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The Rebel King
Melissa James
Wedded: the King and his convenient bride! Fireman Charlie Costa knows all about duty and saving lives. But when he learns he is a prince who must marry to secure his nation, Charlie rebels! He doesn’t want to be King, or to marry Princess Jazmine…no matter how beautiful she is.Charlie’s rough manners and bad-boy charm don’t deceive Princess Jazmine for a minute. He might fool others that he’s a rebel, but she knows the real Charlie: kind, generous, and a man who’s truly fit to be King.Suddenly Royal! The first in a majestic new duet…
Then he emerged from the car,and Jazmine heard the death knellof her plans before she’d evenbeen introduced to the Prince.
Oh, he was handsome—dark, lean, and oozing hot sensuality. But he was no storybook prince come to win a princess’s heart, and—her heart sank—she doubted he ever would be.
Thick curls cropped short, dark eyes, and the same regal nose as his sister—but on him it didn’t achieve elegance. In a charcoal Savile Row suit supplied for him on the jet, with a white shirt and sky-blue tie, he didn’t look suave, he looked turbulent. Every inch of him was lean and muscled, big and fit… Buff, her friends from Oxford would have said. She might have herself, if she wasn’t a princess.
And if he weren’t Crown Prince, she’d call him hostile.
He looked as regal as a lion, ready to attack; and as frighteningly compelling as a wind-tossed storm cloud about to unleash a torrent.
Yes, that was it exactly. God help her, she was engaged to a wild beast set to pounce. And the windstorm was about to break right over her head.
Melissa James is a mother of three, living in a beach suburb in New South Wales, Australia. A former nurse, waitress, shop assistant, perfume and chocolate demonstrator—among other things—she believes in taking on new jobs for the fun experience. She’ll try anything at least once, to see what it feels like—a fact that scares her family on regular occasions. She fell into writing by accident, when her husband brought home an article stating how much a famous romance author earned, and she thought, I can do that! She can be found most mornings walking and swimming at her local beach with her husband, or every afternoon running around to her kids’ sporting hobbies, while dreaming of flying, scuba diving, belaying down a cave or over a cliff—anywhere her characters are at the time!
THE REBEL KING
BY
MELISSA JAMES
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to Rachel Robinson, for going above and beyond, and who made Charlie the hero he became.
Thanks to Robbie and Barb also, and to Emily Ruston for excellent revision suggestions.
PROLOGUE
Sydney, Australia
BY THE time the crew truck screeched up the footpath, the bottom storey of the house was engulfed in flame. Roof tiles at one end had already buckled and were smouldering. The wailing siren of the fire truck seemed obscenely loud over the terrified confusion of people racing around. The night sky was alight, the tinsel of the Christmas decorations in the windows had turned to blazing flame, warming the faces of the onlookers—and seeing the avid interest on so many faces didn’t make things better.
That’s the job. Charlie Costa faced it as he’d done for years. He’d store the jumbled mass of emotions for later.
‘We have a five-to-ten-minute window. Winder, Costa, gear up and go in,’ Leopard, the captain, yelled for Charlie and his partner, Toby. ‘Do a sweep for any signs of life. The rest of you, douse the house and grounds, and watch those trees. We have to keep the monster from leapfrogging to the surrounding homes.’
‘The monster’ was the name ‘firies’ gave the enemy. Charlie remembered the cold shiver that had raced through him the first time he’d heard it. Now it was a battle cry against the hungry destroyer that was the fireman’s daily enemy.
‘Dissect your internal conundrums later, Rip,’ a deep, growling voice came from beside him. ‘For now, we fight the Great Destroyer.’
‘I’ll ask how I can do all those things you said later on, O Grizz, Lord of the Dictionary.’ Charlie grinned at Toby Winder, his closest friend. The joking camaraderie they shared in life-and-death situations—such as calling Charlie ‘Rip’, a nickname due to his legendary temper, and Toby ‘Grizz’, due to his six-foot-five, muscular frame— helped to defuse the tension.
