Kidnapped for His Royal Heir
Autore
Maya Blake
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CHAPTER ONE
VIOLET BARRINGHALL HELD the thick envelope in her hand, mutiny brimming in her heart. She managed to dredge up a thin smile for the smartly dressed courier before shutting her apartment door.
She knew its sender without peeking inside. Its weighted richness shrieked wealth, and its creamy, seamless perfection stressed its importance. The gold-embossed emblem on the top right-hand corner was distinctive enough without her years-long exposure to the family that bore it with centuries-old pride and unapologetic arrogance.
But more than that she encountered an even purer strain of that pride and arrogance on a daily basis in the form of His Royal Highness Prince Zakary Philippe Montegova—the sender of the envelope in her hand.
It wasn’t a highbrow invitation.
No, this was a summons.
She knew this because she’d been responsible for sending out those invitations for his latest fundraising event herself, in her role as his long-suffering dogsbody for the last twelve weeks.
Three months, and counting, of pure hell. Of relentless commands and impossible expectations of perfection from a man—no, a prince—who demanded the very best of himself and therefore of everyone else around him as well.
As Director of the House of Montegova Trust, a foundation that dealt with everything from managing Montegovan business interests abroad to charity and conservation work all over the world, the trust had gained international acclaim for the small but immensely wealthy Mediterranean kingdom.
Together with his brother, Crown Prince Remi Montegova, and their mother, the Queen, Zak had elevated the status of the kingdom to even greater heights since the untimely death of the King over a decade ago.
Where others would’ve grown content at achieving multi-billionaire status, unquestioning respect and reverence, and rested on their laurels, Zak was even more driven, his terrifying, breakneck work ethic inexhaustible. Heck, every facet of his life was lived in high octane.
Right down to the revolving-door speed of his personal liaisons.
Violet didn’t want to think about that. Right now, she’d give anything to completely erase Zak Montegova from her memory. At least for the next twelve hours.
But she couldn’t.
She’d committed to being at his beck and call. In fact, that clause was specifically stated in her contract with the trust. While she had several reservations about the man himself, she couldn’t forget that her degree in community development and her personal career ambition as a conservationist would be given a huge boost with a stint at the trust on her CV. It was why her deliberations about accepting the secondment offer in New York had been woefully short but immensely painful.
Because, aside from her grimace-inducing personal history with Zak, it directly played into her mother’s blatant and conniving plans.
Despite telling herself that incident was a thing of the past, Violet hadn’t been able to consign it to history. Like a recurring nightmare, it leapt to life and replayed in vivid Technicolor every time she was in Zak’s presence, which these days happened to be several hours of every day.
Three more months. A mere ninety-odd days. What could possibly go wrong?
Like an impossibly perfect spectre, his face loomed in her mind’s eye.
Formidable perfection. Insufferably handsome, with a royal swagger that shouted his awareness of his charisma. The raw prowess she’d heard whispers about long before she’d first encountered him.
Every dismissive word he’d thrown at her that day in her mother’s garden six years ago had been steeped in pure masculine arrogance. He’d carried that entitlement in his thick, broad shoulders and arrogant slant of his head as he’d walked away, secure in the knowledge that his manhood was assured, even worshipped by yet another woman, while he’d cruelly rebuffed the attention he’d garnered.
Violet’s face heated up at the memory. Her hand curled tighter around the envelope, one heartbeat away from crumpling the expensive paper. Slowly, she unclenched her fist, breathed deeply to restore her equilibrium. She wasn’t eighteen any more, hadn’t been for six long, tough years.
She’d had to grow up pretty damned fast shortly after that eye-opening party, thanks to an unexpected heart attack taking her father, and the discovery that the life of luxury they’d led had been lived on the back of a ruthlessly guarded facade of falsehoods, humiliating ingratiation and a blatant and ultimately futile exercise of robbing Peter to pay Paul.
The shocking revelation that the Earl and Countess Barringhall weren’t as esteemed or as wealthy as they’d led the world to believe, that they were in fact destitute to the point of bankruptcy, had become an open, humiliating secret. Even far away at university, Violet had been subjected to snide and cruel gossip, social media playing its part in serialising the true status of her family to the world.
