One Night With The Forbidden Princess
One Night With The Forbidden Princess
Amanda Cinelli
A hot Mediterranean seduction……of his virgin princess!Hired to secure a palace, the last thing billionaire bodyguard Roman Lazarov expects to find is a princess scaling the castle walls! Facing an arranged marriage, runaway Princess Olivia pleads with him to allow her just one week of freedom. Reluctantly he agrees. But when he's secluded with her on his private Spanish island Roman realises his mistake—his attraction to Olivia is forbidden, but explosively undeniable!
A hot Mediterranean seduction…
…of his virgin princess!
Hired to secure a palace, the last thing billionaire bodyguard Roman Lazarov expects to find is a princess scaling the castle walls! Facing an arranged marriage, runaway Princess Olivia pleads with him to allow her just one week of freedom. Reluctantly he agrees, but secluded on his private Spanish island, Roman realizes his mistake—his attraction to Olivia is forbidden, but also explosively undeniable!
A forbidden romance with a royal twist
AMANDA CINELLI was raised in a large Irish/Italian family in the suburbs of Dublin, Ireland. Her love of romance was inspired after ‘borrowing’ one of her mother’s beloved Mills & Boon novels at the age of twelve. Writing soon became a necessary outlet for her wildly overactive imagination. Now married, with a daughter of her own, she splits her time between changing nappies, studying psychology and writing love stories.
Also by Amanda Cinelli (#u5d206fd8-0899-530e-8331-06e4602fa96e)
Resisting the Sicilian Playboy
The Secret to Marrying Marchesi
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
One Night with the Forbidden Princess
Amanda Cinelli
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08732-2
ONE NIGHT WITH THE FORBIDDEN PRINCESS
© 2018 Amanda Cinelli
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Zara and Mia
Contents
Cover (#u908753f3-7a8f-5d97-83ea-eb6888cfb5cb)
Back Cover Text (#u7218ed1e-0ceb-5fd9-8794-7300f8ac44c5)
About the Author (#u6e28bf37-243e-560e-86c4-3eef1407cd30)
Booklist (#u58ec7eff-49ff-5a79-9b56-7342b4b621e6)
Title Page (#uf739467b-d204-59c0-a4fa-b6b111982939)
Copyright (#u4e6afa62-0964-5135-8bfe-3136211833ec)
Dedication (#u1a66abb5-ceb8-544f-bb06-ea7723bc9c49)
CHAPTER ONE (#u984c076c-0b50-586c-8924-5904ff54e4a3)
CHAPTER TWO (#u77476b39-b87a-5093-b36e-bd7d964ec9a7)
CHAPTER THREE (#u676318df-910d-5e0a-992e-617d6b38d4f5)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u5d206fd8-0899-530e-8331-06e4602fa96e)
‘YOU WILL RECEIVE a marriage proposal this week.’
Olivia’s ears still rang with her father’s words, even as she moved through the motions of greeting the rest of the guests at the formal luncheon. It was not every day that your father informed you that you were set to marry a stranger, after all.
But, then again, her father was a king.
And the King clearly thought that the best time to impart news of this magnitude was no less than thirty seconds before he introduced her to her intended fiancé—a complete stranger. It was a wonder that she had managed to greet their guest of honour at all before she’d hurriedly made an excuse to leave.
Princesses were generally not permitted to sneak away during royal functions. Especially when that royal function concerned a very esteemed guest of honour from a faraway kingdom. Still, Olivia found herself making her way slowly across the room in search of fresh air.
‘Another glass of champagne, Your Highness?’
Olivia stopped her progress and gracefully accepted the crystal flute from the waiter’s hand, noticing the way his fingers trembled slightly as he tried to balance his tray. He was quite young—fresh out of school, she would bet.
‘Is this your first Royal Races?’ she asked, glad of the distraction while her eyes scanned the room, plotting her escape.
‘It’s my first day, actually. In general,’ he replied.
‘You are doing a wonderful job.’
She smiled, hoping her words might help to calm his nerves somewhat. It couldn’t be an easy start, balancing priceless crystal while surrounded by some of Europe’s wealthiest and most famous people.
‘Thank you, Princess Olivia—I mean, Your Highness. Er…thank you.’ He stumbled over his words, then smiled nervously, showing a mouth full of shiny metal braces.
Olivia smiled back with genuine warmth as the boy made a wobbly attempt at a bow and moved away. She sighed, taking a small sip from her glass. She would happily have spent the rest of the afternoon chatting with the teenager simply to avoid thinking of the bombshell that had just completely taken her by surprise. As if these royal functions weren’t difficult enough.
The usual array of eager guests had predictably occupied her afternoon so far, with wave after wave of polite, banal conversation. Her parents, King Fabian and Queen Aurelia of Monteverre, stood at the opposite side of the long balcony surrounded by people and bodyguards. Her own personal security team stood at strategic points around her, trying and failing to blend into the crowd in their plain black suits and crisp white shirts.
The Royal Monteverre Races were infamous around the globe for their week-long parade of upper-class style and glamour. The historic racetrack was spread out below them, and thousands of guests had gathered in their finery for a day of sport and socialising.
No one’s style was more closely watched than her own. Her morning had consisted of three hours being transformed by her own personal styling team. Her naturally wavy long red hair had been ironed and pressed to perfection, and her fair skin polished and highlighted in all the right places.
The public hailed her as a stunning natural beauty, but she knew the effort that went into upholding that image was far from natural at all. She was a public brand—a symbol for an entire country with her every single step followed closely by the whole world.
Even her older sister, Crown Princess Eleanor, was not given the same amount of attention. Perhaps it was because she was already married. The press took much more pleasure in the single siblings than they did in the ‘taken’ ones. And yet her younger sister had the excuse of her studies in London to avoid the limelight.
For the past five years Olivia had been very much at the centre of public attention—since taking her official role in palace life at twenty-one. She did not shy from the pressure—she had been trained for it after all. She knew to expect intense scrutiny. And yet there was nothing that could make her feel more alone than being surrounded by thousands of people who treated her like an ornament to be admired from afar.
A sudden crash jolted her out of her thoughts and she looked up with a groan of empathy to see that the young waiter seemed to have lost his balance and gone crashing into a nearby couple.
‘You absolute imbecile!’
The roar came from an elderly duke, a close friend of her father, who seemed to have been the sole recipient of the tray’s liquid contents. Shards of priceless crystal lay scattered across the floor in a pool of expensive champagne while the teenage server stood frozen with a mixture of embarrassment and fear.
‘Have this clumsy idiot taken back to the schoolroom. Out of my sight!’ the Duke spat, his eyes bulging as his equally outraged wife hurriedly tried to dry his sodden shirt with a napkin.
As Olivia watched with horror, a single bodyguard materialised from the crowd and took the boy roughly by the shoulders.
‘Stop!’ She moved forward suddenly, her body seeming to propel her towards the dramatic scene of its own volition.
‘A princess should never concern herself with such matters.’
Her late grandmother’s voice seemed to warn her from her subconscious. But she pushed the thought away, arriving by the boy’s side and looking up at the burly guard with all the authority she could muster. A hush had fallen over the crowd around them.
‘I think there is a better way of managing this, don’t you?’ She addressed the guard, then turned her attention to the elderly Duke and his wife. ‘Duque L’Arosa, this young man is a friend of mine. I know he would appreciate your kindness on his first day of work.’
The Duke’s eyes widened horribly, his face turning even more red as his much younger wife gripped his arm and snorted her disapproval. Olivia stood her ground, flashing her best royal smile as the guard immediately released the boy. The young waiter avoided her eyes as he hurriedly gathered his tray and rushed off in the direction of the kitchen.
Olivia became suddenly painfully aware of the quiet that surrounded her. Members of the Monteverrian nobility and various public and government figures all averted their eyes, no one daring to speak or whisper about a member of the royal family while she stood in their midst.
A strange sensation began to spread over her bare shoulders, and she instinctively turned her head and found herself pinned by the gaze of a man who stood a few feet away. He was remarkably tall—taller than most of the men in the room. Perhaps that was what had drawn her attention to him.
She tried to look away, feeling uncomfortable under his obvious scrutiny, but there was something about the way he looked at her. She was quite used to being stared at—she was a public figure after all. But his dark eyes seemed to demand her complete attention. It was quite inappropriate, she told herself. She should be annoyed. But even with the length of the room between them, having his eyes on her seemed to make her heart beat faster.
A strange quiver of anticipation jolted to life in her chest, making her want to close the gap between them just to hear how his voice sounded. She raised one brow in challenge and felt her heart thump as a sinful smile spread across his full mouth, making him appear all the more rakish and infinitely dangerous.
No man had ever looked at her that way before—as though she was a tasty snack he might like to sample. She shook her head at the ridiculous turn of her thoughts and forced herself to look away.
When she finally looked back he had vanished.
She steeled her jaw, nodding politely to the Duque and Duquesa before making a slow and graceful exit through the main doors. Her own personal team of guards made themselves known as she walked faster, all five of them closing in from their previous placements. She had never felt more frustrated at her newly heightened security than she did at that moment. There was no immediate threat—no need for the ridiculous new measures her father had put in place the week before.
‘I’m feeling ill,’ she announced to the men once they had exited into the empty corridor outside the racetrack’s function room. ‘Surely there is no need for all of you to accompany me into the bathroom?’
The men reacted predictably, coughing awkwardly before moving aside and allowing her to walk unchaperoned into the ladies’ restroom. She searched the for an exit point, her eyes landing on a second door on the opposite side of the bathroom.
She smiled with triumph. Sometimes a little rebellion was necessary.
Roman Lazarov had never been particularly comfortable at high society functions. It had been sheer curiosity that had led him to accept the Sheikh of Zayarr’s invitation to attend the Royal Races while he was already in Monteverre. Small European kingdoms were one of the few niche markets he had not yet entered with his security firm, as monarchies largely tended to keep to their own traditional models of operation. Old money aristocrats also tended to show a particular disdain towards new money Russians.
His fists tightened as he thought of the scene he had witnessed after only being in the room mere moments. Nothing made him feel closer to his own humble beginnings than watching a rich man treat his server badly. There was something particularly nasty about those who had been born to immense wealth. As though they believed the world should bend to their will and that those with less than them were somehow worth less as well. A sweeping generalisation, to be sure, but a painfully accurate one in his own experience.
The redhead had surprised him. She was clearly upper class—he could tell by the way she was dressed. Diamonds and rich yellow silk. He had noticed her the moment he’d entered the room. She had stood proud and untouchable near the centre, all alone, with her delicate fingers holding on to a champagne flute for dear life. And yet she had stepped forward for the servant and caused an obvious scene.
He should thank her, really. She had provided the perfect distraction for him to move on to his main purpose of business.
He would have liked nothing more than to stick around at the pretentious party and see if Lady Red lived up to his expectations. But really this brief detour to the races had been a mistake on his part. Time was of the essence when you had a royal palace to break into, after all…
The early summer afternoon was pleasant as Roman rounded the last bend on the dirt path, finally bringing the high walls of the palace into view. The overgrown abandoned hunting track wasn’t the easiest route, but when you were about to break into the home of Monteverre’s royal family you didn’t usually use the front gate.
The forest was quiet but for the sounds of wildlife and the occasional creak of tree branches protesting as he methodically pulled them out of his way. Reaching the medieval stone wall, Roman looked up. It had to be at least five metres high and three metres thick—rather impressive and designed to be impossible to scale, especially when you weren’t dressed for the occasion. He checked his smartwatch, zooming in on the small map that would guide him to the access point.
In another life Roman Lazarov had found pleasure in breaking the law. Bypassing even the most high-tech security system had been child’s play for a hungry, hardened orphan with a taste for troublemaking. But in all his time in the seedy underworld of St Petersburg an actual palace had never made it onto his hit list.
That life was over now—replaced by a monumental self-made wealth that his young, hungry self could only have dreamed about. And yet here he was, his pulse quickening at the prospect of what lay ahead. The fact that this little exercise was completely above-board made it no less challenging. The palace had a guard of one hundred men and all he had was a digital blueprint of the castle tunnels and his own two hands.
The thought sent adrenaline running through his veins. God, but he had missed this feeling. When the Sheikh of Zayyar had first asked him for a favour, he had presumed it to be assembling a new security team for a foreign trip or something of that nature. Khal was in high demand these days, and his guard had been assembled almost entirely from Roman’s security firm, The Lazarov Group. But Khal’s request had intrigued him—likely as it had been meant to. The challenge had been set, and Roman was determined to enjoy it.
As for whether or not he would succeed—that question had made him laugh heartily in his oldest friend’s face.
Roman Lazarov never failed at anything.
The daylight made it seem almost as though he were taking a leisurely stroll rather than performing an act of espionage. He finally reached the small metal hatch in the ground that would provide the cleanest and most ridiculously obvious point of entry. An evacuation hatch, more than likely from long-ago times of war. He had hardly believed his eyes when his team had uncovered it on an old blueprint.
