippling arthritis, but she had insisted she was well enough to stay on another month and ensure a smooth transition before she moved to the luxurious surroundings of an upmarket retirement village in her native Ireland.
Opening his laptop, he began scrolling through emails as the car drew away from the dock. They had driven through the gate cut into the sixteenth-century walls of the capital before the dark outside was briefly illuminated by a sodium-silver flash that for a brief moment blinded the passenger to the iconic image of the castle. A moment later the much-replicated image of the illuminated honeyed walls that inevitably drew gasps of amazement reappeared.
Marco didn’t gasp. He was focusing on the laptop in front of him. He had grown up inside those fortified walls and was more interested in the results of the latest opinion poll he had recently set in motion.
A quick scan of the table of figures twitched the corners of his wide sensual mouth upwards into a satisfied smile. This information would be useful ammunition at tomorrow’s scheduled meeting. It was just what he needed to pull the rug from under the expensively shod feet of the cabal of palace officials who held strong to the belief that any change was a bad one.
There were days, in fact entire weeks, when it felt to Marco he was banging his head against a brick wall when he tried to convince the courtiers who felt it was their job to keep the status quo that stagnation was not a good thing, and that the subjects of the admittedly prosperous island state were a lot more open-minded than the courtiers believed.
And the figures he was looking at backed up this view. A representative cross section of the island kingdom’s population, when asked their views on a fictional scenario equivalent to the real one he had in mind, were not so closed-minded.
As he closed the laptop the time in the corner of the screen caught his eye, causing him to self-correct the thought. It actually already was tomorrow.
Ahead the gilded gates silently swung open. There was no visible security presence beyond the sentinel figures in traditional dress who stood at intervals along the battlements, but it was there. Marco had signed off on the new improved security measures six months ago in direct response to the incident that had involved a tourist armed with nothing more sinister than a camera who had somehow wandered into Freya’s fifth birthday party.
A guest speaker at a European climate-change conference, Marco had learnt of the incident second-hand from his mother, who had told it as an amusing anecdote, which was possibly to be expected of a monarch who regularly rode around the island on a bicycle with her security detail trying to keep up.
His mother refused to accept that there were bad people out there...just misunderstood souls. He was surprised her good nature was not taken advantage of more.
Marco had not been amused and had instigated a full-scale overhaul of the palace security arrangements. He had not kept her mother safe but the child she had died giving life to would be protected.
