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The Queen's Baby Scandal
Maisey Yates
One night at the Italian’s ball… …has permanent consequences! Mauro Bianchi is stunned to discover the beautiful innocent who left his bed at midnight three months ago is a queen…and she’s pregnant! He’s never wanted a family, but nothing will stop this billionaire from claiming his heir. Queen Astrid can’t forget the pleasure of Mauro’s touch, despite her scandalous royal bombshell! To protect her throne, she's determined to raise her baby alone. Only now Mauro’s back, and his powerful presence is a constant reminder of their chemistry. And he has a demand: 'I want my child. '


One night at the Italian’s ball…
has permanent consequences!
Mauro Bianchi is stunned to discover the beautiful innocent who left his bed at midnight three months ago is a queen…and she’s pregnant! He’s never wanted a family, but nothing will stop this billionaire from claiming his heir.
Queen Astrid can’t forget the pleasure of Mauro’s touch, despite her scandalous royal bombshell! To protect her throne, she is determined to raise her baby alone. Only now Mauro’s back, his powerful presence a constant reminder of their chemistry. And he has a demand: “I want my child.”
MAISEY YATES is a New York Times bestselling author of over seventy-five romance novels. She has a coffee habit she has no interest in kicking, and a slight Pinterest addiction. She lives with her husband and children in the Pacific Northwest. When Maisey isn’t writing she can be found singing in the grocery store, shopping for shoes online and probably not doing dishes. Check out her website: maiseyyates.com (http://www.maiseyyates.com).
Also by Maisey Yates (#ufc28c622-4abb-5f43-b3b0-aa1ea4440592)
His Forbidden Pregnant Princess
Brides of Innocence miniseries
The Spaniard’s Untouched Bride
The Spaniard’s Stolen Bride
Once Upon a Seduction… miniseries
The Prince’s Captive Virgin
The Prince’s Stolen Virgin
The Italian’s Pregnant Prisoner
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
The Queen’s Baby Scandal
Maisey Yates


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08847-3
THE QUEEN’S BABY SCANDAL
© 2019 Maisey Yates
Published in Great Britain 2019
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)

Note to Readers (#ufc28c622-4abb-5f43-b3b0-aa1ea4440592)
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To Jackie, Megan, Nicole and Rusty.
Finding true friends who understand you, relate to you,
make you laugh and even try to politely respond to the
100 raccoon pictures you send them a day
is a rare thing. I think it might even be magic.
Thank you for being my friends.
Contents
Cover (#u593d4f33-d1e5-5207-a981-9e877a155e5b)
Back Cover Text (#uaf5c27e1-55d4-5310-b9d8-26b76f2a593d)
About the Author (#ud712ad58-0dca-5a7b-9266-ed5a7ccf0fca)
Booklist (#u0b69de10-110f-50ff-be4b-b65fed989f08)
Title Page (#u915916fe-b739-5f83-8b8a-4b61b2ed3fbc)
Copyright (#u5ffbbc78-accd-5a5e-bbce-1536a8daa786)
Note to Readers
Dedication (#uc6f2b4fb-4fc4-5666-bc05-e43f9c351da4)
CHAPTER ONE (#u37b95314-c156-5e4f-a8ce-71443bb0aeef)
CHAPTER TWO (#u5159133b-9354-5eb2-af0b-ca461f434697)
CHAPTER THREE (#u09808d87-25a0-5c68-aa1b-67d2490aed0c)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ua72e3690-d163-5ae9-88e9-f30ba5a1fcfb)
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)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#ufc28c622-4abb-5f43-b3b0-aa1ea4440592)
QUEEN ASTRID VON BJORNLAND had never been to a club before. But she was reasonably familiar with the layout of the Ice Palace, nestled in the Italian Alps, hidden away from commoners and social riffraff—as defined by Mauro Bianchi, the billionaire owner of the establishment—in spite of the fact that it was a place she’d never before visited.
She and Latika had done an intense amount of research on the subject prior to hatching their plan, and image searches of the facility itself had been involved. Though, the findings had been sparse.
Mauro was intensely protective of the image of the club as exclusive. And the only photographs that existed were photographs that had been officially sanctioned by Mauro himself, and included only the main areas, and none of the VIP locations that the many articles Astrid had read stated were stationed throughout the club.
Her palms were sweaty, but she knew that the invitation that she held in her hand was good enough.
Latika had assured her of that. And Latika was never wrong.
When Astrid had been looking to hire an assistant the year before her father had passed, she’d made discreet inquiries among the circle of dignitaries and royalty she knew, and Latika had appeared the next day. Polished, sleek and just a bit too good to be true.
It hadn’t taken long for Astrid to realize Latika was hiding something.
“I had to get away from my father. He’s a very rich man, and looking to consolidate that wealth by marrying me off to a man who is… He’s not a good man. I will need to stay out of the spotlight completely. So all of my work will be done quietly, efficiently and with me out of the picture.”
That was all Astrid had needed to hear. She knew all about the looming specter of potential arranged marriages and overly controlling fathers.
And so, she had hired Latika on the spot.
She was a whiz of an assistant—and had become an even better friend, and ally—and able to conjure up near magic with the snap of her fingers. In this case, magic had included: an excuse for Astrid to go to Italy, a car rented on the sly, an extravagant and extravagantly skimpy designer dress, jewels and shoes, and a near impossible invitation to the party.
And now Astrid was standing and waiting behind the thick velvet rope, in line, for entry.
Astrid had never waited in a line before. Not once in her life.
Astrid had never waited full stop.
She had been born five minutes before her twin brother, Prince Gunnar, much to the dismay of her father and the entire house of nobility. And that had essentially set the tone for her entire life.
A tone that had led to this particular plan, as dangerous, unlikely and foolhardy as it was.
All of those adjectives had belonged to Latika. Who had scolded Astrid the entire time she had aided her in putting the plan together.
Latika had many opinions, but none of them really mattered. Both in terms of what she would help Astrid accomplish, and in terms of what Astrid would choose to do. She would make happen whatever Astrid asked her to make happen. And that was the simple truth of it.
Astrid tugged at the hem of her impossibly short white dress. It was daring, and nothing like she would wear in her real life, but that had been part of the plan.
