To Claim His Heir by Christmas
Autorzy
Victoria Parker
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15,4K
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16
Chapter One
HE WAS GOING to propose. Any minute now.
It was every little girl’s dream. A handsome man, one of the most beautiful she’d ever seen, sat opposite her at an intimate table for two, with a velvet box nestled in his inside pocket. Aristocracy, no less. The suave Savile Row sophisticate who was Viscount Augustus. The man who’d set the scene so superbly.
Dimly lit chandeliers cast a seductive romantic ambience throughout the room of the critically acclaimed restaurant, where Michelin chefs were famous for creating masterpieces of haute cuisine. Open fires crackled and crystal tinkled as exorbitantly priced champagne flowed, poured into flutes in an amber rush of opulent effervescence. And beyond the wide plate-glass windows lay the majestic vista of the Tarentaise Valley—Savoie, bathing in the rose-pink wash of dusk, its white-capped mountains towering from the earth like watchful sentinels over the exclusive lavish ski resort of Pur Luxe.
Stunning. Awe-inspiring. The stage was set.
All that was left were the words.
And Princess Luciana Valentia Thyssen Verbault was paralysed with dread.
Please, God, please get me out of this somehow…
There is no way out, Luce. Not only do you have a duty to your people but a deal is a deal. And you made one with the devil himself.
Lord, she hated her father right now. ‘Go to the Alps,’ he’d said. ‘Take a few days to think things over, get your head together.’
Luciana had taken in his seemingly sincere autocratic face, paler since she’d last seen him as his health continued to deteriorate, and thought, yes, a few days to ponder. After all, she’d thought, she had years before her coronation, plenty of room to breathe, to barter for more time. But, as the saying went: Men plan. Fates laugh.
King Henri of Arunthia was being pushed by his doctors to retire. So she’d come to inhale the invigorating crisp air, to infuse her mind with solace. Reassess. Come up with a strategy where matrimony wouldn’t equate to losing the only person she lived for. What her father hadn’t said was that he was dropping her smack-bang in the midst of her worst nightmare by sending Augustus to seal the deal.
She supposed she should have seen it coming. Avoiding the Viscount via any means possible since her return home from China three weeks ago obviously hadn’t worked a jot. All she’d done was delay the inevitable.
You can run but you can’t hide. Wasn’t that what they said?
Truth was, for so long she’d been living on borrowed time, wishing with all her heart that time would miraculously stand still. But time, as she’d soon realised, waited for no man. Let alone a woman as desperate as she was to avoid the ticking clock.
Now she would pay the ultimate price for bartering with her father five too short years ago. Five years of living a normal existence, well hidden in her sanctuary near Hong Kong. Five years of latitude and liberty in exchange for total compliance—starting now.
‘Luciana? Is the filet not to your liking, querida?’
Her eyelashes fluttered as she fought the urge to squeeze them shut. Pretend she was anywhere but here. Querida… Lord, she wished he wouldn’t call her that. Wished too that she could extinguish the heat banked in his blue eyes. Hadn’t he had enough carnal relations for one afternoon? She almost asked him. If he’d enjoyed the brunette in his suite. The one who’d answered his door half naked and ravaged. But the truth was she couldn’t care less. It was the endearments she loathed. They hinted at affection and love and there would be none in this marriage. On either side.
He was playing a part, though, wasn’t he? She wondered, then, if he was going to get down on one knee. While she sincerely hoped not, he was a virtuoso at playing the press and they’d want the fairy story.
Fairy story. Yeah, right. A fool’s dream. Like so many others that taunted her day and night.
‘It’s wonderful, thank you,’ she said, attempting another small mouthful even as her stomach roiled.
It could be the best filet mignon in the world and it would still taste like black ash. Though no one would ever know it. Trained by the best, she was the perfect picture of elegant refinement. Graceful to a fault.
‘Good. I want tonight to be perfect,’ he said softly. Slick and skilful.
