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CHAPTER TWO (#u13130e70-e9da-558e-b509-7182106ed151)
NICO MIGHT—AND DID—tell himself that he would rather be anywhere in the world than stuck here on L’Isola dei Fiori but even he had to admit that right now he was as contented as an imprisoned man could be. Maybe it was the soft summer evening light, the way the brilliance of the sun had dimmed to a glowing warmth, the sea breeze a cool accent to the heat. Maybe it was the scent of night-blooming jasmine mingling with the salty tang of the sea or maybe it was the way the green cliff tops rolled across the horizon dipping suddenly into the azure blue of the sea punctuated only by the curving perfection of fine white sand.
So, maybe L’Isola dei Fiori felt like a prison but at least it was a beautiful one and as he strolled along the cliff path towards the Villa Rosa it was easy to forget all the reasons he didn’t want to be here—and all the reasons why he was tethered to his island home.
Although the nearest beach was technically open to anyone, like all the beaches on the island it was Crown property; the only known path to it led from the fading pink villa, majestically poised on the very edge of the cliffs looking out over the sea. The only known path to those who didn’t know every inch of the island by heart, that was. And Nico did. Whether he liked it or not every path, every bend, every slope, every blade of grass and grain of sand was emblazoned on his heart, in their own way as binding as his obligations.
The way was hidden by two boulders, seemingly impenetrable unless you knew the exact turn—a smart right, almost turning back on yourself, a squeeze and then the path lay before you—more of a goat trail than a formal path, a steep, twisting scramble down to the beach. Nico stared down at the overgrowth covering much of the rocky path. How many times had he raced Alessandro down here, half running, half slithering onto the beach below, only to return bruised, scraped and exhilarated from another forbidden adventure?
His eyes burned. No, he wouldn’t think of Alessandro. But it was hard not to when every corner held a twist of nostalgia, a memory to cut deep. Two years on and time had healed nothing. Grimly he increased his speed, the adrenaline of the fast clamber down chasing away his grief in a way no other attempt at solace had until he finally half leapt, half fell down the last vertical slick of rock onto the sand below. Nico kicked off his shoes, the soft sand beneath his toes anchoring him firmly back in the here and now.
It had been over a decade since he’d last visited this particular cove and nothing seemed to have changed. Nico had travelled to more than his fair share of stunning places but on an evening like this the secret cove was hard to beat: small but perfectly formed, the sand curving in a deep horseshoe partitioned by a graceful arch of craggy rock. The waves lapped gently on the shore and Nico knew from experience that the currents were kind, the water deepening gently, several long strides before a bather found himself thigh deep.
The summer breeze was lessened down here, the steep cliffs providing a natural shelter, and Nico realised how warm he was, his T-shirt sticking to his torso. He eyed the sea, already feeling the coolness of the water against his heated skin. It wasn’t that late and the fierceness of the day’s sun would ensure the water was a pleasurable temperature—not that he and Alessandro had ever cared about the time of year or day, as happy to night swim in winter as they were in summer, the sea their eternal playground, until Alessandro had grown up, grown into his responsibilities and put their boyhood adventures firmly behind him. For all the good it had done him...
And now it was Nico’s turn to shoulder the burden, to take his responsibilities so seriously he would no longer be able to sneak away for an evening swim. Really he shouldn’t now; the sensible thing would be to turn around and go home. He clenched his fists. No, he had a lifetime of making sensible decisions ahead of him, a lifetime of duty first, self last. Tonight belonged to him. To the memory of two young boys sneaking away from tradition and responsibility to bathe by the light of the moon.
His body decided before his mind was fully made up, shucking off his damp T-shirt and stepping out of his shorts and boxers, leaving them in a crumpled pile on the sand as he walked naked towards the welcoming sea. It was only as his toe touched the refreshing water that he remembered the main reason why this was a bad idea. Nico paused briefly then shrugged the thought off. If a paparazzi was so enterprising as to follow him here then he or she would get the shot of a lifetime. His mouth curved as he pictured his uncle’s reaction. It would almost be worth it...
