The Prince I Love to Hate: A Steamy Romantic Comedy (The Heir Affair Book 1)

by Iris Morland

  This time, it wasn’t the wind. It was a door opening, but not the one I’d just gone through. As I listened, I heard footsteps and the faint creaking of boards.

  My heart was hammering. I realized I’d left the desk lamp light on, but if I turned it off now, it would alert the intruder to my presence.

  And because I was an idiot, apparently, I was too slow to slip out the door, because the footsteps were getting closer to my hiding place. I was now hiding behind an armchair as I watched the shadowy figure make their way to a chest of drawers on the opposite wall. The person’s back was turned, but I was pretty sure it was a man. And that man was now trying to open one of the drawers, muttering under his breath when it proved to be locked.

  So much for my theory that he was probably harmless or a servant looking for a book to read. Anger spiked within me. How dare he try to steal from my grandda? From me?

  I was torn between calling the police and just staying hidden until the man left when he began moving closer to where I was hiding. I had no escape route now. Panicking, I jumped from my hiding place, raised the book I’d retrieved, and hit the intruder upside the head.

  “Merde!” The figure staggered backward, clutching at their head. Something thumped onto the floor.

  I was sweating and panting, wishing I’d been smart enough to return to my room. I turned to run, but it was dark enough in the room that I didn’t see the person’s foot right next to me. I went tumbling, landing on top of them. Based on the low voice, they were most likely male.

  “Let me go!” I was saying, pushing at his hands. “I’ll scream—!”

  He somehow maneuvered both of us so that I was underneath him. He clapped a hand over my mouth before I could scream. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm. “Let me turn on a light.”

  I knew that voice: the Golden Man. I was still as he rose, and then I was blinking like an owl when he turned on a light. He stood over me, a rueful smile on his handsome face. I could see the edge of a large bruise forming at his hairline from where I’d hit him.

  “You!” I got up before he could offer me his hand.

  He curled his fingers into his hand, an amused smile on his face. “You say that so accusingly.” He rubbed at the spot on his head where I’d hit him. “What the hell did you hit me with? And why did you have to hit me so hard?”

  “What do you think I hit you with in a library? A book.”

  “It felt more like a brick.”

  “I don’t generally carry bricks around to hit people with as I’m exploring my grandda’s house in the middle of the night.”

  “Now that’s genuinely shocking.”

  I snorted, but as Golden Man rubbed at the bruise on his head, I felt guilty, too. I hoped I hadn’t given him a concussion. It would just be my luck that I’d injure one of the staff before I’d even been here for twenty-four hours.

  I swallowed my pride. “I’m sorry I hit you. Is it bad?”

  “Hard to say. I should probably go to hospital all the same. I’m feeling rather dizzy, if I’m honest. Should I be seeing spots in my vision? Oh dear.” He lurched forward toward a nearby chair.

  I froze. “The hospital? Are you sure? Shit, I’m so, so sorry. Let me help you sit down—”

  Golden Man started laughing, and his pained look disappeared in an instant. “You should see the expression on your face,” he said, still laughing, hard enough that he was wiping tears from his eyes.

  I stiffened my spine. “You—are you fucking serious right now?”

  “About what, precisely?”

  I growled. Grabbing the book of poetry, I lifted it threateningly. “I swear to God, do you need to go to the hospital or not? If you lie to me, I’ll hit you again.”

  “What a vicious girl you are.”

  “Tell me!”

  I was so focused on his answer that I didn’t feel him pluck the book from my fingers before it was too late. “Yeats? Very appropriately Irish of you.” He flipped through the pages, as if he had all the time in the world to choose a poem. He then began to read:

  A mermaid found a swimming lad,

  Picked him for her own,

  Pressed her body to his body,

  Laughed: and plunging down

  Forgot in cruel happiness

  That even lovers drown.

  His accent made the words especially erotic, and it was like I could feel them against my skin. When he’d finished, his gaze was heated.

  “Pretty mermaid, are you here to drown me?” he asked.

