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  Forbidden Noble

  Victoria Pinder

  Forbidden Noble

  Copyright©2019

  * * *

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemble to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America.

  Copyright © 2019 Victoria Pinder Love in a Book

  All rights reserved.

  This book is dedicated to my friend my dad who had me watch all the Alfred Hitchcock movies and started with Rebecca and all the Agatha Christie novel that made me wish for gothic settings.

  Contents

  Series information

  Join Victoria Pinder

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Forbidden Lord Preview

  Also by Victoria Pinder

  About the Author

  Please check out the entire Princes of Avce Series

  Princes of Avce

  Forbidden Crown

  Forbidden Prince

  Forbidden Royal

  Forbidden Duke

  Forbidden Earl

  Forbidden Monsieur

  Forbidden Marquis

  Forbidden Count

  Forbidden King

  Forbidden Bastard

  Forbidden Noble

  Forbidden Lord

  Princes of Avce 1-3

  Princes of Avce 4-6

  Princes of Avce 7-9

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  Chapter 1

  In the space of two weeks, Clara Fortuna had finally turned her luck around and could now live up to her last name. She felt very fortunate to be sitting on the edge of the world where she’d read Hercules had supposedly split mountains, and separated Europe from Africa.

  This was far from her usual day-to-day, working odd jobs to pay for her tiny but clean studio apartment in Miami.

  She’d done enough of other people’s unwanted tasks that she now knew how to do almost any chore, including change the oil in a car. Today she wasn’t a maid, or a landscaper, or a handywoman. She blinked against a drop of rain as she smelled the sea she’d traveled to see.

  Clara was about to indulge in her dream to be a writer, all thanks to Astorre Manfredi, who'd spent the last ten days showing her around Paris, Venice, Florence, and her surprise favorite, Barcelona--until now they were here and she peered down at the straits below. The view of the Rock of Gibraltar was magnificent, even if the weather was cloudy and drizzling.

  Across the narrow sea was a whole other continent that began with Morocco.

  No book she’d read had prepared her for this splendor and her skin broke out in goosebumps as she remembered her crazy journey that had brought her first to Paris, and now here to the rock of Gibraltar.

  A tap on her shoulder snapped her out of her reverie. Astorre, the Duke of Modena, handed her an umbrella so she wouldn't get even more wet, then showed her a box beneath his arm. “Our new phones arrived.”

  He’d asked her to wait for him until he'd gathered supplies but she'd been too excited to see the legendary vista, and now Astorre was dry while her brown hair was plastered against her forehead.

  Under cover of the umbrella, she accepted the new phone he'd given her. She would never have been able to afford the latest device on her own. He'd synched it with her old number. “Twenty-four messages. Rossie must have called, a lot.”

  He glanced across the bay and then at her. “Are you done sightseeing?”

  If anyone could play the part of Hercules, Astorre was in the running. He was all muscles, everywhere. His brown eyes had shadowed depths that made her weak at the knees. From the time they'd spent together, she’d already figured out that if she thanked him for something, he’d cringe. Clara took his offered arm and said, “Yes. Let’s get going.”

  He lifted his hand with the bags. “I bought a bottle of wine so we can relax if we find a quiet place on our walk.”

  Outside was preferable to the plane or earlier cable car ride and honestly she liked the rain. She couldn’t help her smile as she said, “I’m honored, Your Grace.”

  His lips thinned. “Clara, we discussed this on the plane.”

  “And I meant what I said.” They walked to the Moorish Castle at a quick pace as the rain intensified. Astorre’s voice was grave when he said, “You didn’t have to come. You were enjoying Barcelona.”

  “I want to be with you, until the end.” He’d dismissed the trip to Gibraltar as nothing important, but she’d packed her small bag to join him on the train this morning anyway. She hadn’t expected him to argue with her. Maybe it was the rain getting to his mood. Maybe it was his birthday tomorrow.

  She couldn’t see much as the fog thickened but once inside the ticket center of the castle she shook out her umbrella. At the entrance, instead of going to the box to pay for entry, the ticket attendant took down one of the red ropes. A private showing? Amazing. Clara needed to soak in all the details of this world and then return to her tiny studio box where she'd live in her mind here, as she wrote it all down.

  Astorre talked to the agent in Spanish she hadn’t known he'd spoken at all. He then said to her, “Listen to your voicemails. You might have something more important to do.”

  Doubtful. Rossie was her only friend and she’d just gotten married in Paris to a very wonderful man that she'd fallen in love with. Clara had no one else. Rossie probably just wanted to know Clara was fine. She and Astorre had taken off from Rossie's wedding pretty fast. She shrugged. “I’ll do that later. I’m here on a mission to see the world and wine sounds good.”

