by Abby Green
‘Not at all. It’s perfect.’
Alexa stared at her carefully made-up face with critical indifference. Perfect would be to have the task ahead of her put behind her and sorted to her satisfaction.
‘And you’re sure he doesn’t want to get married?’ she asked, her outward calm slipping ever so slightly. One of the things that made the Prince so perfect was his reported disinclination to marry. If he didn’t want to marry he would never want to make their union permanent and interfere with her chance to do things her way.
‘Absolutely.’ Nasrin nodded. ‘He’s been on record as saying he never intends to marry. Not that the women seem to be listening. They throw themselves at him like lemmings off a cliff, hoping to be the one to change his mind.’
So why did she feel so sick?
Probably because actually attracting the attention of a man like the Prince was completely foreign to her, thanks to her father’s strict rules and regulations, and her own sense of inadequacy with men. Not that she’d always felt that way. Once, when she was seventeen, she’d believed a man—Stefano—had found her beautiful. But what he’d really found was that she was gullible. Gullible enough to be seduced by a man who was more interested in her title than her as a woman. The mistake had hit her budding confidence hard, pushing her to focus on her degree in business management, and her royal duties, to the exclusion of all else.
Not that she wanted to attract Prince Rafaele. No, she only wanted his cooperation in a scheme that, in the end, would serve him as equally as it would her by restoring cordial relations between their two nations. A scheme that had seemed a lot easier to follow through on when she’d gone over it late at night in her bed than in the cold light of day.
Trying to remain positive, Alexa slipped on her heels and smoothed her hands down her bespoke gown, ignoring how the clever creation made her feel both elegant and naked—which, according to her exuberant assistant, was the whole point of the design.
‘You will feel sexy and alluring,’ Nasrin had assured her when she’d first set eyes on the dress. ‘And every man in the room will look at you and want you.’
Right now she felt as sexy and alluring as a tree. And she didn’t want every man in the room looking at her. She was nervous enough thinking about one man looking at her.
She picked up the dossier Nasrin had put together on Prince Rafaele last week, rifling through photo after photo of him attending parties and movie premieres every other week. Vastly wealthy in his own right, he owned an empire of nightclubs and bars across Europe that, once opened, became the only place to be seen. ‘Dens of iniquity, her father had once disparaged.
An unwanted shiver shot through her as she gazed at a shirtless photo of the Prince holding onto a sail line on the deck of a yacht. His white trousers were flattened against his muscular thighs by the breeze, his dark shoulder-length hair streaming out behind him, his broad chest deeply tanned to the colour of the teak deck. His face was turned towards the camera and the lens had lovingly captured his perfect wide smile, hawkish features and startling blue eyes as he laughed at something in the distance.
The caption underneath read: The Rebel Prince in search of sun, fun and adventure.
Alexa studied his image. Despite his relaxed pose there was something about the way he held himself that said Danger...beware. A jaded slant to his lips that indicated that he had seen everything there was to see in life, and was surprised by none of it. Which would be a good thing if he went along with her plan because their break-up would seem inevitable: the Playboy Prince and the shrinking violet could never have lasted. Not that she was a shrinking violet. She just chose not to make waves if she didn’t have to.
‘Hot, isn’t he?’ Nasrin said as she glanced at the photo before running a practised eye over Alexa. ‘You look stunning, Your Highness. The Prince won’t be able to resist you.’
While Alexa appreciated Nasrin’s optimism, she knew from personal experience that men found her all too easy to resist. ‘More likely he’ll laugh in my face.’ She closed the file. ‘And if he’s that opposed to marriage he might not even go for a temporary engagement.’
‘But you have an ace up your sleeve. If he agrees, it could help settle all the bad blood between our nations. Of course he’ll go for that. And the engagement would only be temporary. Unless...’ Nasrin’s pretty eyes sparkled mischievously ‘...you fall in love with each other.’
Alexa shook her head. Nasrin had a romantic nature that no amount of rational conversation could extinguish. And while Alexa might have once craved love and a happy-ever-after too, she’d been disappointed enough in the past not to wait around for it.
Love wasn’t as important as dignity. Self-respect. Objectivity. And imagining the Prince of Santara falling in love with her, or her with him, was frankly hilarious.
‘That’s as likely to happen as the moon is to turn blue,’ she said dryly.
‘If you wish hard enough, Your Highness, you’ll get whatever you ask for.’
Alexa knew that rarely happened either.
‘Fortunately, I don’t want the Prince’s love. Just his co-operation.’
‘Then go get it,’ Nasrin urged with a flourish.
Alexa smiled. Nasrin had been like a gift when she’d come to work for her after Sol had died, organising her life and making her smile again with her chatty, easy nature. Everything else had felt so oppressive at the time, oppressive and overwhelming, during those dark days.
Not that she begrudged her role as the future Queen of Berenia. She didn’t because she loved her country, and her countrymen, and she wanted to do the best job for them in Sol’s stead. She wanted to make her father proud. And if the Prince went along with her plan she could do that. She could help rebuild relations between Berenia and Santara, and buy herself the necessary time to make a marriage that not only pleased her father but herself as well.