She could not look like Queen Astrid. If her brother found out, he would come down to the club and physically drag her out. Not to mention if any of the various government officials found out, they would do the same.
But she was doing what had to be done to wrest control of her kingdom into her own hands. Control of her future.
She would find other ways if need be, but this plan had come together with so much expert timing that Astrid was willing to chance it for several reasons.
And, she had been willing to wear a gown that was essentially a suit jacket with nothing beneath it. The neckline gaped, showing curves and angles of her body she normally kept well hidden.
Her red hair was loose, cascading over her shoulders, and she was wearing a single, long emerald on a chain, which swayed perilously between her cleavage and made her feel like she was drawing attention.
Of course, if she wasn’t drawing attention to her cleavage, then she was calling attention to her legs, with that abbreviated hemline in the sky-high heels. And perhaps her rear, where she knew the white dress clung with a kind of saucy cheekiness. At least, that was what Latika had told her.
But the final thing that Latika had said to her as she had dropped her in front of the queue for the club was that she absolutely had to be back out at the curb by two in the morning.
The timing was essential, and if she missed the timing at all, not only could the plan be in jeopardy, but Latika’s job certainly would be. And by extension possibly Latika herself, given that her position at the palace had been insulation for her for the past three years.
Astrid was the figurehead for her country. And she had power, it was true. But her father’s antiquated board, along with the elected government, had authority and if something was ever put to a vote, whether it be a member of staff or law, then Astrid would be outweighed. It would be thus, she had been assured, even if Gunnar had been made king. Even if he were not born five minutes after his sister.
Though, Astrid was not convinced of this.
And she had found a loophole. And that loophole was why she was here.
It certainly had nothing to do with Mauro Bianchi. Not in the personal sense. She didn’t even know the man, after all. But she knew about him. Everyone did. A self-made billionaire who had risen up from abject poverty thanks to his grit and determination.
In Astrid’s opinion, had this been the Middle Ages, he would have been a marauding conqueror. And as she was dealing with arcane laws more firmly in the Middle Ages than in the modern era, that had only made him all the more attractive to her as she set about hatching her plan.
She took a step forward in line as all of the people shuffled upward, and she found herself facing a large, grim-looking bouncer with a pronounced scar running across the length of his face.
She squared her shoulders, and then, changed tactics. She arched her breasts outward instead, and rather than affecting her typical severe glance, she went with a pout, just as she and Latika had been practicing in her hotel room tonight before they had gone out.
“Here is my invitation,” she said, somehow feeling like she hadn’t quite gotten down the simper that the other women in the line had thrown out when they had presented their invitations to the bouncer.
But it didn’t matter. The invitation—while for a person who didn’t exist—was for the person she was playing, and it was legitimate.
“Of course,” he said, looking her over, something he did in his gaze that Astrid had never had directed at her before. “Enjoy the party, Ms. Steele.”
He kept the card firmly in his hand, and ushered her inside.
It was a strange and wondrous place, some rooms carved entirely of ice, and requiring coats for entry, others fashioned of steel and glittering lights, everything fading into each other like a twisting, glittering paradise.
Astrid had grown up surrounded by luxury. But it was not a modern luxury. Not in the least. It was velvet and drapes, gold and ornate wrought iron. Cold marble and granite.
This was color, twisted metal and light. Fire and ice all melded together in an escape for the senses that verged on decadent.
There was a dance floor that was suspended up above a carved icy chamber. It glittered and twisted, casting refracted light all around. Railings around the outside of the platform prevented the revelers from falling below. She had never seen anything quite like it.
It was like something from a dream. Or a fairy tale.
If fairy tales contained house music.
And for the first time, a slight thrill went through her.
She had come about this entire plan with the grimness of a general going to war.
At least, that was what she had told herself. She had told herself that it had nothing to do with the fact that she wanted one night of freedom.
Had told herself that Mauro Bianchi had not been her target because he was attractive. Because he had a reputation for showing women the kinds of pleasure that was normally found only in books. No.
She had told herself that he was a strategic target.
A man with no royal connection or blood, which would make the claiming of her position even more unquestionable. Had told herself that a known playboy was sensible because as an unpracticed seductress, she would need a target that would have very low resistance.
Because she knew where to find him.
She had told herself all of those things, and the more she had read articles about him, the more she had seen images of him, his face, his body, the dark tattoos that covered his skin…
She had told herself that none of that mattered. That his beauty was secondary, and indeed only a perk in that it was a genetic point of desirability.
But now that she was here… Now that she was here in this club with dance music wrapping itself around her skin, and the thrill of her deceit rocketing through her like adrenaline, a smile spread across her lips.
Freedom.
This was a moment of freedom. A moment to last a lifetime.
Yes, she was doing this to claim the maximum amount of freedom a woman in her position ever could. But even so, she would go back to her life of service when all this was said and done. But this… This was a moment out of time.
Not a moment to think about the future. Of what it would be like to finally have the power over her country she deserved. To finally get out of her father’s stranglehold. Not a moment to ponder how the ache of loneliness she felt inside might finally be assuaged by holding a child of her own. A child she would love no matter what.
She was Alice, through a looking glass. Not Astrid.
And she was going to seduce a man for the first time in her life. Possibly the last.
All she had to do was find him. And then she saw him, there could be no mistaking him. He was up on a platform above the dance floor, surveying the party below. It could be only him. That dark, enigmatic gaze rolling over the crowd with an air of unquestionable authority.
Astrid was royalty in Bjornland. She was the queen.
But there was no mistaking that here in this club, Mauro Bianchi was king.
The king of sin, of vice, of pleasure.
The kind of king who would never be welcome in a state and steady nation such as hers. But the perfect king for tonight.
She took a breath and made her way over to the stairs, thanking a lifetime of deportment for her ability to climb them with ease even in those spiked, crystal heels she had on her feet. She let her fingers drift along the rail in a seductive manner, the kind that she had been warned against as a girl. She had been taught to convey herself as cool. Sexless, really.
She was the first female monarch in Bjornland since the 1500s. The weight of the crown for her could never have been anything but heavy.
Her father had ever been resentful of the fact that it was the daughter who had been born first. Resentful. Distrustful. Doubtful.
But her mother… It was her mother who had made absolutely certain that there would be no creative shifting of birth orders.
Astrid had been born first. And her mother had had the announcement issued with speed and finality.
