by Kate Hewitt
‘She will succeed with or without you,’ Mateo snapped. ‘You are not here to make her succeed, but simply to provide her with the right clothes and make-up.’
Francesca’s head dipped lower. ‘As you say,’ she murmured.
‘Mateo.’ Rachel’s voice was gentle. ‘Honestly, it’s okay.’
But it wasn’t. He saw so clearly how she accepted being belittled, how she thought because she was curvy and dressed in shapeless clothes she wasn’t worth the same as a woman with a wasp-like waist and a similar attitude. Mateo hated it.
‘You will dress and style Kyria Lewis,’ he instructed the women, his eyes like lasers on the penitent Francesca. ‘I will review the terms of your contract with the palace myself before the day is out.’
The women murmured their thanks and he strode out of the room, still battling an inexplicable fury. Why did he care so much? Rachel didn’t. Why couldn’t he just let it go? Yet he found he couldn’t.
He’d never considered Rachel’s feelings in such a specific way before he’d decided to marry her. He’d never considered anyone’s feelings, he acknowledged with wry grimness, not really.
Not since Cressida, whose feelings he had considered both far too much and not nearly enough. The paradox of his relationship with her, the manic highs and terrible lows, was something he knew he wasn’t strong enough to experience again. And even though Rachel was entirely different, he feared the root cause of those emotions was the same. Love. Best to avoid.
And yet now, despite his determination to keep a certain aloofness, and for reasons he did not wish to probe too deeply, he felt as if he was changing. Now he cared—admittedly about something relatively small, but still. It mattered. It mattered to him.
Wanting to leave such disturbing thoughts behind, Mateo went to meet with the palace press officer and arrange the last details of their appearance on the main balcony. All the country’s press would be assembled in the courtyard below, along with most of Europe’s and some of Asia’s.
Kallyria was a small country, but since the discovery of oil beneath its lands, it had become a major player on the world stage. The whole world would be waiting for and watching this announcement. Mateo wanted to make sure everything was ready—and perfect.
At quarter to two, the door to the reception room whose French windows opened onto the main balcony opened, and Francesca ushered Rachel in, beaming with pride.
Mateo gave her a level look, still unimpressed by her behaviour, before turning his attention to his soon-to-be wife...and then trying not to let his jaw drop.
Rachel looked...like Rachel, yet more. Her hair had been trimmed and was styled in loose waves about her face, soft and glossy. She wore minimal make-up, but it highlighted everything Mateo liked about her—her lush and rosy lips, her dark eyes with their luxuriant lashes, and cheekbones that he hadn’t actually noticed before but now couldn’t tear his gaze away from.
She wore a simple wrap dress in forest-green silk—a dress that clung without being too revealing and made the most of the generous curves Mateo longed to touch and explore. Her shapely calves were encased in sheer tights, and accentuated by a pair of elegant black heels.
‘Well?’ Her voice held a questioning lilt that bordered on uncertainty. ‘Will I pass?’
‘You will more than pass.’ Mateo gave Francesca a grudging nod. ‘I meant what I said earlier, but I will admit you have done well.’
‘Thank you, Your Highness.’ She bobbed a curtsey and then was gone. Rachel walked slowly towards him, grimacing a little.
‘I’m tottering. I know it. I’m not used to heels.’
‘All you’ll have to do is step through those doors and stand still.’
She shot a worried look towards the gauze-covered windows. ‘How many people are out there?’
Mateo knew there was no point in dissembling. ‘Quite a few.’
Rachel nodded and ran her hands down the sides of her dress. ‘Okay.’ She threw back her shoulders and lifted her chin, as she’d done before when she was gathering her courage. He loved to see it.
‘I don’t look ridiculous, do I?’ she asked in a low voice. ‘You know, silk purse, sow’s ear...’
‘Rachel.’ Mateo stared at her incredulously. ‘You look amazing. Gorgeous, vibrant, full of life, sexy.’ The words spilled from him with conviction; they had to be said.