The water was every bit as revitalising as he had hoped, the waves not too strong, the temperature warm at first, turning more bracing as he headed out into the deeper waters. He struck out with strong, sure strokes, out, out and further out until, when he turned to float lazily on his back, the beach was just a smudge of yellow. He stayed there for some time, happy to just scull gently in the water as the waves broke over him, rocking him from side to side, the late, sinking sun still warm on his salt wet face. It was hard to imagine ever being this free again when tomorrow he would formally take up his duties, his future one of ceremonies and meetings, a hidebound, indoor, rigid existence.
And, sooner rather than later, a wife. A family. A suitable consort chosen for him.
At the thought his buoyant mood sank quicker than a pebble thrown into the water and he was back on his front and striking back to shore, not with the bold freedom of his earlier strokes but with a precise, weary determination, fighting his own instinct to flee as much as the outgoing tide.
He was closing in on the beach, his pile of clothes coming into focus, when he saw her. Nico stilled, swearing under his breath as he slowed to tread water.
She was on the other side of the arch that bisected the beach into two, standing near the narrow jetty and the natural thermal pool that made the beach so famous. He couldn’t see her boat but, seeing as she had just stepped off the jetty, he was betting she had moored on the other side. If he was careful then Nico might be able to make his way to shore and grab his clothes and be out of there before she noticed him. Or he could stay here, bobbing up and down like a seal and wait for her to leave. Neither option appealed but action would always win out over inaction. So stealthy approach it was.
His mind made up, Nico looked over at the girl again. She was too far away for him to make out her features. All he could see was a petite, very slim frame topped with a mass of long dark hair. She kicked along the beach, hands in pockets, staring down at the ground. Everything about her suggested despair and Nico felt a pull of kinsmanship. He was about to move off when she stopped, straightened and flung back her hair, curving one elegant arm above her head and executing what seemed to him to be a perfect pirouette on the beach. She paused and then spun round again and then again, hair flowing, like some beach naiad performing her evening rites.
Nico sensed that he was intruding on something intensely personal yet he couldn’t look away, transfixed by the grace and agility so unselfconsciously displayed, and by the time she drew her white dress over her head in one fluid movement and dropped it on the beach it was too late to turn away, to swim away. She wasn’t wearing a bra and it took less than two seconds for her to step out of her knickers and walk into the sea with the same grace she had displayed as she had danced.
She must be a naiad or a siren and he, like Odysseus, was caught, too mesmerised to retreat. All he could do was wait and hope that she wouldn’t see him. A futile hope—Nico knew the moment she spotted him because she stopped dead in the water, spluttering as a wave caught her unawares. It was his cue and he swam a little nearer, not too close, not enough to alarm her any more than he already had. ‘Nice evening for it.’
If looks could kill he would be shark meat, his dead body right now slipping underneath the waves. ‘I thought this was private property.’
His mouth curved appreciably. Her head was held high as she trod water, her dark eyes fierce. ‘The sea? Are you Poseidon’s princess to claim ownership over the waves?’
She swallowed, visibly fighting for control. ‘The beach. The beach is private property.’
‘It’s not, you know,’ he said conversationally. ‘It’s property of the Crown, open to all, and even if it wasn’t you, mysterious naiad, aren’t a Del Castro.’ That he was confident of; he knew every member of the most distant branches of the royal family tree.
‘But there’s only one way down and that is private property.’ She tossed her head as she spoke, triumph in her voice. ‘And I know you didn’t come by boat.’
‘There’s always another way, if you know where to look.’
‘Were you watching me? Just then?’
‘Not on purpose,’ Nico admitted. ‘The beach was empty when I got here so, really, I should be the offended one. You intruded on my privacy, not the other way round.’
She didn’t answer his teasing smile. Instead her brows shot up in rejecting disdain. ‘A gentleman would have drawn attention to his presence.’ She managed to convey affronted dignity despite the hair floating around her pale, naked shoulders, the drops shimmering on her eyelashes.
‘Ah. But I’m no gentleman. Ask my uncle. Besides, I didn’t want to draw attention to my presence. I am also...erm...in a similar state of undress.’ His smile widened as her cheeks flushed.
‘I think you should leave immediately.’
‘But I don’t trust you not to peek.’
She glared at him. ‘Believe me, I’ve seen it all before.’
