A Princess in Naples
Автор
Becky Wicks
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CHAPTER ONE
‘THE NAME NAPLES comes from the Greek Neapolis, meaning new city. Its close proximity to an abundance of interesting sites, such as Pompeii and the Bay of Naples, makes it a great base for exploring the area...’
Adrienne Marx-Balthus zoned out of the audio guide in her ears. The woman in gold-rimmed sunglasses was still staring at her from the table by the window. Picking up her glass, Adrienne forced a smile in her direction. Of course she was going to be recognised here, too. Crown princesses like her didn’t just leave their home country and turn invisible.
Still, this was rather awkward.
The woman pulled out a phone. Adrienne slid the earbuds from her ears as her heart started to pulse behind her blouse. It was one thing to be recognised, but to be photographed by a tourist on her first day as a junior resident doctor at the Cancro Istituto di Napoli wasn’t ideal. Especially not when she’d already refused Papa’s proposal of an official press photographer. Why would she want that? She’d come here to be...normal.
Signalling for the bill, she gathered her things. Outside, the birds chirped in the trees and the buzz of the latte she’d picked up and brought with her propelled her through the streets of downtown Naples. Thankfully, the woman hadn’t followed her. Running in high heels was not advised.
Papa’s voice was in her head now, warning her that she’d be spotted in Naples, no matter what kind of white coat she was covered up in. Alexander Marx-Balthus, Prince Consort of Lisri, wasn’t particularly thrilled about his only daughter—his wife’s heir apparent—veering away from her monarchical duties for anything. Not even to pursue her career in medicine.
Adrienne sipped her latte on the move, taking in the piazza to her left, the way it smelled, the way the locals smiled. Everything was so vibrant here, colourful, promising. She wouldn’t be dragged down by her own restless mind.
Her mother the Queen’s quiet words in Papa’s ear had allowed her to pursue this role and she would be grateful to her for ever. Her father would have much preferred her to engage in finding a suitable husband than follow a career, but that was not exactly at the top of her list of ambitions right now. At twenty-one, when she’d fallen in love with the dashing Prince Xavier of Molizio, she’d been too young to know better, and too blind to see through his cunning charade, as it had turned out.
Sometimes she still couldn’t believe Papa had encouraged her to go through with the engagement even after they’d all discovered what a lying, cheating... No. She frowned to herself. She would not dwell on that night at the Military Ball again; she’d done enough of that. But even after everything that had happened, and all the salacious rumours spread by the press over their sudden split, Papa had cited Xavier as an excellent match—in terms of his royal lineage, at least. He’d even told her that not everyone found love in a royal marriage, as though that was supposed to reassure her!
‘I just won’t have a royal marriage, then’ had been her firm reply. ‘I won’t marry anyone unless it’s for love.’
Papa only wanted the best for her, of course, she reminded herself...as long as ‘the best’ was someone with blue blood running through his veins, like Prince Xavier. Well, no chance of that here...
No chance of falling for anyone—not that I want to. It’s going to be all about work, work, work.
At the other end of the piazza a line of scooters blocked the road, shoehorning into every inch of space around the cars. Gosh, it was hot here—hotter than at home in the summer, where Scandinavian breezes blew in over the mountains and cooled the rooms of the royal palace beautifully. But she pressed on.
If it were up to Papa she’d be letting her security guard, Ivan, take her straight to the hospital from her gated apartment, but she’d smiled and batted her eyelashes and convinced the man to let her walk this morning, saying she’d meet him there. It would be far nicer to walk and to get her bearings on day one, surely. Besides, her headscarf and giant sunglasses should hide her identity nicely.
Passing a dog straining on its lead to reach a fat pigeon, she let her thoughts run over her impending rotation again. She’d stood her ground at home, fought for the right to train as a doctor, and now she was finally away from Lisri and her royal engagements. At last some breathing space. There were no press photographers with her here, documenting her journey on yet another ‘first day’, which lifted her spirits again as the sea swept into view.
She must have walked uphill without realising. Inhaling the salty, damp air deep into her lungs, Adrienne flashed back to sailing trips on her yacht, Amada. One day, when she had some time to herself, which she knew would be rare, she’d take Amada, cast her sails again and conquer the sea herself. Ride the waves, the wild curves around the Amalfi Coast, out deep where the dolphins swam.
Dr Franco Perretta liked sailing too. She’d read it in one of his interviews in Medical Heroes magazine. For a second she thought of her new soon-to-be boss, sailing with her through caves, mooring at coves or in the shallows of secret bays. At thirty-one, she was still several years his junior—no thanks to spending time when she could have been focused on advancing her medical career attending silly social engagements instead, all while her family did their best to marry her off again.
It had only been a month or two after her relationship with Xavier had gone up in flames that her darling uncle Nicholas had received his terminal cancer diagnosis... But ultimately the tragedy had led her here, to this point. She hoped Franco Perretta would see and appreciate everything she’d had to overcome to get here, and not dwell too much on anything the press had written about her. They still loved to speculate endlessly about her and Xavier, and the fact that she’d been determinedly single since she’d broken up with him.