She stared at him for a moment, her lips parting, her eyes widening. Belatedly Mateo realised how intent he’d sounded, how involved. He cleared his throat, but before he could say anything more the press officer stepped forward.
‘If we could go over the schedule, Your Highness?’
‘Yes, in a moment.’ He waved the man aside before drawing the small black velvet box out of his jacket pocket. ‘You need one more thing to complete your outfit.’ Her eyes had widened at the sight of the box, and she didn’t speak. Mateo opened it to reveal a blue diamond encircled with smaller white diamonds, set on a ring of white gold. ‘This is the Kallyrian Blue. It has been in the royal family for six hundred years.’
‘Oh, my goodness...’ She looked up at him with genuine panic. ‘Can I please wear a fake? I cannot be responsible for a jewel that size.’
‘It is heavily insured, don’t worry. And it belongs to you now. It has always been the Queen’s engagement ring.’
‘Your mother...’
‘Was more than happy to pass it on.’
Rachel let out a shaky breath. ‘Whoo, boy.’ She held out her hand, and Mateo slipped the ring onto her finger.
‘There. Perfect.’
‘It’s so heavy.’ She let out a breathy, incredulous laugh. ‘I feel like I’m doing finger weights, or something.’
‘You’ll get used to it.’ Mateo gestured to the press officer, and he stepped forward. ‘Now, the schedule?’
The next ten minutes passed quickly as they rehearsed their brief performance—step out on the balcony, smile and wave, and then Mateo would introduce Rachel as his queen, with their wedding and joint coronation on Saturday to be celebrated as a national holiday.
‘That’s insane,’ Rachel murmured, and the press officer gave her an odd look.
‘It’s quite normal for royal weddings,’ Mateo remarked calmly.
‘Your Highness, it’s time!’
Mateo glanced at Rachel, who had suddenly morphed into the proverbial deer snared by headlights. She threw him a panicked look.
‘I can’t...’
‘You can.’ His voice was low and sure as he reached for her hand. ‘All you have to do is take a single step, smile and wave.’
She nodded rather frantically. ‘Smile and wave. Smile and wave.’
‘That’s it.’
Two attendants threw open the French windows that led out to the balcony, the massed crowd visible below in a colourful blur.
‘Oh, my heavens,’ Rachel whispered. ‘There are thousands of people down there.’
And even more watching the live video stream, but Mateo chose not to enlighten her.
‘Let’s do this,’ he said, echoing her words from before. She gave him a small smile of recognition, and then he drew her out onto the balcony, the applause crashing over them in a deafening wave as they appeared. He turned to Rachel, his mouth curving in pleasure and pride as she offered the crowds below a radiant smile and a decidedly royal wave.
After a few moments of cheering and clapping, Mateo made his announcement, which was met with even more applause and excited calls. Then a cry rose up: ‘Fili! Fili!’
Rachel’s forehead wrinkled slightly as she gave him a questioning look. She didn’t know what they were calling for, but Mateo did.
Kiss.
And it seemed like the most natural thing to do, to take her in his arms, her curves fitting snugly against him, and kiss her on the lips.
CHAPTER NINE
/> RACHEL GAZED DOWN at the list of potential charities to support and marvelled for about the hundredth time that this was now her life.
The last three days had felt like a dream. She had, quite deliberately, chosen to enjoy all the good and ignore the worrisome or flat-out terrifying. And there was a lot of good—not least the people who surrounded her, who were determined to help her to succeed.
The day after her arrival and the announcement on the balcony, Agathe had invited Rachel to her private rooms for breakfast. Eighteen hours later, Rachel’s lips had been practically still buzzing from the quick yet thorough kiss Mateo had given her, to the uproarious approval of the crowds below. He’d given her a fleeting, self-satisfied smile afterwards, his eyes glinting with both knowledge and possession, while Rachel had tottered back into the palace on unsteady legs that had had nothing to do with her heels.
