Romy Sommer - To Catch a Star - A Royal Romance to Remember!

ROMY SOMMER

A division of HarperCollins Publishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

HarperImpulse an imprint of

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

77–85 Fulham Palace Road

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2014

Copyright © Romy Sommer 2014

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Romy Sommer asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International

and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

By payment of the required fees, you have been granted

the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access

and read the text of this e-book on screen.

No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or

stored in or introduced into any information storage and

retrieval system, in any form or by any means,

whether electronic or mechanical, now known or

hereinafter invented, without the express

written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © September 2014

ISBN: 9780007594634

Version 2014-09-25

Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

To Barbara and Sarah, Terry and Sue, for friendships that have spanned decades, continents and countless film productions.

Contents

Cover

Title Page To Catch a Star ROMY SOMMER A division of HarperCollins Publishers www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright HarperImpulse an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 77–85 Fulham Palace Road Hammersmith, London W6 8JB www.harpercollins.co.uk First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2014 Copyright © Romy Sommer 2014 Cover images © Shutterstock.com Romy Sommer asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Ebook Edition © September 2014 ISBN: 9780007594634 Version 2014-09-25 Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

Dedication To Barbara and Sarah, Terry and Sue, for friendships that have spanned decades, continents and countless film productions.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue – Tortuga

Also by Romy Sommer …

Romy Sommer

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

One woman tearing your clothes off was fun. Five at once? Not so much.

“Please, ladies…” Christian was only half laughing now.

Rip. There went an Armani sleeve. He shrugged away from the grasp, but there were still other hands pulling at him, tugging at him.

He’d known adoring fans before, but they seldom pawed him. And this had gone way beyond pawing.

“I’ll sign autographs, but you really don’t need to take souvenirs.” He had to raise his voice over their squeals. This was definitely not fun. In fact, it was getting downright scary. The crowd surrounding him pressed in tighter. There seemed to be more of them now too.

Another rip. This time his shirt. The excited squeals increased in volume.

“He’s mine!” shouted one over-eager fan.

“Mine!” the others echoed.

“Well, actually, ladies…” He belonged to no one. But in the grip of mob mentality, they neither heard nor cared.

He had to get out of here.

With another rip, this time the rear seam of his evening jacket, he pulled away from the knot of admirers. One young woman tumbled to her knees with the impetus. Fighting every instinct to be a gentleman, he didn’t pause. He ran.

The sound of their pursuit spurred him on. He ran blindly. Now he knew how it felt to be the fox in a fox hunt.

A block or two further and the number of feet behind him seemed to diminish, but he still didn’t look back. He only hoped no one had been trampled in the ruckus. Though if one or two of the fanatics broke a heel in the process, justice would be served.

He reached an intersection and looked both ways. This foreign city had turned into a maze and he had absolutely no idea where he was. Back where he’d been accosted, the streets teemed with life. He paused. He stood now in a deserted residential street, a terrace of imposing townhouses lined with trees stark against the night sky.

And no way out.

Cul-de-sac either side and a dead-end straight ahead.

Damn.

He looked back over his shoulder. There were only three women left in the race, but they were gaining.

A car pulled out of a driveway within the cul-de-sac to his left, picking up speed as it approached his street corner. An open-topped sports car with only one occupant. Blonde was all he had time to register. Drawing on a lifetime’s worth of instinct, he took a running leap and landed face-first in the rear seat, just as the roof began to unfold and close over them.

The driver screamed, more ear-splitting even than the fans who, thwarted of their quarry, howled as the car sped past.

Christian sprawled on the back seat until the adrenalin rush waned enough that he became aware of aches and pains. He was winded too. He struggled upright.

The convertible roof clicked into place, sealing them in. Mercifully, the scream stopped as the driver drew in a fresh breath. He braced himself against another, but it didn’t come.

While the white knuckles grasping the steering wheel still revealed her terror, the driver seemed to have composed herself remarkably well. Her chin lifted and her shoulders straightened.

“What are you going to do with me?” she asked in local dialect, her voice icy, betrayed by the barest tremor. She turned her head to look at him in the rear-view mirror and he glimpsed an intriguing profile, beautifully arched eyebrows, long eyelashes, full lips, and a pert nose.

“Keep driving,” he urged, glancing out the back window at the group of young women receding into the distance. He looked down at his clothing. Great. The jacket sleeve fluttered loose and his shirt had been torn and gaped open across his chest, enough to reveal dark skin through the crisp white broadcloth.

The shirt had been hand-crafted in Milan.

He swore again.

The only thing he could rectify was the skew bow-tie. He removed it and stuck it in his pocket, then climbed into the passenger seat beside her. She gasped, as if about to scream again.