Luciana whipped out the serene smile she’d perfected since the cradle—not too bright or flashy, nor too dull. Just perfect, as her mother would say. Neglecting to add the tiny detail that it would strip her throat raw every time she faked it.
‘I want tonight to be perfect.’
Guilt trickled through the turbulent maelstrom of emotions warring for dominance in her chest. He was trying, wasn’t he?
Of course he is—he wants a throne of his own. Of course he’s pulling out every weapon in his cultivated arsenal.
Still, it wasn’t his fault that the ‘arranged marriage’ part of her conditioning hadn’t quite taken root. It wasn’t his fault that she dreamed of another. It wasn’t his fault that she had a taste for dark and dangerous.
Yes, and look what trouble that landed you in. Surely you’ve learned your lesson by now?
And Augustus was good-looking. Very handsome, in fact. Sandy blond hair artfully shorn and midnight-blue eyes. He had women after him in their droves. Yet he was her duty—tall and fair. The man she’d been ordered to wed. And from there to his bed.
A phantom knife sliced through her stomach and instinctively she bowed forward to ease the lancing pain… Then she forced her poise to kick in, reached gingerly for her glass and poured the amber liquid down her throat. Maybe if she got tipsy enough she’d have enough anaesthetic on board to say yes without shattering into a million pieces.
Flute back to the table, Luciana picked up her fork to push the tenderised beef around her gold-rimmed plate on the off-chance that he’d reach for her hand again. Once this evening was more than enough.
Would she ever get used to his touch? It was nothing like when he’d touched her. Nothing like the wickedly high jolt of electricity that had surged through her veins, or the blaze of her blood creating a raging inferno inside her.
Stop! For the love of God, Luciana, stop.
Problem was, as always, she found it impossible to halt the flow. The fiery rush of memories. Memories of a man who’d given her a gift to last a lifetime.
Pain and secrecy thumped inside her ribs like a dark heart. Because no one could know. No one could ever, ever know.
Princesses of the realm, first in line to the throne, were not meant to disgrace themselves by breaking free of their dutiful chains. Not meant to alter their appearance beyond recognition to avoid the paparazzi and go to rock concerts in Zurich dressed like a hippy, doling out false names. Not meant to fall in love…no, lust at first sight and have wild, passionate love affairs. They especially weren’t supposed to have them with Arunthia’s enemy. Not that she’d known exactly who he was when they’d met.
Such an ironic twist of fate. One she would have reduced to a dream if she didn’t hold and squeeze and hug and kiss the living proof of her reckless walk on the wild side every single day. Yet, despite it all—despite knowing she’d given her innocence to a treacherous, dangerous man—she could never, would never regret it. Because her first and only lover had given her a gift that was the single most brilliant, bright spark of joy in her world…her son.
Discreetly she sneaked a peek at the mobile phone hidden in her lap to see if Natanael’s goodnight text had come through. Nothing. She stifled the melancholy of missing him by picturing him playing happily with her sister Claudia and baby Isabelle, while Lucas watched on adoringly, protectively. Possessively.
At times it physically hurt to look at them. The perfect family. So deeply, devotedly in love. Their beautiful marriage was eons away from the unions she was used to. Luciana hadn’t known such a thing existed. She would do anything for that. Pay any price.
Envy, thick and poignant, pierced her chest with a sweet, sharp ache and she cursed herself for feeling that way. Wanting what she couldn’t have. Plunging lower than the black trench of despair she’d dug beneath her own feet. On the verge of letting loose the scream that was irrevocably bottled up inside her.
Come on, Luce. You know happiness isn’t written in the cards for a royal firstborn. Only duty.
Luciana tried to swallow and block the lash of repercussions her trip down the aisle would provoke before anguish swept her mind away on a tide of insanity.
Stop this! You’re protecting him—just as you’ve always done.
But how was she ever going to leave her heart? The person she needed in order to breathe, as if he were the very air itself? Her gorgeous little boy.