  I felt like the world had tipped on its side. One minute I was afraid that I’d seriously injured this strange man; the next, he was practically propositioning me with poetry. Whatever happened to a “u up?” booty call message on Tinder? This guy was playing on an entirely new level compared to the men I’d dated.

  “I’m not a mermaid.” I tried to take the book back, but Golden Man’s grip was stronger than I’d anticipated. “Give that back.”

  “If you say please.” He smiled, his teeth white and straight and obnoxious.

  I scowled. “How about I promise not to hit you again and give you an actual concussion instead?”

  “Americans have a strange way of saying please.”

  Backed into a proverbial corner, I finally muttered please, very tempted to carry out my threat of hitting him a second time. Holding the book to my chest, I narrowed my eyes at the Golden Man.

  “Why are you skulking about my grandda’s library in the middle of the night?” I asked. In all the commotion, I’d yet to find out what the hell he was even doing here.

  “I’d ask you the same question.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m the granddaughter of the owner.” And will soon own it out right, I thought. “I don’t have to tell you anything. You, however, work here, and based on our initial encounter, you have no reason to be in the library.”

  “Are you saying landscapers shouldn’t have access to knowledge?” He clucked his tongue. “That’s not very American of you. Aren’t you all about equality and freedom—”

  “Please shut up. You talk too much.”

  He just bowed.

  “Now, stop trying to weasel your way out of answering my question. Why were you trying to go through those drawers? What are you trying to steal?” I held up my phone like it was a weapon. “I’ll call the cops if you don’t tell me. I doubt you want to go to jail tonight.”

  Golden Man just crossed his arms. He looked way too relaxed, although in the dim light, I could make out how tight his jaw was clenched. He held out his hands, even going so far as to pull out his pockets. “I’ve stolen nothing. What would be the charges?”

  “Um, trespassing?”

  “I work here.”

  “Not in the middle of the night. No one but the security guard does. I already confirmed that fact.”

  He chuckled. “Aren’t you thorough?”

  I didn’t know the number for emergencies here in Ireland, but I began to dial 911 anyway. Hopefully my smartphone was actually smart enough to know what I meant.

  As I tapped the 1 on my phone, Golden Man said, “Fine, fine! I’ll tell you everything.” He scowled. “Damn harpy woman,” he muttered.

  I decided I’d ignore that comment. Returning my phone to my robe’s pocket, I gestured at the armchair I’d been hiding behind just minutes earlier. “Sit.”

  We sat down across from each other. Golden Man crossed his legs, waiting for me to begin the interrogation.

  “How about we start with an easy question: what’s your name? And please, don’t give me some random answer that doesn’t actually answer the question.”

  “My name is Olivier.”

  I waited for more, but Olivier didn’t seem inclined to give me a last name. Fine. It was better than nothing.

  “I’m Niamh,” I said.

  Olivier’s lips twitched. “You already told me that. Or do you not remember our first meeting?”

  “I’ve been so busy t
hat it completely slipped my mind.” My tone was sugar-sweet. “But now that I at least have a name for you, how about you tell me why you’ve been skulking around my grandda’s library two nights in a row?”

  “Skulk? I’ve never skulked in my life.” He almost sounded genuinely offended.

  “Sneak, then?” I pulled up the thesaurus on my phone just to be extra petty. “Oh, here we go: how about snoop? Wait, creep is a good one. You’ve definitely been creeping. A creep who’s been sneakily skulking in my library—”

  Olivier said something in what I presumed to be French, ruffling his hair as he sifted his fingers through it. “You’re like a dog with a bone.”

  “If I need to, I’ll sit on you until you tell me the truth. I have all night, mister.”

  I realized I’d made a technical error when his eyes flashed. “You make it sound like you sitting on my lap would be a burden. Not when I was done with you.”

  I was glad it was dark enough that he couldn’t see me blushing like a teenage girl. “Stop flirting with me to distract me!” I was close to throwing the book still clutched in my hands at his big, dumb face. “Get on with your explanation!”