Although it looked rather polished and clean for a decades-old abandoned grate, he thought to himself, sliding one finger along the sun-heated metal.
A sudden sound in the quiet made Roman go completely still, instinctively holding his breath. He felt the familiar heightened awareness that came from years of experience in the security business as he listened, scanning his surroundings. Footsteps, light and fast, were coming closer. The person was of small build—possibly a child. Still, Roman couldn’t be seen or this whole exercise would be blown.
Without another thought he took five long steps, shielding himself under cover of the trees.
A shape emerged from thick bushes ten feet away. The figure was petite, slim and unmistakably female. She was fast. So damned fast he saw little more than a set of bare shapely legs and a shapeless dark hooded coat before she seemed to pirouette and disappear through the hatch in the ground without any effort at all.
Roman frowned, for a moment simply replaying the image in his head. Evidently he was not the only one who had been informed of the hidden entryway. He shook off his surprise, cursing himself for hesitating as he made quick work of reaching the hatch and lowering himself.
The iron ladder was slippery with damp and led down to a smooth, square-shaped concrete tunnel beneath. Small patches of sunlight poked through ventilation ducts at regular intervals, giving some light in the otherwise pitch-blackness.
Roman stilled, listening for the sound of the woman’s footsteps. She had moved quickly, but he could hear her faint steps somewhere ahead of him in the tunnel. As he began his pursuit a half-smile touched his lips. He had come here today tasked with proving the ineptitude of this palace’s security, and now he would have a genuine intruder to show as proof.
This cat burglar was about to get very rudely interrupted.
Olivia held her shoes tightly in one hand as she slid her hand along the wall of the tunnel for support. The ground was damp and slippery under her bare feet—a fact that should have disgusted a young woman of such gentle breeding. But then she had never really understood the whole ‘delicate princess’ rationale. It was at times like this, after escaping palace life for even one simple hour, that she truly felt alive.
Her sudden disappearance had likely been noticed by now, and yet she did not feel any remorse. Her attendance at the international horse racing event had been aimed at the King’s esteemed guest of honour, Sheikh Khalil Al Rhas of Zayyar. The man that her father had informed her she was intended to marry.
Olivia paused for a moment, tightness overcoming her throat for the second time in a few short hours. The way he had phrased it, as her ‘royal duty’, still rung in her ears. She was only twenty-six, for goodness’ sake. She wasn’t ready for this particular duty.
She had always known it was customary for her father to hold the right to arrange or refuse the marriages of his offspring, but she had hoped the day would never come when she was called upon in such an archaic fashion. But now that day was here, and the Sheikh was set to propose to her formally any day now—before he completed his trip.
Olivia pressed her forehead briefly against the stone wall. She felt cold through and through, as if she would never be warm again.
‘Drama queen.’ Cressida’s mocking voice sounded in her head.
Her younger sister had always been such a calm, level-headed presence in her life. It had been five years since Cress had moved away to study in England. And not a day passed that she didn’t think of her. With barely a year between them, they had always been more like twins. Cress would know exactly what to say to alleviate the unbearable tension that had taken residence in her stomach today. She was sure of it.
The tunnel was a straight path along the south boundary of the palace. It seemed like an endless mile before the staircase finally appeared. Olivia climbed it in the near darkness, relying solely on memory to make her way up to the partially hidden door in the stone wall. She pressed a slim crease, sliding open a panel and stepping through easily.
The brightness of her dressing room was a welcome shock of cream and gold after the prolonged darkness. She took a moment, breathing in the clean air, before turning to slide the secret door closed.
Olivia stilled at the sound of footsteps in the tunnel below. But that was impossible. In almost fifteen years of roaming she had never seen another soul down there. She had never even told her sisters.
She stepped back down to the small landing at the top of the steps. She braced her hands on the stone balustrade to peer down into the darkness, biting the inside of her lip. Had one of the guards followed her?
The footsteps suddenly disappeared and an eerie silence filled the stone caverns. Still she held her breath. Eight, nine, ten… Olivia exhaled slowly, cursing her overactive imagination. The silence of the tunnel tended to play with your mind after a while—she was clearly going insane.
She turned around to move back to the doorway to her apartment—only to be blocked by a wall of muscle. Warm muscle that smelled of sandalwood and pine.
Strong hands—definitely male—appeared like chains across her chest and turned her towards the wall. Her arms were pulled behind her and she instinctively pushed her body backwards, aiming the hardness of her skull towards her assailant’s nose. Even princesses were taught self-defence.
‘You have some skills, I see.’
His voice was startling in the quiet darkness. A heavy accent made his threat even more worrying. This was most definitely not a palace guard.
Olivia hissed, turning away and trying in vain to pull against the bands of iron strength. She squinted in the darkness, trying to see his face, a uniform, an insignia—anything that might tell her who he was and why he was here. If she could remember anything from the Palace Guards’ kidnapping talk it was one thing: Don’t say a thing.
He pressed on what seemed to be a watch and turned a faint light downwards, lowering its beam to her oversized black trench coat and bare feet. She had swapped her designer blazer with someone else’s coat in the cloakroom before bolting. The vintage lemon cocktail dress she wore underneath was hardly ideal for going unnoticed in public.
She turned her head and caught a brief glimpse of a hard jaw and gigantic shoulders before he plunged them into darkness once more.
‘You’re not exactly dressed for a quick escape,’ he mused.
She almost laughed at that—almost. But being held captive by a mysterious hulk of a man had kind of dampened her infamous ability to see the bright side of every situation. As far as she could see there was nothing positive that could come of being abducted, which was the only logical solution for whoever this man was. He would recognise her any moment now and the game would be up.
Perhaps they would ransom her, she thought wildly. How much was her life worth? Hopefully not too much…the kingdom was already facing complete financial ruin as it was.
She gulped hard as she felt his hand slip just under her left armpit—a strange place to grope, indeed.
‘Don’t! Don’t you dare touch me.’ She gasped, arching her body away frantically. He tightened his hold on her slightly, barely even noticing her attempts to free herself.
‘You are in no danger from me,’ he gritted. ‘I must ensure the same can be said of you. Stand still.’
Such was the authority in his voice that she stilled herself. She held her breath as his touch moved almost mechanically to her hip. His movements were calm and purposeful as he did the same to her other side, feeling inside the pockets of her coat and underneath to slide along the indentation of her waist.
Her mind suddenly realised that he was searching for a weapon. She sucked in a breath as strong fingers brushed her ribcage, just underneath her breasts. Of all the situations in which to become excited by a man’s touch, this really wasn’t it. And yet her traitorous body had begun to respond to the intensity of the situation even as her heart thumped with fear.
His breathing did not alter at all, and nor did he show any signs of noticing her response. As his hand finally moved to her thigh Olivia could take no more. She kicked out. Partly in shock at his boldness, but mostly because of the discomfort of her own reaction.
She took a deep breath. ‘Do you honestly believe that I’m hiding a weapon in my underwear?’
The stranger cleared his throat. ‘I have known people to hide weapons in the most ludicrous places. Women especially tend towards a certain…creativity.’
‘Do not put your hands on me again.’
He was silent for a moment, and the only sound in the dark tunnel was that of their steady breaths mingling in the air between them.
When he spoke again his accent was more pronounced, his voice deep and intimidating. ‘Tell me who you are and why you are attempting to break into the palace.’
She paused at that. So he hadn’t recognised her yet. Surely if he was a kidnapper he would have come here knowing the faces of the royal family. Although it was dark, she supposed. Her choices were limited. She had no panic buttons down here—no guards within shouting distance.
She needed to get away.
She turned her head towards the door, breathing a little faster with anticipation as his shrewd gaze followed the movement and he saw the sliver of light coming through the gap.
‘You managed to find a way inside, I see,’ he said with surprise. ‘Come on, then. Let’s see what you were after, shall we?’
He held her forearm tightly, dragging her behind him up the steps and into the lavish dressing room. Her eyes adjusted quickly once again, to take in the rows and rows of her wardrobes. The room was empty, as it would be for a while, seeing as her staff presumed her to be at the races for the rest of the day.
Olivia gulped hard. She had just led an uncleared intruder right into the heart of the palace.
She took a moment to look at him for the first time in the light.
‘It’s you…’ she breathed, realising it was the man from the racetrack.
To his credit, he also looked momentarily stunned as he took in her face in the light.
He was taller this close—almost an entire foot taller than her five feet three inches. All the self-defence classes in the world wouldn’t give her a hope against such a brute. Dark hair, dark eyes and a jawline that would put Michelangelo’s David to shame. He had a fierce beauty about him—as if he had just stepped off a battlefield somewhere—and he thrummed with vitality.
Her grandmother had always said she watched too many movies. Here she was, in very real danger, and she was romanticising her captor.
‘You have taken a break from saving servants, I see.’ His eyes lowered to take in the coat that covered her cocktail dress. ‘You seem to be a woman of many talents.’
Olivia stayed completely silent as he spoke, knowing the more she said the more chance there was that he would put two and two together and guess her identity. She glanced to her left, searching the room for possible weapons for when the time came to run. If she could find something to kick at him, perhaps…
She looked down at her bare feet, cursing her own stupidity.
‘We are in the south wing,’ he mused, looking around the room. ‘One of the royal apartments. How did you find out about the hidden tunnel?’
She shrugged, looking down at her feet and taking one tentative step away from him while his attention wandered.
‘I saw how you slid down there. You knew exactly what you were doing. Just like you know what you are doing right now.’ He grabbed her arm, stopping her progress.
She couldn’t help herself then—she cursed. A filthy word in Catalan that would make her father blush if he heard her.
The stranger smiled darkly. ‘We’re going to get absolutely nowhere if you don’t speak to me. Why are you here?’ he asked again, releasing her arm and pushing her to sit down in the chair in front of her dressing table.
Exactly where she needed to be.
‘I could ask you the same question,’ she replied, slowly reclining backwards under the pretext of stretching her tender muscles.
‘That’s simple. I’m here for people like you,’ he said simply, crossing his arms and staring down at her.
‘People like me?’ she asked breathlessly, her hand feeling blindly along the dressing table behind her for where she knew an alert button had been placed. She tried to calm her breath and prayed he would not see what she was doing. She felt a smooth round bump and pressed it quickly, holding her breath in case she needed to run.
No sirens sounded…there were no flashing lights. She moved to press it again, only to have his fingers encircle her elbow and place her hands in her lap.
‘Keep your hands where I can see them.’
It was clear this wasn’t going to be over any time soon.
He tilted his head to one side, looking at her in such an intense way it made her toes curl into the carpet under her feet. His eyes lowered, darkening as they swept down her legs.
The way he looked at her, the blatant male appreciation on his striking features, made something seem to uncoil in the pit of her stomach. She felt warm under his gaze and turned her face away in case she blushed.
‘Whomever you think I am, I can tell you now that you are very wrong.’
His answering smile was raking, and made goosebumps break out across her arms.
The stranger bent down so that their faces were level. ‘I think that, whoever you are, beautiful, you are a lot stronger and a lot more dangerous than you seem.’
CHAPTER TWO (#u5d206fd8-0899-530e-8331-06e4602fa96e)
‘YOU SOUND LIKE quite the expert,’ she purred, her catlike eyes seeming to glow in her pale features.
Roman frowned. ‘I can tell by your eyes that you’re worried about being caught in the act, and yet you mock me.’
‘You’re quite arrogant and you deserve some mocking, I think,’ she replied sweetly.
He fought the urge to laugh at this situation. Here he was, with a thief held captive inside the palace walls, and he was enjoying their verbal sparring too much to make a decision over what to do with her.
He couldn’t simply waltz up to the King’s offices and present him with this gift. Problem one being that the King was out of the palace today, along with the rest of the royal family. Problem two being that the Palace Guard had no idea he would be here today. As far as they were concerned he would be just as much a criminal as the sharp-tongued redhead who sat staring at him as though she’d like to claw his eyes out.
He would have to call Khal and tell him that their plan had encountered a minor diversion. It was no matter, really. He had identified a serious security blind spot and provided the Palace Guard with an attempted burglar to boot. All in all, quite a success.
So why did the thought of handing her over make him feel so uneasy?
He had got where he was by trusting his gut, and right now his gut was telling him that something wasn’t quite right here. That this woman was not all that she seemed. Something made him pause, his brain weighing the situation up piece by piece.
‘You are quite possibly the most ladylike thief I have ever encountered,’ he mused. ‘Do you always go barefoot on a job, or was today an exception?’
‘You assume that I make a habit of this?’ She glared up at him.
‘Correct me, then.’ He held her gaze evenly until she looked away.
‘You have quite an intense stare. It’s making me uneasy.’
She crossed one slim leg over the other. Roman felt his throat go dry, and looked away from the expanse of creamy smooth skin below her dress.