‘Let’s rock and roll.’ Charlie threw on the mask and strapped on survival gear. Covered by the guys shooting a storm of water and fire-retardant chemicals, he and Toby charged in. They didn’t use the axe to break down the door, but shut what was left of it behind them. The other guys would find and close any open windows, and board up those that had already exploded. The less oxygen in here, the better chances for any survivors of this inferno, and reports had come in that there was a young family still trapped inside.
‘It’s a kitchen fire,’ Toby reported into the two-way radio as he bolted through the smoke-filled living room. ‘It looks like the gas oven wasn’t turned off. It shot straight up through the ceiling to the second floor before it took hold down here.’ He wasn’t spouting his favourite polysyllables now; he was too worried. ‘I’ll go upstairs, Rip can take downstairs.’
‘No,’ Charlie yelled, following Toby to the stairs. ‘If anyone was downstairs they’d be outside already. We go up together, and find the kids first, parents after.’
What he didn’t say was that pairs had a greater chance of survival. With the risk of the floor buckling under Toby’s bigger frame, no way in hell was Charlie letting Toby go up alone. For some reason he’d never understand, his being there to balance the weight usually kept the floor from going a little longer.
They found the first survivor sprawled in the curve of the landing. A young woman, presumably the mother, her arms outstretched to the top storey. Toby did a quick ABC of her condition. ‘Get the paramedics in. She’s not breathing, pulse weak and thready. She’s going down fast.’
Charlie doused the stairs and carpet leading to the door with flame retardant, and moved all furniture that could burn. Toby dragged in a clean breath, turned off the airflow to his mask and began artificial respiration. They couldn’t chance any flow of oxygen or even tanked air on her until they were all safely out of here. She wouldn’t thank them if they saved her but killed her kids in the inevitable explosion.
A sharp crack, followed by a tearing sound, came as the woman was stretchered out. ‘The roof’s going!’
As one, the two men bolted up the stairs. ‘Send in two more guys to buy us some time!’ Charlie yelled into the radio.
Leopard yelled, ‘Get out, both of you, and that’s an order. It’s gonna go!’
Neither paid attention. Charlie took the far end of the hall without discussing it with his friend. Toby knew. He was the bigger and stronger of the two, but Charlie was leaner and faster, with a better chance of getting through any runners of flame.
Without glancing at Charlie, Toby ran into the first room to the left and Charlie immediately heard him shout a directive. ‘Ladders to the top bedroom windows!’
Resigned to the inevitable, the captain gave the order. They all knew these two never left a building until the last survivors were found. The way they worked was almost uncanny, which was why the Fire Brigade had kept them together after training. Knowing each other so well could be a handicap in life-and-death situations, but with Toby and Charlie their honesty and camaraderie, their brotherly love, and the way they read each other’s minds, made them the best team possible.
Crouching, Charlie ran along the sagging carpeted floor of the hall. It was ready to fall. He jumped from side to side against the walls where the floor remnants would be strongest because of the support beams. Keeping safe meant he’d make it into the room at the back of the house.
He opened the door, slipped in and shut the door behind him to cut off oxygen.
Through the haze the room took shape slowly, but moving would change the landscape, and he’d have to start focusing anew. Thirty seconds later and the picture came to his stinging eyes: a white room, pink bed-spread, a Barbie doll’s house. He yelled, a weird, muffled sound through the oxygen mask, ‘Is anyone in here?’
Even through the roar of the approaching monster, his trained ears heard a tiny cough.
He shut down and ripped off the mask. Talking through it scared kids, and the suit was scary enough. ‘Hey, sweetie, my name’s Charlie. I’m a fireman.’ He choked on the smoke that filled his lungs and throat in seconds, and breathed in clean oxygen before turning off the mask. He couldn’t risk feeding any starters in the room. ‘Want to see your mummy?’