Her mother had also made sure that Astrid’s education had been complete. That she had been trained in the art of war. Not just the kind found on the battlefield, but the kind she would face in any and all political arenas.
There was a ruthlessness, her mother had told her, to all rulers. And a queen would need to hone her ruthlessness to a razor-sharp point, and wield it with more exacting brutality than any king.
And so she had been instructed on how to hold herself, how to be beautiful, without being sexual.
She was throwing all of it away right in that moment. Allowing her hips to sway, allowing her fingertips to caress the railing like she might a lover.
She had never had a lover.
But it was the aim of tonight.
And so, she could forget everything she had learned, or rather, could turn it upside down in this place that was like a mirror of her normal life.
That was how she felt. As if she’d stepped through the looking glass. As if she was on the other side of wealth and beauty. Not the weighted, austere version, but this frivolous palace made of ice. Transient and decadent. For no purpose other than pleasure.
She tossed her hair over her shoulder, and the moment she stepped onto the dance floor, she looked up.
Her eyes collided with his.
He saw her. He more than saw her.
It was as if there was an electric current in the air.
And so she did something she would have never done on any other day when her eyes connected with a strange man’s from across the room.
She licked her lips. Slowly. Deliberately.
And then she smiled.
She tossed her hair over her shoulder and continued onto the dance floor.
There were many women, and men, dancing by themselves and so she threw herself into the middle of them, and she allowed the rhythm to guide her movements.
She knew the steps to any number of formal dances. Music composed to complement a dance, not music created to lead it.
But she let the beat determine the shift of her hips, the arch in her spine. And for one, wonderful moment she felt like she was simply part of the crowd. Exhilarating. Freeing.
And then she felt the crowd move. But it was more than that. There was a change in the air. In everything around her.
And she knew already what it meant.
The king was on the dance floor.
She turned, and she nearly ran into a broad chest, her face coming just to his collarbone.
He was wearing a black jacket, black shirt with the top two buttons undone, exposing a wedge of skin and dark hair, tantalizing and forbidden—in her estimation—as no dignitary she had ever encountered would approach her without his tie done up tight.
She looked up, and her heart nearly stopped. And then when a smile tipped his lips upward, it accelerated again.
Photographs had not prepared her.
She’d first seen him in a gossip magazine a year ago when Astrid had brought in a copy of a particularly vile rag that had featured a scandal about Astrid’s brother—who had not spent life on his best behavior in the slightest.
But it wasn’t Gunnar and his naked exploits with a French model that had held Astrid’s attention. First of all, it was a terribly common thing. Even for Gunnar. It wasn’t even interesting.
But second of all…
Oh, there had been Mauro. A dissolute, salacious, scandalous playboy in a tux, with one woman clinging to each arm as he walked through one of his clubs.
Her heart had stopped. The world had stopped.
That was just a photograph.
In person…
He was beautiful, but not in the way the word was typically used. He was far too masculine a thing for simple beauty. Hard and angular like a rock, his jaw square and sculpted, his lips perfectly shaped and firm looking. His dark eyes were like chips of obsidian, the lights on the dance floor swallowed up in those fathomless depths.
He said nothing, and she wouldn’t have been able to hear him anyway. But he extended his hand, and she took his, the spark of fire that ignited at that point of contact spreading over her body like a ripple in the water. Sharp and shocking at its core, rolling over her wider and broader as it expanded.
He caught her and held her against his body.
She had danced with men before, but they had not held her like this. So close that her breasts were crushed to hard, muscular midsections, a large commanding hand low on her back.
And then his lips touched her ear, his whisper husky. “I’ve never seen you before.”
She moved back, tipping her chin upward so that she could see him, so that she could look him full in the face. Except, she could hardly sustain it. She looked down.
And he captured her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze again. If she hadn’t been wearing those heels she would have been so incredibly dwarfed by him there would have been no responding. But he lowered his head, and she leaned in.
“Because I’ve never been here before.”
“It’s always nice to see an unfamiliar face,” he said, this time brushing her hair back from her face as he whispered.
“Dance with me,” she said, not bothering to whisper this time.
The way that the rather predatory grin slid over his mouth told her that he understood.
That she wanted to do more than dance.
His eyes burned into hers as he gripped her hips, dragging her toward him as they moved in time with the music. She felt his touch everywhere, not just where he had his hands, but all the points in between, down deep, in the most intimate parts of her. She had danced with men before, but it had never been like this. Of course, the perfectly polished aristocrats who had always attended the balls she’d been at had never been anything like this.
There was an element of danger to this man. And she found herself drawn to it.
In fact, she found she wanted to fling herself against it. Against him. She had always been asked to be strong, but she had also been sheltered in many ways. Her take on the world was theoretical. And now, she was being tasked with ruling an entire country, while still suffering from that same fate.
Power, but with chains around it.
She wanted to test herself. To test those bonds.
It was what she was here to do.
“Maybe you could show me your club.”
His grip tightened on her, and he looked at her for a long moment, before taking her hand and leading her from the dance floor. He held on to her as he took her down the stairs, away from the pulsing music. But they didn’t go back to the entry, where people had crowded in. Instead, he moved her down a slim corridor with black flooring that had gold light shooting through the spaces in the tile. He pushed open a door that simply looked like another obsidian panel. “You will want a coat,” he said, not taking one for himself, but offering her a snow-white one from a rack by the door.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the coat from him and putting it on.
She quite wondered if covering her body might put her out of this advantage, but he was the one leading her, so she supposed she had better follow instruction.
Another thing she had never been very good at. But unlike waiting, it was something she had been asked to do quite a bit.
Something she now wished to avoid.
The room he led her into was made entirely of ice, the walls carved in intricate designs, crystalline, nearly see-through. By a deep navy blue couch was a wall that allowed a mirror view, however rippling and obscured, of revelers next door.
“You are quite bold,” he said. “Asking me to show you my club.”
“And yet, you seem to be showing me.”
“I don’t know that you realize just how rare it is for me to take a woman up on such an offer.”
“And here I thought you took women up on such offers on a nightly basis. I’ve read about you.”
His lips twisted upward in a cynical impersonation of a smile. “Of course you have.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Should I pretend I don’t know who you are? Should I pretend that this is simply a chance encounter, and I came to your club with no prior knowledge of who you were?”
