by Dani Collins
“Wow.” If her voice held a touch of growing hero worship for both of them, she couldn’t help it. “It’s rare to hear a powerful man sound so supportive and willing to step aside for anyone, let alone a woman. That’s so nice.”
“I’m not ‘nice,’ Amy. Shake that idea from your head right now,” he said tersely. “I am intelligent enough to see what’s obvious and loyal enough to my country and my sister to make the choice that is right for everyone concerned. This has nothing to do with being nice.”
He was using that voice again, the one that seemed intent on warning her that any designs she might have on him were futile.
Message received, but that didn’t stop her from lifting her chin in challenge. “What’s wrong with being nice? With being kind and empathetic?”
“I’m not advocating cruelty,” he said with a curl of his lips. “But those are emotions, and emotions are hungry beasts. Soon you’re doing things just so you feel kind. So you have the outside validation of people believing you’re empathetic. Ruling a country, doing it well—” he seemed to pause disdainfully on the word, perhaps criticizing his father’s reign? “—demands that you remove your personal investment from your decisions. Otherwise, you’ll do what appeases your need to feel good and lose sight of what’s ethically sound.”
She considered that. “It seems ironic that you believe giving up the crown is the right thing to do when your willingness to do what’s right makes you ideal for wearing it.”
“That’s why my sister won’t challenge me for it. She refuses to throw Vallia into turmoil by fighting for the right to rule, not when I’m healthy, capable and wildly popular. From an optics standpoint, she can’t call me out as unsuited and install herself. She has to clearly be a better choice, recruited to save the country from another debacle.”
“Why was she passed over in the first place? Primogeniture laws?”
“Sexism. Our father simply thought it would make him look weak to have a woman as his heir. He was too selfish and egotistical, too driven by base desires to see or do what was best for Vallia. When it was revealed my mother was carrying twins and that we were a boy and a girl, he declared the boy would be the next king. Even though Sofia was born first, making her the rightful successor, the council at the time was firmly in my father’s pocket. No one pushed back on his decree.”
“Does that council still have influence? Can’t you simply abdicate?”
“I’ve tried.” Impatience roughened his tone. “Once I was old enough to understand the reality of my position, I began to question why the crown was coming to me.” He pensively tapped the armrest with a brief drum of his fingers. “Our mother knew Sofia was being cheated, but she worried that pressing for Sofia’s right to inherit would cost her what little influence she had. She used her mandate of raising a future king to install a horde of conservative advisers around us. They genuinely wished to mold me into a better king than my father was, and they are extremely devoted to their cause. That isn’t a bad thing, given the sort of people who surrounded my father.” He side-eyed her.
Amy briefly rolled her lips inward. “I won’t pretend I haven’t read the headlines.” Countless mistresses, for instance, sometimes more than one at a time. “I don’t put a lot of stock into gossip, especially online. Paparazzi will post anything to gain clicks.”
Even if Luca’s father had been into polyamory, it was merely a questionable look for someone in his position, not something that negated his ability to rule.
“Whatever you’ve read about my father is not only true,” Luca said in a dark voice, “it is the whitewashed version.” His voice rang as though he was hollow inside. “When he died, I brought up crowning my sister despite the fact I’ve always been the recognized successor. It was impressed upon me that Vallia was in too fragile a state for such a scandal. That we desperately needed to repair our reputation on the world stage and I was the man to do it.”
“It’s only been six months. Is Vallia strong enough to weather you renouncing your crown?” she asked skeptically.
“It’s the perfect time to demonstrate that behaviors tolerated in the previous king will not be forgiven in this one. A small, well-targeted scandal that proves my sister is willing to make the hard decision of removing me for the betterment of our country will rally the population behind her. I need something unsavory enough to cause reservations about my suitability, but not so filthy I can’t go on to hold positions of authority once it’s over. I don’t intend to leave her in the lurch, only restore what should be rightfully hers.”
“What will you do after she ascends?” she asked curiously.
“Vallia’s economy has suffered from years of neglect. Recent world events have not helped. Before the duties of a monarch tied up all my time, I was focused on developing our tech sector. We have a small but exceptional team working in solar advancements and another looking at recovering plastics from the waste stream to manufacture them into useable goods.”
“Be careful,” she teased, noting the way his expression had altered. “You almost sound enthusiastic. I believe that’s known as having an emotion.”
His gaze clashed into hers. Whatever keenness might have briefly brimmed within him was firmly quashed, replaced by something icy and dangerous.
“Don’t mistake my frankness for a desire to be friends, Amy,” he warned softly. “I’m giving you the information you need to do your job. You don’t know me. You can’t. Not just because we’ll never have a shared frame of reference, but because I won’t allow it. I’ve lived in the shadow of a man who made everything about himself. Who allowed himself to be ruled by fleeting whims and hedonistic cravings. If I thought my desire to go back to reshaping our economy offered anything more than basic satisfaction in pursuing a goal, I wouldn’t do it. It’s too dangerous. I won’t be like him.”