It was why Violet had buried herself in her work at the International Conservation Trust. And when the opportunity came up to work away from Barringhall and her mother’s ever-increasing efforts to marry her off to someone socially advantageous, Violet had grabbed it with both hands and taken the position in Oxford.
But with senior positions in the field going to more experienced colleagues, not conservationists with less than two years’ experience, she’d known it was only prudent to redouble her efforts to accelerate her career path and put herself entirely out of her mother’s orbit.
She’d taken this job despite knowing her mother’s close friendship with the Queen of Montegova would be exploited to the utmost in her bid to marry her daughter off.
Violet had considered telling her mother not to bother because she wouldn’t succeed. Little did her mother know that Zak Montegova couldn’t have made his feelings for Violet any clearer than he had that night six years ago or during the last few weeks she’d been working alongside him.
To Zak, she barely existed.
So she didn’t understand why this envelope had been delivered here, now. After ten hours’ exposure to His Royal High-Handedness today, she’d hoped for a night’s reprieve before being subjected to his disturbing presence again.
Lips pressed together to hold her feelings inside, she slid a finger beneath the flap.
The note was brief. Succinct. Imperious.
My assistant has been taken ill. You will take her place in accompanying me to the Conservation Society fundraiser, which starts in an hour. A chauffeur is at your disposal.
Don’t let me down.
HRHZ
The inherent threat in those four final words had kept her awake for more nights in the past three months than anything else had done in her whole life.
That need for her to be exemplary in all things lest the stain of gossip, that underlying suspicion that she was a freeloader, a leech, because of her parents’ infamous misdeeds, attach itself to her. So far it’d proved an uphill battle, social media and her mother’s relentless pursuit of status playing their part in keeping the gossip mill alive and robust.
But she only needed to withstand this for a while longer, to earn her place in life through hard work and dedication to her chosen career. Prove sceptics like Zakary Montegova wrong. If that included stepping into his assistant’s shoes for one night...
She could gain invaluable experience from other conservationists attending the much-vaunted and anticipated event. So why were thoughts of Zak uppermost in her brain? Why was her heart hammering at the prospect of seeing him again?
She jumped when her phone rang from where it lay on the tiny console table next to the front door. Her Greenwich Village apartment was compact enough to cross in a handful of steps, although she suspected who it was before she reached for the phone. Sure enough, the cynical HRH she’d programmed into the contacts was displayed in green.
‘Hello?’
‘You have received my note, yes?’
She hated it that her fingers shook at the deep, faintly accented tones that blended Italian, French and Spanish in an enthralling mix that made up Montegova’s language and history.
‘Since you informed the courier to hand it over personally, no doubt you’ve been told exactly that. And good evening, to you too. Your Highness.’ She couldn’t stem the snippiness from her voice even as she grew irritated with herself for letting him get under her skin. For this heart-banging-against-ribs effect he so effortlessly commanded from her.
But hadn’t he done that to her since she’d first set eyes on him at twelve? Hadn’t she and her twin sister, Sage, watched him that first time from their bedroom window? Hadn’t Violet, freshly done with reading her favourite fairy tale, instantly placed herself in the Princess’s shoes, with Zakary Montegova in the leading role of Prince Charming, because in that seemingly serendipitous moment when he’d looked up and locked eyes with her, he’d been her every wish come to life? The answer to those desperate, seemingly futile prayers for deliverance from her parents’ endless arguments, the whispers and conversations that suddenly stopped when she and her sisters walked into the room, and their mother’s constant badgering about making strategic friendships?
She’d hated herself for that weak moment later, of course. Because books were books. Nothing in real life could mislead her into thinking she needed a boy...or man...to save her. That the answer to her self-worth lay in a prince whose gaze turned cool and dismissive as he stared at her from across the top of his perfectly polished sports car.
His Perfect Highness didn’t immediately respond to her snippiness now, and that drawn-out extra second tightened Violet’s already strung-out nerves. He’d always had a knack for making her feel self-conscious, even awkward once upon a time.