  They didn’t follow the tour and no one questioned his bag. Must be nice to be rich…she had no idea how he could think of giving all this up. They were brought into a medieval stone work room overlooking the seas that was clearly Moorish design, and breathtaking in medieval carving from stone that somehow held pops of bright mosaic color.

  No one else was around. Astorre put his bag on a table near a stone glassless window where they could relax without being seen.

  This must have been what he'd talked to the ticket agent about.

  Too bad her pink sneakers were all muddy and looked a wreck. She didn’t want
to glance down but she knew her jeans had also seen better days. Clara took her seat as Astorre said, “The Rock of Gibraltar will still be here, waiting for you on a clear day where we can see it better.”

  Okay, so now he was ready to talk about his birthday and losing his fortune without marrying. She was ready to listen. She’d write down her thoughts afterward. She folded her hands on the table. “It’s not going anywhere, I agree. You said you had business here, Your Grace.”

  He opened the wine he’d brought and poured it into two glasses as castle employees carted in a selection of fruit and nuts. Astorre's cleft chin gave him a chillingly handsome exterior. He said, “You’re not working for me.”

  No. This was a vacation from odd jobs. She took the wine and met his gaze without blinking. “I’m here because I want your story.”

  In another life maybe she’d be the kind of girl to attract a man like him. But Clara knew who she was and she wasn’t Cinderella out looking for a handsome Duke to marry, though the poor part of the story fit.

  Clara sipped the fine red wine with no idea what brand it was--she hadn't bothered to read the label as it was out of her budget. Astorre lifted his eyebrow. “You've never written a story before. How do you know mine is worth all this work?”

  She didn't. Maybe at the end of the day, she'd be a horrible storyteller, but for the past almost two weeks she'd been who she wanted to be without worrying about bills or paying for anything. She’d taken Astorre's deal to explain her simple life and how to live cheaply, while he took her on his final luxurious trip around Europe.

  Reality would slap her soon, but she put her glass down and said, “Look, you let me tag along. But then on the train from Barcelona, you avoiding talking to me and spent the entire time on your computer.”

  His body froze like stone. “Both our phones were lost. I was ensuring we had what we needed when we arrived in Gibraltar.”

  Maybe it wasn’t fair to assume he’d have the same way of looking at things, like casual conversation, but he was richer than anyone she’d ever met and soon wouldn’t be. She reached across the table and ignored the spark when their pinkies brushed as she said, “I’m determined to find out why you are letting your estate go.”

  He ended the slight touch when he sat back in his chair. “I’m not explaining that.”

  She took another sip but noticed he hadn’t touched his wine at all. “I’m good at piecing together clues," she said. "So Astorre Manfredi, Duke of Modena, how old were you when you decided to toss billions, and an estate, away?”

  His eyes glowed. “New deal. We trade information, Clara.”

  “Trade?” Her heart sped up. She’d flown to a different country with a hot-as the-devil European bad boy who had a reputation for hard drinking and who knew what else. Well, she had ideas, but Astorre wasn’t the kind to consider her as anything more than a one-nighter.

  Which she wasn’t interested in being.

  So they were here at the edge of the old world, as friends. He’d wanted company when he turned poor like her on his thirtieth birthday tomorrow.

  He finally sipped his wine and stared at her like he could see through her clothes a la superman if he wanted. “For every personal question I answer, you have to answer one of mine.”

  The game he was asking to play could be dangerous. She nodded, knowing she could stop at any time if things devolved. “Okay. I have nothing to hide. What do you want to know about me in exchange?”

  His gaze narrowed to assess her like she’d issued him a challenge. He swallowed a drink of wine. “How old were you when you had your first kiss?”

  Never. She'd never been kissed. She was twenty-eight and not the kind of girl a man noticed, as her hands were too rough and not soft like a lady's. “Your questions should be on the same level as mine, or it's not a fair game.”

  He leaned in closer and said, “Both are personal.”

  Clara was a lone wolf in the world. She knew it. She wanted her first kiss to happen only if it led to her true love. Maybe it was stupid, but she held onto her dreams like they were promises to herself to make her life better. She pressed her lips together. “Yours can lead to sex questions. Mine doesn’t.”

  His lips curved into a dimpled smile. Seriously, Astorre was heavenly perfection. “Mine can lead to more interesting questions, I suppose.”

