I nodded, sipping my beer, knowing he was only venting.

  “But if Cap de l’Espoir loses its independence, we lose the right to keep our waters a marine sanctuary. The fishing boats, the whalers, and the oil men will muscle in. A lot of what I’ve spent a long time working for, disappears. Claude believes in that side of things, but she got sick of Maman’s nagging about the family position long before I did. It helped she met the right man.” He stared gloomily into his beer. “If Margherita hadn’t broken the engagement, my problems would have been solved.”

  “You’re not allowed to adopt?”

  “I’m allowed, but there has to be a blood connection, and I’m all out of orphan nieces, nephews, and cousins. Anyway, I’d hate to have a child and inflict all this crap on them. Otherwise I could arrange a surrogate mother, or even just find some title-hungry socialite to impregnate and marry.” He shuddered. “I hate all this so much.”

  “Do you want children? I mean, outside the title issue.”

  He looked at me. “I do. Not to the point of doing anything to have them, but yes. Claude’s kids are lovely. But I don’t want to have them if I have to lay out their destiny in advance.”

  “You’re still a young man, sir.”

  “So you’re saying I should just wait and hope something comes up?”

  “No, sir. I’m just pointing out the facts. I wouldn’t want to see you married to someone who only loved your title or your money. Or have a child just to keep your mother happy. Those decisions don’t tend to end well, do they?”

  “No,” he said, drawing his finger through the damp on the table. He sighed. “It would serve her right if I did marry my bodyguard. Not you, of course. Some poor fool in the future.”

  “If you loved him, and he loved you, why not?” I kept my tone as light as I could.

  “I’d be all right if he was a noble too. But a bodyguard? ‘We’re not Grimaldis’.”

  “I don’t know, sir. Somewhere there must be a penniless prince moonlighting as a security officer. Perhaps we could ask around in Waitrose.”

  He barked out a laugh. “Paul, you’re very bad, you know? I should, I really should. An ad in the Times, perhaps?”

  “I believe the traditional way is to post notices in the local forest. Think it would work in Hyde Park?”

  “We could try.” At least he was smiling.

  “Set up a hundred mattress test? With a real pea?”

  He grinned. “I could ask Maman to hold a ball and see who turns up in glass Louis Vuittons.”

  “Look for the overgrown castle with the sleeping prince who had one too many pricks.”

  “Throw a rope made from hair out the window and see who crawls up?”

  “That might work. I’d stay away from anyone dressed up like a swan though.”

  He lifted his glass in salute. “See? Maybe one day my prince will come.”

  “I’m sure you can find someone who will love you as you love them, sir. Noble or prince or....” I nearly said ‘bodyguard’. “Gardener.”

  “I live in hope. But it still doesn’t answer the problem whether I apologise to Maman or not. And if I did, what do I apologise for? ‘Sorry I didn’t stand there and let you abuse me’?”

  I sipped my beer again and didn’t answer, but he touched my wrist. “What do you think, Paul?”

  “Sir, it’s not appropriate—”

  “Please. Be honest, man to man. You’ve been married. You have more life experience than me.”

  How could I refuse him when he asked like that? “Perhaps a note saying you’re sorry tempers grew hot, and that some time away from the subject would be good for both of you. Then ignore her trying to engage you on the subject, but keep communications open. You have to formally reject the claim to the title in writing, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then don’t do that yet. Give yourself time to think. It’s not forty-eight hours since the party.”

  “And Margherita. You’re right. Thank you.”

  “Do it by note, not over the phone. She’ll pick a fight again otherwise.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said heavily. “I’m beginning to realise the engagement would have ended in disaster anyway. I couldn’t endure that degree of closed-mindedness, and it would have come out one way or another. I was trying not to see that for myself, but the evidence was there, now I think on it. Of course she might change.”

  “Or she might re-consider?” I didn’t want her to, but it was a possibility, and it would solve his problem.

  “Doubt it. I don’t think I could recover my feelings for her now. Is that shallow of me?” he asked.

  “You can’t help how you feel, sir. And...she was bloody nasty to you.”

  “She was.” He drank more of his beer. “I like this pub. Thank you. How do you know it?”

  “Came here once or twice for lunch between jobs when I worked for Titan House. There are more around here than you think, despite the tourists.”

  “I haven’t really been in a pub since I was at Oxford. I hadn’t realised how much I missed them.”

  “I miss them too, when I’m in Paris. There are compensations, though.”

  With nothing pressing to do that day, we stayed in the pub, talking about the relative merits of Paris and London, Chelsea and Paris St Germaine, French wine versus Australian, and which country had the prettiest women. Lunch started us on our favourite dishes in either country—Etiènne had a fondness for fish and chips, while I had a weakness for Danielle’s beef Bourguignon. “Actually, anything she cooks,” I said.

  “She’s an angel. I swear I live in Paris simply because of her cooking.”

  “Where would you live if you could?”

  “On the coast. The villa would be lovely. If I didn’t have to manage our estates....”

  “Perhaps it’s time you found someone else who can.”