  “You’re not giving me much of a reason to be honest with you.”

  I just waited. He could either spill his guts, or I’d…do something. Hit him again with another, much heavier book. Maybe push him out of a window. They’d never find his body once he hit the dark water below.

  “I’m looking for something,” said Olivier. “Something your grandfather had in his possession.”

  I propped my chin on my hand. “I figured out that much for myself,” I said wryly.

  Olivier rubbed at his head where I’d hit him with the book. He said something in French again—probably something about how women were evil she-demons. I’d admit, seeing him wince was immensely satisfying.

  “I’m looking for an antique that your grandfather bought years ago. It’s extremely important to my family.”

  My ears perked up. “An antique what?”

  Olivier sat up slightly to pull out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to me, not needing to say the words “antique clock” because I’d already unfolded the paper to see the clock in question. The same exact clock that my father, not my grandfather, possessed.

  My mind moved rapidly. Suddenly, things were becoming even more complicated than they had been just an hour ago. Why was this clock so valuable? Was it full of diamonds or something? Maybe it contained the key to some safe that was filled with gemstones. Or cocaine. Knowing my luck, it was probably full of cocaine.

  “Okay,” I said slowly. I handed him back the paper. “Why do you think my grandda has—had—this clock?”

  “I can’t divulge that information.”

  He said it so haughtily that I was tempted to hit him with my book a second time, but I refrained. I needed him conscious at this moment in time. Mostly, though, I had a feeling this Golden Man who’d randomly showed up in my grandda’s library and who was looking for the exact same thing I was searching for was such an insane coincidence that I knew it couldn’t be entirely a coincidence.

  There was something about this clock that was more important than it being a family heirloom. What, exactly, I couldn’t begin to guess.

  “Well, my grandda is dead.” I waved a hand. “And I haven’t seen that clock anywhere in this house.” Olivier didn’t know that this was my first visit—probably. Hopefully.

  “Yes, I realized that when I first arrived.” Olivier steepled his fingers, his fingers long, his nails perfectly filed. Strange, for someone who supposedly worked with plants and dirt all day.

  I knew in that moment I had two choices: I could keep the small nugget of information that I had about the clock in question—that my father was the one who had it—to myself. Or I could use it as a way to get Olivier to share his information.

  I could hear my brother Liam’s voice in my head. Don’t show your cards too soon. Let the other person wait. Sometimes patience is all that stands between you and victory, even if the chips are down.

  “I’m going to go out on a limb and say that you’re not, in fact, a gardener.”

  Olivier looked at this steepled hands and grinned. “Guilty as charged. I got a job here on false pretenses, I admit it. I wanted to find out any information I could. Unfortunately, the one person who could’ve given me any information is dead.” He shot me a look. “My condolences, of course.”

  “I didn’t know him. Apparently, everybody who knew him hated him. My brother practically threw a party when we found out he’d died.”

  Olivier choked back a laugh, coughing into his fist to cover it. “Then I retract my condolences.” His gaze went distant as he added, “This clock, though. It’s extremely important to my family, to my mother especially. I promised her that I would find it for her.” Something shadowy crossed over his face when he said those words, which, annoyingly enough, made him seem less of a fallen angel and more of an actual human being.

  “It’s funny that you’re searching for this clock,” I said slowly, “because I’m also looking for it. Although for a different reason.”

  Olivier’s gaze landed on me, hard. “You know about it? How?”

  “I’m not at leisure to disclose my sources,” I said sweetly.

  He looked at me for a longer moment, as if trying to understand my motives. I wasn’t entirely certain of my own motives, beyond knowing that if this man was the key to finding my father, I’d use this opportunity, regardless of the consequences.

  “I have a feeling you know what this all means,” I said.

  Olivier leaned back in his chair. “Do I?”

  “Do I really need to say something straight out of The Godfather? ‘I have a proposition you can’t refuse.’”

  “As long as I don’t have a horse head in my bed in the morning, then I’ll hear this proposition.” His lips quirked. “I always enjoy women propositioning me.”