‘I’m in the business of being observant,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘You might benefit from it yourself, then maybe next time you won’t get caught so easily.’
‘I assume you are the almighty authority on how to break into palaces?’ She raised her brows, sitting straighter in her seat.
‘Seeing as you arrived here first, I disagree,’ he countered.
‘Oh, now I see. You’re angry that you were beaten to the punch by a woman.’ She placed both feet flat on the floor, smoothing her dress over her knees. ‘This whole body-searching, intimidating act has all been one big ego-stroke for you.’
‘I searched you because I am not so pig-headed as to believe that you pose no threat to me simply because of your sex.’ Roman shook his head in disbelief, hating himself for rising to her bait. ‘Why would you assume that the fact you are a woman has anything to do with it?’
She looked away from him then. ‘Because it always does.’
‘I think that’s far more telling of your low opinion of men than anything else.’ He raised his brows. ‘Trust me, I am an expert in assessing risks. Women are not somehow physically destined to surrender to men. I have seen it first-hand. I have trained women, watched them down men twice their size without breaking a sweat.’
‘You train women? To become…thieves?’ she said with disbelief. ‘Who on earth are you?’
Roman laughed, not bothering to correct her assumption. ‘Let’s just say I am the last person you wish to meet while you’re on a job. Not just here, in this castle. Anywhere. I know how the criminal mind works. I have made it my business to be an expert in it.’
‘So if I’m a criminal, you’ll know what I am thinking right now?’ Her eyes darted towards the door once more.
‘I’m trying to.’ Roman poised himself in case she ran. ‘Just tell me what it is you’re after and I can make this easier for you. Tell me your name.’
‘No,’ she said plainly.
Her body language was telling him that she was becoming increasingly more agitated with the situation. A flight risk if ever he’d seen one.
Even as the thought crossed his mind she jumped from the chair, her speed surprising him for a split second before he moved himself. She made it a few steps before his arms were around her waist, holding her body tightly against his as she struggled in vain.
‘Please—just let me go,’ she breathed.
The fear in her voice startled him, but his training had taught him not to release anyone until he had another means of restraining them.
‘You are making it very difficult for me to help you here. Do you know that?’ he said, holding her arms tightly to her sides and trying in vain to ignore the delicious scent of vanilla that drifted up from her hair.
‘Why…? Why would you offer to help after what you think of me?’
He thought for a moment. ‘Because I believe in second chances.’ He spoke without thought, his answer surprising even himself. ‘You always have a choice—no matter how impossible it seems.’
A strange look came over her face as their eyes locked. Her breath was coming hard and heavy against his chest but she’d stopped fighting him. Her eyes drifted away from him, settling on the distance with a mixture of resolve and deep sadness.
‘I’m not who you think I am.’
Without warning a heavy weight came down behind him, followed by what he presumed to be a palace guard shouting in furious Catalan.
Roman pushed the man backwards, holding his hands up in what he hoped resembled a peaceful motion.
‘I have authorisation,’ he began, motioning towards the lapel of his suit jacket. ‘The King knows I am here.’
Roman felt his hands being pulled behind him into handcuffs and fought the urge to laugh as he looked up into a second guard’s furious face.
‘You will regret this.’
He grunted at the pressure of a knee between his shoulder blades, knowing that they most likely did not speak a word of English. As his face was crushed against the carpet he looked sideways, just in time to see a pair of dainty bare feet appear by his side. Up close, he could see that a tiny hand-drawn daisy adorned each red-painted toenail.
The woman spoke in rapid-fire Catalan, her voice muted and fearful yet with a strange backbone of authority. The nearest guard nodded, uttering two words that made his body freeze.
‘Si, Princesa.’
Roman crushed his face further into the carpet with disbelief and sheer dread.
He had just body-searched a damn princess.
His Majesty King Fabian of Monteverre stood up as Olivia entered the private sitting room flanked by two stony-faced members of the Royal Guard.
‘Of all the days to pull one of your disappearing acts, Libby,’ her father said angrily, motioning for the guards to leave them with a flick of one hand.
Her mother, elegant and perpetually silent, did not acknowledge her entry. Queen Aurelia sat poised in a high-backed chair, her eyes trained solemnly on nothing in particular.
‘Where have you been? You were informed of the intruder hours ago,’ Olivia said, breathing hard.
‘And naturally you expected us to abandon the event? Honestly, Libby…’ The King frowned in disbelief, reaching down to take a sip of whisky from a thick crystal tumbler.
Her father was the only one who still called her Libby. It reminded her of being five years old and being scolded for trying to sneak chocolate from the kitchens. But she was not a child any more, and she was damned tired of being treated like one.
‘I was attacked,’ she said slowly. ‘A man held me hostage in my own dressing room. And yet I’ve been left to pace my apartments completely alone for the past five hours.’
‘The matter has been resolved. It was a simple misunderstanding.’ King Fabian avoided his daughter’s eyes. ‘Best to forget the whole business.’
Olivia felt all the outrage and pent-up frustration freeze in her veins as she registered her father’s words. Had he actually just told her to forget this afternoon? She opened her mouth, then closed it, completely at a loss as to what to say in response.
‘Your absence was noticed by Sheikh Khalil,’ he said, scolding, his brows drawing down as they always did when he was unimpressed.
‘Well, as I have just said, I was rather busy being held against my will by a dangerous intruder.’ She took a deep breath, looking briefly across to her mother’s uninterested blank features before returning her furious gaze to her father. ‘Have I gone mad? Or are you both completely unaffected by today’s events?’
‘I understand it might have been…alarming…’ King Fabian began solemnly.
‘“Alarming” hardly covers it.’ Olivia fumed. ‘Why are you both so calm?’
The last word came out in a disbelieving whisper. She fought a distinct urge to walk over and bang her fist on her father’s chest, to knock over her mother’s glass, to make them both react in some way other than with this muted nothingness.
Today’s events had shaken her to her core, and yet she felt as though she were intruding on their peace with her inconvenient outrage. Surely her own father should be shocked and outraged that his daughter’s safety had been at risk inside their own home. Unless… Unless he wasn’t shocked at all.
‘What do you mean by a misunderstanding?’ she asked, not bothering to hide the challenge in her voice.
‘Libby…’ Her father sighed, raising a hand for her to quieten.
‘Please, don’t “Libby” me.’ She placed one hand on her hip. ‘Tell me exactly what is going on. Did you know about this man?’
The King twisted his mouth in discomfort. ‘Well…not directly, no.’
‘Indirectly, then. You knew that someone would be here today? In our home.’
King Fabian strode to the window, placing one hand on the sill and looking out in silence. ‘The man you met today was Roman Lazarov, founder of The Lazarov Group, an international security firm.’ Her father sighed heavily. ‘He is a very close friend of Sheikh Khalil and I have been assured that he is the authority on high-class security operations. But after the complete muddle he made today, I’m not so sure of his expert status…’
He laughed weakly, his voice trailing off as he took in her expression of horror.
‘Don’t look at me that way. It was a gift from Sheikh Khalil—very thoughtful of him to want to ensure your safety, I thought.’
Olivia felt a headache begin at her temples. This was all becoming too much. She closed her eyes a moment, unable to bear her father’s apparent disregard for his daughter’s privacy or independence.
‘No, Father. In fact I find it horribly thoughtless. And intrusive, among other things.’ She felt her breath coming faster, her temper rising like a caged bird set to take flight. ‘This is the last straw in a long line of things I have overlooked since you began vaguely mentioning a possible marriage. I am not a piece of livestock to be insured and fenced in, for goodness’ sake.’
He sighed. ‘You are overreacting.’
‘No, I’m really not. Did anyone consult me before all my charity events were cancelled? Was I informed when I was assigned five new bodyguards for all trips outside the palace?’ She shook her head, her knuckles straining with the tightness of her fists by her sides. ‘And now this. Did you even think to ask me before you sent a bloody mercenary into my room? I’ll never feel safe there again!’
‘Lazarov was simply going to attempt to gain entry to your rooms. To find any weaknesses in our security. Besides, you were supposed to be at the races with your fiancé.’
The tightness in her throat intensified. ‘I have not yet agreed to this marriage. Until today I had no idea that you were truly serious about it! And if this is how the Sheikh shows his concern…’
She tightened her lips, willing herself to say the words. To tell her father that the whole deal was off. She didn’t want this. Any of it.
King Fabian’s voice lowered in warning. ‘Olivia, these negotiations are months old—we have discussed why this is a necessary step.’
She blinked. Months old? ‘For the kingdom, yes. I understand what we stand to gain from a political union.’ She cleared her throat, her voice sounding all of a sudden smaller. ‘But what about for me?’
Her father’s brows rose imperiously. ‘You will be serving your kingdom.’
‘I don’t see why I must get married to a complete stranger in order to serve Monteverre. I am doing good work with Mimi’s Foundation—I am making a difference.’
‘Your grandmother and her damned charities…’ Fabian scowled darkly, draining the last of his whisky. ‘You think teaching a handful of scrawny kids to read will change anything about our situation?’
‘My grandmother taught me that charity is not always about money. It’s important to nourish the youth as well as to do our best to help those in need. She was beloved by this kingdom.’
‘Ah, yes, the eternally perfect Queen Miranda! My mother spent so much time on her charities she didn’t even notice her country’s economy crumbling beneath her feet.’ His mouth twisted cruelly. ‘Don’t you see, you silly girl? We are facing financial ruin without this union.’
Olivia opened her mouth to protest, only to have her father’s scowl stop her as he continued on his own personal rant.
‘The Kingdom of Zayyar is overflowing with wealth, thanks to this man. He is an economic genius. But the civic history of his country still stands in the way of true acceptance from the west. To put it bluntly, they need our political influence and we need their money.’
‘Money…’ Olivia bit her lip, wanting to ask just how much she was worth, considering he was essentially trading her body for cash.
‘Sheikh Khalil has the capabilities to take Monteverre back to its glory days—surely you want that for your people? What good is being able to read if they have no money to feed themselves?’
She had never heard her father speak so frankly, and his eyes were red-rimmed with half-madness. Olivia knew that Monteverre was in trouble. A series of bad leadership decisions and banking crashes had left them neck-deep in debt and with many of the younger generation emigrating to greener pastures. They were bleeding, and it appeared that this Sheikh had come offering a magic bandage. At a particular cost…
‘Trusting an entire country’s economic future to one man’s hands? That seems a bit…reckless. Surely there is another way without the marriage—?’
‘No,’ he cut across her, his voice a dull bark in the silent room. ‘There is no going back on this. I won’t hear another word.’
Her father’s eyes were dark in a way she had never seen them before, as though he hadn’t truly slept in months.
‘Everything you have had since birth is thanks to your position. It’s not like you have an actual career to think of—you spend most of your time looking pretty and waving. None of that would even change. Your life would continue just as it has been—only as the Sheikha of Zayyar.’ He took a breath, smiling down at her as if he had just bestowed upon her some enormous gift. ‘This is your duty, Olivia. To Monteverre. It’s not about you.’
She felt his words sink into her skin like an icy breeze, setting off goose pimples down her bare arms. Did being born a Sandoval really mean surrendering every aspect of your life to the good of the kingdom?
As the second daughter she had naïvely believed that her life would be different from her older sister’s. She was not first in line to rule Monteverre—she didn’t bear that crushing weight of responsibility and she had always been infinitely glad of it.
‘The Sheikha of Zayyar…’
Her mother’s melodic voice intruded on her thoughts, sounding absurdly serene.
‘Sounds like something from a film…’
‘I don’t even know where Zayyar is,’ Olivia said numbly, almost unable to speak past the tickle of panic spreading across her throat.
‘Somewhere on the Persian Gulf,’ Queen Aurelia offered, twirling the liquid in her glass. ‘They have a hotel shaped like a boat sail.’
‘That’s Dubai.’ King Fabian rolled his eyes. ‘Zayyar is halfway between the desert and the Arabian Sea. Gorgeous scenery—you will love it.’
‘Thank you for the sales pitch, Father.’ Olivia sighed, looking across to her mother, who had once again turned to gaze into the empty fireplace.
It was customary for her mother to permanently nurse a glass of the finest cognac after midday. In Olivia’s memory no one had ever questioned it or raised any concern. There had always been an unspoken understanding among the Sandoval children that their mother and father each did whatever they pleased and things would always be that way. They did not welcome personal discussions.
She looked up to the ceiling, feeling the familiar sense of exhaustion that always accompanied any meeting with her parents. For that was all they ever were. Meetings.
‘Sheikh Khalil simply wanted to ensure your safety, Libby. Surely you find that romantic? I know you are prone to the sentiment.’
Her father looked down at his wife, but she had drifted off, her eyes dull and unfocused as she stared into nothingness. The look on his face changed to outright disgust and he turned away, busying himself with retrieving his jacket from a chair.