  A kiss of his would leave her heartbroken, as there was no way the girl who wanted forever and the bad boy who likely had scores of women in his bed ever ended up together. She wasn’t a fool. Clara folded her hands in front of her chest. “Mine is non-sexual background for the book.”

  He rested one finger against his face as he studied her. He didn’t move or blink but then he said, “I don’t think you’ve ever been kissed well and that’s why you are avoiding the question. It's also why you're here with me on the claim of writing a book about me.”

  Her face burned but she refused to acknowledge that he was right. He could never know so she said, “I am writing a book, and your life is more interesting than mine.”

  He handed her a date to eat while he said, “The fiction piece you showed me in Paris was pretty good.”

  No one had ever asked to read her stuff and she’d never been brave enough to send anything out--he'd been her first and only reader. To her surprise, the fruit was much better than the last cookie she’d eaten. “I never could figure out an ending for that one so it’s going nowhere.”

  He popped the date in his mouth and ate it. “The shop girl doesn’t fall for the billionaire?”

  She let out a laugh and decided she’d try another fig. Absolutely better than cookies. Wow. Clara wasn’t all about an organic diet and the only fruit she'd tried was an apple or a banana in a school lunch as a girl. Unlike Astorre, and his exotic tastes--they had nothing in common. She relaxed her body. “She comes to her senses, which is more realistic.”

  He refilled their glasses. “Not the ending readers, or even you, actually want though.”

  This from the man who’d go from billions to zero in thirty-two hours. “I’ve never considered happily-ever-after to be an actual goal. So back to answering my question.”

  He handed her the glass and said, “Yet, it’s evident to me that’s all you want. Anyhow, to keep peace, I’ll revise my second question to you.”

  Good. No more talking about kissing. She let out a deep breath. “Thank you. What’s the new question?”

  He drank his red wine. “In exchange for explaining how old I was when I wanted to toss my fortune, how old were you when your parents died?”

  Her skin had that prickly feeling. Again. This was hard. She never knew how to answer when someone asked her about it. Did Astorre mean her natural parents, or her adoptive parents? Her lips were parched and she sipped her wine. She swallowed and tried to find the words. “I was… very well. Why don't you go first?”

  He nodded and spoke like he was reciting from a paper and not sharing his life. “I was fifteen when we moved back to Avce, my parents and I. Then the day I turned sixteen I went to… a friend’s home to celebrate. My parents never showed up…”

  At least he remembered them. Her heart was wild with anticipation as she asked, “Why not?”

  He continued his monotone recitation she could never manage when telling her own story and said, “Turns out my father murdered my mother and went looking for me. He killed a groomsman riding one of my horses, thinking that I'd ridden home from the party. The groomsman was wearing my jacket. My little sister was smart enough at ten to run and hide or I wouldn't have her either. At the end, after hunting for her for a while, my father killed himself.”

  She winced and imagined every second. That had to be hard. He was old enough to remember faces. She just had pockets of her life that she remembered. She took his hand. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

  He shrugged like it didn’t matter that he’d lived through such horror and gave her a haunting smile. “You’re not from Avce, and so you didn’t look at me
with pity in your gaze the first time we'd met.”

  She’d inherited nothing from her painful past. Though tainted, Astorre had the world and he was about to throw it away. She was very familiar with looks of sympathy and patted his arm. “I know the feeling entirely. So you want to get rid of your home to get back at your father?”

  “I technically live there, but I've actively avoided inhabiting the same place of an incomplete murder investigation. Once I’m thirty, I'll be penniless but also free.”

  Hard to argue with that, except that he’d never once struggled with making his way--food, or shelter, or any luxury he wanted. She raised her eyebrows though she doubted she could mimic his impenetrable expression. “Being poor isn’t a blessing and you’ll realize giving up every dime is a mistake.”

  He shrugged like her comments weren’t warranted and said, “Clara, your turn to answer.”

  Maybe she’d been out of line. They’d just met. She’d come to help ease him into a penniless existence as the law was that he only got to keep the clothes on his back. He closed up, and she just couldn't press for more details of his future. But the clock was ticking toward the end of this vacation.

  She’d promised to answer his question. “Oh… First when I was a baby, my natural parents died. Then when I was four, my adoptive parents died in a car accident. It wasn’t as dramatic as what happened with your parents clearly, but I was devastated. Grandmother May told me every day I wasn’t really a Fortuna and she was no blood relation of mine. I moved out at eighteen and only returned at twenty-two to ensure she was properly buried.”

  His eyes widened, but he didn’t give the usual sympathetic glance and pull away. Instead he took her glass and said, “That calls for another round.”