They were coming into a private airfield and aiming for a sleek jet that had the Vallian flag painted on the tail. A red carpet led to the steps.
Amy squirmed internally. He might not have emotions, but she did. And she was normally well-liked. It bothered her to realize he not only didn’t like her, but he didn’t want to. That stung. She didn’t want to feel his rebuff this keenly.
“Developing a rapport with a client is a way of building trust,” she said stiffly. “Given the personal nature of this work, and how I live in my client’s pockets through the course of a campaign, they like to know they can trust me.”
“I’ve paid top price for unquestionable loyalty. I don’t need the frills of bond-forming banter to prove it.”
Keep your mouth shut, she warned herself.
“Lucky you. It’s included with every purchase,” she blurted cheerfully.
The SUV came to a halt, making it feel as though his hard stare had caused the world to stop spinning and her heart to stop beating.
“Dial it back,” he advised.
She desperately wanted to tell him he could use a laugh. Lighten up, she wanted to say, but the door opened beside her. He was the customer and the customer might not always be right, but they had to believe she thought they were.
She buttoned her lip and climbed aboard his private jet.
* * *
Did he feel regret at taking her down a notch? If Luca allowed himself emotions, perhaps he would have, but he didn’t. So he sipped his drink, a Vallian liquor made from his nation’s bitter oranges, and watched her through hooded eyes.
He told himself he wasn’t looking for signs she’d been injured by his cut. If she was, she hid it well, smiling cheerfully at the flight attendant and quickly making a work space for herself. She made a call to her assistant to reassign various files and eschewed alcohol for coffee when offered, tapping away on her tablet the whole time.
She seemed very comfortable in his jet, which was built for comfort, but she was relaxed in the way of someone who was not particularly im
pressed by the luxury. As though she was familiar with such lavishness. Took it for granted.
She catered to celebrities so she had likely seen her share of private jets. Why did the idea of her experiencing some rock star’s sonic boom niggle at him, though? Who cared if she’d sat aboard a hundred yachts, allowing tycoons to eyeball her legs until she curled them beneath her like a cat while tracing a stylus around her lips as she studied her tablet? It was none of Luca’s business if she traded witty barbs with stage actors or played house with playwrights.
He was absolutely not invested in how many lovers she’d had, rich, poor or otherwise. No, he was in a prickly mood for entirely different reasons that he couldn’t name.
He flicked the button to bring down the temperature a few degrees and loosened his tie.
“I’m sending you the contract to forward to your legal department.” Amy’s gaze came up, inquiring. Professional, with a hint of vulnerability in the tension around her eyes.
Perhaps not so unaffected after all.
A tautness invaded his abdomen. He nodded and glanced at his phone, sending the document as quickly as it arrived. Seconds later, he realized he was typing her name into the search bar, planning to look into more than her professional history. He clicked off his phone and set it aside.
“How did you get into this type of work? The company is only two years old, isn’t it? But it won an award recently?”
“For a multicountry launch, yes. Specifically, ‘Imaginative Use of Traditional and Social Media in a Coordinated International Product Launch Campaign.’” She rolled her eyes. “These types of awards are so niche and specific they’re really a public relations campaign for public relations.” She shrugged. “But it’s nice to have something to brag about and hopefully put us at the top of search engines for a few days.”
“That’s how your firm came to my attention, so it served its purpose.”
“I’ll let Clare know.” She flashed a smile.
“Your partner.” He vaguely remembered the name and photo on the website. The dark-haired woman hadn’t projected the same vivacity that had reached out from Amy’s headshot, compelling him to click into her bio and fall down an online wormhole of testimonials.
“Clare is one of my best friends from boarding school. London Connection was her idea. She came into some money when her father passed and wanted to open a business. I worked the social media side of things, organizing high-profile events and managing celebrity appearances. Once we were able to expand the services beyond straight promoting into problem-solving and crisis management, we exploded. We’re so busy, we dragged our friend Bea from her law firm to join our team.” Her face softened with affection. “We’re all together again. It’s the best career I could have imagined for myself.”
“Boarding school,” he repeated. That explained how Amy took to private jets like a duck to water. She’d probably been raised on one of these. “I thought I detected a hint of American beneath your accent. Is that where you’re from?”
“Originally.” Her radiance dimmed. “We moved to the UK when I was five. I went to boarding school when my parents divorced. I was just looking up your foundation. Do I have the name right? Fondo Della Regina Vallia?”
“That’s it, yes.”
“I have some ideas around merchandise that would double as an awareness campaign. Let me pull a few more details together.” She dipped her attention back to her tablet, corn-silk hair falling forward to curtain her face.
And that’s how it was done. Replace the thing you don’t want to talk about with something that seems relevant, but actually isn’t.
Amy Miller was very slick and not nearly as artless and open as she wanted to appear.