Claudia had sworn she’d save him from the oppressive walls of Arunthe Palace, love him as Luciana did until she could figure out a way for them to be together always. As Queen she’d have more power. She would think of something. She had to.
In the meantime Luciana would always be near—but what about his tub time, and the way he liked to be tucked tight and snug into bed? Luciana wanted to run his bath with his favourite bubbles that made his tender skin smell sweet. And what about when he called for her in the night when he was having bad dreams? She wanted to hold him when he was scared.
The thought of him asking for her and her not being there… It tormented her mind. How she was going to explain it all to him she had no idea. And how was she going to leave Natanael behind if this man dragged her to his family estate in Northern Arunthia?
So tell him. Tell him. He might understand. Support you. Help you.
This man? No. No, she didn’t trust him not to betray her confidence. Didn’t trust anyone.
You made a deal, Luciana. Now you pay.
Ah, yes, a deal made in naïve, youthful folly. In desperation such as she’d never known. A pact etched in her mind like an effigy on a tombstone. A shiver ghosted over her as she was haunted by the past…
* * *
‘Please…please, Father. I can’t do it. I can’t get rid of him.’ She knew he was small, so small inside her, but she couldn’t take him away, she couldn’t give him up. She couldn’t.
‘Luciana, you are not married. You will bring disgrace on us all. You are the heiress to the throne and the father of the child you carry is an enemy of this nation. Do you forget his assassination attempt? On me? He is a traitor to the crown.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t know who he was. I—’
‘If this man ever discovered your child’s existence he could use him as a pawn to gain power over us. He could take Arunthia. And do you honestly want his Satan of an uncle getting his hands on your son? We have avoided war for sixty years—do you want your people to live in tyranny as those in Galancia do?’
‘No, no. But…no one need ever know. I could go away for a while. Please, I’m begging you. Pleading with you… Let me keep him.’
The King’s deep sigh filled the oppressive air stifling his office and she teetered on the precipice of throwing her pride to the gale and plunging to her knees.
Then he said, ‘Five years, Luciana. Five years of freedom. That is all I will give you. But the world must never know he is yours because Thane must never, ever find him. You will never be able to claim him as your son and heir. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes. Yes, I understand,’ she said—wild, frenzied, frantic. Unthinking of the consequences of what she was agreeing to. So desperate she would have sold her soul in that moment.
‘You will be hidden well in the Far East, and in five years you will return to take the throne and do your duty. You will marry, Luciana, am I clear?’
‘Yes—yes, I swear it. I’ll do whatever you want. Just let me have him.’
His steely eyes were clouded with disappointment and grief and sorrow. That gaze was telling her she would rue this day, this bargain.
Luciana ignored it. As long as her son got to take his first breath, got to walk upon the earth and live life to the full, without the constraints of duty like a noose around his neck, she would make a deal with the devil himself. And so she did.
* * *
Augustus’s voice shattered her bleak reflection and she tuned back in to the chatter that fluttered around them in a hushed din.
All she had to do was remember that her happiness came second to Natanael’s safety. And she would keep him safe if it was the last thing she did.
‘Luciana? Would you like coffee and dessert or…?’
Or…? Lord, not now. Not when she was falling apart at the seams. She wasn’t ready to hear those words. Not yet. Not ever.
She felt powerless. Completely out of control. Like a puppet on a string.
The room began to spin.
‘Yes, thank you, that would be wonderful,’ she said, her voice thankfully calm and emotion-free as she plastered a cringe-worthy beatific smile on her face.
Coffee. Crème brulée. That would buy her another twenty minutes, surely.
Panic fisted her heart as the tick of the clock pounded in her ears. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
The walls loomed, closing in around her, crushing her lungs.
Calm down, Luce. What are you going to do—hyperventilate and pass out? Make a total fool of yourself?
She needed air. She couldn’t breathe.
‘I’m sorry—please excuse me. I think I need…’ To go out on the balcony? No, no, no, he’d follow her and drop to one knee, she knew. ‘To visit the restroom. I’ll only be a few minutes.’