  I wanted to dunk his face in the nearest flower arrangement. “Keep your pants on, dude. I know who owns this clock you want, and if you agree to help me—help us—find it, I won’t call the police and press charges for trespassing.”

  “You don’t know if I have any more useful information,” he pointed out.

  “Then we’ll go our separate ways and never think about the other person again.”

  Olivier considered me, stroking his bottom lip as he did so. It was strangely sensual, making heat curl in my belly. I barely restrained myself from squirming in my seat.

  Look, I wasn’t some naive virgin. I’d had sex. Okay, I could count on my hand how many times I’d had sex, but it had happened. So I was hardly some desperate idiot who’d fall at the feet of a man so handsome it made me want to light myself on fire.

  I had self-respect. I had my pride.

  But, apparently, my body didn’t give two shits about pride. He’s yummy yummy yummy yummy and you should jump on that ASAP. Get down and dirty for once, girl!

  “Let me think about this proposition,” said Olivier. “We can reconvene at nine AM tomorrow.” He glanced at his watch. “Or today, rather.”

  “Fine by me.” I stood up, and right then, I could feel exhaustion making my bones practically melt. I yawned, blushing at how loud the sound was.

  Olivier stood as well. We stared at each other for a long moment, and time seemed to stretch like a rubber band. Where most people would look away, Olivier continued to study me, like I was some strange specimen he’d never encountered before. It was unsettling.

  I picked up the book of poetry and used it like a shield. “I need to go to bed,” I said lamely.

  Olivier, though, had placed his arm over my head, caging me in rather effectively against the bookshelf behind me. “Yes, you probably should, mademoiselle.”

  I could feel his heated breath on my face. If someone doused us in water right this second, I was pretty sure it would turn to steam. My heart pounding, I ducked under his arm and headed back to my ro
om without another word. I heard him chuckle at my retreating figure, which only made me hate him more.

  Chapter Six

  The following morning, I woke up just as the sun was coming up. I never woke up this early, but I had barely been able to sleep last night after my bizarre conversation with Olivier. I was almost halfway convinced I’d dreamed the entire thing. Yet as I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and put on some pants and a sweater, I knew I hadn’t dreamed it at all.

  I hurried down to the kitchen. Not just because I desperately needed coffee, but because I needed information. The kitchen was already bustling when I entered. A few people glanced at me, but no one stopped me from coming inside. At this point, the staff knew who I was and either ignored me or occasionally inquired if I needed anything.

  I looked for red hair, my stomach sinking when I couldn’t find Cara. Instead, Mrs. Walsh stepped out from a walk-in fridge, a hand cocked on her hip. “May I help you, miss?” she said, all crispness.

  I had to admit, I was impressed at how perfectly ironed her apron was this early and how tightly she’d rolled her hair into a bun. My own hairline winced in pain just looking at it.

  “Is Cara here?” I asked.

  “It’s her day off.” Mrs. Walsh stepped around me, which only served to remind me that I was only in the way. When I didn’t leave, she asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Um.” How did I start? Putting my shoulders back, refusing to act like I was wasting her time, I said, “Do you know an employee here named Olivier?”

  Mrs. Walsh frowned. “Olivier? Do you mean Oliver?”

  “No, Olivier. The French version, I think.”

  Mrs. Walsh’s nose crinkled. “No, I can’t say that there’s anyone here who’s French. Not all the way out here in the middle of nowhere. Besides, a Frenchman would freeze in these parts. Always complaining about the cold, are they.” Based on her tone, she seemed to take those complaints about the damp Irish weather personally.

  “He’s a landscaper. I met him the first day I arrived,” I said. “I think he’s new?”

  “A landscaper? You must be mistaken, miss. The only landscaper we have is Jamie, who’s been here longer even than I have.” Mrs. Walsh began to gather ingredients to bake some kind of pastry. She began mixing sugar with some butter, beating the mixture with vigor. “Jamie sometimes hires outside help for the spring and summer months, but they wouldn’t be French, or English, for that matter.”