  “Yes, it is. Then I could move away from the capital, and I wouldn’t need a bodyguard, and I wouldn’t have to come back to London every other week. I don’t mean I’m in a hurry to get rid of you, Paul. I’ve made it clear I’m not, I hope.”

  I smiled. “Yes, you have. If you’re only living there for the business, then a replacement would help improve your life.”

  “I’d miss the clubs, but I can manage without them if there were other changes in my life. And who knows? Perhaps my prince or princess or the mother of my heirs lives there and I have only to go south to meet them.”

  “Perhaps they do.”

  He slapped the table. “Then, we agree. I’m quitting that too. No more princing, no more managing.”

  I grinned. He was a little drunk, which I’d never seen before. He was adorable, flushed and bright-eyed and smiling. I lifted my glass. “To competent replacements, sir.”

  He clinked my glass with his own. “And to telling my mother where to stick her damn heir. Um...perhaps that’s a little too rude.”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “I need to work on my familial diplomacy,” he said with the precise diction of the truly tipsy. “How strong is this bloody beer?”

  “Strong enough that four pints will definitely make you legless. Sir,” I added. Maybe I was a little tipsy too.

  “We should go home. Or order coffee.”

  “Pub coffee is horrible,” I said. “Shall I hail a taxi?”

  “I suppose.” He sighed. “I’m having such a good time. But I can’t stay here forever.”

  “We can stay a little longer, if you want?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve had more than enough to drink. But thank you, Paul. Again you’ve helped me when things have gone to shit. I could do worse than marrying you, whatever my mother thinks.”

  “I hope you put that in your reference, sir.”

  “Absolutely. I shall say ‘Paul Villeneuve is the best bodyguard a prince could marry, bar none’. Would that do?”

  “Perfectly,” I said.

  And who cared or knew that I wished it was true?

  Chapter 4

  After the drama at the start of the week, the rest of it was remarkably sedate. Etiènne sent a note by post to his mother, and declared that was the end of the matter until at least the end of summer. He spent two days at the Foundation offices and dealt with the French end of things in the evening. Whether Margherita contacted him, I didn’t know and didn’t ask. The engagement ring was in his room back in Paris, and there it would stay, I presumed.

  On Friday he’d arranged to visit his old prof at Oxford, and we spent the night there. This time Etiènne took me to a pub of his choosing, the Turf Tavern, which was busy but fun, hidden away where only those who knew about it—and there were clearly many who did—could find it. The building was medieval, but the food was modern and excellent, and the crafts beers perfectly acceptable.

  “I miss this place,” Etiènne said with a sigh. “I need to get out of London more too.”

  “You sound, if you don’t mind me saying it, sir, like a man in dire need of a long holiday.”

  “Of course I don’t mind. And I do. Fortunately after next week, we can escape south. It’s all arranged. Danielle can have an extra long holiday, and I can spend a bit longer in the water. And you can keep on with your diving practice before the main event.”

  “I’m looking forward to it, sir.”

  He frowned. “You know, I think it’s safe to call me ‘Etiènne’ when we’re alone, Paul.”

  “Sorry. Just protocol...Etiènne.” He grinned. “I’m just afraid I might slip up in public, and what would your mother say about that?”

  “Oh, probably something unflattering about those Monaco royals again. But I don’t need to be ‘sir’ when we’re alone. Or on the boat, either. God, the looks I’d get. Nothing much more egalitarian than a bunch of biologists sharing a space. You’re not there as my guard, understand?”

  “Yes, I do. Thank you.”

  “Not at all. I’m planning to have a great time, and I’m sure you’ll enjoy it, unless you get seasick.”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Splendid. Let’s pray for good weather too.”

  It was our last evening skiving off, because the next day we were returning to Paris. Back to calling him ‘sir’, buggering off out of his way on my day off, watching his mood sink as he headed to the office. Only one week of that though, before two and a half months of what he considered—as did I—his real job. Two months for him to heal, to get completely over Margherita, and to think about the family situation with a calmer head. Two and a half months in his company as an equal, more or less. I couldn’t wait.

  Etiènne had sent our personal diving equipment down south by courier, as the SEAT Leon he had in long-term parking would not carry that, our luggage and all his notes and papers. On Thursday evening, after the worst of the rush hour, I travelled by Métro to the garage where the car was stored, and drove it back to his building, calling him in advance to let him know I was in the loading zone. He waved to me as I exited the car, ready to grab our backpacks. He came out of the building carrying a document box and two briefcases. I popped the boot lid, but as I was about to sling the backpacks into the back of the car, three things happened simultaneously. Etiènne cried out, something shoved into my neck, and I fell to the ground writhing in pain.

  Stun gun. Before the shock had released my limbs, one of the men who’d accosted us, jabbed something a lot sharper into my neck and my muscles went slack. I couldn’t move as my hands were cuffed behind me and I was manhandled into the boot of the car. The boot lid slammed down.

  Etiènne yelled again, but his voice was cut off, and no matter how much I strained to hear it, I couldn’t pick it up again. I shouted too, but my voice was slurred and weak, and the next thing I knew, I woke up in the boot, still restrained, unaware of how much time had passed.

  I had to yell and thrash about for some time before someone bothered to ask if I was all right. “Call the police! There’s been a kidnapping!” I had to say that three times before the person paid attention and did what I said.