Olivia’s heart broke a little for her parents’ fractured marriage. She had fleeting memories of a happier time, when her parents had seemed madly in love and the Kingdom of Monteverre had been a shining beacon of prosperity and culture. Now there was nothing but cold resentment and constant worry.
‘Father…’ Olivia took a breath, trying to calm her rapid thoughts. ‘This is all happening very fast. Perhaps if I just had some more time—’
‘Why do you think the Sheikh arranged this trip? He plans to propose formally this afternoon so that the announcement can be made public before he leaves.’
Olivia’s breath caught, expanding her throat painfully. ‘He…he can’t do that…’
‘Oh, yes, he can—and you will be grateful for his patience.’
His voice boomed across the room, the sudden anger in it startling her, making her back away a step.
He took a breath, deliberately softening his tone. ‘Can’t you see that you are a vital part in this? There is power in your position.’
‘Power…’ Olivia repeated weakly. Her shoulders drooped. Even her bones felt heavy. Women are not always destined to surrender to men… Those words—his words—had struck something deep within her.
Roman Lazarov.
She bit her lip hard. For a moment she had regretted her decision to have him captured. He had seemed to glow from within—a fiery protector and proclaimer of women’s strength. Now she knew he was just like the rest of them. Here to ensure that her cage was kept good and tight. That she had no hope of freedom.
King Fabian tightened his lips, forcing a smile before shrugging into his navy dress jacket and fixing the diamond cufflinks at his wrists. He paused by her side, looking down at her.
‘You will have a private lunch with Sheikh Khalil tomorrow.’ He placed one hand on her shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. ‘I know you will give him the answer he wants. I’m so proud of the beautiful woman you have become.’
Olivia closed her eyes, not wanting him to see the tears that glistened there. Her heart seemed to slow in her chest as she nodded her head in defeat, glad when he was gone, with the smell of cigar smoke wafting on the air in his wake. How could he be proud of the woman she was when she had no idea who she was herself?
‘I can’t do this,’ she breathed, silently hoping her mother would look up. That she would hold her and listen to her worries, then kiss her forehead and tell her everything would be okay.
But sadly she knew that would never happen. She had no memories of ever being in her mother’s arms, and even if she had the woman who now sat like a living ghost in the sitting room was not truly her mother.
She stood still for a long time, letting the tears fall down her cheeks and stain the neckline of her dress. Eventually she wiped her face and turned away from the unbearable silence, walking through the long main corridors of the private suites.
As usual, the guards pretended not to notice her.
She took her time, idling through the gardens on her way back to her rooms. With a few deep breaths she calmed the tremor in her throat. It had been a long time since she had let a single tear fall—probably not since the day of her grandmother’s funeral. Crying was a fruitless activity when her future had already been neatly packed up and arranged.
She sat heavily on a marble bench in the centre of the courtyard. This was her favourite part of the palace, where a low stone square fountain provided the perfect vantage point to sit and listen to the staff as they went about their daily duties. Here, partially concealed by bougainvillea and foliage, she had been privy to the most heart-stopping live-action dramas outside of television.
The fights, the wicked gossip, the passionate clandestine embraces. A reluctant smile touched her lips. She had seen it all.
Just in the past month it had been revealed that one of the upstairs maids had engaged in an affair with the head gardener’s handsome son. Olivia had overheard the whole sordid situation developing—right up to the point when said housemaid had found out that her beau was also heavily involved with one of the palace florists. The ensuing slap had resounded across the courtyard and earned the young Romeo a speedy transfer outside the palace.
The housemaid had moved on quickly enough, accepting a date with a palace guard. The look of delirious happiness as she’d described their first kiss to her friends had haunted Olivia for days.
She stood restlessly, leaning against the side of the fountain. Was that look the very thing she was sacrificing by agreeing to a loveless marriage?
She frowned, drawing her hand through the water and watching the ripples spread across her own solemn reflection. Love was about falling for the wrong guy, having your heart broken and then ending up with your handsome Prince Charming—not that she had ever experienced it. But she had watched enough old movies to know it was always true love’s kiss at the end that gave her that butterflies feeling in her stomach. That moment when the couple swore their undying devotion and fell into each other’s arms…
She wanted to feel like that. At least once in her life.
There had been a handful of kisses in her past; she was twenty-six, after all. But never more than a brief touching of lips. The kind of men who had been permitted near her just happened to be the kind of men who got aroused at the thought of their own reputations inflating with a real-life princess on their arm. Not one of the men she’d dated had ever tried to get to know her really.
A prickle made its way along her skin as she thought of a certain pair of grey eyes, raking their way down her body. It was madness, the way her body had seemed to thrum deep inside just from a man’s gaze. It was ridiculous.
She looked down at her forearms, seeing the gooseflesh there. Why did he have to affect her so violently when no other man had managed to inspire so much as a flicker of her attraction?
She bit the inside of her cheek with frustration and turned to begin walking back to her apartments—only to find a large male frame blocking her path.
‘Good evening, Printsessa.’
CHAPTER THREE (#u5d206fd8-0899-530e-8331-06e4602fa96e)
‘I SEE THEY have released you… Mr Lazarov.’ The Princess straightened her shoulders defensively, moving a long silken curtain of vibrant red hair away from her face as she directed her gaze upon him.
Roman ignored the strange tightening in his stomach at the way she said his name, focusing on her pale features to better read her mood.
She seemed less colourful than he remembered—as if something had stolen the fire he had witnessed earlier in the day, both at the racetrack and afterwards.
‘Once they realised their mistake they were quite accommodating. I hope you were not worried for my welfare.’
‘If it were my choice I would have had you detained for the night.’
She held her chin high as she delivered the blow, but Roman saw the telltale convulsive movement in her throat as she took a breath. He leaned casually against a nearby column, raising a single brow in challenge.
Far from bowing under his scrutiny, she held his gaze evenly. ‘I assume you are here to make your apology?’
Roman fought the urge to laugh. ‘I’m no stranger to handcuffs, Princess.’ He smiled darkly. ‘It would take more than five hours in a cushy palace detainment room to force me to my knees.’
Her gaze lowered a fraction and Roman gave in to his mirth, a darkly amused smile spreading across his lips.
‘I don’t want you to be on your…’ She shook her head, exhaling hard. She crossed her arms below her chest—a gesture likely meant in defence, but all it served to do was draw his attention to the resulting swell at the neckline of her delicate yellow dress.
‘Well, you are free to go,’ she said, sarcasm dripping from her tone as she gestured towards the door to the main palace.
For the first time in his life Roman was at a complete loss as to what to say. How he had not recognised that she was a royal instantly, he did not know. The woman before him seemed to exude class and sophistication in every inch of her posture. She eyed him with suspicion, her brows lowering in a mixture of challenge and defence.
He should have left the moment he had been freed, and yet he had sought her out. He had told himself he needed to apologise, but right now, remembering the honest arousal in her eyes as he’d been pressed close to her… He wasn’t feeling quite so apologetic.
He stood taller, hardening his voice. ‘In case you are planning another escape, the tunnel has been blocked. It is no longer passable.’
‘You certainly work fast,’ she said quietly, leaning back against the lip of the fountain. ‘I assume the Sheikh asked you to make sure my cage was good and tight?’
‘Your…cage?’
She was oblivious to his confusion. ‘Of course it matters to no one that I am an adult with free will. By all means let him have the run of the palace. There will be bars installed on my bedroom windows next.’
Roman raked a hand across the shadow beginning to grow along his jaw. He allowed her to a rant a moment, before clearing his throat pointedly. ‘You seem upset.’
‘“Upset” does not even begin to cover it. Everything about today has been unbearable.’
Something about the faraway look in her eyes bothered him. It was as though she were on the edge of a complete meltdown, and he worried that it was his mistake that had brought her there. Perhaps there was a need for his apology after all—much as it pained him to admit it.
‘Princess, I need you to understand that I am not in the habit of holding a woman against her will,’ he said solemnly. ‘Earlier…when I searched you…’
She looked back at him, her lashes half lowered with something dark and unspoken. ‘Will you be telling your fearsome Sheikh about that, I wonder?’
‘The Sheikh is not the villain you seem to think he is,’ Roman said quietly, inwardly grimacing at the thought of telling his best friend how he had manhandled his future wife. ‘I have never known someone as loyal and dedicated.’
‘Perhaps the two of you should get married, then,’ she said snidely.
‘I did not expect an actual princess to be quite so…cutting.’ He pressed a hand to his chest in mock injury. ‘Is it any wonder I mistook you for a common thief?’
That earned him the hint of a smile from her lips. The movement lit up her eyes ever so slightly and he felt a little triumphant that he had caused it.
Roman smirked, turning to lean against the fountain, taking care to leave a good foot and a half of space between them. It had been a long time since he had been this conscious of a woman’s presence.
‘You seem like quite the man of mystery, Mr Lazarov,’ she said, turning to look at him briefly. ‘Best friends with a sheikh…founder of an international security firm.’
‘You’ve been researching me?’
‘I only found out your name twenty minutes ago,’ she said honestly. ‘Does the Sheikh always fly you in for such favours?’
‘No, he does not.’ Roman felt the corner of his mouth tilt at her mocking. It had been a long time since a woman had been so obviously unimpressed by him. ‘I have my own means of transportation for such occasions.’
‘Let me guess—something small and powerful with tinted windows?’
‘It is black.’ His lips twisted with amusement at her jibe. ‘But my yacht is hardly small. No tinted windows—I much prefer the light.’
Her gaze wandered, the smile fading from her lips as she looked away from him. ‘A playboy’s yacht…of course.’
‘These things have not magically fallen into my lap, I assure you. I have worked hard for the lifestyle I enjoy.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean…’ She turned her face back towards him quickly. ‘I envy you, that’s all.’
He raised a brow, wondering not for the first time what on earth was going on inside her head. ‘There is an entire fleet of vessels moored in the harbour with the royal crest on their hulls. You’re telling me you couldn’t just choose one at will?’
‘I spent years learning how to sail at school. But I have yet to go on a single trip by myself,’ she said, looking up and meeting his eyes for a long moment. ‘It’s strange…’ she began, before shaking her head and turning her face away. ‘I’ve spoken more frankly with you today—a complete stranger—than I have with anyone in a long time.’
Roman did not know how to respond to that statement. He swallowed hard, looking ahead to where a group of housemaids walked and chatted their way across the second-floor balconies. When he finally looked back the Princess had moved from beside him.
He stood up, looking around him for a sign of where she had gone, only to see a glimpse of pale yellow silk disappearing through the archway that led to the royal apartments.
He took a step forward, then caught himself.
She was where she belonged—surrounded by guards and staff.
It was time for him to get back to his own life.
The afternoon sun was hot on his neck when Roman finally walked out onto the deck of his yacht the next day. In his line of work he was no stranger to going to sleep as the sun rose, but his restless night had little to do with work. Being handcuffed in a room by himself had given him far too much time with his own thoughts. A dangerous pastime for a man with a past like his.
Nursing a strong black coffee, he slid on dark sunglasses and sank down into a hammock chair. They would set sail for the isla soon enough, and he would be glad to see the back of this kingdom and all its upper-class pomp.
He surveyed the busy harbour of Puerto Reina, Monteverre’s main port. Tourists and locals peppered the busy marble promenade that fronted the harbour—the Queen’s Balcony, he had been told it was called. A glittering golden crown insignia was emblazoned over every sign in the town, as though the people might somehow otherwise forget that it was the crown that held the power.
Never had he met a man more blinded by his own power than His Majesty, King Fabian. Khal had insisted on them meeting two nights previously, so that the three men could discuss the situation of the Princess’s security—Khal was notoriously meticulous when it came to bodyguards and security measures.
It had been clear from the outset that Roman would be treated like the commoner he was, so he had made the choice to leave, rather than sit and be spoken down to. His tolerance levels only stretched so far. It seemed His Majesty still harboured some ill will, as made apparent by the gap of five hours between the time he had been informed of the incident at the palace and the time at which he’d authorised Roman’s release.
Roman’s fists clenched by his sides. He was no stranger to dealing with self-important asses—he’d made a career of protecting arrogant fools with more money than sense. But it was hard to stay professionally disengaged when one of the asses in question was your best friend. Khal had never treated him as ‘lesser’—he knew better. But he had not so much as made a phone call to apologise for his oversight.
His friend knew, more than anyone, what time locked in a room could do to him.
Roman tilted his head up to the sun and closed his eyes. He was not in a locked room right now. He was on his own very expensive yacht, which would be out in open water just as soon as it was refuelled. He exhaled slowly, visualising the clear blue waters of Isla Arista, his own private haven.