He affected a casual shrug. “Many women would.”
“Perhaps those women have the luxury of time. I don’t.”
“You don’t have a bomb strapped to your chest, do you?”
She swallowed hard, letting the edges of her coat fall open, revealing the only thing she had against her chest, that emerald, which immediately felt cold in the icy room. “You’re welcome to look for yourself.”
His gaze flickered over her body, and it didn’t stay cool. “I see. Someone waiting for you at home, then?”
That was close enough to the truth. “Yes,” she said.
“Can I have your name?”
“Alice,” she said.
“Alice,” he repeated. “From?”
She knew her English was quite good, but that it would also be colored by an accent. His was too, though different from hers. She liked the way it sounded. She wanted to hear his voice speak his native tongue. And hers. What sort of accent would it give to her own language? And what sorts of words might he say…?
“England,” she said. “Not originally. But for most of my life.”
“What brings you to Italy?”
“Your party,” she said.
“I see. Are you an enthusiast when it comes to clubs, or are you a sex tourist?”
The words were bold, and she knew that she was playing a bold game and she needed to be able to return in kind.
“In this instance, I suppose it’s sex tourism.”
“Am I to understand that you saw my picture in the news and decided to make a trip all the way to my club for sex?”
Nothing he’d said was a lie. There might be more in her reasoning, but she had seen his photo. And she had wanted him on sight.
“Chemistry is a fairly powerful thing.”
“Can you feel chemistry with a photograph?”
“I didn’t even have to go looking for you,” she said. “You came to me. So that makes me wonder if it’s possible.”
And that was the honest truth.
She had never expected Mauro Bianchi to approach her. No, she had expected that she would have to chase him down. That she would be the one pursuing him. And yet, he had simply appeared. And now, he had taken her to a VIP room. So it all rather did beg the question if chemistry could be that obvious.
The expression on his hard face did something then, and she couldn’t quite put into words what that was. He looked quite irritated, but at the same time perhaps a bit impressed with her boldness and her reasoning. And he couldn’t argue. Because here they were, sitting in this private suite, strangers who had never met until only a moment ago.
“I think the only thing to do then is perhaps test your theory,” he said, his voice lowering to a silky purr.
“That is what I’m here for,” she said, fighting to keep her voice smooth.
“Perhaps you would like to see my private suite.”
“I would like that very much,” she said.
This was moving much quicker than she had anticipated. But it was also going exactly according to plan.
She had expected…obstacles. Resistance.
Perhaps because the last year of her life had been marked by such things. Endless resistance from her father’s officials. Endless proclamations being made. Demands that she be married. The concern over her producing an heir, as for her, there would be a time limit, unlike with men.
But they had not counted on one thing. Because they had not educated themselves, not to the extent that she had.
Men. With their arrogance. Their certainty that they were right. That they could not be bested, least of all by her.
She had read the laws. She had studied. She had made sure, above all else, that she was prepared for her position, and that she would not be taken by surprise.
Because for the protection of the queen, for the protection of the throne, if she claimed that her issue had no father, that it was the queen’s alone.
And there were no questions of legitimacy. A law set into motion to protect the queen from marauders, Vikings and barbarians, anyone who might seek to use her to claim power.
And at this point in history, in time, used to protect the queen from forced marriages, and politicians who overexerted their power, and sought to keep a nation in the dark ages.
All she needed was her marauder.
And she had found him.
“Yes,” she said. “Let’s go to your room.”

CHAPTER TWO (#ufc28c622-4abb-5f43-b3b0-aa1ea4440592)
BY THE TIME they had gone through a maze of high-gloss marble corridors and arrived at Mauro’s suite, Astrid was trembling. She did her best to try to disguise it, and hope that he would perhaps assume it was because they were surrounded by ice. But the fact of the matter was, the pieces of the structure that were not made of ice were quite comfortable, and she imagined he assumed no such thing.
She was so good at pretending to be confident, serene and as if she were in possession of every secret in all the world, that sometimes she even convinced herself such things were true.
Sometimes she forgot what she really was.
She was a queen, that much was true. A queen with quite a lot of power, education and confidence that was rightly earned.
She was also a woman who had been kept separate from peers for most of her life while she focused on her education. A woman who had danced with a man, but never, ever kissed one.
She was a virgin queen, above reproach as her mother had always instructed her to be.
But matters had become desperate, and so had she.
And she was waging war in a sense, and that meant she could not afford nerves. Even as they rolled over her in a wave, the reality of the utter disparity between the two of them a strange and intense sort of drug.
An aphrodisiac and a bit of a terror.
She was used to having a mantle of power over her, but he didn’t know who she was. And here, in this private room he had just ushered her into, he was the experienced one. He was physically so much more powerful than she could ever hope to be, and her guards were well and truly dismissed. She had no one to snap her fingers for and call for rescue. She didn’t even have her phone, as she and Latika had agreed that her being traceable to the club in any manner wasn’t acceptable.
It was why the timing of everything was so crucial.
His suite was warm, wonderfully appointed with furs in a dark ebony, and bright white cotton spread over a massive mattress.
She looked over at him, and his lips curved as he closed the door behind them.
“Second thoughts?”
“No,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “Not at all.”
“I did not take a woman who would freely admit to being a sex tourist as one who would be overcome by the nerves of an innocent.”
She laughed, so very grateful for all the years she had spent at various political events dodging barbs of every sort, allowing her an easy smile and confident stare even while verbal daggers were being thrown her way. “Naturally not. It’s only that… We haven’t even kissed yet. And I do want a bit of certainty regarding chemistry.”
“A woman of high standards.”
“Exceptionally,” she said. “I should have mentioned to you that I am—as far as sex tourists go—not a backpacker. I only go first-class. And if things are not to my liking, I don’t stay.”
A dark flame burned yet higher in his eyes, a clear response to what he obviously took as a challenge.
“I was going to offer you a drink,” he said.
“Why? Because you think you should fare better if my senses are dulled?”
He chuckled and moved to her, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her against his body. He took hold of her chin, keeping her face steady as he stared down into her eyes.
“Let us test the chemistry, then,” he said, his voice rough.
He bent down, closing the distance between them, and it was like a flame had ignited across her skin.
His kiss was rough, commanding and intense in ways she had not imagined a kiss could ever be. And this was why she had chosen him. It was why he was the only one she could fathom being with.