But only if you give him that power.
Where she would’ve rushed into further speech at twelve or eighteen, Violet forced herself to hold her tongue now. To wait him out. As if her heart wasn’t banging harder just from the sound of his voice. As if her palms weren’t growing clammy, reminding her how she’d ruffled him, for a very brief, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it instant, six years ago.
It was infuriating that her brain refused to let go of that moment, the scent and, sweet heaven, the taste of him still lingering, vivid and real and affecting, after all this time.
‘Personal dealings with couriers are outside my remit, so you’ll have to excuse my ignorance,’ Prince Zakary drawled, dragging her attention back to the present. Back to his exclusive importance. To the reminder that he dealt with heads of state and Fortune 500 CEOs, not the common working class. ‘But I’m pleased to note the urgency of the situation was relayed. I trust you’re ready?’
‘No, I’m not. I received the note five minutes ago. I haven’t even thought about what I’m going to wear yet.’
‘Think fast, then, Violet. I’ll be at your apartment in twenty minutes.’
‘What? You said I had an hour before your chauffeur fetched me.’
‘There’s been a change of plan, which necessitated this call. My foreign minister wishes to meet with me before the fundraiser starts.’
‘And what does that have to do with me?’
Again, he paused for an extra beat. ‘Since you’re acting as my assistant, your presence is also required at the meeting. Unless you feel you’re not up to the task...?’
That barely veiled insinuation stung.
‘Not that long ago I spent three weeks under an intense sun, with very little sleep, cleaning and tagging hundreds of birds after an oil tanker spilled its contents on the other side of the world, Your Highness. I’m sure I’m up to taking notes at a meeting. Unless you’ll be conducting it in something other than one of the five languages I speak fluently?’ That need to prove her worth to him, to ram her few but much prideful accomplishments down his throat, grated for a moment before she owned it.
She’d learned to her cost that timid didn’t work with Zak.
Anything other than toe-to-toe combat was just asking to be eaten alive and spat aside with singeing indifference. He responded to challenges, usually attempted by misguided fools who dared to say no to him. But occasionally it didn’t hurt to remind the man that simply because that word didn’t exist in his vocabulary, it didn’t mean she intended to gushingly enquire how high when he said jump.
‘I’m well aware of the contents of your résumé, Lady Barringhall. You don’t need to recite it to me, especially not when time is of the essence.’
‘Of course not. Your Highness. Just as I won’t remind you that you’re the one who called me. That you’re the one wasting time by keeping me on the phone when I could be getting dressed.’
‘Ah.’ His voice was a cool, deep exhalation. ‘I imagined you were an expert at multi-tasking. Since I don’t recall that listed as one of your accomplishments, I’ll have to make my own judgement on that score. You now have fifteen minutes, Lady Barringhall.’
The line went dead, and Violet couldn’t stop the uncouth word that erupted from her lips. That little catharsis freed a layer of tension and propelled her to her tiny bedroom, where she rummaged through her meagre wardrobe in search of the gown she hadn’t worn since her twenty-first.
Recalling how different that birthday had been from her eighteenth, she pursed her lips. A three-hundred-plus guest list shrunk to a half-hearted twenty-five, so-called friends having fallen away like rats deserting a sinking ship, some exhibiting shocking cruelty on their way out that still hurt to this day.
Violet had endured the occasion only because her mother had insisted on marking the day, spending money they hadn’t had for a birthday party no one had wanted to attend, wearing a dress she suspected had come from a charity shop, not the haute couture line her mother had insisted it’d come from.
Whatever the genesis of the dress, Violet couldn’t fault its simple but tasteful lines. The dove-grey pleated bodice swept from a shallow V over her cleavage to wrap around her upper arms and back, leaving her shoulders and lower back bare, before the soft chiffon gently moulded her hips and fell away to her ankles.
Since she’d already showered in anticipation of slipping into her pyjamas for an early night, her only task was to slip on the dress, brush and sweep her hair into a tidy chignon, add a simple string of pearls inherited from her grandmother, shoes and make-up, and spritz on her favourite perfume.