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Amanda Cinelli
A hot Mediterranean seduction……of his virgin princess!Hired to secure a palace, the last thing billionaire bodyguard Roman Lazarov expects to find is a princess scaling the castle walls! Facing an arranged marriage, runaway Princess Olivia pleads with him to allow her just one week of freedom. Reluctantly he agrees. But when he's secluded with her on his private Spanish island Roman realises his mistake—his attraction to Olivia is forbidden, but explosively undeniable!
A hot Mediterranean seduction…
…of his virgin princess!
Hired to secure a palace, the last thing billionaire bodyguard Roman Lazarov expects to find is a princess scaling the castle walls! Facing an arranged marriage, runaway Princess Olivia pleads with him to allow her just one week of freedom. Reluctantly he agrees, but secluded on his private Spanish island, Roman realizes his mistake—his attraction to Olivia is forbidden, but also explosively undeniable!
A forbidden romance with a royal twist
AMANDA CINELLI was raised in a large Irish/Italian family in the suburbs of Dublin, Ireland. Her love of romance was inspired after ‘borrowing’ one of her mother’s beloved Mills & Boon novels at the age of twelve. Writing soon became a necessary outlet for her wildly overactive imagination. Now married, with a daughter of her own, she splits her time between changing nappies, studying psychology and writing love stories.
Also by Amanda Cinelli (#u5d206fd8-0899-530e-8331-06e4602fa96e)
Resisting the Sicilian Playboy
The Secret to Marrying Marchesi
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
One Night with the Forbidden Princess
Amanda Cinelli
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08732-2
ONE NIGHT WITH THE FORBIDDEN PRINCESS
© 2018 Amanda Cinelli
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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For Zara and Mia
Contents
Cover (#u908753f3-7a8f-5d97-83ea-eb6888cfb5cb)
Back Cover Text (#u7218ed1e-0ceb-5fd9-8794-7300f8ac44c5)
About the Author (#u6e28bf37-243e-560e-86c4-3eef1407cd30)
Booklist (#u58ec7eff-49ff-5a79-9b56-7342b4b621e6)
Title Page (#uf739467b-d204-59c0-a4fa-b6b111982939)
Copyright (#u4e6afa62-0964-5135-8bfe-3136211833ec)
Dedication (#u1a66abb5-ceb8-544f-bb06-ea7723bc9c49)
CHAPTER ONE (#u984c076c-0b50-586c-8924-5904ff54e4a3)
CHAPTER TWO (#u77476b39-b87a-5093-b36e-bd7d964ec9a7)
CHAPTER THREE (#u676318df-910d-5e0a-992e-617d6b38d4f5)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u5d206fd8-0899-530e-8331-06e4602fa96e)
‘YOU WILL RECEIVE a marriage proposal this week.’
Olivia’s ears still rang with her father’s words, even as she moved through the motions of greeting the rest of the guests at the formal luncheon. It was not every day that your father informed you that you were set to marry a stranger, after all.
But, then again, her father was a king.
And the King clearly thought that the best time to impart news of this magnitude was no less than thirty seconds before he introduced her to her intended fiancé—a complete stranger. It was a wonder that she had managed to greet their guest of honour at all before she’d hurriedly made an excuse to leave.
Princesses were generally not permitted to sneak away during royal functions. Especially when that royal function concerned a very esteemed guest of honour from a faraway kingdom. Still, Olivia found herself making her way slowly across the room in search of fresh air.
‘Another glass of champagne, Your Highness?’
Olivia stopped her progress and gracefully accepted the crystal flute from the waiter’s hand, noticing the way his fingers trembled slightly as he tried to balance his tray. He was quite young—fresh out of school, she would bet.
‘Is this your first Royal Races?’ she asked, glad of the distraction while her eyes scanned the room, plotting her escape.
‘It’s my first day, actually. In general,’ he replied.
‘You are doing a wonderful job.’
She smiled, hoping her words might help to calm his nerves somewhat. It couldn’t be an easy start, balancing priceless crystal while surrounded by some of Europe’s wealthiest and most famous people.
‘Thank you, Princess Olivia—I mean, Your Highness. Er…thank you.’ He stumbled over his words, then smiled nervously, showing a mouth full of shiny metal braces.
Olivia smiled back with genuine warmth as the boy made a wobbly attempt at a bow and moved away. She sighed, taking a small sip from her glass. She would happily have spent the rest of the afternoon chatting with the teenager simply to avoid thinking of the bombshell that had just completely taken her by surprise. As if these royal functions weren’t difficult enough.
The usual array of eager guests had predictably occupied her afternoon so far, with wave after wave of polite, banal conversation. Her parents, King Fabian and Queen Aurelia of Monteverre, stood at the opposite side of the long balcony surrounded by people and bodyguards. Her own personal security team stood at strategic points around her, trying and failing to blend into the crowd in their plain black suits and crisp white shirts.
The Royal Monteverre Races were infamous around the globe for their week-long parade of upper-class style and glamour. The historic racetrack was spread out below them, and thousands of guests had gathered in their finery for a day of sport and socialising.
No one’s style was more closely watched than her own. Her morning had consisted of three hours being transformed by her own personal styling team. Her naturally wavy long red hair had been ironed and pressed to perfection, and her fair skin polished and highlighted in all the right places.
The public hailed her as a stunning natural beauty, but she knew the effort that went into upholding that image was far from natural at all. She was a public brand—a symbol for an entire country with her every single step followed closely by the whole world.
Even her older sister, Crown Princess Eleanor, was not given the same amount of attention. Perhaps it was because she was already married. The press took much more pleasure in the single siblings than they did in the ‘taken’ ones. And yet her younger sister had the excuse of her studies in London to avoid the limelight.
For the past five years Olivia had been very much at the centre of public attention—since taking her official role in palace life at twenty-one. She did not shy from the pressure—she had been trained for it after all. She knew to expect intense scrutiny. And yet there was nothing that could make her feel more alone than being surrounded by thousands of people who treated her like an ornament to be admired from afar.
A sudden crash jolted her out of her thoughts and she looked up with a groan of empathy to see that the young waiter seemed to have lost his balance and gone crashing into a nearby couple.
‘You absolute imbecile!’
The roar came from an elderly duke, a close friend of her father, who seemed to have been the sole recipient of the tray’s liquid contents. Shards of priceless crystal lay scattered across the floor in a pool of expensive champagne while the teenage server stood frozen with a mixture of embarrassment and fear.
‘Have this clumsy idiot taken back to the schoolroom. Out of my sight!’ the Duke spat, his eyes bulging as his equally outraged wife hurriedly tried to dry his sodden shirt with a napkin.
As Olivia watched with horror, a single bodyguard materialised from the crowd and took the boy roughly by the shoulders.
‘Stop!’ She moved forward suddenly, her body seeming to propel her towards the dramatic scene of its own volition.
‘A princess should never concern herself with such matters.’
Her late grandmother’s voice seemed to warn her from her subconscious. But she pushed the thought away, arriving by the boy’s side and looking up at the burly guard with all the authority she could muster. A hush had fallen over the crowd around them.
‘I think there is a better way of managing this, don’t you?’ She addressed the guard, then turned her attention to the elderly Duke and his wife. ‘Duque L’Arosa, this young man is a friend of mine. I know he would appreciate your kindness on his first day of work.’
The Duke’s eyes widened horribly, his face turning even more red as his much younger wife gripped his arm and snorted her disapproval. Olivia stood her ground, flashing her best royal smile as the guard immediately released the boy. The young waiter avoided her eyes as he hurriedly gathered his tray and rushed off in the direction of the kitchen.
Olivia became suddenly painfully aware of the quiet that surrounded her. Members of the Monteverrian nobility and various public and government figures all averted their eyes, no one daring to speak or whisper about a member of the royal family while she stood in their midst.
A strange sensation began to spread over her bare shoulders, and she instinctively turned her head and found herself pinned by the gaze of a man who stood a few feet away. He was remarkably tall—taller than most of the men in the room. Perhaps that was what had drawn her attention to him.
She tried to look away, feeling uncomfortable under his obvious scrutiny, but there was something about the way he looked at her. She was quite used to being stared at—she was a public figure after all. But his dark eyes seemed to demand her complete attention. It was quite inappropriate, she told herself. She should be annoyed. But even with the length of the room between them, having his eyes on her seemed to make her heart beat faster.
A strange quiver of anticipation jolted to life in her chest, making her want to close the gap between them just to hear how his voice sounded. She raised one brow in challenge and felt her heart thump as a sinful smile spread across his full mouth, making him appear all the more rakish and infinitely dangerous.
No man had ever looked at her that way before—as though she was a tasty snack he might like to sample. She shook her head at the ridiculous turn of her thoughts and forced herself to look away.
When she finally looked back he had vanished.
She steeled her jaw, nodding politely to the Duque and Duquesa before making a slow and graceful exit through the main doors. Her own personal team of guards made themselves known as she walked faster, all five of them closing in from their previous placements. She had never felt more frustrated at her newly heightened security than she did at that moment. There was no immediate threat—no need for the ridiculous new measures her father had put in place the week before.
‘I’m feeling ill,’ she announced to the men once they had exited into the empty corridor outside the racetrack’s function room. ‘Surely there is no need for all of you to accompany me into the bathroom?’
The men reacted predictably, coughing awkwardly before moving aside and allowing her to walk unchaperoned into the ladies’ restroom. She searched the for an exit point, her eyes landing on a second door on the opposite side of the bathroom.
She smiled with triumph. Sometimes a little rebellion was necessary.
Roman Lazarov had never been particularly comfortable at high society functions. It had been sheer curiosity that had led him to accept the Sheikh of Zayarr’s invitation to attend the Royal Races while he was already in Monteverre. Small European kingdoms were one of the few niche markets he had not yet entered with his security firm, as monarchies largely tended to keep to their own traditional models of operation. Old money aristocrats also tended to show a particular disdain towards new money Russians.
His fists tightened as he thought of the scene he had witnessed after only being in the room mere moments. Nothing made him feel closer to his own humble beginnings than watching a rich man treat his server badly. There was something particularly nasty about those who had been born to immense wealth. As though they believed the world should bend to their will and that those with less than them were somehow worth less as well. A sweeping generalisation, to be sure, but a painfully accurate one in his own experience.
The redhead had surprised him. She was clearly upper class—he could tell by the way she was dressed. Diamonds and rich yellow silk. He had noticed her the moment he’d entered the room. She had stood proud and untouchable near the centre, all alone, with her delicate fingers holding on to a champagne flute for dear life. And yet she had stepped forward for the servant and caused an obvious scene.
He should thank her, really. She had provided the perfect distraction for him to move on to his main purpose of business.
He would have liked nothing more than to stick around at the pretentious party and see if Lady Red lived up to his expectations. But really this brief detour to the races had been a mistake on his part. Time was of the essence when you had a royal palace to break into, after all…
The early summer afternoon was pleasant as Roman rounded the last bend on the dirt path, finally bringing the high walls of the palace into view. The overgrown abandoned hunting track wasn’t the easiest route, but when you were about to break into the home of Monteverre’s royal family you didn’t usually use the front gate.
The forest was quiet but for the sounds of wildlife and the occasional creak of tree branches protesting as he methodically pulled them out of his way. Reaching the medieval stone wall, Roman looked up. It had to be at least five metres high and three metres thick—rather impressive and designed to be impossible to scale, especially when you weren’t dressed for the occasion. He checked his smartwatch, zooming in on the small map that would guide him to the access point.
In another life Roman Lazarov had found pleasure in breaking the law. Bypassing even the most high-tech security system had been child’s play for a hungry, hardened orphan with a taste for troublemaking. But in all his time in the seedy underworld of St Petersburg an actual palace had never made it onto his hit list.
That life was over now—replaced by a monumental self-made wealth that his young, hungry self could only have dreamed about. And yet here he was, his pulse quickening at the prospect of what lay ahead. The fact that this little exercise was completely above-board made it no less challenging. The palace had a guard of one hundred men and all he had was a digital blueprint of the castle tunnels and his own two hands.
The thought sent adrenaline running through his veins. God, but he had missed this feeling. When the Sheikh of Zayyar had first asked him for a favour, he had presumed it to be assembling a new security team for a foreign trip or something of that nature. Khal was in high demand these days, and his guard had been assembled almost entirely from Roman’s security firm, The Lazarov Group. But Khal’s request had intrigued him—likely as it had been meant to. The challenge had been set, and Roman was determined to enjoy it.
As for whether or not he would succeed—that question had made him laugh heartily in his oldest friend’s face.
Roman Lazarov never failed at anything.
The daylight made it seem almost as though he were taking a leisurely stroll rather than performing an act of espionage. He finally reached the small metal hatch in the ground that would provide the cleanest and most ridiculously obvious point of entry. An evacuation hatch, more than likely from long-ago times of war. He had hardly believed his eyes when his team had uncovered it on an old blueprint.
Although it looked rather polished and clean for a decades-old abandoned grate, he thought to himself, sliding one finger along the sun-heated metal.
