‘Better not—there are paparazzi everywhere.’ And she didn’t want her reunion with Dragan all over the front pages. She wanted that to be very, very private indeed. ‘Have they been bad to you?’
‘They’ve followed me everywhere. But I took your advice: I just smiled and said nothing.’
‘Good. We’ll draft a statement to the press and it will quieten down.’ She bit her lip. ‘Dragan, I’m so sorry it happened like this.’
‘You can’t change the past.’
He sounded calm, but she could hear the hurt seeping through his stoicism. ‘I’m still sorry. Because I never meant to hurt you.’ She paused. ‘I’ll sneak into yours the back way, yes?’
‘Won’t they follow you?’
‘Believe me, I’ve had a lot of practice in avoiding them,’ she said dryly. ‘I could have a PhD in it by now.’
‘I’ll leave the French doors unlocked.’
‘Thank you.’ She paused. ‘Dragan? Volim te.’
‘I’ll see you soon.’
Hell, hell, hell. If he wasn’t responding when she used his own language…this was going to be hard. Knowing Dragan, he was still thinking about her duty and he was putting distance between them to make it easy for her to go back to Contarini.
But that wasn’t what she wanted.
She’d fight for her man.
Because he was worth it.
The drive back from the airport dragged on and on and on. But finally the taxi drove into Penhally—and how good it was to see the bay spreading out in front of her. Home.
The driver dropped her by the Higher Bridge; she knew that the paparazzi, even if they had information that she was on her way back, would be camped outside the veterinary surgery and she would be shielded from their view by the houses in Gull Close. Any other photographers would be stationed at the front of Fisherman’s Row; they wouldn’t expect her to cut round the back of the houses in Bridge Street and through the little alley at the back of Dragan’s house.
She could see him sitting at the table in front of the French doors, reading some medical journal or other. And just the sight of him made her catch her breath. She tapped softly on the glass, then opened the door, locked it behind her and closed the curtains. Just in case.
And then she was in his arms. Holding him so tightly, as if she’d never let him go again.
She had no intention of ever letting him go again.
‘Volim te. I’ve missed you so much.’ She reached up to draw his head down to hers, brushed her mouth against his.
She could feel a reserve there—well, he’d learned the truth about her in the worst possible way, so of course he’d be hurt and wouldn’t quite be sure of her—but please, please, just let him kiss her back. Let him give her the chance to show him exactly how she felt. Skin to skin, body to body, no barriers between them. Let her tell him without words how much she loved him, make him believe the truth: that she was completely his and nothing was ever, ever going to change that.
She pulled back slightly to look into his face. His dark eyes were unreadable. ‘Dragan?’
‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ He untangled himself from her arms.
The kettle? She hadn’t seen him for days, he hadn’t kissed her back, and he was talking about making a cup of coffee?
This wasn’t the man she’d left in Penhally.
And she wanted her man back. Right now.
She followed him to the kitchen and, after checking that the blinds were drawn, slid her arms round his waist and rested her cheek against his back. ‘I’ve missed you, zlato.’
Gently, he prised her arms away.
‘Dragan? What is it?’
He turned round to face her, leaning back against the kitchen worktop. ‘I can’t do this.’
‘Can’t do what?’ Ice began to trickle down her spine.
‘You and me. I…don’t think this is a good idea.’
She stared at him. ‘But…only a few days ago you asked me to marry you.’
‘I asked our local vet to marry me,’ he corrected her. ‘But you’re Princess Melinda. A stranger. I don’t even know what I should be calling you. Your Majesty? Ma’am? Your Royal Highness?’
‘Ma’am and Majesty are for queens. And don’t you dare start on that “Highness” rubbish. It’s an accident of birth that my parents are who they are. I’m just Melinda. The same as you’ve always called me.’ She dragged in a breath. ‘I haven’t changed, Dragan.’
‘Yes, you have,’ he corrected quietly. ‘Because I don’t know you at all. The woman I asked to marry me—I thought I knew her. But I was wrong. You’re a princess.’
‘I’m sorry. I know I should have told you the truth about me, a long time ago. I should have prepared you properly for what it would be like, not left you to the mercy of the paparazzi. I just didn’t think they’d be here so soon. Stupid of me.’ She shook her head. ‘I just want to be like any other woman. I want to marry the man I love. Work among people I care about. Be myself.’
‘But you have duties, Melinda. Responsibilities.’
Now, this she’d expected. She’d prepared her arguments. ‘I’ve talked to my parents about this. I’m not going to be queen. This stuff with the paparazzi—it’ll last a few more days, maybe, and then it will all go away and we can get on with our lives as normal.’
‘But what’s normal?’ he asked.
‘You and me. Penhally. Seeing patients. Matching up our call lists so we can grab half an hour to ourselves at lunchtime.’ She shook her head. ‘Dragan—look, I know I hurt you and I’m sorry for that. I know I was wrong not to trust you with everything—but it isn’t you. It’s my own stupid fault, for being too scared that you’d walk away if you knew who I was, for letting my fears blind me to the kind of man you are. I didn’t want to lose you—I don’t want to lose you.’ She gritted her teeth. ‘I hate this royal stuff. I always have. When I was younger, it was like growing up in a fishbowl. I couldn’t open my mouth or do anything without people analysing what I did or said—and most of the time they put completely the wrong interpretation on it. Every mistake I made, the press blew it way out of proportion. I couldn’t do anything like a normal person, and the paparazzi were there every minute of every day, telephoto lenses poking into my life.’
Dragan could understand that. He’d had a taste of that the past few days.
‘Everything I did was in the public eye,’ Melinda continued. ‘And my days were one long round of protocol, protocol, protocol. Even when I knew someone was a devious, lying snake and I wouldn’t trust them a millimetre, I had to be gracious to them at official receptions or it would turn into a diplomatic incident and undo years and years of work.’ She shook her head. ‘No, it’s not a fishbowl, it’s a straitjacket. I loathe politics and all the politeness and the lies and the spin and the protocols. That’s not the world where I want to be.’
But it was the world she’d been born into.
‘I can’t live in your world, Melinda.’
‘My world is your world,’ she said softly.
‘How? I’m the village doctor here in Penhally and you’re a princess—the heir to the throne of a Mediterranean island.’
‘I haven’t called myself “princess” in years.’
‘That