The decider would be whether or not she could implement a plan that had seemed perfectly logical at inception, but now felt desperately naive.
But if the Prince turned her down she’d just have to find someone else. Because the alternative—marrying the man who was on top of her father’s list of eligible suitors—didn’t bear thinking about.
* * *
Rafe gazed around the ballroom of the Santarian Summer Palace, a place he’d spent many formative years, with mixed emotions. As a general rule he tried not to return here very often, not only because it didn’t hold the best memories, but because when he’d left Santara as a disaffected teenager he’d cut all ties with his nation.
And he wasn’t sorry that he had. He didn’t miss the life here. He didn’t miss the sun that was hot enough most of the year to blister paint, and he didn’t miss the endless round of lacklustre royal duties his father had expected him to carry out as the second son of Santara. The less important son. He didn’t miss having his ideas shot down in flames by a man who had never understood his drive and ambition to forge his own path in life.
‘It’s lucky you’re a prince, sibi,’ his father had often snarled. ‘You’d amount to nothing if you weren’t.’
Hard-nosed and narrow-minded, his father had treated opposing opinions as little more than ripples on a quiet pond.
Rafe had learned not to care, disconnecting from his father, and rubbing his nose in it any chance that he got. And despite—or perhaps because of—his father’s convictions that he wouldn’t amount to anything he’d made a success of his life.
He’d broken free of the constraints of royal duty and lived life on his own terms. Not that his father was around to see it. His death when Rafe had been eighteen was the very thing that had set him free. Or rather his brother had set him free when he’d stepped into the role of King at nineteen and given Rafe permission to spread his wings.
Returning from studying in the US at the time, Rafe knew that Jag could have used his insider knowle
dge and support, and it was only now, looking back, that he understood the sacrifice his brother had made for him, shouldering the burden of a troubled nation on his own and never asking anything of Rafe in return.
Once sharing what he would have said was an unbreakable bond, their relationship had grown strained with distance and Rafe was never sure how to bridge the gulf without losing himself in the process. Still, he owed Jag a debt of gratitude, even if his brother didn’t think so.
Catching the direction of his thoughts before they progressed any further, Rafe shook them off with well-practised ease. This was partly the reason he hated returning home. The memories, the choked feeling of constraint and the heaviness that came over him that wasn’t a part of the life that he lived now. A life based on unsurpassed pleasure, beauty and freedom. A life he lived predominantly in England, where he’d used a stellar investment in technology while attending Cambridge to purchase his first bar and nightclub. He had ‘the touch’ some said, an innate ability to tap into what his clientele wanted and to transform any venue he took over into the hottest place in town.
Which often made him the hottest property in town, pursued again and again by women looking to change his mind about remaining single. Something he had no intention of doing. Ever. In his experience the novelty factor rarely lasted beyond the bedroom and, even if it did, his parents’ tumultuous relationship had cured him of ever thinking marriage was an institution he wanted to be part of.
Much better to have fun while it lasted, and move on before anyone got hurt. And if the tabloids wanted to paint him as a playboy prince to get foot traffic on their websites, that was hardly his problem. Something Jag didn’t understand.
But then Jag was still a little aggrieved about the whole French heiress debacle at this event last year. Having grown bored early on in the night, Rafe had taken her to his hot tub upstairs, only to have her post photos of the two of them to her social media account. If he’d known Jag was in the middle of important negotiations with her father at the time he would have insisted that she leave her phone downstairs.
An oversight that had led him to promise his brother that he would stay out of trouble this evening. Which wasn’t exactly fair because Rafe rarely went looking for trouble any more. More often than not it found him.
As if on cue, he saw his sister making a beeline for him as she wound her way through the throng of impeccably groomed guests at the ball.
‘I take it the ostrich lost?’ he teased, his eyes going to the brightly coloured feathers covering her skirt. ‘Or do you have plans to return the outfit to the poor creature at the end of the night?’
‘Laugh all you want,’ Milena challenged with narrowed eyes. ‘But I love the dress and every feather had already been shed before it was collected. Is that what you were grinning at before? Or was it something else? I swear you had that glint in your eye that said you were up to no good.’
‘Just remembering a certain French heiress I met at about this time last year.’
‘Oh, please.’ Milena rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t let Jag hear you say the words “French” and “heiress” together in a sentence; he’ll blow a gasket.’
‘He needs to loosen up. He got the deal with her father through in the end so it was a win-win for both of us.’
‘No thanks to you,’ she retorted. ‘When are you going to start dating women you respect and want to—’
‘Don’t say it.’ Rafe shuddered. ‘I like to imagine that you’re still innocent of such matters. And anyway, I promised our esteemed brother that I’d be on my best behaviour tonight, so don’t worry.’
He gave his sister his trademark grin, knowing that it wouldn’t work one bit. She might be six years younger than his thirty years but she’d always had his measure.
‘That only makes me worry more.’ She groaned. ‘And, speaking of Jag, you need to cut him some slack. He’s got a lot on his plate right now.’
‘Like?’
‘The Berenian thing.’
