Bought By The Billionaire Prince

‘Well, I think fruit-picking sounds awful.’ Jasmine pouted, but soon cheered up, cheekily ripping down a notice and then pocketing it. ‘This is more me. They’re looking for casual staff at the casino and there’s discounted accommodation—ooh, look, there’s even a courtesy bus.’

‘I think that’s for the clientele,’ Meg said as some holidaymakers who certainly weren’t backpackers were escorted into the luxury vehicle.

‘So?’ Jasmine shrugged and pulled on her backpack as she called to the bus driver to wait for her—Meg couldn’t help but smile; Jasmine was like a cat who always landed on her feet. ‘Come on, Meg.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Meg shook her head. ‘A casino is the last place I want to be. All that noise and bustle…’

‘All those rich men!’ Jasmine giggled and even Meg managed a laugh. ‘Come on, Meg, hold off on your search for inner peace for a few days and come and have some fun at the casino. We can share a room.’

‘It’s really not me.’ Raking a hand through her blond hair, Meg felt the salt and grease and almost relented—given Alex wasn’t here, that long soak in a bath she’d been looking forward to wasn’t going to eventuate and accommodation at the casino, even if it was budget accommodation, was surely going to be better than some of the hostels she’d stayed in. ‘I think I’ll head over to the hospital.’ Meg checked out her map. ‘It isn’t very far. Maybe he is just caught up at work. You’d better go or you’re going to miss that courtesy bus.’

‘Well, if it doesn’t work out with your brother, you know where I am.’

‘Thanks.’ Meg grinned, watching as her friend climbed on the bus and waved her off, wishing, wishing she could, even for a little while, be as happy and as carefree as Jasmine—could relax just a little bit, could have just a fraction of her confidence. The universe itself seemed to provide Jasmine with her assured nature.

Meg watched until the tiny bus disappeared from view, filled with something she couldn’t define—a hunger, a need almost for familiarity, to be able to let down her guard a touch, to be with someone who knew how hard this was for her, someone who knew that this so-called trip of a lifetime, this carefree existence, was in fact an agonising journey for her.

Where the hell was Alex?

The last e-mail he’d sent, he’d confirmed her date and time of arrival, had told her he couldn’t wait to catch up, had huge news to share. Surely if his plans had changed he’d have contacted her?

But how?

Meg closed her eyes against a temporary moment of panic. She hadn’t been near a computer for the last couple of weeks—happy the next leg of her tour had been arranged, she’d decided to cut loose for a while—and look where it had got her!

The taxi rank had long since closed, so, consulting her map, Meg set out on foot towards the Free Hospital where Alex had told her he was working. The midday sun combined with her heavy backpack made the relatively short distance seem to take for ever. How she’d have loved to have lingered and wandered through the pretty shops, but a backpack and a pressing lack of accommodation for the night didn’t allow for such luxuries, so instead Meg stopped at one of the pavement cafés and ordered a quick coffee. Watching intrigued as the town seemingly prepared for something—shopkeepers were draping their stores with huge vines, hilarity ensuing as a few vocal locals strung banners and lights across the street, calling to each other in their colourful language as children watched on gleefully.

‘Is there going to be a party?’ Meg asked one of waiters whose English was better than most.

‘A bigger party than you have ever seen!’ Filling her cup he elaborated, ‘The Niroli Feast starts tomorrow—we party for the next few days and celebrate the treasures the rich soil gives us.’

‘Here?’ Meg checked, gesturing to the street they were in, but the waiter just laughed.

‘The whole island celebrates—you must stay for it,’ he insisted as only the Italians could. ‘I ask you—why would anyone not want to stay a while in this wonderful place?’

Why indeed?

Boosted from her shot of coffee, Meg made her way more briskly to the hospital, hoping against hope that Alex would be there and trying to fathom what she’d do if he wasn’t.

‘Dr Alex Hunter!’ Meg tried to keep her voice even, trying not to show her frustration as she said her brother’s name for perhaps the tenth time. On perhaps the eleventh, the receptionist nodded her immaculately groomed head.

‘Sì, Alessandro Fierezza!’ Eagerly, again she nodded, tapping details into her computer. ‘He no here, I have no contact for him. Try palazzo!’

Help!

Meg grabbed her long hair into a tight fist and let out an exasperated breath as the receptionist called on a colleague, who spoke even less English, listening to their vibrant discussion peppered with the names Alex and Alessandro and wondering what on earth she should do.

‘Your brother marry.’

‘But my brother is not married, he’s not even engaged!’ Meg gave a helpless laugh, then shook her head as in broken English the two women attempted to explain the impossible.