She and Agathe had chatted easily over croissants and Greek yogurt withsweet golden honey and slices of succulent melon.
‘I can see now more than ever that my son has made a good choice,’ Agathe said with a little smile and Rachel blushed as she recalled that kiss yet again.
‘It’s not like that,’ she felt compelled to protest. ‘We’re only friends. What I mean is, that’s all we’ve been.’
‘And it is a good, strong foundation for a marriage. Much better than—’ She stopped abruptly, making Rachel frown in confusion.
‘Much better than what?’ she prompted.
‘Oh, you know.’ Agathe laughed lightly as she poured them both more of the strong Greek coffee. ‘The usual fleeting attraction or empty charm.’
Yet as Agathe dazzled her with a determinedly bright smile, Rachel couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been about to say something else, something she’d decided not to.
Despite that brief moment of awkwardness, the rest of the conversation was easy and comfortable, and Rachel’s initial concerns about being intimidated by Mateo’s elegant mother proved to be as ill-founded as she might have hoped.
After breakfast, the over-the-top unreality of her situation continued as her personal assistant Monica—a neatly efficient woman in her late twenties—introduced herself and put herself entirely at Rachel’s disposal.
Then came another session with Francesca, who was becoming a firm friend. Rachel knew, despite Mateo’s outrage, that the stylist had been merely pragmatic in her assessment of Rachel’s looks, although she apologised yet again when they met to discuss her wardrobe, and in particular her evening gown for the ball in a few days’ time, and also for her wedding in less than a week.
Rachel’s head continued to spin as she was outfitted beyond her wildest imaginings—yet with an eye to what she liked and felt comfortable in. Instead of shapeless trouser suits, she had chic separates in jewel-toned colours that Francesca assured her highlighted her ‘flawless skin’ and ‘gorgeous eyes and hair’. Rachel had never heard herself described in such glowing terms, and some battered part of her that she hadn’t let herself acknowledge began to heal...just as it had when Mateo told her she was gorgeous and sexy.
But surely he couldn’t have meant that...?
Whether he did or not was not something Rachel let herself dwell on for too long, because either way they were getting married. She’d already told herself she could manage without love, and that included desire, too. At least the kind of head-over-heels, can’t-live-without-you desire she knew Mateo didn’t feel for her, no matter what he had said.
The trouble was, she felt a little of it for him. Looking at him was starting to send shivery sparks racing along her nerve-endings, and sometimes when she was watching him she had an almost irresistible urge to touch him. Run her hand along the smooth-shaven sleekness of his jaw, or trail her fingertips along the defined pecs she saw beneath the crisp cotton of his shirt.
She didn’t, of course, not that she had any opportunity. In the three days since she’d arrived on Kallyria, she’d barely seen Mateo at all. Which was fine, she reminded herself more than once, because he had a country to run and she had a wedding—a whole life—to prepare for.
Rachel made a few ticks next to charities she was interested in supporting before laying the paper aside. She was in her private study, on the ground floor of the palace, a spacious and elegant room with long, sashed windows open to the fragrant gardens outside. Even though it was autumn, the air was still warm, far balmier than the best British summer.
Despite all the beauty and opulence surrounding her, Rachel felt a little flicker of homesickness that she did her best to banish. As wonderful as all this was, as kind as people were, it was still all incredibly unfamiliar. She kept feeling as if she were living someone else’s life, and as small as her own had been, at least it had been hers.
At least she’d been able to email her friends and have regular updates about her mother. Her friends had been amazed and thrilled by her change in circumstances; apparently her and Mateo’s kiss had been on the cover of several British tabloids. Rachel hadn’t felt brave enough to look at any of it online. The thought of seeing herself splashed on the covers of national magazines was both too surreal and scary even to contemplate, much less actually inspect.
Several of her friends and former colleagues from Cambridge were coming to the wedding, all at Mateo’s expense, a prospect that lifted her spirits a bit. She wasn’t completely cut off from her old life, even if sometimes she felt as if she were.