‘Still?’ Rafe arched a brow. He knew Berenia was causing problems but he’d thought that would have died down by now. ‘So he didn’t marry their revered Princess last year. They need to move on and get over it.’
‘There’s more to it than that. Santara has advanced much further on the world stage than Berenia, which brings its own set of resentments.’
‘Yes, but still their incompetence can hardly be our problem.’
‘I don’t know the ins and outs of it but... Oh, there’s Jag, looking for us. I was supposed to find you so we can get the official photos out of the way.’
‘Lead on,’ Rafe said with amusement. He’d smile and play nice so his brother would have nothing to grumble about at the end of the night. Then tomorrow he’d fly home and resume his normal life, which wasn’t dictated by pomp or protocol.
‘Rafa.’ Jag greeted him with a hint of stiffness. ‘I wasn’t sure you were going to make it this year.’
‘Never miss it. Especially if there’s a French heiress to be had.’
‘Rafa!’ Milena scolded under her breath. ‘You promised.’
Rafe laughed. ‘Don’t worry. Jag knows I’m joking.’
‘Jag hopes you’re joking,’ his brother muttered. ‘And just because you made a career out of annoying our father don’t feel that you have to carry the tradition on with me because I’m King.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ Rafe grinned. ‘I hear you’re having some issues with the Berenians.’
‘Don’t mention that word. I swear they’re the most stubborn people on earth.’
A photographer stopped in front of them. ‘The lighting is probably better over by the far column, Your Majesty; do you mind moving in that direction?’
‘Not at all,’ Jag said, casting his eyes across the sea of chattering guests until he spotted what he was looking for. He crooked his finger, a small smile playing at the edges of his mouth, softening his face in a way Rafe had rarely seen before. Following his line of sight, he watched as Jag’s new wife made her way towards them. Clearly pregnant, in a slim-fitting gown, she looked beautiful and only had eyes for his brother.
When she reached his side, Rafe could have sworn the rest of the room dissolved for both of them. Bemused, he wondered what it felt like to want someone that much, and then decided he didn’t want to know.
‘Good evening, Your Majesty,’ Rafe greeted his new Queen. ‘You’re looking as beautiful as ever.’ He took her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Should you ever tire of my stiff-necked brother, you only have to—’
‘Rafa—’ Jag began warningly.
Queen Regan laughed softy and placed her hand on his brother’s arm. ‘Always the devil, Rafaele.’ She smiled at him. ‘It’s a skill to make a pregnant woman blush. But where is your date tonight? I understand you’re seeing a Spanish supermodel. Ella? Or Esme?’
‘Estela,’ Rafe corrected.
‘My apologies.’ She glanced around curiously. ‘Did you bring her with you?’
‘Unfortunately, we had a difference in priorities and parted ways.’
‘And you’re clearly crestfallen.’ Regan arched a brow, a playful glow in her eyes. ‘Do I want to know what those priorities were?’
‘If you two are quite finished flirting,’ Jag said with an edge of menace in his voice, ‘the photographer is waiting.’
‘Sorry.’ Regan threaded her arm through his. ‘But I’m a married woman now. I have to live vicariously and Rafaele always has such interesting stories.’
‘I’ll give you an interesting story later on,’ Jag promised throatily. ‘For now just smile and imagine it.’
‘Whatever they have, I don’t want it,’ Rafe grouched, lining up on the other side of his sister.
‘It’s called love,’ Milena said impishly. ‘And I can’t wait to experience it.’
‘Just don’t fall in l
ove with anyone I haven’t checked out first,’ Rafe warned sternly.
‘Oh, fiddle.’ She waved him away. ‘You and Jag are as bad as each other. You’re more alike than you might think.’
She was wrong. It had always been easier to be the bad to Jag’s good. But he didn’t offer an objection. Instead he pasted a smile on his face and pinched his sister’s side just as the photographer clicked the shutter. Milena kicked his ankle in return and it was their usual game on to see who could make the other break first.
Two hours later, bored to the bone, Rafe thought about heading to his hot tub—alone—when he saw her. A vision who appeared to be nude at first glance but who, unfortunately, wasn’t. But she was breathtaking, with her dark hair, smooth caramel skin and elegant cameo-like profile. Her delicate features were complemented by slender curves and long legs.
They’d fit, he realised with a jolt, somehow already knowing just how good they would be together though he’d never even spoken to her. Instantly intrigued by the notion that he wanted to know the colour of her eyes and the taste of her lips under his. He wanted to feel her warm silken skin and feast his eyes on her sweet curves as he stripped that clever gown from her body with aching slowness for the very first time.
As if sensing the heat of his thoughts, she turned her head, her eyes instantly finding his.
She blinked, as if she felt the caress of the erotic images coursing through his brain, a flush touching her high cheekbones. Or was that just his imagination going overboard? It certainly couldn’t be because of the fool standing in front of her. Count Kushnir wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like that if he had a set of instructions and an accompanying magnifying glass.
Rafe let a slow grin curve the corners of his lips, noting the way her eyes widened with alarm as if she too already knew that they were destined to become lovers.
