Lynn Raye Harris - Men In Uniform - Captivated By The Prince

‘Money?’ Miranda said hopefully.

Emily shook her head as she reasoned it through aloud. ‘You’re not going to be able to honour a recording contract drawn up by a man like Mr Bussoni and put in the practice hours necessary to study the violin with a top-flight teacher like Professor Iwamoto.’

‘It won’t be for long,’ Miranda insisted stubbornly, unfolding her long limbs to have a noisy stretch. ‘I’ll cope.’

Before Emily had a chance to argue Miranda was out of the smart black coupé and heading up the path.

‘Don’t be silly,’ Emily said, catching up with her sister at the front door. ‘The more successful the band, the less likely it is that this crazy idea of yours will work. I know the money would be great, but—’ The expression on her twin’s face made Emily stop to give her a hug. ‘I know you’re still pining over that violin we saw in Heidelberg.’

‘That was just a stupid dream—’

‘Well, I don’t know much about violins,’ Emily admitted, ‘but I do know what a sweet sound you produced on that lovely old instrument.’

‘Something like that would cost a king’s ransom anyway,’ Miranda sighed despondently. ‘And it’s sure to have been sold by now.’

Emily made a vague sound to register sympathy while she was busy calculating how much money she could raise if she sold her central London apartment to the landlord who already owned most of the smart riverside block, and then rented it back from him. Miranda need never know. It was a desperate solution, but anything was preferable to seeing her sister’s opportunity lost. ‘If I can help you, I will,’ she promised.

With a gust of frustration, Miranda hit the doorbell. ‘You do enough for everyone already. You won’t even let me pay rent—’

‘If I didn’t have you around, who else would keep the fridge stocked up with eye masks?’ Emily demanded wryly.

Their banter was interrupted when the door swung open.

‘Girls—’

Then another idea popped into Emily’s head. ‘I’ve got some investments—’

‘No!’ Miranda said, shaking her head vehemently. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘You’re not arguing,’ their mother said wearily, giving them both a reproving look.

‘Heated discussion, Mum,’ Emily said as she shut the door behind them. ‘Where’s Dad?’

‘In his study, of course.’

Of course. Emily stole a moment to inhale deeply, taking in the aroma of a freshly baked cake coming from the kitchen, along with the gurgle of boiling water ready for tea.

‘You look tired,’ her mother said softly, touching her arm. ‘And as for you, Miranda—’ Her voice sharpened as if her maternal engines had revved to a new pitch. ‘What you need is a good dose of my linctus, and a hot cup of tea—’

‘Did I hear the magic words?’

‘Dad!’ the girls cried in unison.

After giving them both a bear hug, Mr Weston linked arms with his daughters and followed their mother into the kitchen.

‘It will be easy for you, Emily,’ her mother asserted confidently, after Miranda had outlined her plan to secure the recording contract. ‘You’re not emotionally involved like Miranda. And you’ll run rings around this record company man when it comes to securing the best terms for Miranda.’

Emily was surprised by her reaction to this vote of confidence. It was unnerving to discover that her mother’s assessment of the situation could be so far off the mark. Intuition told her that running rings around Alessandro Bussoni was out of the question. But her main worry was the strange way her heart behaved just at the thought of him joining them in the tiny house. The man behind the voice would fill every inch of it with presence alone, never mind the unsettling possibility that she might brush up against him—

‘Are you sure you’re all right with this, Emily…? Emily?’

Finally the concern in her father’s voice penetrated Emily’s dream-state, and her eyes cleared as she hurried to reassure him. ‘Of course, Dad. Leave it to me,’ she insisted brightly, ‘I can handle Signor Bussoni—’

‘Italian!’ her mother exclaimed, showing double the interest as she unconsciously checked out her neat halo of curls. ‘How exciting. And when did you say he was arriving?’

‘Right now, by the looks of it,’ Emily’s father said as he peered through the window.

‘OH, NO!’ Miranda gasped, looking to her sister for guidance.

‘Stay upstairs until he’s gone,’ Emily suggested briskly. ‘I’ll come and get you when the coast’s clear. Mum. Dad. Act normal.’

‘Yes, dear,’ her mother said breathlessly, exchanging an excited glance with her father.

Don’t look so worried,’ Emily called after Miranda. ‘I promise not to turn anything down without your approval.’

Exchanging quick smiles, the girls were just on the point of parting at the foot of the stairs when they stopped, looked at each other, and then swooped to the hall window.

Standing well back from the glass, Emily ran a finger cautiously down the edge of the net curtain.

‘Oh, boy,’ she murmured, watching the tall, darkly clad figure unfold his impressive frame from the heavily shaded interior of a sleek black car.

‘You said Herman Munster,’ Miranda breathed accusingly.

‘I said he might have been Herman Munster for all I could see of him,’ Emily corrected tensely.

‘Looks like you were both wrong in this instance,’ their father commented dryly.

Alessandro felt a frisson of anticipation as he double-checked the address his private secretary had passed on to him that morning.

He wasn’t used to waiting, and eighteen hours was far too long in this case.

But then he wasn’t used to speaking to someone hiding behind a screen either, or accepting anyone’s terms but his own—which was how he now found himself getting out of a rented Mercedes outside a perfectly ordinary semi-detached house in North London.

He smiled a little in amused acceptance. He couldn’t recall a single instance of being turned down by a woman, let alone agreeing to a time of her choosing for an audience as begrudging as this one. His sharp gaze took in the small rectangular lawn, freshly mowed, and then moved on to the splash of vivid colour provided by a pot of petunias to one side of the narrow front door. For someone who moved between palaces, embassies or the presidential suite in some luxury hotel when he was really slumming it, this chance to sample suburbia was a novelty…No. A welcome change, he decided as he swiped off his dark glasses.

Behind a snowy drift of net, the Weston family watched Alessandro Bussoni’s progress towards the house in awe-struck silence.

‘He’s absolutely gorgeous,’ Miranda murmured. Their distracted mother barely managed a weak gasp of, ‘Oh, my!’

‘Go, before he sees you,’ Emily suggested urgently, having already turned her back on the window.

‘But your make-up,’ Miranda said, hopping from foot to foot, torn between going and staying.

Emily’s hand shot automatically to her face. ‘What about it?’

‘You’re not wearing any,’ Miranda exclaimed with concern.

‘Can’t be helped. He’ll still think I’m you. Why shouldn’t he? Anyway, you’re not wearing any make-up,’ Emily pointed out.

‘Only because I’m sick.’

‘Well, there’s no time for me to do anything about it now,’ Emily said firmly. ‘I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.’

‘Sure?’ Miranda asked hopefully.

‘Sure,’ Emily said briskly, hoping no one had noticed that her hand was shaking as it hovered over the doorknob.

‘I’m going to change,’ Miranda shouted, on her way up the stairs. ‘Then I’m taking over from you.’