  A few minutes later, the gendarmes released me from the boot and I told them that Prince Etiènne Donadieu had been kidnapped around seven o’clock. It was now nine o’clock. Our luggage was missing, but Etiènne’s papers and documents had been dumped to the side of the entrance to our building.

  With the cuffs removed, but still groggy from whatever the hell I’d been injected with, I was taken to a police station to give more information, and to be questioned myself. The gendarmerie would contact Etiènne’s family in London, I was told. I gave them the full history that I knew of threats against him, even of the broken engagement. At half past ten the gendarmes released me and allowed me to return to the apartment, where I called Marie Costello’s private number—the one only used for emergencies—and told her what had happened.

  “I’ll liaise with the family,” she said. “Are you all right, Paul?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “What should I do now?”

  “Stay in the apartment, cooperate fully, report any and all contacts with the kidnappers. Don’t contact anyone but me, the family or the police.”

  “Yes, I understand. Maria, it’s my fault. I wasn’t doing my job.”

  “Enough of that for now. We can do a post-mortem...I mean, a debrief, later. Go to sleep. You need to be sharp in the morning.”

  “Yes,” I said, though there wasn’t a hope in hell of me doing that tonight.

  “Thanks for letting me know. Goodnight.”

  The apartment was empty. Danielle had already gone back to her family for the summer. So far as anyone knew, Etiènne and I shouldn’t even have still been here. Someone had been watching us—him—but I’d fucking missed it with my head up my arse about my bloody crush and dreaming about the summer.

  I sat up by the phone until three am, and then, realising the kidnappers would not call this late, or to this number, I went to bed where I managed to catch a couple of hours of nightmare-ridden sleep.

  When I woke, I dragged myself out of bed and called the police for an update. No news, no ransom demand. Fuck. On my phone was a message from Etiènne’s mother, demanding I call her. I waited until seven o’clock London time to do so. The phone was answered on the first ring.

  “Paul? How did this happen?”

  “We were ambushed, your highness. There was nothing I could do to stop it.”

  “And yet you were hired precisely to stop this happening. Consider yourself fired. Get out of the apartment now.”

  “Should I not stay at least until Etiènne is found, ma’am? They might call here.”

  “Very well. But you leave then. You let him down. Let us down. I intend to complain to Ms Costello.”

  “As you wish, ma’am.”

  She hung up. Well, that was that then. But wild horses wouldn’t remove me from Paris until Etiènne was found.

  By nightfall, there still had been no ransom demand or any contact. This could not be good news for Etiènne’s survival. I felt utterly helpless, and was fast losing hope that Etiènne was still alive. The only light in the tunnel was that no body had been found, and the attackers had not shot him on the spot.

  By ten that night, I was wrung out from nervous tension and frustrated impatience. The only way I would sleep would be with medication, which I had in my bedside table. I had the pill bottle in my hand, about to open it, when my phone rang. I snatched it up. “Hello?”

  “Paul, it’s Pietro.”

  I sagged. “Oh. You heard about the prince?”

  “Yes. The police came to talk to Margherita today. I need you to meet me outside in twenty minutes.”

  “Outside? You mean this building?”

  “Yes. Don’t tell the police, bring your gun.”

  “Pietro, what’s going—”

  “I can’t talk now, Paolo. Hurry up and come downstairs.”

  Confused, I got dressed again, making sure my gun was loaded before I put it into my holster. On impulse, I grabbed a blanket, our large first aid kit, and a set of Etiènne’s clothes, putting them into an overnight bag, before I headed downstairs.

  Nineteen minutes later, Pietro pulled up in Margherita’s car. “Get in.”

  I obeyed, and he sped off. “I know where he is. At least, I know where he was.”

  “How?”

  “Margherita. She told the police this afternoon that she knew nothing about your prince’s abduction , but I knew she was lying. I waited a bit and then told her that I couldn’t stand by and see a man murdered, no matter what she thought he’d done. She got angry and defensive, told me I was fired, so I threatened to call the police and let their mind readers work on her, her father be damned. Finally she told me that her father had promised Prince Etiènne would pay for insulting her good name. She swears they weren't going to kill him, just give him a thrashing. I had to question her some more before she would tell me where he was taken. I called you as soon as I was sure she was telling me the truth.”

  I exhaled. “Little bitch. He didn’t do anything to her.”

  “Watch your mouth, Paul.”

  “She sacked you!”

  “Yes, but I won’t have her insulted. I won’t have her taken to the police either, so you can’t tell anyone what I just told you.”

  “If he’s not alive, you try and stop me, Pietro. If he is...then I’ll say nothing.”

  He nodded, his eyes still on the road. “All right. I didn’t sign up to be part of killing. Neither did she, if she’s telling the truth.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  He was silent for a while. “Pietro?” I urged.

  “I heard her say some pretty nasty things about the prince to her father. She made him very angry on her behalf. If she cares the man is alive, it’s only because it would look bad for her.”

  “Great,” I muttered. “How far is it?”

  “Two hours at least.”

  “It could make the difference between life and death. Please, we have to tell the police.”