‘This is a predicament.’ Nico moved closer. He was enjoying himself more than he had believed possible. If she’d shown any real signs of anger or fear he would have swum out of there with an apology but, for all her outraged words, there was a spark in her eyes that told him she was enjoying the verbal sparring as much as he was. That maybe she too relished the opportunity to forget her worries, to feel alive. She was younger than he had first thought, early to mid-twenties, her creamy skin a contrast to her large dark eyes and almost-black hair. She wasn’t exactly beautiful but there was something arresting about her features, a striking dignity that made him want to look twice and then again. ‘You and I here, our clothes there. I’m really not sure what our next move should be.’
That wasn’t entirely true. He was sure what he wanted to do—but not if he should. He wanted to swim closer, next to her. He wanted to see if those eyes darkened even more with desire, wanted to taste that plump bottom lip. He wanted to forget that tomorrow he would be presented with a list of suitable wives and expected to pick one with as much thought as he gave buying a new phone. He wanted to lose himself in another human being of his own choosing while he still could. He wanted to live on his last night of freedom.
* * *
She should be outraged. Possibly scared. Definitely wary. This man had plainly been watching her—watched her dance, watched her strip, watched her wade naked—naked—into the water. He’d lounged here insolently invading her privacy. And now, instead of apologising and leaving her to her evening swim, he was looking at her as if...well, as if he wanted to eat her.
She should be outraged but the clench deep down wasn’t fear; nor was the tingling in her arms and breasts. Posy took a deep breath, her legs suddenly weak, treading water as she fought to hold onto her composure. ‘Our next move?’ she managed to say, keeping her voice level. ‘There’s no “our”. You are going to swim back to your clothes, I will swim back to mine and neither of us will turn around or acknowledge each other in any way. Understand?’
His smile didn’t waver, a confident, amused grin, which infuriated her almost as much as her body’s traitorous reaction to the play of muscles across his shoulders and to the heat in his navy-blue eyes. ‘If you insist, naiad.’
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘But what else should I call a fair maiden dancing on the shore before slipping into the waves? A mermaid? A siren—or are you a selkie? Waiting for me to leave before slipping into your seal skin?’
‘Don’t be so silly and you don’t need to call me anything...’ She paused, embarrassed that she was reacting so strongly to his teasing, her innate good manners forcing her to add, ‘But if you did need to, then my name is Posy.’
‘Nice to meet you, Posy. I’m Nico.’
‘I wish I could say the same but I didn’t actually want to meet anyone tonight.’
‘Me neither,’ he admitted and, startled, she looked directly at him, her prickles soothed by the lurking smile in his eyes. ‘This is a place one comes to for solitude, isn’t it? I didn’t think anyone would be here. If I had I would have packed some trunks.’
‘Yes.’ She wasn’t sure what she was agreeing with—the joint need for space and to be alone or that swimwear was a good idea. ‘Okay then. Now we’ve been introduced let’s call an end to this impromptu meeting. I propose that you go that way, I go this.’
‘Deal. I hope you find it, whatever you came out looking for tonight.’ He paused, his eyes intent on hers for one long moment, before turning and with a graceful dive, which gave Posy a glimpse of a tanned, lean torso and a decent pair of legs, he powered off towards the opposite side of the beach. She lingered, watching his strong body cut through the waves for one guilty second before turning and kicking off in a more sedate breaststroke back to the beach, glad of the cool water on her overheated flesh.
Posy was no stranger to gorgeous male bodies—she spent most of her time with physically perfect specimens clad in Lycra and tights, every single muscle perfectly defined. She was used to being lifted and held, spun and moved, her partner’s hands moving with sure possession over her body. That was why when she dated, she dated within the company. Men from outside could never understand that when her partner’s hand clasped her inner thigh the last thing either of them was thinking about was sex. A dancer’s body was public property; there was no room for coyness. She was used to nudity, to being nude—or as good as. To react so strongly to the knowledge of another person’s nakedness was foreign to her. She hadn’t been able to see much. They’d both been cloaked by the evening sea. But she’d known, she’d reacted—and that discombobulated her.
Also, she was a fool. She should have swum away the second she noticed him. She was lucky he wasn’t some kind of maniac who lurked in deep water waiting for unsuspecting night swimmers. Maybe he just waited for said swimmer to return to the beach lulled into a false sense of security instead...but when she checked he was clearly heading to the far side of the beach, not even looking in her direction. As they’d agreed. Which was a good thing. And she wasn’t even the teensiest bit disappointed.
