The Princess and the Player

* * *

Bella entered the Playa Del Onda house through the kitchen, and snagged a glass-bottled cola from the refrigerator and a piece of crusty bread from the pantry. Both the colas and the bread tasted different in Europe but she didn’t mind. All part of the adventure.

Thoughts still on the sexy man she’d abandoned on the beach, Bella munched on the bread as she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. She almost made it before a dark shadow alerted her to the fact that her least favorite person in the house had found her.

“Isabella.” Her father’s sharp voice stopped her dead, four steps from the landing on the second floor.

“Yeah, Dad?” She didn’t turn around. If you didn’t stare him in the eye, he couldn’t turn you to stone, right?

“Is that how you dress to go out?”

“Only when I go to the beach,” she retorted. “Is there something new you’d like to discuss or shall we rehash the same subject from last night? You didn’t like that outfit either, if I recall.”

Ever since Adela, Bella’s mother, had left, this is how it went. Her father only spoke to her when he wanted to tell her how to run her life. And she pretended to listen. Occasionally, when it suited her, she went along, but only if she got something out of it.

“We’ll rehash it as many times as it takes to get it through your scattered brain. Gabriel is going to be king.” Rafael stressed the word as if she might be confused about what was happening around her. “The least you can do is help smooth his ascension with a little common sense about how you dress. The Montoros have no credibility yet, especially not with that stunt your brother pulled.”

“Rafe fell in love,” she shot back and bit her tongue.

Old news. Her father cared nothing for love, only propriety. And horror of all horrors—his eldest son had gotten a bartender pregnant and then abdicated the throne so he could focus on his new family. In Daddy’s mind, it fell squarely into the category of impropriety. Unforgivable.

It was a reminder that her father also cared little for his daughter’s happiness either. Only royal protocol.

“Rafe is a disappointment. I’ll not have another child of mine follow his example.” He cleared his throat. “Face me when we’re speaking, please.”

She complied, but only because the front view of her bikini was likely to give him apoplexy and she kind of wanted to see it.

He pursed his lips but, to her father’s credit, that was his only reaction. “When have you arranged to meet Will Rowling?”

Ah, of course. Complaining about her bikini was a smoke screen—this was actually an ambush about her arranged marriage. With the scent of forbidden fruit lingering in her senses coupled with her father’s bad attitude, she’d developed a sudden fierce desire to spend time with someone who had clearly never met a good time he didn’t like.

And his name wasn’t Will. “I haven’t yet.”

“What are you waiting for, an invitation? This is your match to make, Isabella. I’m giving you some latitude in the timing but I expect results. Soon.” The severe lines around his mouth softened. “This alliance is very important. To the entire Montoro family and to the royal legacy of Alma. I’m not asking this for myself, but for Gabriel. Remember that.”

She sighed. “I know. That’s why I’m here. I do want to be a credit to the royal family.”

Hurricane Bella couldn’t whirl through Alma and disrupt the entire country. She knew that. Somehow, she had to be better than she’d been in Miami. The thought of Miami reminded her of Buttercup and Wesley, her feathered friends she’d left behind. Some said the wild macaws that nested in southern Florida were people’s pets set free during Hurricane Andrew. She’d always felt an affinity with the birds because they’d all survived the storm. Buttercup and Wesley could continue to be her source of strength even from afar.

“Good. Then arrange to meet Will Rowling and do it soon. Patrick Rowling is one of the most influential men in Alma and the Montoros need his support. We cannot afford another misstep at this point.”

It wasn’t anything she hadn’t heard before, but on the heels of meeting James, the warning weighed heavily on her shoulders. Gabriel hadn’t wanted to be thrust suddenly into a starring role in the restoration of the monarchy to Alma’s political landscape. But he’d stepped up nonetheless. She could do the same.

But why did it matter which Rowling she married anyway? Surely one was as good as the other. Perhaps she could turn this to her advantage by seeing where things went with James.

“I’ll do my best not to mess this up,” Bella promised.

If it didn’t matter which Rowling she picked, that meant she didn’t need to call Will anytime soon. The reprieve let her breathe a little easier.