Her doorbell went for the second time within half an hour as she was tossing her keys into her small, matching clutch. Her heart attempted to jump into her throat, until she assured herself that royalty didn’t conduct such mundane tasks as climbing four flights of dark, dank stairs to knock on the front doors of apartments in buildings within a short sprint of a housing project.
She went to the door, opened it and froze, her jaw sagging at the sight of the man framed in her doorway.
‘Do you normally throw open your door with very little regard for your safety?’ Prince Zakary Montegova asked coldly.
Violet stared, convinced that the combination of memories, exhaustion and his earlier phone call had colluded into make her hallucinate him. But, no, that steady breathing, those much too incisive grey eyes, that towering, mouthwatering body and especially that aftershave convinced her he was all too real.
‘I... What are you doing here?’
One sleek, winged eyebrow rose, sarcasm dripping from that small motion.
‘I meant you didn’t have to come up and get me yourself. You could’ve called. Or sent one of your bodyguards.’ She managed to drag her gaze from him long enough to confirm the security guards without whom he never travelled were indeed present, watchful and crowding her poorly lit hallway.
‘And missed this scintillating peek into your life? One that makes me question why you have a peephole and an adequate-looking security chain on your door but chose to use neither?’
That tight bite of irritation had thickened, even as his gaze swept over her from hair to heels, dragging awareness over every inch of skin he scrutinised, all the parts he couldn’t see.
It was that bite, that suppressed energy that intensified her awareness, dragged even more unnervingly arresting pieces of Zak Montegova into focus.
The sharp classiness of his bespoke tux highlighting his brooding sexiness.
An innate sensuality overlying a raw masculinity that’d earned him Most Eligible Royal status for more years than Violet cared to count.
‘You told me you’d be here in fifteen minutes about...fourteen minutes ago. It doesn’t take a wild leap to conclude who was knocking on my door. And, really, are we going to waste more time debating safety protocols? Because I assure you that would take up even more of my precious time.’
‘Your precious time? You signed a piece of paper, I believe, stating that every moment of your secondment was mine. Have you forgotten?’ he drawled, his gaze flickering past her shoulders and into the apartment. Sharp eyes lanced over cheap furniture, cheaper blinds and the stack of conservation books on her coffee table before returning to hers, a little less cynical and a lot more...turbulent. ‘Did I interrupt something? Were you entertaining, perhaps?’
Violet pulled the door closer, unwilling to let him see the small sanctuary she’d created for herself. While she kept her space neat and tidy and as homely as a temporary living space could be, the truth was she had very little spare funds to make it any more than functional.
To a man whose kingdom delivered precious gems by the quarry-full, amongst other priceless resources, an apartment like hers would probably make him shudder. But more than that, Violet wanted nothing to escalate his belief that her mother’s agenda to marry her off advantageously was hers as well. That she was here in New York for any reason other than to gain as much work experience as she could.
‘I think you’re a little misguided. You’re my mentor for the hours I spend at the trust and perhaps a few extra-curricular duties, but I don’t account to you for every moment of my time, and what I do with my private time is none of your business.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ he asked.
For some reason, her belly somersaulted, and her breath hitched. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
For the longest minute he simply stared at her, eyes slowly narrowing. Then he sharply veered from her doorway, granting her the freedom to shut it behind her.
‘You’re right. The matter of your security and extra-curricular activities can await another time. I don’t wish to keep my minister waiting.’
The fact that he’d simply evaded answering her question puzzled her before she assured herself she didn’t really want to know what he’d meant. After all, it had nothing to do with her work.
She told herself that with every step down the long flights of stairs. With every arrogant step that testified that the man who walked beside her was no ordinary man. That he was high born and could trace his ancestry back almost half a millennium.
He gestured her forward at the front door. She stepped through, then startled at his sharp exhalation. A furtive glance over her shoulder showed the briefest flare in the straight blade of his nose. The tiniest hungry flicker in his eyes as they dropped down to her bare back.