Another cough, weak and unformed, came from under the bed. Diving under the quilt, he saw a tiny ball of curled-up humanity. She was dark-haired and sweet-faced, about three. ‘It’s okay, sweetie, I’ve got you.’ He croaked into the two-way, ‘Ladder to the back room, far left! I’ve got a kid!’
‘Forty-five seconds!’ Leopard yelled.
Replacing his mask to breathe, he did a quick check on her. The child was alarmingly limp. He wrapped a rope around her fast, ready for the transfer when the guys got to the window, but she’d stop breathing any moment. He lifted her into his arms with excruciating slowness.
It was the cardinal rule: never take off your mask to give to a victim, because you can’t save someone if you’re dead or unconscious. Doing this would risk not only his life but the lives of his team who’d have to come in to save him, as well as the child if he passed out. But she was little more than a baby. He’d had his life—hers had barely begun.
Hoping there were no sparks in the room to feed on the oxygen, he ripped the mask off, turned the setting to ‘air’—too much oxygen right now could do her more harm than good if she had smoke inhalation— and put it over her face. Then, holding his breath, he turned to get out of the door—but the paint was blistering down the edges, and peeling off the entire centre of it.
Smoke was curling off the door handle, and seeping through. An explosion came right beneath him. The house was going. The floor sagged under his left foot.
‘I need a ladder to the extreme right of top floor! I’ve got an unconscious child. He isn’t breathing!’ Charlie heard Toby yell again, his voice harsh too. Obviously he didn’t have his air mask on either. Time was running out fast.
The floor started buckling beneath Charlie’s feet.
Slowly, inch by inch, he spread his feet further apart, feeling it give way each time he moved. His feet began to burn through his boots. ‘We’re gonna make it out, sweetie.’ Hearing a voice, even his own, gave him comfort when everything was going down. ‘Our guys are the best.’ He coughed. Crouch low forair, idiot! But he couldn’t shift down; it would cave the whole place in.
He was about to choke. He couldn’t risk the floor going with the motion. He must breathe now, or risk both their lives when he fell. He watched the baby breathe in, took the mask, breathed in and shoved it back on her face before she inhaled again.
No talking now. His world consisted of watching her breaths: in, take the mask and breathe, back to her, and count the seconds. Glass smashed in the room next door. The fire was in the back walls, and the window had burst. The monster was about to hit.
A whoosh of clean air filled the room. The door burst into glowing sparks as the fire leaped in to meet the oxygen. A voice screamed, ‘Give her to me!’
Thank you, God! Charlie leaped for the bed where the window was. ‘Take her!’
The bed sagged sideways as the floor collapsed under his weight. He passed the child over as the heat at his back seared him. The hairs on his neck withered and his skin was melting—he could actually smell his flesh cooking.
‘Jump, mate!’
He could barely move; the heat, pain and lack of air had left him in a stupor. One hand gripped the window sash; the other made it. Good. I can do this.One knee up…
The bed lurched back into the maw where the floor had been moments before. His body jerked back, but his desperate fingers held on. ‘Help,’ he whispered as his hands lost strength and smoke filled his lungs, his nose and throat, his eyes…
Hands came out of the cloudy darkness, lifting him through the window into a safety harness to lower him to the ground. ‘We’ve got you.’ It was Leopard. ‘You saved her, Charlie. The little girl’s going to make it, and so are you.’
Charlie coughed and coughed; the fresh air hurt, because the hairs lining his airways were gone or damaged. ‘Toby?’
‘He’s okay, he saved the boy. We’ve done all we can. Let’s go!’
He knew by what the captain hadn’t said that someone was dead.
Oh, dear God…those poor kids had lost their mother.
As he was winched to safety, he felt the flashes and glare of media cameras turned on him. He heard the words ‘hero’ and ‘saving the lives of a family’, but he couldn’t answer questions or accept praise for doing his duty. He fell to his knees, coughed until he choked, then threw up: the body’s instinctive way of clearing foreign objects.