She had known, somehow, that he would be the one who could make her forget, for just a moment, what she was. That he could be the one who made her exult in feeling delicate. Fragile.
His masculinity was so rough. So exciting. His kiss that of a conqueror. And how she reveled in it. Gloried in his touch. His hands, large and impossibly rough, held her face steady as he angled his head and took the kiss deeper, deeper still, his tongue invading her, making her tremble, making her knees weak.
When they parted, he stared down at her, those eyes shot through with intensity. “Is that quite enough chemistry for you?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I think that is exactly the chemistry I was looking for.”
He stood back and shrugged his jacket off, tossing it carelessly toward the couch on the opposite side of the room, and then he began to unbutton his shirt.
Astrid’s mouth went dry as she watched him expose his body. His chest was hard looking and muscular, his abs clearly defined, with just the right amount of dark hair dusted over those sculpted ridges. And he had tattoos. Dark, swirling ink that covered his shoulder, part of his chest geometric patterns that she couldn’t quite divine the meaning of.
But the beauty of tonight was that it didn’t matter.
It didn’t matter what any of this meant to him. All that mattered was what it meant to her.
Freedom. Wildness.
A night with her very own barbarian.
The kind of man she would scarcely have been allowed to speak to if her handlers were present. Much less be alone in a room with.
Much less be on the verge of…
“Pictures don’t do you justice,” she said.
“I have a feeling that dress doesn’t do you justice,” he returned. “But I would like to see for a fact if this is true.”
With shaking fingers, she reached around behind her back and slowly lowered the zip to her dress, letting the soft white fabric release itself from her body and fall to the ground, a pale, silken pool at her feet.
She was still wearing those impossibly high heels and a pair of white panties. Nothing more. He seemed to approve.
Her breasts grew heavy, her nipples tight, her body overcome with restless anticipation.
Then he sprung into action, his muscles all languid grace and lethal precision as he took her in his arms and swept her up off the floor, carrying her over to that large bed and setting her down on the soft, black fur that was spread over the top.
He said something in Italian, something completely unfamiliar to her, something she assumed was something like a curse, or just something so filthy no one would have ever seen fit to teach her. Anticipation shimmered deep and low inside her.
He drew away from the bed, his eyes never leaving hers as he slowly undid his belt, drawing the zipper on his pants down as he divested himself of the rest of his clothing, leaving him completely naked in front of her.
Astrid was one for research. For being prepared when going to war. And as such, she had done a fair share of figuring out just what happened between men and women in bed, not simply in the perfunctory sense. She had done a bit of pictorial research.
But it had not prepared her for this. For him. All of him.
He was quite a bit more of a man than she had ever seen, and she had certainly never been in the same room as a naked man before. So deliciously, impossibly male.
“You are stunning,” he said, advancing on her, moving toward the bed. Her stomach twisted, fear and excitement twining together and becoming something so exciting, so unbearably potent she could scarcely breathe, let alone think. She licked her lips, grabbing hold of the waistband of her panties and pushing them down her legs as she arched her bottom up off the mattress, managing to pull them only down to her knees, then uncertain how to continue. He clearly took her uncertainty as an intentional coquettishness, and she was happy to have him think so. He growled, moving down to the bed and grabbing hold of the scrap of lace and wrenching it from her body. Leaving her bare and exposed to him.
His eyes roamed over her hungrily, and there was something so incredibly close and raw about the moment that Astrid had to close her eyes.
Because there was no title here to protect her. No designer clothing, no guards. Nothing between her and this man. This man who seemed to want her, though he’d had many other women.
Astrid was used to being special. Singular. But she had none of the hallmarks here that made her any of that. She was simply a woman. She was not a queen.
And yet.
And yet he still wanted her.
She began to push the shoes off she was wearing, and he moved over her, gripping her wrists and drawing them up over her head. “Leave them,” he said, pressing a kiss to her mouth before skimming his hand over her curves, his thumb moving over her nipple, an arrow of pleasure hitting her down low, making her feel aching and hollow. And then he kissed her neck, her collarbone, down to the plump curve of her breast, his tongue tracing a line around the tightened bud there.
She squirmed, arching against him, but he held her wrists fast with one hand while he continued his exploration with his mouth, and his other hand, which had moved to her hip, and was now drifting between her thighs.
Her hips bowed up off the bed when he touched her there. His fingers delving expertly into her silken folds, finding her embarrassingly wet for him.
But then, there was no point to embarrassment. Not now. Not with him.
This was her one night of freedom.
Her one night to claim a lifetime of greater freedom.
And she would not do it with a whimper. But with a roar.
She moved her hips sinuously, in time with his strokes, with the soft suction of his mouth on her breast.
He moved his thumb over the most sensitive place between her legs, stroking back and forth, and she cried out, caught off guard by the intensity of the sensations he created there. When her release broke over her, it was a shock, shattering her like a fragile glass pane, the sharp, jagged edges of her pleasure making her feel weak and vulnerable.
She clung to his shoulders, kissing his mouth, moving her hands over his finely muscled back as she did. She shifted beneath him, feeling the hard, heavy weight of his erection against her thigh. He began to move away.
“It’s okay,” she said in a rush, while she still had her wits about her.
And she knew what he would interpret it to mean.
She also knew, from much of her reading, that he was a very careful man when it came to these matters.
But she was counting on him being lost in the moment. She was counting on him being mortal.
This was her killing blow, so to speak, and she had to deliver it and not falter.
“Please,” she whispered against his mouth and she rolled her hips upward, so that his erection was settled against her wet heat, and she arched back and forth, the pleasure making her see stars.
She could see, mirrored in his own eyes, no small amount of that same pleasure. Of that desire. That need. He was no stronger than she, and she had been counting on that.
He growled, wrapping his hand around his arousal and positioning himself firmly against her before he slammed inside.
His savage kiss swallowed her cry of pain, and she knew that he misinterpreted it as pleasure as he lost control and pulled out slowly before thrusting back home again.
Astrid closed her eyes tight, willing herself to make it through this without crying, without embarrassing herself.
She simply hadn’t anticipated it would hurt quite so badly.
He was lost to it, and she needed him to be. She only wished that she could join him.
She held his shoulders, burying her face in his neck.
