The Bossy Prince (Rugged and Royal #3) - Lili Valente Page 0,29

went from being the proud owner of a patch of scrubland to wandering around his luxury home, complete with patio and tasteful landscaping. The builders here don’t shillyshally.”

I stand, stretching my arms overhead, but I can’t see much more of the area than I could before, other than the fact that the carefully manicured pathways of the resort don’t seem to connect to those buildings, making it unlikely they’re being used for housekeeping or groundskeeper storage.

“I’m sure they don’t,” I say. “Not when it comes to Euros in their pocket. A little of that goes a long way around here.”

“Right. That’s why Stefano’s establishing a base here, isn’t it?” he says, but there’s doubt in his tone.

“You don’t think that’s the case?” I claim the chair next to Nick’s but keep my legs curled beneath me in the shady portion of the lounger. I’m far too pale to stretch into the sun without applying multiple layers of sunscreen first.

“Could be.” He runs a hand through his hair, combing the windswept strands away from his forehead. “But I was thinking on the drive over…a lot of famous people fly in and out of Bali, and they go unnoticed in a way they couldn’t in, say, Italy or France, or even Prague or Croatia. The main airport here is already tiny, and the private airstrip is flat-out deserted. Think about it—there was no one there except that little man in his hut. No paparazzi, no crowds of tourists snapping pics on their phones.” He motions toward the village beyond the resort walls. “And most of the locals have no idea who’s famous and who’s not. To them, we’re all just rich people on vacation. There’s still a certain amount of anonymity here.”

“Agreed,” I say, following his thought trail. “So you think that may have played into Stefano’s decision to establish a presence on the island?”

“Right. Or be the entire reason for it. Maybe this is the place where he intends to service the illicit needs of the rich and famous?”

I frown, considering. “Well… you’re certainly not the only well-known scoundrel to spend time with Stefano and his crew.”

He slides his sunglasses lower on his nose, his eyes sparkling at me over the frames. “Scoundrel?”

“A rogue. A rascal. One who traffics in mischief on the wrong side of polite society.”

“I know what it is,” he says, grinning. “I’ve just never heard anyone use the word in real life. Are you a fan of historical romance novels, Alexandra? Is that your secret vice?”

“If it were, it wouldn’t be a secret.” I sniff. “Or a vice. The act of reading promotes brain health, no matter what sort of literature you’re consuming. And shaming people for their choice of material is so last century.”

“Agreed.” His lips turn down at the edges. “Does that mean you don’t read historical romances? I was hoping we could start a book club. I can’t get enough of them, especially anything set in Tudor England. It was such a violent and awful time, but sexy, too.”

I snort. “Tudor England was the furthest thing from sexy. They couldn’t have sex on Saturdays, Wednesdays, or Sundays, or throughout the entirety of Lent. And missionary was the only approved position.”

“Really?” He grunts and crosses his arms, his biceps flexing in a way that makes me wish we weren’t talking about sex. How did we end up talking about sex again? “I had no idea. How fascinating. And horrible. So were there people who actually enforced these rules? The No Wednesday Hanky-panky Police? The Sexless Sunday Supper Club?”

“No idea,” I say, determined to get this conversation back onto safer ground. “I didn’t delve too deep into the topic. And I don’t read fiction that often. I prefer biographies. Or occasionally a memoir, if the source can be trusted. Now, as for the—”

“But can you ever really trust a person to tell the ugly truth about themselves?” he cuts in. “Don’t you think all writers paint their flaws in a sympathetic light? I certainly would.”

“I wouldn’t,” I say. “Neither would Sabrina or Lizzy. We’re very different people, but we all value the truth. I think memoir writers feel the same. The good ones, at least. Honesty is more compelling than spin.”

He frowns. “Interesting that you would say that, seeing as when I met Sabrina last year, she was pretending to be Lizzy, and Lizzy was pretending to be her while lying about needing to pay off your boarding school debt in order to trick Sabrina into