After all that she realised he wasn’t listening. Someone on the other side of the room had caught his eye, and Luciana frowned as his lightly tanned face stained a ghastly shade of grey.
‘Augustus? Are you all right? Did you hear what I said?’
Slowly he shook his head. ‘I do not believe it. Luciana, you will never guess who is dining in this very room. I had no idea. Your father will be most displeased. I am so sorry…’
He was sorry? Ah, wonderful. One of his women, no doubt. The buxom brunette from earlier, come to ruin his perfect proposal? She didn’t want to know. It was her parents’ marriage all over again. No doubt she’d be faced with his mistresses most mornings too.
Well, that’s better than you warming his bed, isn’t it?
Anything was better than that.
‘Don’t worry about it, Augustus. Your secret is safe with me.’ Her father wouldn’t care less who the man whored with. There was more likelihood of mutual backslapping. ‘I’ll be back soon.’
Ignoring her, on he went. ‘Of all the places in all the world…’
Luciana bit into her bottom lip, stifling the impulse to run like a world class sprinter. Praying for this evening to be over. Praying someone would rescue her from this nightmare. Before the truth escaped on the scream that was building gradually, inexorably, and she single-handedly destroyed the very life she was trying to protect.
* * *
‘Of all the places in all the world… What an unpleasant surprise.’
His cousin, Seve, who was seated to his right at the oval dining table, leaned his upper body sideways in an effort to be discreet.
‘I can see the sweat beading on his upper lip from here. It’s your old pal from that exclusive rich joint you were sent to in Zurich. Viscount Augustus.’
Prince Thane of Galancia deflected the gut-punch the word Zurich evoked and sneered. ‘He was no pal of mine.’
For the one disastrous university term Thane had attended after his father’s death the Viscount had caused him no end of trouble—which he’d soon discovered was a horrendously bad idea—and subsequently shaken in his shoes every time he looked Thane’s way. Which had pleased Thane no end. It meant he’d generally kept a vast distance.
He couldn’t abide the man. Augustus was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Polished until every inch of him gleamed, he was a silver-tongued bureaucrat with sly eyes and a treacherous mind.
Seve smirked as if Thane had said the words out loud and he’d found it highly amusing. ‘What’s more, he’s dining with none other than Princess Luciana of Arunthia. One of Henri’s stuck-up brood.’
Thane resisted the urge to growl. ‘Then they belong together.’ A match made in heaven. ‘How do you know it’s definitely her? Last I heard, she lived abroad.’
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a photograph of any of them. Recent intel was off his radar, since he had zero interest in becoming embroiled with his uncle’s ongoing bitter feud with the house of Verbault. He’d made that mistake ten years ago, in his father’s day. Had the scars and the bitter aftertaste to prove it. Nowadays every time he thought of that varmint Henri a seizure of antagonistic emotion diseased his mind, so the less he heard or saw of the entire family the better. Besides, his every waking moment was spent deflecting blows from the latest fiasco in Galancia.
‘I know because the two of them having fun on the slopes made the French headlines this morning. Rumour has it she’s newly returned from Hong Kong, due to take the crown any day.’
Thane would have predicted a snowball in hell before he felt envy for a Verbault, but right then envy was definitely the evil he was up against. He wanted his crown. Taken from the hands of his uncle and placed in his own, where it should be. Before the man caused his people further damage. Four years… It seemed eons away, and his patience was wearing perilously thin.
He thrust his fingers through his hair and tucked some of the long, wayward strands behind his ear. ‘It isn’t hard to work out what Augustus wants. The vapid Viscount has always been an ambitious sleaze with illusions of grandeur.’
Seve chuckled darkly. ‘Very true. Although I will say that marriage to her will be no chore for him. Look at her. By God, she’s absolutely stunning.’
