Defying the Prince. Sarah Morgan
away from the microphone.
Wasn’t he the one who was always telling her that it was up to her to make the most of opportunities? Well, this was a massive opportunity. She’d planned it carefully. Her Goal of the Day was to sing the song she’d written to the prince. Not the smiling, charming heir to the throne that her sister had snagged, but his brother, Matteo Santina, the Dark Prince, otherwise known to a fascinated public as Moody Matteo because he was so deadly serious. Deadly serious and deadly sexy, Izzy thought dreamily. He was tall, dark, gorgeous and very, very rich. But she wasn’t interested in any of those attributes. She wasn’t interested in his spectacular bone structure or his royal heritage. Nor did she care about his hard athletic body or his reputed skills as a pilot. And although the romantic side of her was mildly jealous of her sister’s whirlwind romance, she wasn’t the least interested in the whole marry-a-prince fantasy. No, there was just one thing she cared about and that was the extent of his influence—in particular, his role as president of the Prince’s Fund. In that role he had overall responsibility for the famous Rock ‘n’ Royal concert, a globally televised live fundraising event that was only weeks away.
Singing at that concert would be all her dreams rolled into one. It would kick-start her dead career.
Which was why today’s goal was to make sure he heard her.
Shaking off her father, she increased the volume, but the prince was now in conversation with his brother, the heir to the throne and her sister’s fiancé.
Izzy felt a frantic moment of desperation followed by a sharp thud of disappointment. She’d been so sure that this would be her big moment. She’d glugged down the champagne to give herself the courage to take over the stage. She’d imagined heads turning and jaws dropping as people heard her voice. She’d imagined her whole life changing in an instant. Hard work and perseverance was going to finally pay off.
Heads were turning. Jaws were dropping. But Izzy hadn’t drunk so much champagne that she didn’t realise her being the centre of attention had nothing to do with her voice.
They were looking at her because she’d made a fool of herself. Again.
They were mocking her.
So, in fact, her life hadn’t changed at all because, as usual, she was on the receiving end of ridicule. Each time she dragged herself back onto her feet she was knocked over again, and each time she emerged just a little more bruised and battered.
The confidence-boosting buzz from the champagne was morphing into a horrid spinning feeling.
Aware of the unsmiling disapproval on the aristocratic faces around her, she decided that Allegra had to be seriously in love if she was prepared to put up with this. As far as Izzy could see, marrying a prince promised about as interesting a future as being stuffed and put in a glass case in a museum for everyone to stare at. What was that called? Taxi-something or other. And she was so hungry, and she could never think properly when she was hungry. Why on earth weren’t they serving proper food? She would have killed for a bacon roll and all they’d given her since she’d arrived was champagne, champagne and more champagne.
The royals certainly knew how to drink. Unfortunately they didn’t seem to eat which probably explained why they were all so thin. And why she’d broken her golden rule and drunk too much.
‘Just one love—’ she hollered happily, beaming at a group of women who were gazing at her in disapproval and ignoring her father’s less than subtle attempts to tempt her from the stage.
The fact that even her family didn’t listen added a sting to the already sharp pain of humiliation. Weren’t families supposed to support you no matter what? She adored them but they patted her on the head and patronized her as if she was singing drunk at a karaoke machine rather than giving her all. She knew she had a good voice. And even if they didn’t like the song and thought she was foolish trying to make a career from what should have been a hobby, they ought to be grateful to her for trying to liven up a totally boring evening.
‘Enough!’ Her father’s loud voice boomed around the ornate room, his East London accent jarring with the cultured tones around him confirming the one thing everyone already knew—that no amount of money could buy class. Izzy already knew that. She knew exactly how people felt about her family. ‘Save the singing for when you’re in the shower. You’re embarrassing yourself, luv.’
No, I’m not, Izzy thought. I’m embarrassing you. And the hypocrisy of it stung. She loved her father, but even she knew his behaviour was often questionable. And now they were laughing at her, and the sharp sting of their mockery was all the more acute because Izzy had been so desperate for them to take her seriously.
It was partly her fault, she acknowledged miserably. She should never have entered that stupid reality show Singing Star. She’d done it because she’d thought that finally someone would hear her voice but the producers had been less interested in the sound she could belt out than in the picture she’d made on the stage and the gimmick factor of having tabloid-favourite Bobby Jackson’s daughter on the show. They’d made her do all sorts of dubious things to raise the ratings, none of which had focused on her singing. And she’d been too wrapped up in her own fleeting moment of fame to see the truth.
Until it was too late.
Until she’d become a national joke.
The fame had vanished faster than water down the drain, and with it her reputation. Forever more she was going to be ‘that awful girl from Singing Star.’
Unable to think about that without squirming, Izzy turned away, closed her eyes and sang, pouring out the notes and losing herself in the music until her concentration was shattered by someone closing a cold, hard handcuff around her wrist.
She was being arrested for crimes against music.
Her eyes flew open in shock and she realised it wasn’t a handcuff, but someone’s fingers, brutally hard and as cold and unyielding as metal. Her startled gaze collided with unfriendly dark eyes and the sound died in her throat.
It was the prince.
Raw sexual attraction ripped through her because close up he was quite simply the most spectacular man she’d ever met, even more incredible to look at than all the photographs had led her to believe. A television camera might hint at the thickness of those dark lashes and the perfect shape of his mouth but no lens, however powerful, could capture the innate masculinity that set him apart from others.
‘Enough.’ He spoke through his teeth, his tone so abrupt that even the normally buoyant and resilient Izzy felt herself shrivel.
The Prince and the Pauper, she thought, struggling to keep her balance on her towering platform shoe-boots as he all but yanked her from the stage.
Clearly he had no intention of formally introducing himself—presumably because he didn’t see the need. Everyone knew who he was. And he was living up to his formidable reputation, his spectacular features set and severe as he bodily removed her from her position by the musicians.
So that was that then—
Watching her dream of stardom fizzle out and realising that the last glass of champagne she’d downed had pushed her over the edge from tipsy to drunk, Izzy stumbled as she attempted to twist her wrist from his grip. ‘Ouch! What are you doing? I was just singing, that’s all. Do you mind not gripping so hard? I have a very low pain threshold and don’t drag me because these shoes definitely aren’t made for walking.’ Swamped by the wave of disapproval flowing from the other guests, she was grateful for the anaesthetising effects of the alcohol.
‘Off with her head,’ she whispered dramatically, smiling sweetly as he sent a black glare in her direction. ‘Oops—we are definitely not amused.’ Her heart sank.
So much for hoping he might be able to relaunch her stalled singing career.
It was clear from his body language that he wouldn’t be likely to give