A sudden sound in the quiet made Roman go completely still, instinctively holding his breath. He felt the familiar heightened awareness that came from years of experience in the security business as he listened, scanning his surroundings. Footsteps, light and fast, were coming closer. The person was of small build—possibly a child. Still, Roman couldn’t be seen or this whole exercise would be blown.
Without another thought he took five long steps, shielding himself under cover of the trees.
A shape emerged from thick bushes ten feet away. The figure was petite, slim and unmistakably female. She was fast. So damned fast he saw little more than a set of bare shapely legs and a shapeless dark hooded coat before she seemed to pirouette and disappear through the hatch in the ground without any effort at all.
Roman frowned, for a moment simply replaying the image in his head. Evidently he was not the only one who had been informed of the hidden entryway. He shook off his surprise, cursing himself for hesitating as he made quick work of reaching the hatch and lowering himself.
The iron ladder was slippery with damp and led down to a smooth, square-shaped concrete tunnel beneath. Small patches of sunlight poked through ventilation ducts at regular intervals, giving some light in the otherwise pitch-blackness.
Roman stilled, listening for the sound of the woman’s footsteps. She had moved quickly, but he could hear her faint steps somewhere ahead of him in the tunnel. As he began his pursuit a half-smile touched his lips. He had come here today tasked with proving the ineptitude of this palace’s security, and now he would have a genuine intruder to show as proof.
This cat burglar was about to get very rudely interrupted.
Olivia held her shoes tightly in one hand as she slid her hand along the wall of the tunnel for support. The ground was damp and slippery under her bare feet—a fact that should have disgusted a young woman of such gentle breeding. But then she had never really understood the whole ‘delicate princess’ rationale. It was at times like this, after escaping palace life for even one simple hour, that she truly felt alive.
Her sudden disappearance had likely been noticed by now, and yet she did not feel any remorse. Her attendance at the international horse racing event had been aimed at the King’s esteemed guest of honour, Sheikh Khalil Al Rhas of Zayyar. The man that her father had informed her she was intended to marry.
Olivia paused for a moment, tightness overcoming her throat for the second time in a few short hours. The way he had phrased it, as her ‘royal duty’, still rung in her ears. She was only twenty-six, for goodness’ sake. She wasn’t ready for this particular duty.
She had always known it was customary for her father to hold the right to arrange or refuse the marriages of his offspring, but she had hoped the day would never come when she was called upon in such an archaic fashion. But now that day was here, and the Sheikh was set to propose to her formally any day now—before he completed his trip.
Olivia pressed her forehead briefly against the stone wall. She felt cold through and through, as if she would never be warm again.
‘Drama queen.’ Cressida’s mocking voice sounded in her head.
Her younger sister had always been such a calm, level-headed presence in her life. It had been five years since Cress had moved away to study in England. And not a day passed that she didn’t think of her. With barely a year between them, they had always been more like twins. Cress would know exactly what to say to alleviate the unbearable tension that had taken residence in her stomach today. She was sure of it.
The tunnel was a straight path along the south boundary of the palace. It seemed like an endless mile before the staircase finally appeared. Olivia climbed it in the near darkness, relying solely on memory to make her way up to the partially hidden door in the stone wall. She pressed a slim crease, sliding open a panel and stepping through easily.
The brightness of her dressing room was a welcome shock of cream and gold after the prolonged darkness. She took a moment, breathing in the clean air, before turning to slide the secret door closed.
Olivia stilled at the sound of footsteps in the tunnel below. But that was impossible. In almost fifteen years of roaming she had never seen another soul down there. She had never even told her sisters.
She stepped back down to the small landing at the top of the steps. She braced her hands on the stone balustrade to peer down into the darkness, biting the inside of her lip. Had one of the guards followed her?
The footsteps suddenly disappeared and an eerie silence filled the stone caverns. Still she held her breath. Eight, nine, ten… Olivia exhaled slowly, cursing her overactive imagination. The silence of the tunnel tended to play with your mind after a while—she was clearly going insane.
She turned around to move back to the doorway to her apartment—only to be blocked by a wall of muscle. Warm muscle that smelled of sandalwood and pine.
Strong hands—definitely male—appeared like chains across her chest and turned her towards the wall. Her arms were pulled behind her and she instinctively pushed her body backwards, aiming the hardness of her skull towards her assailant’s nose. Even princesses were taught self-defence.
‘You have some skills, I see.’
His voice was startling in the quiet darkness. A heavy accent made his threat even more worrying. This was most definitely not a palace guard.
Olivia hissed, turning away and trying in vain to pull against the bands of iron strength. She squinted in the darkness, trying to see his face, a uniform, an insignia—anything that might tell her who he was and why he was here. If she could remember anything from the Palace Guards’ kidnapping talk it was one thing: Don’t say a thing.
He pressed on what seemed to be a watch and turned a faint light downwards, lowering its beam to her oversized black trench coat and bare feet. She had swapped her designer blazer with someone else’s coat in the cloakroom before bolting. The vintage lemon cocktail dress she wore underneath was hardly ideal for going unnoticed in public.
She turned her head and caught a brief glimpse of a hard jaw and gigantic shoulders before he plunged them into darkness once more.
‘You’re not exactly dressed for a quick escape,’ he mused.
She almost laughed at that—almost. But being held captive by a mysterious hulk of a man had kind of dampened her infamous ability to see the bright side of every situation. As far as she could see there was nothing positive that could come of being abducted, which was the only logical solution for whoever this man was. He would recognise her any moment now and the game would be up.
Perhaps they would ransom her, she thought wildly. How much was her life worth? Hopefully not too much…the kingdom was already facing complete financial ruin as it was.
She gulped hard as she felt his hand slip just under her left armpit—a strange place to grope, indeed.
‘Don’t! Don’t you dare touch me.’ She gasped, arching her body away frantically. He tightened his hold on her slightly, barely even noticing her attempts to free herself.
‘You are in no danger from me,’ he gritted. ‘I must ensure the same can be said of you. Stand still.’
Such was the authority in his voice that she stilled herself. She held her breath as his touch moved almost mechanically to her hip. His movements were calm and purposeful as he did the same to her other side, feeling inside the pockets of her coat and underneath to slide along the indentation of her waist.
Her mind suddenly realised that he was searching for a weapon. She sucked in a breath as strong fingers brushed her ribcage, just underneath her breasts. Of all the situations in which to become excited by a man’s touch, this really wasn’t it. And yet her traitorous body had begun to respond to the intensity of the situation even as her heart thumped with fear.
His breathing did not alter at all, and nor did he show any signs of noticing her response. As his hand finally moved to her thigh Olivia could take no more. She kicked out. Partly in shock at his boldness, but mostly because of the discomfort of her own reaction.
She took a deep breath. ‘Do you honestly believe that I’m hiding a weapon in my underwear?’
The stranger cleared his throat. ‘I have known people to hide weapons in the most ludicrous places. Women especially tend towards a certain…creativity.’
‘Do not put your hands on me again.’
He was silent for a moment, and the only sound in the dark tunnel was that of their steady breaths mingling in the air between them.
When he spoke again his accent was more pronounced, his voice deep and intimidating. ‘Tell me who you are and why you are attempting to break into the palace.’
She paused at that. So he hadn’t recognised her yet. Surely if he was a kidnapper he would have come here knowing the faces of the royal family. Although it was dark, she supposed. Her choices were limited. She had no panic buttons down here—no guards within shouting distance.
She needed to get away.
She turned her head towards the door, breathing a little faster with anticipation as his shrewd gaze followed the movement and he saw the sliver of light coming through the gap.
‘You managed to find a way inside, I see,’ he said with surprise. ‘Come on, then. Let’s see what you were after, shall we?’
He held her forearm tightly, dragging her behind him up the steps and into the lavish dressing room. Her eyes adjusted quickly once again, to take in the rows and rows of her wardrobes. The room was empty, as it would be for a while, seeing as her staff presumed her to be at the races for the rest of the day.
Olivia gulped hard. She had just led an uncleared intruder right into the heart of the palace.
She took a moment to look at him for the first time in the light.
‘It’s you…’ she breathed, realising it was the man from the racetrack.
To his credit, he also looked momentarily stunned as he took in her face in the light.
He was taller this close—almost an entire foot taller than her five feet three inches. All the self-defence classes in the world wouldn’t give her a hope against such a brute. Dark hair, dark eyes and a jawline that would put Michelangelo’s David to shame. He had a fierce beauty about him—as if he had just stepped off a battlefield somewhere—and he thrummed with vitality.
Her grandmother had always said she watched too many movies. Here she was, in very real danger, and she was romanticising her captor.
‘You have taken a break from saving servants, I see.’ His eyes lowered to take in the coat that covered her cocktail dress. ‘You seem to be a woman of many talents.’
Olivia stayed completely silent as he spoke, knowing the more she said the more chance there was that he would put two and two together and guess her identity. She glanced to her left, searching the room for possible weapons for when the time came to run. If she could find something to kick at him, perhaps…
She looked down at her bare feet, cursing her own stupidity.
‘We are in the south wing,’ he mused, looking around the room. ‘One of the royal apartments. How did you find out about the hidden tunnel?’
She shrugged, looking down at her feet and taking one tentative step away from him while his attention wandered.
‘I saw how you slid down there. You knew exactly what you were doing. Just like you know what you are doing right now.’ He grabbed her arm, stopping her progress.
She couldn’t help herself then—she cursed. A filthy word in Catalan that would make her father blush if he heard her.
The stranger smiled darkly. ‘We’re going to get absolutely nowhere if you don’t speak to me. Why are you here?’ he asked again, releasing her arm and pushing her to sit down in the chair in front of her dressing table.
Exactly where she needed to be.
‘I could ask you the same question,’ she replied, slowly reclining backwards under the pretext of stretching her tender muscles.
‘That’s simple. I’m here for people like you,’ he said simply, crossing his arms and staring down at her.
‘People like me?’ she asked breathlessly, her hand feeling blindly along the dressing table behind her for where she knew an alert button had been placed. She tried to calm her breath and prayed he would not see what she was doing. She felt a smooth round bump and pressed it quickly, holding her breath in case she needed to run.
No sirens sounded…there were no flashing lights. She moved to press it again, only to have his fingers encircle her elbow and place her hands in her lap.
‘Keep your hands where I can see them.’
It was clear this wasn’t going to be over any time soon.
He tilted his head to one side, looking at her in such an intense way it made her toes curl into the carpet under her feet. His eyes lowered, darkening as they swept down her legs.
The way he looked at her, the blatant male appreciation on his striking features, made something seem to uncoil in the pit of her stomach. She felt warm under his gaze and turned her face away in case she blushed.
‘Whomever you think I am, I can tell you now that you are very wrong.’
His answering smile was raking, and made goosebumps break out across her arms.
The stranger bent down so that their faces were level. ‘I think that, whoever you are, beautiful, you are a lot stronger and a lot more dangerous than you seem.’
CHAPTER TWO (#u5d206fd8-0899-530e-8331-06e4602fa96e)
‘YOU SOUND LIKE quite the expert,’ she purred, her catlike eyes seeming to glow in her pale features.
Roman frowned. ‘I can tell by your eyes that you’re worried about being caught in the act, and yet you mock me.’
‘You’re quite arrogant and you deserve some mocking, I think,’ she replied sweetly.
He fought the urge to laugh at this situation. Here he was, with a thief held captive inside the palace walls, and he was enjoying their verbal sparring too much to make a decision over what to do with her.
He couldn’t simply waltz up to the King’s offices and present him with this gift. Problem one being that the King was out of the palace today, along with the rest of the royal family. Problem two being that the Palace Guard had no idea he would be here today. As far as they were concerned he would be just as much a criminal as the sharp-tongued redhead who sat staring at him as though she’d like to claw his eyes out.
He would have to call Khal and tell him that their plan had encountered a minor diversion. It was no matter, really. He had identified a serious security blind spot and provided the Palace Guard with an attempted burglar to boot. All in all, quite a success.
So why did the thought of handing her over make him feel so uneasy?
He had got where he was by trusting his gut, and right now his gut was telling him that something wasn’t quite right here. That this woman was not all that she seemed. Something made him pause, his brain weighing the situation up piece by piece.
‘You are quite possibly the most ladylike thief I have ever encountered,’ he mused. ‘Do you always go barefoot on a job, or was today an exception?’
‘You assume that I make a habit of this?’ She glared up at him.
‘Correct me, then.’ He held her gaze evenly until she looked away.
‘You have quite an intense stare. It’s making me uneasy.’
She crossed one slim leg over the other. Roman felt his throat go dry, and looked away from the expanse of creamy smooth skin below her dress.
‘I’m in the business of being observant,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘You might benefit from it yourself, then maybe next time you won’t get caught so easily.’
‘I assume you are the almighty authority on how to break into palaces?’ She raised her brows, sitting straighter in her seat.