Thane couldn’t care less if she was Cleopatra. She was still a Verbault. Granted, he refused to get snarled up in that age-old vendetta again, but he wasn’t ignorant or blind to the reasoning for it. Verbault greed had once crippled a vulnerable Galancia, and rebuilding its former glory was an ongoing battle. Forgiveness would never be proffered. So the day he aligned with one of them would be the day he rode bareback with the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
Seve, meanwhile, was still staring her way. Smitten. Practically drooling. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful woman in my life.’
‘That’s saying something, considering how many you’ve bedded,’ Thane incised sardonically.
His cousin, his second in command, his best friend—the only person he would ever trust—shrugged his wide shoulders. ‘Wouldn’t do you any harm to get laid either, cousin. Come on—I didn’t drag you here just to hurtle down the black slopes all day.’
He knew fine well what Seve had dragged him here for. All work and no play made Thane a dull, arrogant ass, apparently—and for a minute or three he had considered it. But when the redhead sitting to his right had appeared from nowhere he’d turned to stone. Unable even to contemplate getting close to another woman. In fact, if she touched his arm one more time…
Dios, didn’t she know he was dangerous? That his blood ran black and his heart was dead? That he was more powerful and more feared than any other man in Europe? Surely his scars were enough to give her a clue?
Maybe he should give the mindless female a lesson in Princes of Galancia. Top of the list: do not touch.
He hated being touched. Didn’t want anyone close to him. Ever again. While getting beaten to a pulp couldn’t possibly hurt him any longer, it was the softer stuff that was more dangerous. One taste and he might very well crave it. Long for more of it. Glut himself on it. Live for it. Every touch. Every caress. Every kiss. Until it was taken away, as it inevitably would be. Leaving him empty. Aching. Feeling. Weak. And the dark Prince of Galancia could not afford to be weak. Not again. When he was weak he took his eye off the ball and everything went to hell.
Thane reached for his tumbler of rare single malt, his hand stalling in mid-air as an army of ants marched across his nape. Instinct born from a childhood in the barracks made him turn to peer over his right shoulder. Past the garish pine trees smothered in red ribbons and gold baubles, declaring the onslaught of the festive season. How quaint. How pointless.
Ah, yes, there was Augustus. Averting his gaze like an errant schoolboy. No woman with him—not that Thane could see.
But what he did see was a striking, statuesque blonde walking in the direction of the hallway that led to the restrooms. No. Not blonde at all. Her rich, decadent shower of loose tousled waves reminded him of a dark bronze. Like new-fallen acorns.
Now, she was beautiful. And that thought was so incredulous, so foreign, that he felt a tingle of something suspiciously close to shock.
His avid gaze locked on its target, his usual two-second scan turning into a drawn-out visual seduction, and he trailed his eyes over the low scooped neck of the black sheath that hugged her feminine curves. Lingered on the lapels of her long white dress coat, frisking and teasing all that flawless golden flesh.
A faint frown creased her brow and Thane narrowed his eyes as she raised one hand and rubbed over the seam of her lips with the pad of her thumb.
A pleasurable shiver of recognition rippled over his skin and his entire body prickled with an unfathomable heat.
Ana used to do that. Stroke her mouth that way. When he’d asked her why, she’d said it likely came from sucking her thumb when she was a little girl. Thane had smiled and cracked some joke about her still liking things in her mouth, and she’d proceeded to prove him right. Many times over…
The brazen fires of lust swirled through his groin, and when the woman inhaled deeply—the action pushing those full, high breasts of surreal temptation to swell against the thin silk of her dress—ferocious heat speared through his veins until he flushed from top to toe.
It couldn’t be. Could it? His Ana? Here in the Alps? No, surely not. Ana’s hair was sable-black. Her body far more slender.
Look at me, he ordered. Turn around, he demanded. Now.
And she did. Or rather she spared a glance across the room in his direction, then wrestled with her poise, giving her head a little shake.
