CHAPTER THREE
Serena muttered to herself under her breath while she applied mascara. And lipstick, and a hint of contour and highlighter.
Really? She was putting on makeup for a random stranger who’d made her jump out of her skin?
Apparently so. Maybe she just needed to paint on her game face. Especially since she wanted him out of here as soon as possible so she could get back to licking her wounds in peace.
Dressed and with her hair in a neat bun, she ventured downstairs. A quick glance at the sofa showed it empty. Had Sandro left already?
Her hopes were dashed when she heard the fridge door close in the kitchen. “Good morning,” she called. Was he rifling through her newly purchased food? This man had a nerve.
“Good morning, Serena.” Sandro looked deliciously rumpled, his dark hair tousled and his expensive shirt crumpled. “What would you like for breakfast?”
“Uh…I can help myself.”
“Why don’t you relax and let me cook you something? A friend I shared a flat with in Paris now owns a string of gourmet restaurants. I picked up a few tricks from him.” He grinned, then turned back to the fridge.
“Are you serious?” Now she was intrigued. Could a man this gorgeous and confident really cook?
“Try me.” His eyes twinkled with mischief, suggesting that she try more than his cooking. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes and fought the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Do you like frittata? I see you bought eggs, onions, spinach and parmesan cheese.” He looked at her expectantly.
“Mmm, that sounds delicious.” And she’d get to sit here and watch him make it? “I’ll take you up on your offer. And I hope you’re making enough for yourself as well.”
This might even make a good blog post—perhaps with mention of a handsome man cooking but no information about his identity. She hadn’t yet revealed to her audience that her engagement was over.
Still, she didn’t want Sandro to get the idea that he was staying. “Did you get in touch with your friends?”
“Not yet. They’re on the West Coast so I need to wait a while longer before it’s morning there.” He was already breaking eggs into a bowl, big tanned hands moving with deft ease.
Yum.
This was an excellent way to get her mind off Howard, who didn’t know how to boil an egg, let alone make a frittata with it.
“You probably shouldn’t be alone here anyway. The car rental place told me there’s a big storm coming.” He sliced into the onion, and she braced herself not to cry. She didn’t even need an excuse lately. “I had to promise them I wasn’t going anywhere near the ocean.”
“So you’re a liar. That’s encouraging. But how can there be a storm? It’s not hurricane season.”
He shrugged. “I guess this storm didn’t get the memo. And there’s also a winter storm coming down from the Great Lakes. They’re supposed to meet up somewhere right around here. Wind, snow, ice and who knows what else. You might need help shoveling out afterward.”
She shrugged. “I’m from Virginia. I’ve seen snow before, and I’m stronger than I look.”
“I’m from the Alps. I’ve seen snow higher than my head.” He flashed that disarming grin, and her insides did a weird flip-flop thing.
“What country did you say you were from?”
“Altaleone.”
“Never heard of it.” Maybe he was making it up. He’d already confessed to being a liar.
“It’s tiny. In between northern Italy and Austria.”
He must be pulling her leg. She’d been skiing in Austria and visited Italy twice. “I don’t believe you.” She picked up her phone and searched for the name using the house’s Wi-Fi. Sure enough, there it was. Total population twenty-nine thousand. Ruled by the Leone family since A.D. 800 and known for producing fine champagne and cut diamonds.
Wait a second.
“What did you say your last name was?”
“Leone. Sandro Leone.” He smiled before stirring chopped onion into the egg.
“Any relation to the royal family of your country?” She lifted a brow, now sure he was lying to her.
“My brother Darias is the king.” He said it softly, matter of fact. “It’s a beautiful country. You should come visit.”
She scanned the wiki page and saw the name Sandro Leone listed as a member of the royal family. “So if your brother is the king, you must be…”
“A prince? Yes.” He chopped the spinach with speed and skill.
“Show me your passport.”
“What?” He looked up from his chopping.
“If you arrived on a plane you must have it with you. Do you expect me to just believe you’re a royal prince?”
He walked to the sink and washed his hands, then dried them. She followed him into the living room, where he fished into an outside pocket of his bag and pulled out a passport. He handed it to her with a lifted brow.
The passport was burgundy in color and had a hard cover. She flipped it open and the colorful pages revealed a photo of Sandro and the name he’d given. “This could be fake.”
“It’s real. I swear it.” His eyes glimmered with humor.
Damn it, she believed him.
She shoved the passport back at him. “We don’t really believe in princes in America.” She wanted him to know she had no intention of calling him your majesty or any such nonsense.
“I don’t take it personally.” That warm smile again. He led the way back to the kitchen and resumed his chopping. “I’m just a regular person. I’ll never be king.”
Sure. The wiki article had referred to the ancient family’s great wealth in land, art and plain old money. “Just a regular Joe, huh?”
“A regular Sandro.” He scraped the spinach into the eggs and whipped the mixture with a fork. His rolled-up sleeve gave her a tantalizing view of his muscled forearm. “At your service.”
“You’re too much. You still need to find somewhere else to stay, though. I’m here to write.”
“What do you write?”
She hesitated. “Nonfiction.”
“What kind?”
Gulp. “Self-help books. Giving people life strategies, that kind of thing.”
“Like how to spend Christmas alone in the middle of nowhere?” The way he glanced at her, laughter dancing in his dark eyes, made her chuckle in spite of herself.
“Exactly. I can show people how to have a wonderful holiday by themselves.”
He poured the egg mixture into a baking dish. “Where is your boyfriend or husband?”
She gave him credit for not staring awkwardly at her while he asked such a personal question.
She gave herself credit for not flinching before answering. “I had a recent breakup. To be honest I couldn’t face going home to my family alone. My sisters and my brother are all married and happy. I’m the odd one out.”
“You do seem pretty odd.” He closed the oven door, opened the fridge, poured two glasses of her orange juice, and sauntered over to where she stood by the island. “But I like that in a woman.”
She took the glass from him. “Are all royals as confident and obnoxious as you?”