‘Seeing as you arrived here first, I disagree,’ he countered.
‘Oh, now I see. You’re angry that you were beaten to the punch by a woman.’ She placed both feet flat on the floor, smoothing her dress over her knees. ‘This whole body-searching, intimidating act has all been one big ego-stroke for you.’
‘I searched you because I am not so pig-headed as to believe that you pose no threat to me simply because of your sex.’ Roman shook his head in disbelief, hating himself for rising to her bait. ‘Why would you assume that the fact you are a woman has anything to do with it?’
She looked away from him then. ‘Because it always does.’
‘I think that’s far more telling of your low opinion of men than anything else.’ He raised his brows. ‘Trust me, I am an expert in assessing risks. Women are not somehow physically destined to surrender to men. I have seen it first-hand. I have trained women, watched them down men twice their size without breaking a sweat.’
‘You train women? To become…thieves?’ she said with disbelief. ‘Who on earth are you?’
Roman laughed, not bothering to correct her assumption. ‘Let’s just say I am the last person you wish to meet while you’re on a job. Not just here, in this castle. Anywhere. I know how the criminal mind works. I have made it my business to be an expert in it.’
‘So if I’m a criminal, you’ll know what I am thinking right now?’ Her eyes darted towards the door once more.
‘I’m trying to.’ Roman poised himself in case she ran. ‘Just tell me what it is you’re after and I can make this easier for you. Tell me your name.’
‘No,’ she said plainly.
Her body language was telling him that she was becoming increasingly more agitated with the situation. A flight risk if ever he’d seen one.
Even as the thought crossed his mind she jumped from the chair, her speed surprising him for a split second before he moved himself. She made it a few steps before his arms were around her waist, holding her body tightly against his as she struggled in vain.
‘Please—just let me go,’ she breathed.
The fear in her voice startled him, but his training had taught him not to release anyone until he had another means of restraining them.
‘You are making it very difficult for me to help you here. Do you know that?’ he said, holding her arms tightly to her sides and trying in vain to ignore the delicious scent of vanilla that drifted up from her hair.
‘Why…? Why would you offer to help after what you think of me?’
He thought for a moment. ‘Because I believe in second chances.’ He spoke without thought, his answer surprising even himself. ‘You always have a choice—no matter how impossible it seems.’
A strange look came over her face as their eyes locked. Her breath was coming hard and heavy against his chest but she’d stopped fighting him. Her eyes drifted away from him, settling on the distance with a mixture of resolve and deep sadness.
‘I’m not who you think I am.’
Without warning a heavy weight came down behind him, followed by what he presumed to be a palace guard shouting in furious Catalan.
Roman pushed the man backwards, holding his hands up in what he hoped resembled a peaceful motion.
‘I have authorisation,’ he began, motioning towards the lapel of his suit jacket. ‘The King knows I am here.’
Roman felt his hands being pulled behind him into handcuffs and fought the urge to laugh as he looked up into a second guard’s furious face.
‘You will regret this.’
He grunted at the pressure of a knee between his shoulder blades, knowing that they most likely did not speak a word of English. As his face was crushed against the carpet he looked sideways, just in time to see a pair of dainty bare feet appear by his side. Up close, he could see that a tiny hand-drawn daisy adorned each red-painted toenail.
The woman spoke in rapid-fire Catalan, her voice muted and fearful yet with a strange backbone of authority. The nearest guard nodded, uttering two words that made his body freeze.
‘Si, Princesa.’
Roman crushed his face further into the carpet with disbelief and sheer dread.
He had just body-searched a damn princess.
His Majesty King Fabian of Monteverre stood up as Olivia entered the private sitting room flanked by two stony-faced members of the Royal Guard.
‘Of all the days to pull one of your disappearing acts, Libby,’ her father said angrily, motioning for the guards to leave them with a flick of one hand.
Her mother, elegant and perpetually silent, did not acknowledge her entry. Queen Aurelia sat poised in a high-backed chair, her eyes trained solemnly on nothing in particular.
‘Where have you been? You were informed of the intruder hours ago,’ Olivia said, breathing hard.
‘And naturally you expected us to abandon the event? Honestly, Libby…’ The King frowned in disbelief, reaching down to take a sip of whisky from a thick crystal tumbler.
Her father was the only one who still called her Libby. It reminded her of being five years old and being scolded for trying to sneak chocolate from the kitchens. But she was not a child any more, and she was damned tired of being treated like one.
‘I was attacked,’ she said slowly. ‘A man held me hostage in my own dressing room. And yet I’ve been left to pace my apartments completely alone for the past five hours.’
‘The matter has been resolved. It was a simple misunderstanding.’ King Fabian avoided his daughter’s eyes. ‘Best to forget the whole business.’
Olivia felt all the outrage and pent-up frustration freeze in her veins as she registered her father’s words. Had he actually just told her to forget this afternoon? She opened her mouth, then closed it, completely at a loss as to what to say in response.
‘Your absence was noticed by Sheikh Khalil,’ he said, scolding, his brows drawing down as they always did when he was unimpressed.
‘Well, as I have just said, I was rather busy being held against my will by a dangerous intruder.’ She took a deep breath, looking briefly across to her mother’s uninterested blank features before returning her furious gaze to her father. ‘Have I gone mad? Or are you both completely unaffected by today’s events?’
‘I understand it might have been…alarming…’ King Fabian began solemnly.
‘“Alarming” hardly covers it.’ Olivia fumed. ‘Why are you both so calm?’
The last word came out in a disbelieving whisper. She fought a distinct urge to walk over and bang her fist on her father’s chest, to knock over her mother’s glass, to make them both react in some way other than with this muted nothingness.
Today’s events had shaken her to her core, and yet she felt as though she were intruding on their peace with her inconvenient outrage. Surely her own father should be shocked and outraged that his daughter’s safety had been at risk inside their own home. Unless… Unless he wasn’t shocked at all.
‘What do you mean by a misunderstanding?’ she asked, not bothering to hide the challenge in her voice.
‘Libby…’ Her father sighed, raising a hand for her to quieten.
‘Please, don’t “Libby” me.’ She placed one hand on her hip. ‘Tell me exactly what is going on. Did you know about this man?’
The King twisted his mouth in discomfort. ‘Well…not directly, no.’
‘Indirectly, then. You knew that someone would be here today? In our home.’
King Fabian strode to the window, placing one hand on the sill and looking out in silence. ‘The man you met today was Roman Lazarov, founder of The Lazarov Group, an international security firm.’ Her father sighed heavily. ‘He is a very close friend of Sheikh Khalil and I have been assured that he is the authority on high-class security operations. But after the complete muddle he made today, I’m not so sure of his expert status…’
He laughed weakly, his voice trailing off as he took in her expression of horror.
‘Don’t look at me that way. It was a gift from Sheikh Khalil—very thoughtful of him to want to ensure your safety, I thought.’
Olivia felt a headache begin at her temples. This was all becoming too much. She closed her eyes a moment, unable to bear her father’s apparent disregard for his daughter’s privacy or independence.
‘No, Father. In fact I find it horribly thoughtless. And intrusive, among other things.’ She felt her breath coming faster, her temper rising like a caged bird set to take flight. ‘This is the last straw in a long line of things I have overlooked since you began vaguely mentioning a possible marriage. I am not a piece of livestock to be insured and fenced in, for goodness’ sake.’
He sighed. ‘You are overreacting.’
‘No, I’m really not. Did anyone consult me before all my charity events were cancelled? Was I informed when I was assigned five new bodyguards for all trips outside the palace?’ She shook her head, her knuckles straining with the tightness of her fists by her sides. ‘And now this. Did you even think to ask me before you sent a bloody mercenary into my room? I’ll never feel safe there again!’
‘Lazarov was simply going to attempt to gain entry to your rooms. To find any weaknesses in our security. Besides, you were supposed to be at the races with your fiancé.’
The tightness in her throat intensified. ‘I have not yet agreed to this marriage. Until today I had no idea that you were truly serious about it! And if this is how the Sheikh shows his concern…’
She tightened her lips, willing herself to say the words. To tell her father that the whole deal was off. She didn’t want this. Any of it.
King Fabian’s voice lowered in warning. ‘Olivia, these negotiations are months old—we have discussed why this is a necessary step.’
She blinked. Months old? ‘For the kingdom, yes. I understand what we stand to gain from a political union.’ She cleared her throat, her voice sounding all of a sudden smaller. ‘But what about for me?’
Her father’s brows rose imperiously. ‘You will be serving your kingdom.’
‘I don’t see why I must get married to a complete stranger in order to serve Monteverre. I am doing good work with Mimi’s Foundation—I am making a difference.’
‘Your grandmother and her damned charities…’ Fabian scowled darkly, draining the last of his whisky. ‘You think teaching a handful of scrawny kids to read will change anything about our situation?’
‘My grandmother taught me that charity is not always about money. It’s important to nourish the youth as well as to do our best to help those in need. She was beloved by this kingdom.’
‘Ah, yes, the eternally perfect Queen Miranda! My mother spent so much time on her charities she didn’t even notice her country’s economy crumbling beneath her feet.’ His mouth twisted cruelly. ‘Don’t you see, you silly girl? We are facing financial ruin without this union.’
Olivia opened her mouth to protest, only to have her father’s scowl stop her as he continued on his own personal rant.
‘The Kingdom of Zayyar is overflowing with wealth, thanks to this man. He is an economic genius. But the civic history of his country still stands in the way of true acceptance from the west. To put it bluntly, they need our political influence and we need their money.’
‘Money…’ Olivia bit her lip, wanting to ask just how much she was worth, considering he was essentially trading her body for cash.
‘Sheikh Khalil has the capabilities to take Monteverre back to its glory days—surely you want that for your people? What good is being able to read if they have no money to feed themselves?’
She had never heard her father speak so frankly, and his eyes were red-rimmed with half-madness. Olivia knew that Monteverre was in trouble. A series of bad leadership decisions and banking crashes had left them neck-deep in debt and with many of the younger generation emigrating to greener pastures. They were bleeding, and it appeared that this Sheikh had come offering a magic bandage. At a particular cost…
‘Trusting an entire country’s economic future to one man’s hands? That seems a bit…reckless. Surely there is another way without the marriage—?’
‘No,’ he cut across her, his voice a dull bark in the silent room. ‘There is no going back on this. I won’t hear another word.’
Her father’s eyes were dark in a way she had never seen them before, as though he hadn’t truly slept in months.
‘Everything you have had since birth is thanks to your position. It’s not like you have an actual career to think of—you spend most of your time looking pretty and waving. None of that would even change. Your life would continue just as it has been—only as the Sheikha of Zayyar.’ He took a breath, smiling down at her as if he had just bestowed upon her some enormous gift. ‘This is your duty, Olivia. To Monteverre. It’s not about you.’
She felt his words sink into her skin like an icy breeze, setting off goose pimples down her bare arms. Did being born a Sandoval really mean surrendering every aspect of your life to the good of the kingdom?
As the second daughter she had naïvely believed that her life would be different from her older sister’s. She was not first in line to rule Monteverre—she didn’t bear that crushing weight of responsibility and she had always been infinitely glad of it.
‘The Sheikha of Zayyar…’
Her mother’s melodic voice intruded on her thoughts, sounding absurdly serene.
‘Sounds like something from a film…’
‘I don’t even know where Zayyar is,’ Olivia said numbly, almost unable to speak past the tickle of panic spreading across her throat.
‘Somewhere on the Persian Gulf,’ Queen Aurelia offered, twirling the liquid in her glass. ‘They have a hotel shaped like a boat sail.’
‘That’s Dubai.’ King Fabian rolled his eyes. ‘Zayyar is halfway between the desert and the Arabian Sea. Gorgeous scenery—you will love it.’
‘Thank you for the sales pitch, Father.’ Olivia sighed, looking across to her mother, who had once again turned to gaze into the empty fireplace.
It was customary for her mother to permanently nurse a glass of the finest cognac after midday. In Olivia’s memory no one had ever questioned it or raised any concern. There had always been an unspoken understanding among the Sandoval children that their mother and father each did whatever they pleased and things would always be that way. They did not welcome personal discussions.
She looked up to the ceiling, feeling the familiar sense of exhaustion that always accompanied any meeting with her parents. For that was all they ever were. Meetings.
‘Sheikh Khalil simply wanted to ensure your safety, Libby. Surely you find that romantic? I know you are prone to the sentiment.’
Her father looked down at his wife, but she had drifted off, her eyes dull and unfocused as she stared into nothingness. The look on his face changed to outright disgust and he turned away, busying himself with retrieving his jacket from a chair.
Olivia’s heart broke a little for her parents’ fractured marriage. She had fleeting memories of a happier time, when her parents had seemed madly in love and the Kingdom of Monteverre had been a shining beacon of prosperity and culture. Now there was nothing but cold resentment and constant worry.
