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Glancing sideways at her charge, Anne decided to let Victoria be until they got to the Carlton Hotel in Cannes. She leaned back against the leather seat and flipped through the Festival programme.

There was a dinner tonight. She supposed that would be another piece of work. A top fashion house was delivering Victoria’s dress this afternoon. God only knew what she would do if there was a mistake in the fitting. Anne checked the guest list. Several other stars would be present. That would make Victoria less conspicuous. A couple of heads of state would be there, a sprinkling of royalty, and some famous rock stars to help dilute things. She glanced at the table seating. Victoria was placed to the right of HRH Prince Rodolfo of Malvarina, the ruler of the tiny principality, an island not far off the coast of Italy.

Anne twiddled her pen a minute and thought about what the bankers had said regarding a change of residence for Victoria. Malvarina wasn’t a bad option—one of the more attractive tax havens, easy to access, and with great banking laws. She wondered whether to mention it, then took a look a Victoria’s closed face, grimaced and decided not to. Right now, all Victoria seemed to want was to return to this place—Hetherington, the small English village where she and her widowed mother had lived. It was all very cute, but not Anne’s style. Malvarina, on the other hand, was smooth and sophisticated. Some of the world’s richest and glitziest had moved there, seeking anonymity.

Hmmm. Anonymity. That might be just be the selling point, she reflected. After all, everyone in Malvarina was rich and famous. Another star would just blend in. Anne made a note on her Palm Pilot to mention the subject to Victoria at a suitable moment, then glanced at her watch. Time to make sure Victoria would brave the arrival at the Carlton and the inevitable pack of reporters awaiting them without a scene.

IN HER HUGE SUITE over looking the Croisette and the Mediterranean, Victoria sank down on the king-size bed and let out a sigh. She didn’t want it to be this way, wished that everything could be as she’d imagined it would be when she’d been discovered and offered the role—before she’d rushed into all of this, so excited and thinking of nothing but the opportunity to act. She’d always wanted to be an actress and now, at only twenty, she’d been offered the break of a lifetime. So why was it so hard to do the other thing? Most people wanted to be famous, to be in the limelight, to be a star, seek fame and fortune. But to her the publicity and pressure were insurmountable obstacles that she found increasingly hard to deal with.

Time to take one of her pills, she realised, getting up and moving towards the bathroom. As she did so she remembered just how she’d discovered Dr Richard Browne, the man who kept her sane.

It had happened one night at a huge Hollywood dinner, when she’d slipped into the bathroom and leaned against the basin, closing her eyes and feeling desperate. The girl washing her hands at the next basin had looked across at her curiously.

‘You okay?’ she’d asked.

‘Fine,’ Victoria had answered, mustering a smile.

‘You sure?’ The girl had grimaced. ‘I guess you’re finding it hard to deal with all the crap. I used to be like that too. I ended up at a shrink. And thank God I did. It saved my life, man.’ She dried her hands on a towel and dropped it in the basket next to the sink.

‘Did he help you? The shrink, I mean?’

‘Sure he helped me,’ the girl had answered, laughing sympathetically. ‘It was like I’d turned a corner. He gave me some medication that really did the trick.’

‘That sounds wonderful,’ Victoria had replied, her voice filled with longing. What she wouldn’t have done for some assistance.

‘Hey, if you want I can give you his number. He’s really cool. Have a pen?’

‘Yes. Here.’ Victoria had rummaged in her evening purse and produced a pen and an old paper napkin, which she’d handed to her bathroom companion. Moments later she’d slipped the napkin back in her bag, determined to give the doctor a ring on the morrow.

‘You’ll like him. He’s very experienced in treating people in the movie business who are suffering from stress. He’ll have you feeling great in no time.’