The paramedics had him on a stretcher within two minutes, and he was on his way to hospital. He slipped into unconsciousness, knowing the ‘what ifs would haunt him until he died. Maybe he’d done all he could, but a woman had died today; two kids had lost their mummy before they’d been able to have memories of her—and, in his book, that meant that all he’d done hadn’t been enough.
CHAPTER ONE
Sydney, three months later
‘I’M THE grand what of where?’ Charlie grinned at the grave solicitor in the panelled oak office in the heart of Sydney. ‘Yeah, right, pull the other one, Jack. Now, why are we really here?’
His sister’s hand crept into his and held tight. ‘I think he’s serious, Charlie.’
At the fear smothered beneath the shock in Lia’s voice, Charlie’s protective instincts roared up. Lia was pale; he could feel the tremors running through her.
He couldn’t blame her. If this was on the level, this news could destroy his sister. After all these years of progress, she could slide back to anorexic behaviour to cope with the stress of what this stranger was telling them.
No way would he risk that. ‘Come on, Mr Damianakis. Tell us why we’re here. You’re scaring my sister.’
The lawyer smiled at Lia in apology, but his words didn’t give Charlie any relief. ‘I’m aware this must be a massive shock for you both. It was a surprise to us, too. The consulate contacted us after the story of your rescue of the children in the house fire.’ Now the apologetic look was aimed at Charlie. ‘They’d sent photos of your grandparents to every consulate around the world. You really are the image of your grandfather. The photo of you getting the medal for bravery led to an investigation which showed your grandfather’s entry papers into Australia weren’t on the level. The Greek records showed that the real Kyriacou Charles Konstantinos, who shared your grandfather’s birth date, died in Cyprus in the second year of the Second World War, eight months before your grandfather arrived in Sydney in 1941 using the same certificate.’
‘That doesn’t prove anything but that Papou was an illegal alien,’ Charlie argued. It was something he’d always suspected. Papou had always worked for himself, and worked for cash whenever he could.
Charlie frowned, realizing for the first time that Papou had built and paid for the house and everything in it with cash—a man who’d claimed to be the son of a humble bricklayer, and who had only ever worked as a carpenter. Where had the money come from?
‘No, in itself it proves nothing—but it was a start.’ Mr Damianakis shifted again in his seat, reacting to Charlie and Lia’s obvious discomfort with the situation. ‘Your father’s name is the Marandis family name—Athanasius, like your great-grandfather, the twelfth Grand Duke. Your grandfather’s medical records showed some family anomalies, such as the crooked little finger on the right hand, and the AB-negative blood type, which is usual in the male Hellenican line, but rare among Cypriots, and is not at all in the Konstantinos family.’
Lia’s grip tightened on Charlie’s hand, and he could think of nothing to say to comfort her. Damn, he wished Toby was here!
‘And your grandmother’s Italian heritage clinched it. When we contacted her family in Milan, got pictures of her at a young age and saw her resemblance to you, Miss Costa, we knew we had the right people.’
Charlie rubbed the healing skin on his neck, where the heat of the fire had gone right through the flame-retardant suit to melt the flesh. The fallout from that fire had done more damage than even he had anticipated. The media had followed him for days, trying to make him a hero. They’d followed him and Toby as they’d visited the kids in hospital, and had awkwardly tried to console the grieving father who’d lost his wife. If he hadn’t been instructed by the service to do it, for the sake of donations and good political mileage…
Damn the entire brigade! Those kids had lost their mother because he hadn’t been able to save her. If it weren’t for the press turning him into something he wasn’t, he’d still be living in happy obscurity.
Whatever happened now, he had a feeling that much was at an end.
Charlie jerked to his feet, bringing Lia with him. ‘This has to be a joke. You have thirty seconds to tell us why we’re really here before we walk out the door.’
‘I am one hundred percent on the level, sir.’ Mr Damianakis handed Charlie a document and a photograph. ‘Here’s the late Grand Duke’s birth certificate, and his photo taken when he came of age, sir.’
Charlie looked down, fighting a spurt of irritation. No one had ever called him ‘sir’ in his life, and never like he was a grand ‘what’ of where.