‘Father…’ Olivia took a breath, trying to calm her rapid thoughts. ‘This is all happening very fast. Perhaps if I just had some more time—’
‘Why do you think the Sheikh arranged this trip? He plans to propose formally this afternoon so that the announcement can be made public before he leaves.’
Olivia’s breath caught, expanding her throat painfully. ‘He…he can’t do that…’
‘Oh, yes, he can—and you will be grateful for his patience.’
His voice boomed across the room, the sudden anger in it startling her, making her back away a step.
He took a breath, deliberately softening his tone. ‘Can’t you see that you are a vital part in this? There is power in your position.’
‘Power…’ Olivia repeated weakly. Her shoulders drooped. Even her bones felt heavy. Women are not always destined to surrender to men… Those words—his words—had struck something deep within her.
Roman Lazarov.
She bit her lip hard. For a moment she had regretted her decision to have him captured. He had seemed to glow from within—a fiery protector and proclaimer of women’s strength. Now she knew he was just like the rest of them. Here to ensure that her cage was kept good and tight. That she had no hope of freedom.
King Fabian tightened his lips, forcing a smile before shrugging into his navy dress jacket and fixing the diamond cufflinks at his wrists. He paused by her side, looking down at her.
‘You will have a private lunch with Sheikh Khalil tomorrow.’ He placed one hand on her shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. ‘I know you will give him the answer he wants. I’m so proud of the beautiful woman you have become.’
Olivia closed her eyes, not wanting him to see the tears that glistened there. Her heart seemed to slow in her chest as she nodded her head in defeat, glad when he was gone, with the smell of cigar smoke wafting on the air in his wake. How could he be proud of the woman she was when she had no idea who she was herself?
‘I can’t do this,’ she breathed, silently hoping her mother would look up. That she would hold her and listen to her worries, then kiss her forehead and tell her everything would be okay.
But sadly she knew that would never happen. She had no memories of ever being in her mother’s arms, and even if she had the woman who now sat like a living ghost in the sitting room was not truly her mother.
She stood still for a long time, letting the tears fall down her cheeks and stain the neckline of her dress. Eventually she wiped her face and turned away from the unbearable silence, walking through the long main corridors of the private suites.
As usual, the guards pretended not to notice her.
She took her time, idling through the gardens on her way back to her rooms. With a few deep breaths she calmed the tremor in her throat. It had been a long time since she had let a single tear fall—probably not since the day of her grandmother’s funeral. Crying was a fruitless activity when her future had already been neatly packed up and arranged.
She sat heavily on a marble bench in the centre of the courtyard. This was her favourite part of the palace, where a low stone square fountain provided the perfect vantage point to sit and listen to the staff as they went about their daily duties. Here, partially concealed by bougainvillea and foliage, she had been privy to the most heart-stopping live-action dramas outside of television.
The fights, the wicked gossip, the passionate clandestine embraces. A reluctant smile touched her lips. She had seen it all.
Just in the past month it had been revealed that one of the upstairs maids had engaged in an affair with the head gardener’s handsome son. Olivia had overheard the whole sordid situation developing—right up to the point when said housemaid had found out that her beau was also heavily involved with one of the palace florists. The ensuing slap had resounded across the courtyard and earned the young Romeo a speedy transfer outside the palace.
The housemaid had moved on quickly enough, accepting a date with a palace guard. The look of delirious happiness as she’d described their first kiss to her friends had haunted Olivia for days.
She stood restlessly, leaning against the side of the fountain. Was that look the very thing she was sacrificing by agreeing to a loveless marriage?
She frowned, drawing her hand through the water and watching the ripples spread across her own solemn reflection. Love was about falling for the wrong guy, having your heart broken and then ending up with your handsome Prince Charming—not that she had ever experienced it. But she had watched enough old movies to know it was always true love’s kiss at the end that gave her that butterflies feeling in her stomach. That moment when the couple swore their undying devotion and fell into each other’s arms…
She wanted to feel like that. At least once in her life.
There had been a handful of kisses in her past; she was twenty-six, after all. But never more than a brief touching of lips. The kind of men who had been permitted near her just happened to be the kind of men who got aroused at the thought of their own reputations inflating with a real-life princess on their arm. Not one of the men she’d dated had ever tried to get to know her really.
A prickle made its way along her skin as she thought of a certain pair of grey eyes, raking their way down her body. It was madness, the way her body had seemed to thrum deep inside just from a man’s gaze. It was ridiculous.
She looked down at her forearms, seeing the gooseflesh there. Why did he have to affect her so violently when no other man had managed to inspire so much as a flicker of her attraction?
She bit the inside of her cheek with frustration and turned to begin walking back to her apartments—only to find a large male frame blocking her path.
‘Good evening, Printsessa.’
CHAPTER THREE (#u5d206fd8-0899-530e-8331-06e4602fa96e)
‘I SEE THEY have released you… Mr Lazarov.’ The Princess straightened her shoulders defensively, moving a long silken curtain of vibrant red hair away from her face as she directed her gaze upon him.
Roman ignored the strange tightening in his stomach at the way she said his name, focusing on her pale features to better read her mood.
She seemed less colourful than he remembered—as if something had stolen the fire he had witnessed earlier in the day, both at the racetrack and afterwards.
‘Once they realised their mistake they were quite accommodating. I hope you were not worried for my welfare.’
‘If it were my choice I would have had you detained for the night.’
She held her chin high as she delivered the blow, but Roman saw the telltale convulsive movement in her throat as she took a breath. He leaned casually against a nearby column, raising a single brow in challenge.
Far from bowing under his scrutiny, she held his gaze evenly. ‘I assume you are here to make your apology?’
Roman fought the urge to laugh. ‘I’m no stranger to handcuffs, Princess.’ He smiled darkly. ‘It would take more than five hours in a cushy palace detainment room to force me to my knees.’
Her gaze lowered a fraction and Roman gave in to his mirth, a darkly amused smile spreading across his lips.
‘I don’t want you to be on your…’ She shook her head, exhaling hard. She crossed her arms below her chest—a gesture likely meant in defence, but all it served to do was draw his attention to the resulting swell at the neckline of her delicate yellow dress.
‘Well, you are free to go,’ she said, sarcasm dripping from her tone as she gestured towards the door to the main palace.
For the first time in his life Roman was at a complete loss as to what to say. How he had not recognised that she was a royal instantly, he did not know. The woman before him seemed to exude class and sophistication in every inch of her posture. She eyed him with suspicion, her brows lowering in a mixture of challenge and defence.
He should have left the moment he had been freed, and yet he had sought her out. He had told himself he needed to apologise, but right now, remembering the honest arousal in her eyes as he’d been pressed close to her… He wasn’t feeling quite so apologetic.
He stood taller, hardening his voice. ‘In case you are planning another escape, the tunnel has been blocked. It is no longer passable.’
‘You certainly work fast,’ she said quietly, leaning back against the lip of the fountain. ‘I assume the Sheikh asked you to make sure my cage was good and tight?’
‘Your…cage?’
She was oblivious to his confusion. ‘Of course it matters to no one that I am an adult with free will. By all means let him have the run of the palace. There will be bars installed on my bedroom windows next.’
Roman raked a hand across the shadow beginning to grow along his jaw. He allowed her to a rant a moment, before clearing his throat pointedly. ‘You seem upset.’
‘“Upset” does not even begin to cover it. Everything about today has been unbearable.’
Something about the faraway look in her eyes bothered him. It was as though she were on the edge of a complete meltdown, and he worried that it was his mistake that had brought her there. Perhaps there was a need for his apology after all—much as it pained him to admit it.
‘Princess, I need you to understand that I am not in the habit of holding a woman against her will,’ he said solemnly. ‘Earlier…when I searched you…’
She looked back at him, her lashes half lowered with something dark and unspoken. ‘Will you be telling your fearsome Sheikh about that, I wonder?’
‘The Sheikh is not the villain you seem to think he is,’ Roman said quietly, inwardly grimacing at the thought of telling his best friend how he had manhandled his future wife. ‘I have never known someone as loyal and dedicated.’
‘Perhaps the two of you should get married, then,’ she said snidely.
‘I did not expect an actual princess to be quite so…cutting.’ He pressed a hand to his chest in mock injury. ‘Is it any wonder I mistook you for a common thief?’
That earned him the hint of a smile from her lips. The movement lit up her eyes ever so slightly and he felt a little triumphant that he had caused it.
Roman smirked, turning to lean against the fountain, taking care to leave a good foot and a half of space between them. It had been a long time since he had been this conscious of a woman’s presence.
‘You seem like quite the man of mystery, Mr Lazarov,’ she said, turning to look at him briefly. ‘Best friends with a sheikh…founder of an international security firm.’
‘You’ve been researching me?’
‘I only found out your name twenty minutes ago,’ she said honestly. ‘Does the Sheikh always fly you in for such favours?’
‘No, he does not.’ Roman felt the corner of his mouth tilt at her mocking. It had been a long time since a woman had been so obviously unimpressed by him. ‘I have my own means of transportation for such occasions.’
‘Let me guess—something small and powerful with tinted windows?’
‘It is black.’ His lips twisted with amusement at her jibe. ‘But my yacht is hardly small. No tinted windows—I much prefer the light.’
Her gaze wandered, the smile fading from her lips as she looked away from him. ‘A playboy’s yacht…of course.’
‘These things have not magically fallen into my lap, I assure you. I have worked hard for the lifestyle I enjoy.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean…’ She turned her face back towards him quickly. ‘I envy you, that’s all.’
He raised a brow, wondering not for the first time what on earth was going on inside her head. ‘There is an entire fleet of vessels moored in the harbour with the royal crest on their hulls. You’re telling me you couldn’t just choose one at will?’
‘I spent years learning how to sail at school. But I have yet to go on a single trip by myself,’ she said, looking up and meeting his eyes for a long moment. ‘It’s strange…’ she began, before shaking her head and turning her face away. ‘I’ve spoken more frankly with you today—a complete stranger—than I have with anyone in a long time.’
Roman did not know how to respond to that statement. He swallowed hard, looking ahead to where a group of housemaids walked and chatted their way across the second-floor balconies. When he finally looked back the Princess had moved from beside him.
He stood up, looking around him for a sign of where she had gone, only to see a glimpse of pale yellow silk disappearing through the archway that led to the royal apartments.
He took a step forward, then caught himself.
She was where she belonged—surrounded by guards and staff.
It was time for him to get back to his own life.
The afternoon sun was hot on his neck when Roman finally walked out onto the deck of his yacht the next day. In his line of work he was no stranger to going to sleep as the sun rose, but his restless night had little to do with work. Being handcuffed in a room by himself had given him far too much time with his own thoughts. A dangerous pastime for a man with a past like his.
Nursing a strong black coffee, he slid on dark sunglasses and sank down into a hammock chair. They would set sail for the isla soon enough, and he would be glad to see the back of this kingdom and all its upper-class pomp.
He surveyed the busy harbour of Puerto Reina, Monteverre’s main port. Tourists and locals peppered the busy marble promenade that fronted the harbour—the Queen’s Balcony, he had been told it was called. A glittering golden crown insignia was emblazoned over every sign in the town, as though the people might somehow otherwise forget that it was the crown that held the power.
Never had he met a man more blinded by his own power than His Majesty, King Fabian. Khal had insisted on them meeting two nights previously, so that the three men could discuss the situation of the Princess’s security—Khal was notoriously meticulous when it came to bodyguards and security measures.
It had been clear from the outset that Roman would be treated like the commoner he was, so he had made the choice to leave, rather than sit and be spoken down to. His tolerance levels only stretched so far. It seemed His Majesty still harboured some ill will, as made apparent by the gap of five hours between the time he had been informed of the incident at the palace and the time at which he’d authorised Roman’s release.
Roman’s fists clenched by his sides. He was no stranger to dealing with self-important asses—he’d made a career of protecting arrogant fools with more money than sense. But it was hard to stay professionally disengaged when one of the asses in question was your best friend. Khal had never treated him as ‘lesser’—he knew better. But he had not so much as made a phone call to apologise for his oversight.
His friend knew, more than anyone, what time locked in a room could do to him.
Roman tilted his head up to the sun and closed his eyes. He was not in a locked room right now. He was on his own very expensive yacht, which would be out in open water just as soon as it was refuelled. He exhaled slowly, visualising the clear blue waters of Isla Arista, his own private haven.
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Amanda Cinelli
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: A hot Mediterranean seduction……of his virgin princess!Hired to secure a palace, the last thing billionaire bodyguard Roman Lazarov expects to find is a princess scaling the castle walls! Facing an arranged marriage, runaway Princess Olivia pleads with him to allow her just one week of freedom. Reluctantly he agrees. But when he′s secluded with her on his private Spanish island Roman realises his mistake—his attraction to Olivia is forbidden, but explosively undeniable!