It was far less pleasant pulling her dress back over her wet body than it had been to shuck it off. She’d hoped that an evening walk and swim would distract her from an ever-lengthening list of questions and worries. She stifled an unexpected giggle; to be fair her plan had worked, although in a very unexpected way. She hadn’t thought about bills or her future once in the last ten minutes.
Posy took a few steps along the beach, heading for the jetty, almost hidden on one side, which led to the private path up to the villa, via the natural thermal pool. The pool might be famous but, like much of her godmother’s legacy, she would gladly swap it for a roof that didn’t leak in places, a new boiler and some idea of how she was going to pay the bills over the next few months whether she stayed here or not. What on earth would she do if she stayed here—and where would she go if she didn’t?
Posy stopped as panic overwhelmed her, almost crushing her chest so she could barely breathe. She wrapped her arms around her torso, as if by squeezing tight she could push the terror out. Stay here or leave, she had nowhere to go, no purpose. Without dance who was she? What was she? How would she get up each day?
‘Posy? Are you okay?’
It took a while before the words penetrated through the grey mist. Posy looked up to see Nico—still on his side of the arch—looking at her, concern etched on his face. She forced a deep breath, dragging the night air into her lungs. ‘Yes. Thanks.’
He didn’t move. ‘That didn’t look okay to me.’
She forced herself upright, forced her arms to loosen in a pose of defiance and strength she didn’t come close to feeling. ‘What happened to straight home no looking?’
His mouth quirked into a half-smile. ‘I just wanted to check on you. Turns out there’s all kinds of strange people lurking in this bay nowadays.’
She should go. She meant to go. Yet once again her limbs, usually so obedient, used to being kicked up high and held in gravity-defying positions, refused to move a single step. ‘There are. Very chivalrous of you to think of me.’
‘I’m a chivalrous type.’ The sun had almost set behind him, casting a red glow over him, making him otherworldly, the cove a place of magic and mystery. He was taller than she had realised, lean to the point of slimness but with a coiled strength apparent in his stance, in the definition in his arms and legs. Casual in a grey T-shirt and khaki shorts, his dark hair, wet from the sea, falling over his eyes, he still radiated a confidence and purpose she coveted. Barely aware of what she was doing, she took a step closer and then another. He didn’t move but his eyes tracked her every movement. Posy was used to feeling graceful, assured in her every gesture, but right now she didn’t know what to do with her limbs, every part of her body a stranger.
She knew his name, nothing more—no, that wasn’t quite true. She knew that he had craved an hour’s peace and solitude. Knew that she couldn’t tear her gaze away from his, knew that every fibre in her body was aching to be given a purpose, a meaning. She was a creature of movement, she belonged in the dance, in the pairings of a duet or the exhilaration of many feet and arms all placed in exactly the right way at exactly the right time. For so many years that had been enough. Or so she’d thought.
But it wasn’t. Pouring her body and soul into her craft had left her lacking. She had no fire; she hadn’t lived. Those overheard words had burned through her, the truth of them hurting the most.
With the sunset blazing behind him Nico looked like a fire god personified, Mars come to earth blazing. Could some of that fire touch her? Warm her? Bring her to life?
Posy took another step. He leaned against the arch, watching her every move. She swallowed, the dryness in her throat a mixture of apprehension—and anticipation. ‘Not too chivalrous, I hope.’
He stilled. ‘Depends on the task.’
‘If I was a selkie, would you hide my seal skin, just for the night?’
‘I never thought that was playing fair. I’d prefer the selkie to come to me of her own free will.’
‘Would she?’
‘I think so.’
Another step. He was close now, close enough that, even as the dusk drew in, Posy could see the heat in his eyes, the tension in his stance for all his supposed nonchalance, the muscle beating in his cheek. He felt it, this connection. He wanted her. ‘I think so too. Just for one night.’
He nodded, understanding her every meaning. ‘You can’t trap a wild creature.’
Her entire life Posy had put ballet first. Her few relationships fizzling out, hardly mourned, they were so unimportant compared to her career. Bruno might feel that she lacked passion but everything she had was poured into her work. Without it she had no outlet, her emotions, her physical energy pent up, her worries needing an outlet. She’d thought a swim might help. She’d been wrong. But Nico might. If she let him.
If she let herself.