‘Matrimonio,’ the receptionist said firmly, nodding as Meg frowned. ‘Your brother, Alessandro—’

‘Alex,’ Meg corrected, then slumped in defeat as the receptionist forced her to admit the truth—even if they had got the names mixed up, the simple fact was if Alex was in Niroli then he’d have met her at the port; her careful plans for the next couple of weeks flying out of the window courtesy of three little words—

‘Your brother gone.’

CHAPTER TWO (#ubec619b0-90ef-5f65-8601-dafb2272b6d4)

JASMINE HAD BEEN RIGHT—there was work at the casino.

Lots of it!

Working her way through mountain after mountain of white china plates, Meg tried to block out the noise of a busy kitchen—the chefs screaming at each other like proud cats fighting over territory, waiters collecting elaborate dishes, swooshing out of the swing doors only to return moments later, laden with half-eaten dishes to add to the pile Meg had been allocated. Not that Meg minded hard work, she’d been more than prepared for the back-breaking work of fruit-picking, but being shut up in a kitchen, her face red from the heat, her blond hair dark with sweat, was a million miles from what she’d envisaged from her time in Niroli.

Almost as soon as she’d found Jasmine and filled in an application form, Meg had been given a list of shifts. Six till ten o’clock each evening, paid in cash at the end of each of shift, which meant Meg had the whole day for exploring Niroli, and it paid well, much better than fruit-picking, which meant, Meg realised, if she was careful and perhaps worked a couple of extra shifts she could treat herself to a day at that luxury spa.

With renewed enthusiasm Meg tackled the mountain of plates—the last hour of her shift made so much easier by fantasising about being smeared in the famous Niroli volcanic mud she’d read about and being thoroughly pampered and spoiled for a day!

‘Faster now!’ Antoinette, her colleague for the night who was rinsing and stacking the plates that Meg was washing, egged her on in her broken English, but kindly. ‘We need empty sink for next staff. Or else they…’ She didn’t finish what she was saying—in fact a ream of sentences and orders around the kitchen remained forever incomplete, broken off midword for a reason Meg couldn’t yet fathom—the swing doors opened and an immediate hush descended on the busy kitchen as a group of dark suits entered.

‘Ah—sir!’ The head chef jumped to nervous attention as he approached the foreboding-looking men that had entered, yet he addressed only the leader.

And even if he hadn’t uttered a single word, even if she had no idea who he was, Meg knew that he was very much in charge. His jet hair was a head above the rest of them, but it wasn’t just his height that set him apart—there was an authoritative air about him that would hush any room, an intimidating and overwhelming presence that had everyone in the kitchen, Meg included, on heightened alert.

‘Who is he?’ Meg whispered to Antoinette as slowly he toured the kitchen, talking with the staff as he did so. There was a slightly depraved look to him, a dangerous glint in those black eyes as he worked the room.

‘That,’ Antoinette said, in broken English, ‘is the boss, Luca Fierezza. He owns the casino. A prince.’

For a simple woman like Antoinette, Meg reasoned, such an enigmatic personality would seem like a prince. Not for a second did it enter her head that nothing had been lost in translation.

He was over at the far end now, talking with some of the kitchen staff, and Meg quickly realised that this was far more than a cursory appearance by the owner, that he was actually listening to what they were saying, taking in every word and relaying them to one of his sidekicks who was faithfully writing down each word.

‘He comes often,’ Antoinette said. ‘He make sure that everything work okay. See, now Mario tell him the trouble we are having with the shrimp—the yield was low this last two days….’

‘Is that his concern?’ When Antoinette frowned Meg attempted to make herself clearer. ‘Isn’t that a problem for the kitchen?’

‘He makes it his concern,’ Antoinette said, an almost proud note to her voice as she did, letting Meg know she had understood her the first time. ‘This casino is the best place to play and to work—Luca makes sure of that. I work here under four different owners and he is the best.

‘Come—’ she nudged Meg ‘—work now. He is coming.’

Meg could feel him making his way over, feel the thick tension in the air as he worked the room, the raucous sound of the earlier kitchen replaced now by the quiet hum of ordered efficiency.

‘Antoinette!’ he greeted the elderly lady by her first name. ‘Come stai?’ How are you?

‘Molto bene, grazie.’ Very well, thank you. Antoinette carried on working as she spoke, kept her head down as she addressed her boss, but, Meg noted, even if his greeting had been personable and friendly, Antoinette was keeping her respectful distance, a clear pecking order on display.

Meg glanced over as he walked past, gave him a brief polite nod as he did the same, and then picked up a plate, swishing the cloth over it, waiting for him to move on—a casual kitchen hand undoubtedly didn’t merit Antoinette’s more familiar greeting—only he didn’t move on! Meg could feel him standing over her shoulder; feel the burn of his eyes on the back of her neck as he questioned Antoinette.