And the girl had proved to be right. Dr Richard Browne had immediately understood her problem and had written out a prescription for a substantial supply of small capsules. He’d said they’d make her feel better very quickly, and she was to call his office when she needed more. They had, and she did—even though it was expensive. Not that money was in any way an impediment any longer. It seemed to flow in from every quarter

Now, for a long moment, Victoria hesitated, one of the capsules placed on her palm. Deep inside, she knew she shouldn’t be relying on drugs. She had never enquired of the doctor what they contained. But if lots of actors took them they couldn’t be harmful, she figured, eyeing the medication for a moment. Then, knowing she had to go back out there and face the crowd, a wave of panic overwhelmed her and she popped it in her mouth before she could change her mind.

Minutes later, it felt as though a black cloud had lifted. Suddenly she was relaxed and able to cope. But she’d have to take another one before she could face the dinner tonight.

Did Anne know that she helped herself with meds? Victoria wondered. She didn’t think so. She’d been very careful not to let on. Anne disapproved of anything that might tarnish Victoria’s reputation. So Victoria kept quiet about it, figuring that as long as no one found out it was okay. What mattered was that with the help of the meds she was able to produce the result they wanted. Surely that was what mattered?

She moved to the window and looked down at the people wandering up and down the promenade: the star-gazers, the groupies, the wannabe actors and actresses, trying to attract the attention of the press and the movers and shakers of the film industry. For a moment she felt a rush of shame. What wouldn’t those people out there give to be in her place? She had it all, yet she hated it. Not the actual making of the movie, she reflected—that she’d really enjoyed, even though the schedule had been relentlessly demanding. It had been wonderful, the film set her natural habitat. And when at last she’d seen the final rushes she’d been enchanted. It was the hype she couldn’t handle.

A knock on the door made her turn sharply. It was all about to begin again. An afternoon programme of activities: interviews, the hairdresser, the make-up artist, a photo shoot. She swallowed. She had to face it.

‘Come in,’ she said brightly, plastering on a smile.

‘How are you feeling, Vic?’ Anne eyed her closely.

‘Fine, thanks. Ready to roll.’

‘Good.’ Anne looked relieved. ‘Then let’s get going. The press are assembled in the main conference room, but we’ll fix your make-up and hair first. Marci’s got your outfit ready.’

Victoria nodded. She would do it. Could do it. Was determined to get through it, and maybe learn to hate it a bit less…She slipped her hand in the pocket of her designer jacket and was reassured by the feel of the extra capsule she’d slipped in as a precaution. Tossing her hair back, she went through the different expressions she’d practised in front of the mirror. Her masks, as she liked to think of them.

Soon they were making their descent in the lift, with Anne delivering last-minute orders on her mobile. The lift doors opened onto the main lobby and it all began again…

‘OKAY,’ ANNE SAID several hours later as they made their way to the Presidential Suite, where Ed was holding a cocktail party, ‘you did great.’

Victoria rolled her eyes. ‘There’s still tonight to get through. I’m dreading it already.’

‘It’ll be fine. Everybody who’s anybody will be at the dinner—it’s an A-list event.’

‘How reassuring,’ she said dryly. ‘Do I have to go?’ she muttered, knowing the answer and lifting the skirt of her gauze embroidered gown to negotiate the stairs. Behind her two private detectives followed her every move, never taking their eyes off the one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-pound diamond necklace and earrings that a top jeweller had lent her for the night.

‘I guess that’s a joke, right?’ Anne queried, her brows shooting up.

Victoria made a face. ‘I suppose.’ She shrugged, and glanced at her bejewelled evening purse to make sure it was securely shut. She could always go to the loo and pop a ‘lifesaver’, as she liked to think of them, if things got sticky.

‘Okay. Remember—be polite and charming and you’ll do just fine. This is your big chance, Victoria—don’t blow it,’ Anne admonished. ‘And, by the way, our financial people want to talk to you about moving residence for tax reasons. Have you heard of a place called Malvarina?’

Victoria frowned. ‘It’s some island somewhere in the Mediterranean, isn’t it?’ she said, still treading carefully so as not to step on the hem of her dress.

‘Yes. And it happens to be a great tax haven too. In fact, tonight you’re seated next to—’

But Anne’s next words were lost as Ed’s large bald figure appeared in the doorway of the Presidential Suite and he swooped Victoria away on his arm. Oh, well, Anne thought to herself. She’d done her best.