Thane’s hands balled in frustration. But he kept watching as she reached the slightly secluded archway leading to the restrooms. Alone, doubtless believing she was unseen, she tipped her head back, glancing skyward as if praying to God, and graced him with the elegant curve of her smooth throat.
Another flashback hit with crystalline precision—his woman, arching off the bed, back bowed as she seized in rapture beneath him, inarticulate cries pouring from her swollen ruby-red mouth. And for the first time in his life—or maybe the second—his insides started to shake. Shake.
Dios, was his mind playing tricks on him? Months he had searched for her. For that trail of sable hair, that mesmerising beauty mark above her full lips, those clothes that harked of dark blood, a roaming gypsy. No stone had been unturned in Zurich, since that was where they had met, where she had claimed to live. Torturous years of not knowing whether she was dead or alive. Living with the grief. The ferocious anger and self-hate that choked him at the notion that he might not have protected her. That she could have been taken from him because of who he was.
He blinked and she was gone. Disappeared once again. And before he knew it he’d shoved his chair backwards with an emphatic scrape.
‘Thane?’
‘Restroom,’ he said, and followed the dark blonde, his heart stampeding through his chest.
Thane thrust the double doors wide, then took a sharp right down the first corridor—and came to a dead end. A swift turn about and he flung open the double doors to the wraparound balcony. Empty.
Impatience thrummed inside him. The notion of being thwarted tore at his guts. He closed the doors with a quick click, turned and—
Slam.
‘Ooof.’ He ran straight into another body so hard and fast he had to grab hold of her upper arms to stop her from careening backwards and crashing to the floor.
‘I…I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going. Please…’
Just the sound of her voice washed clean rain over him. She was breathless, winded, clutching his lapels as if he was her life raft in the darkest, most turbulent storm.
‘Please. I need to…’
That soft, husky whimper flung him back in time, sent electricity sizzling over every inch of his skin. And the way she’d jolted—he would hazard a guess she’d felt it too.
Stumbling back a step, she jacked up her chin and their gazes caught, clashed…
Madre de Dios!
‘Ana?’
Brandy-gold eyes flared up at him as bee-stung lips parted with a gasp. And for the endless moments they stared at one another she seemed to pelt through a tumult of emotions. He could virtually see them flicker over her exquisite face. Fancied each one mirrored his own. She was astounded. Bewildered. Likely in denial. Half convinced she was hallucinating. And all the while Thane drank her in as if he’d been dying of thirst and his pulse-rate tripled to create a sonic boom in his ears.
He wanted to take her in his arms. Bury his fingers into the luxurious fall of her hair. Hold her tightly to him. Despite the internal screech of warning not to touch, not become ensnared in her again.
Thane swallowed around the emotional grenade lodged in his throat. ‘Ana, where have you been? I looked for you. What happened? I…’
Unable to wait a second longer, he reached out—but she staggered back another step; her brow pinched with pain.
‘No. No! Don’t touch me. I’m sorry. You must be mistaking me for someone else. I…’
That pain morphed into something like fear and punched him in the gut.
‘Please excuse me,’ she said, and she made to duck past him.
His confusion made his cat-like reflexes take a second too long to kick in.
‘Ana? What are you talking about?’
Why was she scared of him? He didn’t like it. Not one bit. Everyone else? Yes. Her? No.
A man emerged from around the corner and when Thane recognised Augustus he almost swung his fist in the other man’s face. Though at the last second he thought better of it. His word, he’d been told, was vehement enough. Consequently he opened his mouth to deliver a curt command but the Viscount beat him to the punch.
‘Luciana? Are you all right, querida?’
Luciana? Hold on a minute… Querida?
What the hell was going on?
‘Luciana? Is this man bothering you?’
Thane whipped around to face him. ‘Back off, Augustus,’ he ground out, jabbing his finger at the other man while he tried to think around the incessant clatter in his brain. ‘And while you are doing that, if you know what is good for you, turn around and walk away.’