And then he seemed to grasp some kind of hold on himself, his movement slowing, his pelvis rocking forward, hitting her just so, and creating a spark inside her she had been convinced would be lost in this encounter.
But it wasn’t. Oh, it wasn’t.
Suddenly she felt it. Deep and pleasurable and building inside her. Overcoming the pain. Overcoming everything else. It was wonderful. Beautiful and real.
He kissed her as he held her hips and drove home, hard and relentless, and welcome now. It was like she couldn’t get enough. As if he couldn’t go deep enough, hard enough.
There was something mystical in this joining that she couldn’t figure out, but it had something to do with that instant spark that had happened when they laid eyes on each other.
Maybe even with the spark she felt when she had first seen his picture.
And when her release broke over her, it was different from before. Her body gripped his, drawing him deeper, pulsing around him as light exploded behind her eyes. And she didn’t feel shattered. She felt renewed. Reinforced as he broke apart, as he trembled in her arms, this large, muscular, experienced man, reduced to shaking as he spent himself inside her.
They lay there, not for long. Only a few moments. While Astrid tried to catch her breath.
And then she heard the sound of a clock strike two chimes.
“What time is it?”
“Two?” he asked, his words muffled, sleepy.
“I have to go,” she said. She scrambled out of bed in a panic, hunting around for clothing, getting dressed as quickly as possible while Mauro looked on.
“You’re not going to just leave.”
“I have to,” she said, desperation clawing at her.
“Give me your name.”
“Alice,” she said.
“Your full name. I wish to find you again.”
“Alice Steele,” she said, the lie tripping off her tongue.
“That’s wrong,” he said.
“No,” she said, panic like a wild thing inside her. “It’s on the invitation.”
“That isn’t your name,” he said, his dark eyes seeing straight into her.
She straightened and looked at him for one last, lingering moment, before she fled. She made her way down the halls, thankful that he was naked, and therefore wouldn’t be able to move as quickly as she.
By the time she made it out to the main part of the club, Mauro was right behind her. She kept on running, one of her shoes flying off as she did, as she made an uneven escape down the stairs and tumbled straight into the limo that Latika was driving.
“Go,” she said.
“Were you successful?”
She looked back at the doorway and saw him standing there, holding her shoe in his hand.
“Just go,” she said, panic and emotion rising up in her throat.
And Queen Astrid escaped into the night, without her virginity, but very hopefully, carrying her heir.

CHAPTER THREE (#ufc28c622-4abb-5f43-b3b0-aa1ea4440592)
“FORGIVE ME FOR saying so, sir, but you do not seem yourself.”
Mauro Bianchi, dissolute playboy and renowned billionaire, looked over at his assistant Carlo, and treated him to a fearsome scowl. “You are not forgiven.”
Not because his assistant was not wrong in his observation. No. Mauro was not himself, and had not been for the past three months. He could not pretend he didn’t know why. He did.
He was held utterly captive by memories of a bewitching redhead, and a stolen hour in his private suite of rooms.
By the way she had run from him, leaving him holding her shoe.
And by the discovery he’d made when he had gone back to his bedroom.
The blood left on the sheets.
It was entirely possible the woman had started her period, he supposed.
Also… Also a possibility that she had been a virgin. Though he could not fathom a virgin speaking as boldly as she had.
A virgin going back to a man’s room for sex, and only sex.
And she had said there was someone waiting for her at home.
He was captivated by the mystery of her, by the erotic memory of her, and nothing he did allowed him to shake it.
Apparently his staff was beginning to notice.
Certainly, the paparazzi had.
Wondering why he’d yet to turn up anywhere with a new woman on his arm, and there was endless speculation about that.
Some even suggesting that he might be in a real relationship, rather than just engaging in one of his usual transient sexual dalliances.
Of course, the press could not be more wrong.
His bed was cold and empty. And Mauro Bianchi could not remember a time in his life when that had been true before.
As soon as he reached sexual maturity, he’d not been alone unless by his own choosing. As a homeless boy, he’d found quite handily that if he were to seduce a woman who did have a bed, he could get not only sex but a nice place to stay.
He had never been shy about using his body. It was one of his many tools. Something that could bring him profit and pleasure, and why not?
He behaved thus even still.
But since his encounter with Alice. Alice Steele, who he knew was not real. He had searched high and low for women bearing that name who resembled her even slightly. Women who resided in England, and then indeed anywhere, and none fit her description.
As he suspected, her name was not real.
She was like a ghost. And the only thing he had to assure himself that she had been real at all was the shoe.
The shoe that sat on his nightstand. Not the act of a man who was in his right mind. Not at all. But knowing that did not entice him to change it.
He didn’t feel in the mood to be in his right mind. That was the problem.
He was in the mood for her. Hungry for her.
He’d told himself he’d never be hungry again. Never want without having.
She’d forced him into that position and it made him feel…
Powerless.
Which was a foolish thing. He was a man at the top of the world. At the top of his field. She was… She was nothing. Just a woman in a club. He was a man who’d risen from the slums of Italy in defiance of his father, a man who had been rich and titled and had wanted nothing to do with his son.
On the far wall, between the windows that overlooked a view of Rome below, news was playing on the TV. He always had news on. It was imperative that he keep up with world events, and he was well able to absorb information without giving it his full attention. His ability to multitask another part of his storied rise to success. His aptitude for numbers, and investments, and indeed for picking places that would become the hottest locations in terms of real estate and trends, had made him incredibly wealthy.
That required him to work constantly, and to pay attention to a great many details at once.
Of course, he could pay people to do much of the day-to-day things now, but still, if he didn’t have a lot of input he was bored easily.
Without a female in his bed for the past three months he was growing intensely bored and incredibly bad tempered.
But no one appealed to him. None at all. None save…
Suddenly, a flash of red hair caught his attention and he gave his full focus to the TV, where a woman was sitting in a private-looking room, pale legs crossed at the ankles, hands folded in her lap. She was dressed incredibly demurely. Her red hair was pinned into an elegant bun, her butter-yellow skirt falling below her knees, her high heels sensible and sedate.
She looked so very like the woman—his woman—from three months ago, and yet like a different creature entirely.
She was regal in her posture, her every movement elegant, each slight turn of her head intentional.
“Sir,” Carlo said.