A second later he was back under control, prompting her to wonder if she’d imagined that reaction.
Because Zak Montegova didn’t betray superfluous emotion. In all things he held himself under supreme control. As if he were still in the military position he’d held in the Montegovan air force in his twenties.
But he had that night.
That hard-packed body had been alive with passion, impatiently aroused and breathlessly all-consuming with it. Even though he’d snapped into chilling rebuttal afterwards, she’d experienced that blistering moment when his guard had dropped. When he’d given her a glimpse beneath his armour-plated façade.
For years Violet hadn’t quite been able to dismiss that fraction of a moment from her thoughts. Not as easily as the Prince had dismissed her, anyway. Even when she’d imagined she’d seen a residual memory lurking in his eyes the handful of times fate, or her mother, had thrown them together.
But it wasn’t until her arrival in New York that she’d known she was mistaken. It’d all been in her imagination. And she needed to kill those thoughts once and for all if she hoped to get ahead in life.
And she had.
For the most part...
But that vital final step eluded her. The last memory of sizzling heat, masterful hands on her body that had ruined her for much longer than she cared to admit. It was why she’d rebuffed any advances from the opposite sex. Because after a few tentative tries she’d known she was wasting time better spent pursuing a fulfilling career. Because even if those advances hadn’t eventually been ruined by her mother’s meddling or male interest only piqued by the whiff of scandal that followed her name, the memory of Zakary Montegova had always been there, a formidable apparition, rendering every man who came close an unworthy imitation of the accomplished Prince.
The man lauded as a genius. While his brother had been tasked with preserving Montegovan interests, Zak had been tasked with interests abroad. Within a handful of years he’d had heads of states at his beck and call. And that acclaim had gained power and glory with each passing year.
The sights and sounds of New York blasted in the moment they stepped out of her apartment building.
And into the path of a bicycle courier. The cyclist swerved, just as Violet took a hurried step back. Into the hard, towering body of Zak Montegova.
Strong arms gripped her arms to steady her. Fierce eyes drilled into her with a mixture of concern and brusque irritation and that enigmatic gleam that immediately drove the breath from her lungs. Everything fell away.
The courier’s irritated shout despite his blatant contravention of cycling laws.
The blare of taxi horns and loud hiss of bus brakes.
The scent of stale hot dogs and hot pretzels.
Only the searing awareness of skin-on-skin contact remained, taking up ever-expanding room in her consciousness until it was the only thing that mattered. Until even breathing became redundant. Secondary to the rush of having her every fear confirmed.
That, regardless of her mother’s machinations and Zak’s blatant reservations about her presence in New York, she harboured terrible secrets of her own. Secrets she’d taken turns scoffing at and then fearing.
On a sordid little street corner in New York City, Violet accepted the truth that the fairy tale was very much alive.
That the man who’d taken her in his arms, kissed her with soul-stirring expertise while murmuring husky Montegovan words to her, was still very much present beneath that stoic facade. That the man who’d come within a heartbeat of taking her virginity on the night of her eighteenth birthday was still the man she secretly yearned for.
That Zakary Montegova was the reason Violet was, at the ripe old age of twenty-four, still a virgin.
Hard on the heels of the bracing indictment came the realisation that he knew. It was there in the blaze of his grey eyes, in the awareness that rippled through his body. In the thumbs brushing her bare skin...testing her weaknesses?
A shiver ran through her body, spreading goosebumps all over her skin.
His gaze released hers for a moment to track her reaction while his hypnotic caress continued. When her nipples began to pearl, he didn’t miss it. Didn’t miss the acceleration of her heartbeat or the erratic cadence of her breathing.
As if from a distance, she watched his expression change, morph into calculation. It didn’t take a genius to guess he was cataloguing his every effect on her for possible use against her.
He made a sound under his breath, a curious cross between a growl and a visceral sound of satisfaction. Of a hunter having stalked his prey into a tight corner.
It was enough to drag Violet out of her stupor. Enough to stress the urgent need to redouble her efforts to resist her mother’s intentions.
But most of all to prevent Zak from confirming the truth.
At all costs.