Augustus paled beneath his tanned skin, nodded and went to do just that. But not before he motioned to Ana with a jerk of his chin. Or was it Luciana? Dios, Thane felt as if his head was splitting in two.
‘Why are you beckoning her? How do you know each other?’ Thane asked, darkly incredulous.
Augustus straightened to his full height. Thane would give the man points for the gutsy move if he still weren’t several inches shorter than him and trying on a smug smirk for size. But what really set Thane’s teeth on edge was the way the disturbingly dashing Viscount—who was as suave and golden as Thane was dark and untamed—practically stripped the sheath from Ana’s body with his lustful covetous gaze. It made a growl threaten to tear up his throat. He felt as if he could grow fangs.
‘Luciana is to be my fiancée, Prince Thane. So I would appreciate it if you…’
The rest of his words were swept away on a tide of realisation and a watery rush sped through his ears, drowning out sound.
‘Fiancée?’ he repeated, black venom oozing from his tone. Because that meant… That meant…
With predator-like grace he pivoted to look back at the woman who had bewitched him so long ago. Invaded his every salacious dream for five years.
Eyes closed, she tucked her lips into her mouth and bit down hard enough to bruise.
‘Do I take it I am in the company of Princess Luciana of Arunthia?’ His voice seethed with distaste, so cold and hard he imagined it could shatter every windowpane within a ten miles radius. ‘Am I?’
His increase in volume snapped her awake and she elevated her chin, stood tall and regal, while she ruthlessly shuttered her expression.
‘You certainly are, Prince Thane of Galancia,’ she said, in a sexy, sassy voice that sent a dark erotic wave of heat rushing down his spine.
Ah, this was his Ana, all right. She looked more fearsome than Augustus could any day of the week, and Thane had the absurd desire to kiss that mulish line right off her lush, sulky mouth. Even knowing who she was. A Verbault. Henri’s daughter. And didn’t that fill him with no small amount of self-disgust? This had to be the universe’s idea of a sick joke.
Thane crossed his arms over his wide chest and arched one livid brow as they faced off in the hallway.
‘Did you know who I was back then?’
Had she known and set out to destroy him by luring him in? Because the Arunthian hussy had almost managed it. Almost driven him to the brink of insanity in the aftermath of her disappearance.
If he’d blinked he would have missed it. The way her smooth throat convulsed. The way she shot a quick glance in Augustus’s direction as if to check he was still there. He was. Unfortunately. Soaking up every word.
‘I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve never met you before in my life. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I suddenly find I’m very tired.’
Stupefied, he rocked back on his heels as she blew past them like a hurricane, leaving her signature trail of destruction in her wake.
A flash fire started in the pit of his gut and his mood took a deadly turn. The voracious heat was exploding to sear through his veins, to fire his blood as pure, undiluted anger blazed through his system.
Had she actually denied knowing him? Him? Prince Thane of Galancia? Had she actually walked away from him? Again?
A haze of inky darkness clouded his vision, his mind.
Ah, Princess. Big mistake. Huge. Massive, grave error of judgement.
He wanted answers. Now. Wanted to know if she’d known his true identity all along. If she’d been toying with him. Why she’d vanished in the middle of the night after she’d promised she would stay. Why she’d plunged him into the pit of Hades for months on end—something he would make her pay dearly for. But most of all he wanted her away from this sleaze-bag. Thane may no longer want to bed her, but he’d be damned if he stood by while Augustus took what was his.
Fact was he wanted her full attention. And, by God, he would get it.
* * *
This was not happening. This was just not happening.
Luciana shoved her clothes into her suitcase with one hand while she grappled with a cordless phone in the other.
Lord, she was shaking so hard she was likely calling Venezuela. One touch from that man and it was as if she’d been dormant in some cryonic stasis for five years and he’d plugged her into the national grid. Twenty minutes later her body was still burning; incinerator-hot, making her feel like a living, breathing flame.
Dangerous. That was what he was.