Her father raised his eyebrows. “That would be a refreshing change. On that note, don’t assume that you left all the tabloids behind in Miami. The paparazzi know no national boundaries. Stay out of scandalous situations, don’t drink too much and for God’s sake, keep your clothes on.”

She saluted saucily to cover the sharp spike of hurt that she never could seem to stop no matter how many times she told herself this was just how he was. “Yes, Father.”

Escaping to her room, Bella took a long shower but it didn’t ease the ache from the showdown with Rafael.

Why did she still care that her father never hugged her or told her he was proud of her? Not for the first time, she wondered if the frosty temperature in her father’s demeanor had caused her mother to leave. If so, Bella hardly blamed her. She hoped Adela had found happiness.

Happiness should be the most important factor in whom you married. The thought solidified Bella’s resolve. If her father wanted a match between the Montoros and the Rowlings, great. Bella would comply—as long as the Rowling was James.

She’d rather see where that led than try to force a match with the right brother.

Why shouldn’t she be allowed to be as happy as Rafe and Gabriel?

* * *

The loud, scornful whispering at the next table over started to annoy James about two bites into his paella. Couldn’t a bloke get something to eat without someone publicly crucifying him? This time, the subject of choice was his lack of a decision on whether to take a spot on Alma’s reserve team.

The two middle-aged men were in complete agreement: James should be happy to have any position, even though Alma wasn’t a UEFA team. He should take his lumps and serve his penance, and then it would be acceptable to play for a premiere club again, once he’d redeemed himself. Or so the men opined, and not very quietly.

The paella turned to sawdust in his mouth. He was glad someone knew what he needed to do next in his stalled career.

Playing for Alma was a fine choice. For a beginner. But James had been playing football since he was seven, the same year his father had uprooted his two sons from their Guildford home and moved them to the tiny, nowhere island of Alma. Football had filled a void in his life after the death of his mother. James loved the game. Being dropped from Real Madrid had stung, worse than he’d let on to anyone.

Of course, whom would he tell? He and Will rarely talked about anything of note, usually by James’s choice. Will was the perfect son who never messed up, while James spent as much effort as he possibly could on irritating his father. James and Will might be twins but the similarities ended there—and Will was a Manchester United fan from way back, so they couldn’t even talk football without almost coming to blows.

And Will had first dibs on the woman James hadn’t been able to forget. All without lifting a finger. Life just reeked sometimes.

Unable to eat even one more bite of the dish he’d found so tasty just minutes ago, James threw a few bills on the table and stalked out of the restaurant into the bright afternoon sun on the boardwalk at Playa Del Onda.

So much for hanging out at the beach where fewer people might recognize him. He might as well go back to Del Sol and let his father tell him again how much of a disappointment he was. Or he could swallow his bitterness and get started on finding another football club since none had come looking for him.

A flash of blond hair ahead of him caught his eye. Since Bella had been on his mind in one way or another since he’d met her the day before, it was no wonder he was imagining her around every corner.

He shouldn’t, though. She’d been reserved for the “right” Rowling, the one who could do no wrong. James’s black sheep status hadn’t improved much. Frankly, she deserved a shot at the successful brother, though he had no clue if Will was even on board with the match their father had apparently orchestrated. When Bella mentioned it yesterday, that was the first he’d heard of it. Which didn’t mean it wasn’t legit.

The woman in front of him glanced into a shop window and her profile confirmed it. It was Bella.

Something expanded in his chest and he forgot why he wasn’t supposed to think about her. Unable to help himself all of a sudden, James picked up his pace until he drew up alongside her. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Tilting her head down, she looked at him over the top of her sunglasses and murmured something reassuring to the burly security detail trailing her. They backed off immediately.

“James Rowling, I presume?” she said to him.

He laughed. “The one and only. Getting in some shopping?”

“Nope. Waiting around for you to stroll by. It’s about time. I was starting to think you’d ordered everything on El Gatito’s menu.” She nodded in the direction of the restaurant he’d just exited and leaned in to murmur, “I hope you skipped the cat.”

She’d been waiting for him? The notion tripped him up even more than her wholly American, wholly sexy perfume, for some odd reason.