She stopped, checked out the room, heard the buzz of voices, high-pitched laughter and the clink of expensive crystal. Victoria would do okay, she assured herself, and with that thought she set out to chat up the reporters who were trying to get exclusives with her charge.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_e161a8c3-99fb-5b65-a2e2-f65af063bd5d)

RUNNING A PRINCIPALITY WAS no different from running a large company, Rodolfo reflected, as he stepped out of the lift and headed towards the next event. The need to be present at a seemingly never-ending succession of social occasions such as the Cannes Film Festival bored him. Still, it was definitely bringing in the kind of business the island needed.

His grandfather, the late Prince, had ensured that life in the principality remained very closed and refined. While he was alive only the ancient aristocratic families that had centuries-old residences on the island had been allowed tax breaks. But his grandfather had been dead for three years now, and Rodolfo was doing his damnedest to help his small dominion develop into a modern, self-sufficient state.

Its people needed work which would allow them to stay on the island, instead of having to leave and seek jobs in neighbouring countries. Rodolfo was determined to offer them a better standard of living, and he was sure that it could be achieved by tapping in to the island’s tourist and residency potential. Already many wealthy business people and movie stars, seeking seclusion and privacy, were moving to the island, thanks to the new tax laws he’d had passed.

Hence his reason for attending the Cannes Film Festival. For, like it or not, he, as the Prince, was Malvarina’s best marketing spokesman.

Rodolfo had spent several years preparing for what he was now implementing. All the while he’d been at Oxford, and later when he was at Harvard, he’d known that he would never persuade his grandfather to change the old ways. Instead he’d bided his time, respecting his grandparent’s views, but knowing exactly what he would undertake when the opportunity finally arose. In the meantime he had gained experience by working with major companies in London and New York and through living life to the fullest, aware that one day he would be the ruler of the small principality. And when the moment had come the people of the island had watched suspiciously as Rodolfo implemented his reforms and passed new laws.

However, little by little, he had won them over. Now there was a top-line tourism and hotel school where the islanders could train. Language courses and the possibility of exchange programmes with other countries existed too. Rodolfo wanted the best for his people, but he also expected them to provide the best possible service to those he was inviting to make the island their primary residence.

Straightening his bow tie, Rodolfo glanced critically at his tanned reflection in the glinting mirror in the corridor. He’d aged in the last couple of years. New responsibilities had brought tiny crows’ feet around his dark eyes, and streaks of silver touched his temples. Par for the course, he reflected, fixing his cufflinks and wondering which film star he would be expected to be polite to tonight and how many ego trips he would have to endure.

Cannes and its glitz and glamour bored him. But it was here that potential clients hung out. People, it seemed, were drawn to royalty like bees to honey. His lips curved ironically. He’d lost count of the number of women who’d thrown themselves at him, hoping to share his bed and to be able to say that they’d had a fling with one of Europe’s most eligible bachelors. Some may even have dreamed of another fairy tale à la Grace Kelly. But he was uninterested in the blonde-and-silicone perfection that was presently on offer, bored with the vapid top models he’d dated with no strings attached, and the inevitable publicity that accompanied his numerous affairs.

Of course the future of the principality was something he now had to take into consideration. Hence his introduction to several aristocratic European women whom the council of the island considered suitable brides. He sighed. Just thinking about them made his heart sink. To have to spend the rest of his life with a woman he didn’t love seemed a lot to ask. On the other hand, since Giada had died in that plane accident seven years ago he’d never thought of giving away his heart again. So perhaps it would be easier simply to marry someone like the Spanish duquesa the council were so keen on, or that German countess, and forget about romance.

He glanced at the thin gold watch gracing his wrist. Time for the show to begin. On his way out of his suite his valet had handed him a white silk scarf which he threw casually around his neck. Another black-tie event. How many could they squeeze into the space of one festival? he wondered with a grimace.