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apologize.” He shifted his body in front of her but the look of panic in her eyes made him move out of her way immediately. “But of course, I will not keep you here if you don’t want to be.” Frank wanted to kick himself. Good God, his prize bull at the estate had more finesse than he did.
    She relaxed slightly, but was still wary, and he didn’t blame her. The last time they’d parted, he’d been desperate to keep her and had been too overbearing. But twenty-year-old men in the agonies of first love were often thoughtless, and he’d been no exception. If he’d had a cooler head, he would have backed off, realizing the poor timing. Asking her to forgo the rest of her college education had been a bad idea, to put it mildly. “Come, sit. I promise, no more talk of awkward things. We will just be old friends who are catching up on the past ten years.”
    â€œEleven,” she corrected him automatically. So she remembered exactly, as well. That was intriguing.
    â€œEleven, of course.” He took her elbow and guided her back to her seat. The waiter, sensing a juicy story, plied them with a basket full of hearty chunks of breadand fresh whipped butter. Frank practically had to shoo him away.
    Julia seemed more amenable once she had a bit of homemade bread and butter in her, asking, “So who is getting married?”
    Frank smiled. “Do you remember me telling you about my best friends from the university?”
    She nodded. “The Italian guy and the French guy. Both were rich noblemen like you.”
    â€œBasically, yes. Giorgio—George—is the prince of Vinciguerra, a tiny country in the north of Italy. Jacques, who still goes by Jack, is a count, with his holdings in Provence, the south of France.”
    â€œAnd you, the Duke of Aguas Santas in Portugal.”
    â€œYes.” It wasn’t any secret in the Azores who he was considering he owned a small island there. But the islanders were easygoing and not inclined to give him the paparazzi treatment. He was sure they gossiped about him, but friendly gossip was a national Portuguese pastime.
    â€œIs one of them getting married?”
    â€œNot exactly. Jack just got married last summer to an American travel writer named Lily, and Giorgio and his fiancée haven’t set a date yet. It’s for Giorgio’s younger sister, Stefania, who lived with us in New York. She is marrying a German football star.”
    â€œSoccer.” She lifted her chin. “Germans play soccer, not football.”
    He remembered Julia had been a star soccer player in high school and college. “No, football,” he teased. “In Europe, we play football. And Stefania is getting married in the cathedral at home. Between the royal-watchers and the football fans, they will have very littleprivacy in their everyday lives, but Stefania and Dieter would like a private honeymoon. The villa is very private and romantic.” At least that was how he’d remembered it when he and Julia had stayed there.
    â€œOf course,” she murmured, maybe remembering the same thing? “And that’s why your assistant went off to pick paint colors.”
    Frank grimaced. “Benedito isn’t exactly an interior designer. We’ll have to see.”
    The waiter arrived with their entrees. Julia leaned over her bowl and eagerly inhaled the steam rising from the chouriço . She found a piece of the sausage with her fork and picked it up, waiting in anticipation before she moved it to her mouth. As she chewed, her expression was delighted and wistful in turns, as if she had been deprived of something important for so long, that the acquiring of it was almost bittersweet.
    What else had Julia deprived herself of?
    Frank watched her as long as he dared, then busied himself with his salt cod stew when she turned her attention back to him. Bacalhoada, or salt cod stew, was a Portuguese staple. The basics were