Rachel rested her chin on her hand as she gazed outside. A bright tropical butterfly landed on a crimson hibiscus blossom, the sight as incredible as anything she might find in the pages of a nature magazine, and yet commonplace in this new world of hers.
She supposed she was bound to feel a bit uncertain and out of sorts, at least at the start. Everything had happened so fast, and the change had been so enormous. She wished she’d seen more of Mateo, because she recognised that he grounded her, and his reassurance would go a long way. But when she’d asked that morning, one of the palace staff had informed her he’d left for the north of the country last night, and wouldn’t be back until this evening. He hadn’t even told her he was leaving. And she kept telling herself not to mind.
But that didn’t mean she had to sit and do nothing about it.
Rachel was busy for the rest of the afternoon, between fittings for her evening gown and wedding dress, and lessons on comportment that Agathe had gently advised her to attend. Rachel hadn’t even known what those were until she’d shown up for her first one, and Agathe had begun to explain how to both sit and stand in public; how to make small talk with strangers; how to navigate a table setting with six separate forks, knives, and spoons.
At first Rachel had bristled slightly at the instruction; she wasn’t a complete yokel, after all. She knew how to behave in public, surely, and she’d made small talk with plenty of people over her years in academia. Still, it hadn’t taken her long to realise, when it came to royalty, she was out of her element, and Agathe was here to help her. She had only a week to become royalty-ready, and she—and Agathe—were determined to make the most of every moment.
As evening fell, the sky scattered with stars, Rachel heard the sound she hadn’t even realised she’d been waiting for—the loud, persistent whirr of a helicopter. From the window of her bedroom she watched the royal helicopter touch down on the palace’s helipad.
Mateo was back...and she was going to find him.
Mateo scrubbed his gritty eyes as he tried to refocus on the report he was reading. He’d barely slept last night, having spent the last forty-eight hours on the move in the north, trying to arrange a meeting with the leader of the insurgents gathering there.
Despite the unrest, the realisation of his marriage and ascension to the throne had made them more willing to consider a compromise, thank heaven. His marriage to Rachel was already paying dividends.
Rachel. He hadn’t seen her in several da
ys, and barely before that. Barely since the kiss on the balcony, when they’d as good as sealed the deal. He wondered how she was now, if she was coping with all the change and busyness. He told himself she was too sensible to have cold feet, but he wished he could see her. He’d make time tomorrow, he promised himself. At least, he’d try to.
A soft footfall outside had him tensing. The palace was nearly impregnable and teeming with security. He wasn’t nervous, not exactly...just conscious that he’d spent the last few days negotiating with desperate men who were little more than terrorists, and if they wanted to put an end to him, before his wedding would be the time to do it.
‘Mateo...?’ The voice was soft, low, and wonderfully familiar.
‘In here.’
The door creaked open and Rachel peeked her head in, smiling with relief when she saw him. ‘I’ve been wandering around in my nightgown, which I realised is probably not the best idea. Certainly not queenly behaviour.’
‘Well, you’re not a queen yet.’ Mateo smiled, pleasure at seeing her like honey in his veins. She was wearing an ivory dressing gown that was all silk and lace and hugged her sweet curves lovingly.
She caught him looking at her and, grimacing, spread her arms wide. ‘Isn’t this the most ridiculous thing ever? Francesca insists it’s perfectly appropriate night-time attire for a queen, but I feel a bit like—I don’t know—Lady Godiva.’
‘As I recall, Lady Godiva was meant to be naked, as well as on a horse.’
‘Right.’ Rachel laughed huskily. ‘Well, you know what I mean.’
Yes, he did. Just as he knew that with the lamplight behind her and her arms spread, Rachel might as well be naked. Out of decency he knew he should inform her of the fact, but he didn’t want to embarrass her—and he was enjoying the view.
‘Anyway.’ She dropped her arms and moved towards him, so the robe became seemly again, more was the pity. ‘Where have you been? How are you? I haven’t seen you since—well, since the balcony.’