‘Flowers, signorina?’ someone called.
She bought the flowers. They’d look good in the hospital, all bright and cheery, signalling her new rotation and a new chapter in her life. As she walked, she felt a little nervous about meeting Franco Perretta in person for the first time. Had he heard about her reputation as Lisri’s Ice Princess? Seen the stupid memes? Most people had.
She was ashamed that such things had to follow her, but not ashamed of how she’d got the name in the first place. Of course she hadn’t given any of those suitors a second more of her time than she’d been forced to give them by her family—they could all think what they liked about that. She’d got her studies back on track over the last five years, and her career came first now. With Dr Franco Perretta as her mentor she’d soon be in line for success on her own account—not because of her family name or their wealth or influence.
Would he be as charming as he’d sounded on the phone? Since first reading about him, and then talking to him about this position, she’d been putting a jigsaw puzzle together in her mind and filling in the pieces herself.
A thirty-six-year-old Florence native, Franco Perretta was undeniably the talk of the institute. And the country. And most of Europe. Franco had done more for cancer research and developing biotechnology in the last half-decade than anyone. Who else could she learn more from faster?
And Dr Franco Perretta wasn’t just the cancer institute’s senior consultant. He was a philanthropist. He’d joined the Cancro Istituto di Napoli after his fiancée had died. She’d battled a rare kind of cancer that had taken her life quite quickly. The exact type hadn’t been mentioned in the interview she’d read, just the fact that no one had known enough about it at the time to tackle it easily. The interview had been more photographs than words, come to think of it, but it had sounded as if his tragic loss had been the foundation for a whole lot of gain.
Franco Perretta and the institute, co-founded by his father, the billionaire insurance tycoon Marco Perretta, were behind the research and development of almost every cancer-related drug the European Medicine Advisory Board had approved in Italy in recent years. As an aspiring oncologist herself, completing this rotation with Franco meant she’d be right on the front line of cutting-edge techniques, technologies and therapies. Thanks to all his connections, she’d also be involved in real humanitarian acts, and that was experience any medical leader should have behind her.
Even though all the females in her family had so far lived very long, healthy lives, Adrienne would have to take the crown in Lisri someday, and she wasn’t going to waste any more time doing anything she wasn’t passionate about. It might be decades before she stepped into the reigning role—her mother was only in her early fifties.
There was a screech. Adrienne stopped in her tracks. A scooter had collided with a car up ahead and she saw its rider, like a human-sized bullet, shooting from the bike to the ground.
She reached the scene to hear a flurry of Italian curse words and to see men with raised fists. The guy from the scooter was staggering to his feet, tugging at his helmet.
‘Are you hurt?’ She took his shoulders gently, calmly. It was never good to raise your voice with people in shock.
He blinked as if he didn’t even see her. Then a torrent of raging abuse flew from his mouth directly at the driver in the car. Stunned, she watched him limp purposefully towards his overturned moped, still yelling and gesticulating.
OK, so you’re not that hurt.
‘Princess? You’re the Crown Princess, aren’t you? From Lisri?’ The red-faced football-shirt-wearing man in the car had stopped mouthing obscenities and was now striding towards her, one huge step at a time. He’d left his car door wide open, much to the annoyance of the other honking moped drivers. ‘Your Highness, can I get a photo? My wife is a huge fan.’
Oh, God, what now?
‘Get on.’
The unmistakable voice came from behind her.
She spun around. There he was. Straddling the seat of a matte green scooter—an MP3 Sport 500, no less—was Franco Perretta. For a second she just stood there, stunned. He was all man, wearing a fitted white shirt and an open leather jacket. Taller than she’d thought, and utterly drop-dead gorgeous.
‘How did you...?’
‘I was driving past. I saw the headscarf and I thought you might be trying to hide your identity.’
‘Am I that obvious?’
‘Get on,’ he repeated.
She tugged the helmet he gave her over her head. The machine was more motorcycle than scooter, sleek and well-cared-for... Expensive. Her skirt was too long and close-fitting for her to ride a bike of any kind, but she didn’t really have a choice. Squashing the bouquet of flowers under her arm, she yanked up her skirt and climbed onto the back behind him.
‘Go!’ she cried, pulling the tight fabric higher and hugging his hips with her thighs.
Mr Football Shirt was only a hand’s grab away. ‘Just one photo, Princess?’
Franco flipped the footrests. Her arms looped around his waist and she felt the flowers tickling her cheek between them. Only the helmet stopped her face landing smack against his broad, leather-shielded back as he put his foot down and sped from the scene.
A rush of heat and man and power and freedom flooded her senses as they left the crowd in the dust. In three seconds flat they were bumping across a cobbled footpath and skidding down a narrow alleyway.