It was a young Papou in the photo, no doubt of it; Charlie saw the likeness. He’d always been the image of his grandfather. His Papou, who’d always hated war and had only fought over the backgammon table, was dressed in full military getup, covered in ribbons and medals, and the legend said:
1939. The 18-year-old Marquis of Junoar at hisgraduation from the Hellenican MilitaryAcademy, with his parents the Grand Duke andDuchess of Malascos.
The birth certificate gave no reprieve: KyriacouCharles Marandis, son of His Grace, Athanasius,The Grand Duke of Malascos, and Grand DuchessHelena Marandis, née Lady Helena Doughtry,daughter of the Earl of…
The words blurred in front of him as his head began spinning. The birth date was right; the face was exact. And he couldn’t deny the name— Kyriacou Charles. It was his name as well as his paternal grandfather’s name, in the old tradition, just as Lia was Giulia Maria, named for their grandmother, their beloved Yiayia.
If all this rigmarole was true, their shy, retiring Yiayia had been a count’s granddaughter, an untitled royal nanny for whom Papou had given up his position to run off and marry, if Mr Damianakis could be believed.
He was descended from dukes and earls? He was a lost heir?
‘So when do the man in the iron mask and the three musketeers show up?’ he asked, with a world of irony in his voice.
The lawyer gave him a wry smile in return. ‘It must seem unbelievable: the runaway duke, the lost prince and princess—a massive fortune.’
Lia had read the words on the photo over Charlie’s shoulder and stammered, ‘It can’t be Papou. You have the wrong people. Our last name is Costa. We’re Greek.’
‘Your grandfather took the surname and nationality he was given by the man who created his false identity, and changed Konstantinos to the simpler version—Costa,’ Mr Damianakis said gravely. ‘Probably to avoid media scrutiny and being followed around the world. But there is no doubt. He became the Grand Duke of Malascos at his father’s death, and you became the Marquis of Junoar when your father died. Due to the tragedies in the nation in the past decade, you are no longer merely the Marquis of Junoar or Grand Duke of Malascos.’
Merely? Charlie heard his mind shout in disbelief.
‘But by Hellenican law, as the last male in the direct line, you are Crown Prince, heir to the throne. And you—’ he smiled at Lia ‘—are Her Highness Giulia Marandis, Princess Royal of Hellenia. Your great-grandfather left a massive private fortune to his lost descendants, totalling over five hundred million euros in land, gold and in bank accounts. I think he wanted his son to know he’d forgiven him.’ He rushed around to Lia, who’d turned alarmingly pale. ‘Please sit, my lady.’
Lia released Charlie’s hand and fell into the chair, her breathing erratic. ‘Don’t call me that,’ she said, her voice horrified.
The room swung around Charlie in slow ovals: around and up and down, like he was in a crazy ride he couldn’t get off. But he was a fireman, damn it, and he didn’t fall down under shock. He strode to the window, saw the limousine with diplomatic flags on it, and clenched his fists. The fairy story he wanted to laugh at was crystallising into horrifying reality. ‘You said the king and my great-grandfather disinherited Papou when he married Yiayia. So what do they want with us?’
‘When your grandfather was disinherited, he was ninth in line to the throne, but there were another twenty direct members of the Marandis family to inherit,’ Mr Damianakis said, in the tone of respectful gravity that killed Charlie’s urge to laugh this all off. ‘The past thirty years has been a tragic time in Hellenia. An attempted coup killed several members of your family. Twelve years ago rebel forces created civil war on behalf of the heir of a man in direct rivalry to the throne, named Orakis, in an attempt to reclaim it. The war lasted a decade. Thousands died, towns and villages were destroyed.’
Good God, now he’d gone from romantic legend to an item on the news networks. ‘So if this Orakis guy wants the throne so much, let him have it,’ he snapped. ‘Then nobody else has to die.’
‘Charlie,’ Lia said in gentle rebuke. ‘This isn’t Mr Damianakis’ fault.’