“Shut up,” Mauro said, grabbing the remote and turning the TV up.
She was speaking, but it was in a different language, something like Norwegian, but slightly different, and he didn’t speak it either way. They were not putting up subtitles on the screen, but the news commentators were going over the top in his native Italian.
“Queen Astrid von Bjornland issued a statement today to her people, that she is about to embark on an unusual path for a woman in her position. The queen is pregnant, it seems, and is determined to raise the child alone. Invoking an old rule native to the country, the queen is able to claim herself as the sole parent of the heir to the throne.”
The camera panned away from the woman, shrinking the video down to a small square, where two news anchors were sitting at a desk now, a man and a woman.
“And only women can do this?” the man asked, looking somewhat incredulous.
“Yes.” The female news anchor nodded gravely. “An old, protective law that ensured a queen would not be bound to one of the country’s invaders, should she be forced against her will.”
Against her will? She had…
That lying bitch.
She was pregnant with his child.
More than that, she was denying him his right as a father.
It took him back in an instant. To what it had been like to be a boy. Knowing his father was there in the city, an omnipresent being in his mind who had been potentially around any corner. Who had, to him, been possibly any well-dressed man walking by.
He’d known his father was a rich man. A powerful man.
A man who didn’t want him.
And he had done his best to be careful—with every woman except this one—but he’d always known that with sex there was a chance birth control would fail. And he’d always known that should that ever happen he would not be like the man who’d fathered him.
He would never let a child of his wonder like that. Would never leave him abandoned, unanchored to what he was.
Would never deny him anything he had.
Yes, Astrid von Bjornland had money, had a title. But their child was more than her. That child deserved all, not half.
And yet there she was. Claiming his child as hers and solely hers, when both of them knew he was well involved.
He remembered the way she had looked up at him, the way she had trembled just before he’d entered her body.
“It’s fine,” she had whispered.
It had bloody well not been fine. He hadn’t realized he’d stood up until he looked over and saw Carlo’s shocked expression.
“Sir?”
“Ready my plane,” Mauro said, his tone hard. “I’m leaving.”
“Where are you going?”
“Bjornland. I hear it’s lovely in summer, and a bit harsh in winter. However, I hear their queen is a lying snake all year round. And that is something that needs addressing.”
“Mr. Bianchi…”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to make an international incident. Provided she falls in line.”

CHAPTER FOUR (#ufc28c622-4abb-5f43-b3b0-aa1ea4440592)
“WHAT THE HELL were you thinking?”
The voice boomed.
“Excellent,” Latika said, her tone dripping with disdain. “His Majesty King Gunnar has arrived. Oh, wait. But he is not king, is he?”
“I still outrank you,” Astrid’s brother said, sweeping into the room, each one of his thirty-three years evident on his face thanks to years of hard living. “And lest you become confused, darling Latika, I don’t covet my sister’s position. In fact, I would rather die. However, I do have some opinions on how she might conduct her business.”
“That’s very fascinating,” Astrid said. “Except it is not.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his tone turning fierce, and she felt momentarily bad for her anger. Momentarily.
“Because. Telling you defeats the purpose. This is no one’s business but mine. And that’s the entire point of it. My heir. No one else’s.”
“Except, there is someone, isn’t there?” Gunnar asked. “I know how these things work.”
“Science is a wonderful thing,” Astrid said drily. “Perhaps that was the method I employed to find myself with child.”
“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me,” Gunnar said.
“No,” she responded. “But you didn’t have to return to Bjornland on my account.”
“I fear very much that I did. You have created an incident.”
“You create incidents nightly, brother dear.”
“I am not the heir, Astrid. And I am a man. You know that unfair as it is… It is different.”
“There is no incident,” Astrid insisted. “I am well within my rights to do this. I have done all of the research required to discern that.”
“Father’s council will oppose you. That is their function. To keep control and power, to keep traditions. To curb your power, because father believed that men were best left in charge and not women at all.”
“They can try,” Astrid said. “But they won’t succeed. They will not, and they cannot. Don’t you think, Gunnar, that I made absolutely sure I could not legally fail in this before committing?”
Gunnar shook his head. “You underestimate the power of old men who feel their traditions are being threatened.”
“This is a very old law,” Astrid said, looking square at her brother. They could not be more opposite in temperament. Gunnar was a risk taker. The rebel prince who spent his life skydiving out of planes, serving in the military and piloting helicopters. Who would have been perfectly at home at a club party like the one Astrid had attended only three months ago. When she had turned her world upside down, and made a choice to wrest control of her life away from the hands of those men he was talking about now.
He was like a Viking. His eyes the color of ice, his hair blond. His beard a darker gold that gave him a roguish appearance the press waxed poetic about.
The Viking Prince.
He was also her very best friend in the entire world, in spite of the fact that he was a massive pain. Latika saw him only as a pain, that much was clear. The feeling, it often seemed, was mutual.
“I have not underestimated anything. And I’m prepared for a fight. But there is a reason that I could let no one know before I made my announcement public. I also made sure that every media outlet was aware of the law in Bjornland. The one that protects the queen should she need to claim an heir as solely hers. Well, Latika ensured that made its way out to everyone.”
“Did you?” Gunnar asked. “Just how involved with all of this were you?”
“Latika does what I ask her to,” Astrid said.
Latika held up a hand and arched her dark brow. “It’s all right. I don’t need you to protect me from him. I have done my duty by my queen. And by this country. I may not be a citizen by birth, but I swear my allegiance, and you well know it.”
“For now. Until you go back to America. And then, all of these problems will be ours and ours alone.”
“Problems that I willingly took on,” she said, her tone firm. “I am a queen, I am not a child.”
“Your Majesty.” One of her guards rushed into the room, his expression harried. “It seems that we have an uninvited guest at the palace, and while we had thought to shoot him on sight, he is quite famous.”
Astrid blinked. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“A man has walked into the palace without permission,” the guard clarified.
“Then why didn’t you shoot him?” Gunnar asked.
“The fame,” the other man said. “We would be liable to create an international incident.”
“Who is it?” Astrid asked.
“Mauro Bianchi.”
Astrid’s stomach clenched, the blood in her veins turning to ice. There was no way. No possible way that he could know. She just didn’t give him that much credit. That he would recognize her. That he would care.
“What does he want?”