Posy Marlowe did not go skinny dipping. Posy Marlowe certainly didn’t flirt with strangers in the sea, on the beach. Posy Marlowe would never tug her dress off and stand naked in front of a complete stranger as the sun dipped below the horizon, the only sound the hush of the waves on the shore. With shaking hands she clasped the fabric and tugged, letting the cotton slither onto the beach as she stood before him. His intake of breath emboldened her. ‘You might tame it for an evening, though.’
‘Not too tame, I hope.’ He stepped away from the arch as he spoke, stepped close and looked into her face for one long moment, searching for truth, for consent, for surety. She appreciated it even as impatience surged, her hand reaching for his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles. She knew muscles, their purpose, look and feel. She’d never quite appreciated them before today as he quivered ever so slightly under her touch before capturing her hand with his even as his head bent towards hers, his mouth firm and sweet, his touch knowing and sure as he took control. Posy knew all about being led, the steps in a duet, and she sank into his kiss, into his touch, into his arms. Living. For one night only.
CHAPTER THREE (#u13130e70-e9da-558e-b509-7182106ed151)
NICO BOWED SMOOTHLY in his uncle’s direction before backing out of the Great Hall, working hard to keep the irritation off his face. He’d lost his temper too many times in the past and it had never got him anywhere. His uncle made a toddler in the middle of a tantrum seem reasonable, which meant rational debate was as unlikely to work as anger. When King Vincenzo V made his mind up it was well and truly up and neither logic nor reason could shift it. In the past Nico had simply circumnavigated his uncle’s wishes but things were infinitely more complicated now.
‘Dammit, Alessandro,’ he said softly as he finally made his way out of the double doors and into the opulent hallway. ‘You could always handle him so much better than me.’ The guards standing smartly to attention either side of the open doors, hot and ridiculous in the full burnished splendour of their dress uniforms, didn’t betray that they had heard his words with as much as a flicker of an eyelid. Maybe he should take lessons from them.
The hallway was wide enough for two cars to drive down it with ease, the vaulted ceiling at double height, the marble floor kept so highly polished Nico doubted it had ever been subjected to a health and safety risk assessment. As small boys he and Alessandro had skated along here under the disapproving eyes of ancestors frowning down from huge portraits, careering along, narrowly missing the spindly chairs and occasional tables that were dotted along like valuable obstacles in their headlong race. At intervals discreet doors were set into the ornate panelling, leading to suites of offices, other function rooms and rooms that Nico had discovered no discernible use for. He had his own suite now, one here for work, meetings and audiences as well as his private rooms, in the west wing. At least they hadn’t tried to give him Alessandro’s rooms yet. It was hard enough to feel at home in the high-ceilinged formal rooms without mementoes of his cousin scattered around his living quarters.
Not that he’d ever really felt at home here. He’d spent too much time alone in the family suite while his parents had jetted off to Paris, to London, to New York and even when they’d been resident in the palace they’d barely seemed to notice he was there, too busy enjoying the luxuries and privileges of royal life to settle for anything as mundane as private family meals or playing with their son. Luckily he’d been a firm favourite of his grandmother’s—and he’d idolised his cousin, two years older yet with plenty of time for his younger shadow. They were all the family he had needed. And now one was gone and the other fading fast.
‘Your Highness?’
It still took a few seconds for the title to register in Nico’s brain and for him to respond. In a way he hoped that never changed, that he wouldn’t supplant his cousin so easily. He stopped and allowed the harried official rushing along the corridor to catch up with him.
‘Your Highness.’ She was breathing hard, swaying in her too-high heels. Every official dressed as if they were being judged on their power dressing skills, aggressively cut suits the unspoken palace uniform; Nico’s own faded jeans and checked shirt were a pointed contrast. ‘Her Grace would like to see you at your earliest convenience.’
Which meant now. Nico’s grandmother, in her own way, was just as stubborn as his uncle. ‘Thank you.’
The official hesitated; obviously she had orders to bring him then and there but Nico had no intention of being ordered around by anyone, not even Graziella del Castro, Dowager Queen. ‘I’ll be along shortly,’ he added. She didn’t look too placated but nodded and marched away, her heels perfectly balanced on the marble floor. Nico paused, his mini rebellion feeling as paltry as it was. It wasn’t his grandmother he was angry at—nor even his uncle. It was fate. Fate for snatching away his cousin and landing him here in this unwanted spot with this unwanted future. He pivoted and caught up with the official in three long strides. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll head there now.’