Worse still, when she’d literally crashed into him for a split second she’d thought she was dreaming again. That she’d conjured up his memory to save her from the nightmare her return had condemned her to. So often she slept with him in her bed, his fingers a ghost-like touch drifting over her body. Caressing, devouring with a fervour she longed for. And during that breathless moment in that hallway suddenly, shockingly, she’d wanted to cry. Weep in sheer relief that he was here. Holding her once more. Wrapping her in his ferocious unyielding strength.
That body… Such inordinate power that he vibrated with it. She’d met some powerful men in her time but Thane… No comparison. None. His every touch was a jolting shockwave of acute pleasure and pain. And it had been so long since she’d been touched. She’d almost begged him to crush her against his hard, muscular chest for one blissful second, just so she could live in the illusion that he was here and she was safe.
But that was all it was—a fantasy. A fallacy. She would never be safe in Thane’s arms.
So why did a part of her still crave him? Even knowing what and who he was?
Luciana moaned out loud. Her father was right—she was an absolute disgrace.
She’d do well to remember that invariably her dreams turned dark and his hands turned malicious and she woke in a cold, clammy and anguished sweat. That in actuality he was the most lethal, autocratic man in Europe, who co-ruled his country and his people with a merciless iron fist.
And that look in his glorious dark eyes when he’d gazed at her… As if she was his entire world… A lie. Her cruel imagination. If she needed proof to substantiate that theory all she had to do was recall his blistering disgust and anger as he’d ground out her title. Realised her true identity.
His granite-like countenance hadn’t broken her heart. Certainly not. The man was rumoured to be a mercenary, for pity’s sake.
Imagine that man getting hold of your son and using him as a pawn in his power-play?
Over her dead body.
That hypothesis was akin to someone upending a bucket of cold water over her head and she calmed enough to hit the right keys.
‘I need a car outside in five minutes and a private jet waiting at the Altiport to take me to Arunthia. Can you do that?’
‘Yes, madame.’
‘Thank you.’
Depressing the call button, she flipped the lid of her case and yanked the zipper all the way around.
She had to get home. Get Natanael out of the country until she was sure Thane wouldn’t come after her. The savage vehemence pouring off him as she’d left had scarred her for eternity. That was not a man you messed with.
The tap on her door flung her heart into overdrive and she crept up to the door to peek into the security viewer.
Shoulders slumping, she unlatched the lock and allowed the porter in to collect her bag. ‘Thank you. I’ll meet you downstairs.’ Luciana pulled a two-hundred-euro note from her jacket pocket and conjured up a sweet smile. Feminine wiles and all that.
‘The back door, okay?’
His boyish grin told her she was in the clear and she grabbed her handbag and scarpered from the room.
Down in the private elevator she went. Out through the back exit and into a frosty evening that nipped her cheeks.
The door of the limousine was an open invitation and Luciana sank into the plush leather, not wasting one vital moment. ‘Can you take me to the Altiport, please? Fast as you can.’
The door slammed shut with a heavy clunk.
The locks clicked into place.
‘Sure thing, lady.’
Lady? Frowning, she glanced up into the rearview mirror to see a peculiar pair of deep-set titanium-grey eyes staring back at her.
Luciana’s blood curdled in her veins.
Then that voice—as brutal and vicious as the thrash of a whip—sliced through the leather-scented cabin, its deadly effect severing her air supply.
‘We meet again, Princess of Arunthia.’
Vaulting backwards in her seat, she crushed herself into the corner and scoured the dim recesses of the car, her heart thudding a panicked tempo.
Black sapphire eyes glittering as starkly as the stars in the Courchevel sky, he raised one devilish dark brow and said, scathingly, ‘Did you really think I would allow you to turn your back on me a second time, Luciana? Disappear into the night once more? How very foolish of you.’
Dressed from head to foot in a bespoke black Italian suit, he lounged like an insolent predator—a sleek panther perusing his kill.
‘Well, let us get one thing perfectly clear right now. This time you will not walk away from me.’