“He wishes to see you.”
“Now I really don’t like this,” Gunnar said. “Please tell me that this man was not involved in the creation of your child.”
“Define involved,” Astrid said.
“You know exactly what I mean. Don’t play coy, particularly if you don’t want to be treated like a child.”
“The child is mine,” Astrid repeated. “And mine alone.”
“Please speak to him?”
“Yes,” Astrid said. “I will speak to him.”
“And I shall accompany you,” Gunnar said.
“No,” Astrid said. “I will speak to him alone.”
“You’re not my queen,” Gunnar pointed out.
“I was unaware that you had become an expat of our beloved country, my dear brother.”
“You are my sister,” he said. “And that takes precedence over any title.”
“Then as my brother I ask you to respect my wishes. The fact that men would not respect my wishes is the reason this is happening.”
“I understand,” he said. “I understand full well why you feel you had to do this, Astrid. But you’re not alone. You have my support, and you will have my protection.”
“I don’t need it,” Astrid said. “I possess the power to command that he be shot on sight. Frankly, I could ask the same of you.”
“Were you… Issuing an order?” her guard asked.
“Not yet.” Astrid flicked a glance between her brother and Latika. “Will you please keep an eye on him?”
“I don’t get paid to babysit,” Latika pointed out.
“And I receive no compensation for spending time in the company of a snarling American,” Gunnar bit out. “But here we are.”
Astrid left, muttering about how she wouldn’t have to have him shot on sight, as he and Latika were just as likely to kill each other during her absence.
She made her way out into the antechamber of the Royal Palace, her heels clicking on the marble floor. When she saw him, her stomach dropped. His impact had not been diminished by their time apart. Not in the least. In fact, if anything, her response to him was even deeper. More visceral. Possibly because she knew exactly what he could make her feel now.
“May I help you?” she asked.
He stopped and reached into his jacket, and all of the guards in the room put their hands on their weapons.
“Stand down,” Astrid said. “He isn’t going to shoot me.”
“Not at all,” he responded. Instead, when he pulled his hand out, he was holding a shoe. Her shoe.
“I had thought that you might possess its partner.”
“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”
“Is that so? Alice.”
She stiffened, straightening her shoulders. “I am Queen Astrid von Bjornland. And I do not know anyone by that name. You are mistaken, sir.”
“And I am not blind. Your hair down, a bit more makeup and a bit more skin is hardly a convincing disguise, my Queen. If you wished to truly fool me you will have to try much harder than that.”
Irritation crept up her spine, irritation that he was not minding what he said in front of her guards. Irritation that he was here at all.
“Leave us,” she said, gesturing toward the guards.
The room cleared, every man leaving at her behest. At least she commanded authority over her own guards. There was that.
“Does every man in your life defer to you in such a manner?”
She met him full on, making her expression as imperious as possible. “Not just the men.”
“I am no one’s puppet,” he said.
“I did not need you to be a puppet.”
There was no point in lying to him. He wasn’t stupid. It was entirely too clear that they had met before. And there was something… Something between them, an electricity that arced across the space. There was no pretending anymore. She simply had to find out what he wanted and provide him with that, and try to end this encounter as quickly as possible.
“I need my freedom,” she said. “I am queen, and there are a great many people who don’t respect my position. I did what had to be done.”
“You tricked me into getting you pregnant.”
“I seduced you. I didn’t trick you. You went along with everything happily.”
“You said everything was all right. You said it was fine to have sex without a condom.”
“I said it was fine. And for my purposes it was. I sincerely hope that you don’t treat every hookup in such a casual manner when it comes to protection.”
“I don’t,” he said, the words gritted out through his teeth.
“Just with me, then. But still. I did not trick you. The fact that you assumed fine meant what you wanted it to mean and went along with it speaks to how foolish men are where sex is concerned.”
As if she would have been capable of making a more rational decision in the moment.
“I want my child,” he said.
“It’s my child.” Hers. Her child to love and to raise as she saw fit. To support and protect. And give all the things her parents never had. “By law. I can declare my child fatherless, and I have done so.”
“That might be a law, Queen Astrid, but it is not reality. I am the father of your child whether you speak it or not. And I am not one of your citizens.”
“No. But you are in my country. Which is where my child will be born. And my child is one of my citizens.”
“You underestimate me. You are so arrogant because of your position. You have no idea who you are dealing with. You feel that you face opposition? Do you truly understand what opposition is? It is not a disgruntled cough during a meeting that makes you feel as if someone might be challenging you. No. I will give you so much more than that. If you would like to learn about opposition, I will give you a study in it.”
“You should know that I don’t respond well to threats,” she said, her tone like ice. “Indeed, I don’t respond to them at all.”
“You don’t respond to empty threats. Because that is all the red-faced, posturing men that you’ve dealt with in the past have ever issued. But I will tell you, my Queen, my threats are never idle. They are very real. I might be a bastard of ignoble birth, but the power that I possess is very real indeed. What will the public think if I were to claim my child?”
“Why?” she asked. “It is my understanding that a man in your position will want nothing to do with the child. And that is one reason I selected you, lest you think that I meant you any harm or wanted anything from you.”
“You assumed you knew what manner of man I was based on the press and what they had written about me, and that was your first mistake. Tell me, Astrid, what does the press say about you? How true is it?”
“The press has never had occasion to write about a scandal of mine. And I knew full well going into this that I was inviting that. You cannot scare me.”
“You have imagined the wrong sorts of headlines, I think. I doubt what you want is a long-term custody battle looming over your head. The problem here is that you imagined me as a prop. A means to an end, but what you failed to see as you read all of those headlines, as you examine all those photos of me in the articles and imagine me touching you. Imagine me claiming that body of yours, and we both know you imagined it. That you got wet thinking of it late at night in your bed. You forgot what I am.”
Astrid drew back, her heart thundering. Because he was so close to the truth, it cut her close to the heart. He wasn’t wrong. She had imagined him as a chess piece. Capable of strategy, certainly, but she had also imagined that she could see ahead to every move he might make. That she understood what sort of man he was, and what he might want. But his standing here had proved already that he was not anything like she had anticipated.
She had thought of him as a barbarian, as a conqueror so many times. But in a vague, fantastical sense. In a sexual one. She had not thought in concrete terms about what it would mean to go up against this man.

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