She gave him a startled look; palace officials were never worried—at least they were well trained not to look it—but nodded as Nico headed off in the direction of his grandmother’s rooms.
Like her son, the King, and Nico himself his grandmother had two sets of rooms, her formal receiving and business rooms in the main part of the palace and her own private suite in the west wing, compromising her bedroom, her sitting room, dining room, study and roof terrace. Up to a year ago she would usually be found downstairs during the day, sitting erect at her desk in her office or on the ornate chair in her receiving room, refusing to slow down despite having achieved her seventieth birthday a few years before. But since Alessandro’s death she tended to spend more and more time in her private rooms and it was towards these Nico headed, up the grand staircase, along the balcony that overhung the famous hall, the oldest part of the original castle, and through a discreet—at least it would have been if it weren’t for the two heavily armed soldiers guarding it—door that led to the royal family’s private apartments.
The door led into another corridor, as luxurious as the main hallway that bisected the palace in two, but less ornate. These rooms weren’t designed to impress and, although Nico personally found the rose velvet and cream a little cloying, it was a refreshing contrast to the pomposity of the gilt and purples in the public parts of the palace. His own rooms were on the top floor but his grandmother’s were on the first, and it only took a minute before he was rapping gently on her door to hear her voice bid him ‘Enter’. He did as he was told, sweeping a low bow before her and taking her hand in his and raising it to his lips. ‘Your Grace.’
Graziella didn’t look at all impressed by his display of manners. ‘Don’t humbug me, young man.’
Nico rocked back on his heels and grinned unrepentantly down at her. Her silver hair was in its usual elegant chignon and she was dressed with her customary chicness but the shadows under her eyes—and the shadows in her eyes—were new. No wonder, she had lost her husband, youngest son and grandson in the space of five years.
His grandfather’s heart attack had come as no real shock, the warning signs had been there for years, but Nico’s own father’s untimely death in a helicopter crash followed shortly by Alessandro’s sudden collapse had rocked the family—and the island—to the core. Nico still didn’t understand how a man as healthy, as strong as Alessandro could just drop down dead—and none of the reading he’d done on Sudden Arrhythmic Death Syndrome could convince him that he couldn’t have done something, anything, to prevent it if only he’d known.
In that way he was still well and truly stuck in the first stage of grief—denial. He could have held several medical degrees and been right there and still he couldn’t have done anything to save his cousin.
The remaining members of the family still all suffered, still all grieved, but his grandmother had been the slowest to return to some semblance of normality. Nico tried to hide his concern as his smile widened. ‘Not humbugging, just showing respect.’
‘Hmm, and did you show your uncle the same degree of respect?’ She waved him towards the uncomfortable-looking sofa that sat at right angles to her own chair and Nico obediently perched on the edge of the slippery satin.
‘Of course. At least,’ he amended, ‘I refrained from calling him a fool in public.’
‘Nico, he doesn’t like change, you know that.’
She might closet herself away in her rooms but she still knew everything that went on in every hidden palace corner. ‘Grandmamma, we have no choice. Change will come whether we like it or not. Better that we control it rather than let it control us.’
‘But tourists, Nico.’ His grandmother couldn’t have sounded more disgusted if he’d suggested tearing down the ancient woodlands to build a nuclear power station. ‘With their noise and their litter and their shorts and all they can eat. It’s never been our way.’
‘It depends on the tourists, Grandmamma.’ He’d already made exactly these points to his uncle. Nico took a deep breath and re-embarked on the speech he’d prepared. ‘We already get a few who make the journey here because we’re unspoilt, to walk or swim or relax. We just need more of them. We won’t be able to compete with the established Mediterranean resorts and nor should we, but if we market ourselves to honeymooners and couples as a luxury holiday destination and to the thrill seekers who will love our mountains and lakes then we won’t need to change too much. Invest in some new hotels, enable our cafés and restaurants to cater for more people, improve our transport links. Nothing too scary, I promise.’
‘But...’
‘Our people need jobs. Our schools and hospitals need investment. Our youth need a reason to stay. We don’t want them all heading off the island to start their lives elsewhere.’
As he had done.
‘But why, Nico? You’ve only just come home. Why shake things up now with your consultants and plans? Give your uncle some time.’