Rapport goes both ways, he wanted to mock, but he didn’t really want to mock her. He wanted to know her.
Who was he kidding? He wanted to know what she liked. She was twenty-eight, and at least a few of the men photographed with her must have been lovers. Maybe some of the women, too. What did he know? The fact was, she was one of those rare creatures—a woman in his sphere who attracted him.
His sphere was depressingly empty of viable lovers and historically well guarded against them. His mother had surrounded her children with hypervigilant tutors, mentors and bodyguards. It had been the sort of blister pack wrapping within a window box frame that allowed others to look in without touching. He and Sofia had been safely admired, but never allowed out to play.
Mostly their mother had been trying to protect her children from learning the extent of their father’s profligacy, but she’d also been doing what she could for the future of Vallia. There’d been a small civil war within the palace when she died. Luca and Sofia’s advisers had collided with their father’s cabal—men who had had more power, but also more to hide.
In those dark days, while he and Sofia remained oblivious, deals had been struck that had kept everyone in their cold war positions. Their father’s death had finally allowed Luca and his top advisers to carve the rot from the palace once and for all. Luca had installed his own people, and they all wanted to stay in the positions to which they had ascended—which was how he’d wound up in this predicament.
And the reason he was still living a monk’s existence. He had no time and was monitored too closely to burn off sexual calories. At university, potential partners had always been vetted to the point that they’d walked away in exhausted indifference rather than run the gamut required to arrive in his bed.
As an adult moving through the hallowed halls of world politics and visiting allied territories, he occasionally came across a woman who had as much to lose by engaging in a loose-lipped affair as he did. They would enjoy a few private, torrid nights and part ways just as quickly and quietly. The few who had progressed into a longer relationship had been suffocated by his life, by the inability to make the smallest misstep with a hemline or a break with protocol without suffering cautionary lectures from his council and intense scrutiny by the press.
Luca didn’t blame women for walking out of his life the minute they saw how little room there was to move within it.
Amy would die in such a confined space. She was too bright and vivacious. It would be like putting a burning light inside a cupboard. Glints might show through the cracks, but all her heat and power would be hidden and wasted.
Why was he dreaming of crawling in there with her? Imagining it to be like closing himself within the cradle of a suntan bed, surrounded in the sweet scent of coconut oil and a warmth that penetrated to his bones.
He dragged his gaze from where the barest hint of breast swell was peeking from the open buttons of her dress and set his unfinished drink aside. Best to slow down if he was starting to fantasize about a woman he’d hired—to ruin him.
He bet she could ruin him. He just bet.
His assistant came to him with a tablet and a handful of inquiries, and Luca forced his mind back to who he was and the obligations he still had—for now.
Perhaps when this was over, he promised himself, he would be able to pursue the iridescent Amy. Until then, he had to remain the honorable and faultless king of Vallia.
CHAPTER THREE
AMY’S FATHER USED to joke that he had oil in his veins and a rig where his heart ought to be. His great-grandfather had hit a gusher on a dirt farm in Texas, and the family had been filling barrels with black gold ever since. Her father was currently the president of Resource Pillage International or whatever name his shell company was using these days. He had moved back to Texas shortly after the divorce, remarried, and was too busy with his new children to call his eldest more than once or twice a year.
Amy’s mother came from a family of bootleggers, not that she would admit it. Her great-grandfather had been born when Prohibition ended. The family had quickly laundered their moonshine money into legal breweries throughout the Midwest. Two generations later, they had poli
shed away their unsavory start with a chain of automobile showrooms, fashion boutiques, and most importantly, a Madison Avenue advertising firm.
Amy’s mother had taken the quest for a better image a step further. After pressing her husband to move them to London, she had traded in her New York accent for an upper-crust British one. Since her first divorce, she had continued to scale the social ladder by marrying and divorcing men with names like Nigel who held titles like lord chancellor.
Amy had to give credit where it was due. Her mother had taught her that if reality wasn’t palatable, you only had to finesse the details to create a better one. Of course I want you to live with me, but boarding school will expose you to people I can’t. And, Delaying access to your trust fund isn’t a punishment. It’s a lesson in independence.
People often remarked how good Amy was at her job, but she wasn’t so much a natural at repackaging the truth as a lifelong victim of it. Case in point, her mother’s first words when Amy answered her call were, “You wish to cancel our lunch Wednesday?”
As if Amy had been asking for permission.
Amy reiterated what she’d said in her text. “I had to run out of town. I can’t make it.”
“Where are you?”
In a car with the king of Vallia, winding up a series of switchbacks toward the remains of a castle that overlooked the Tyrrhenian Sea.
“I’m with a client.”
“Who?”
“You know I can’t tell you.”
“Amy, if he won’t let you talk about your relationship, it’s not going anywhere.” Perhaps if her mother had worked at the family firm instead of choosing “heiress” as her career, she would know that Amy’s job was not a front for pursuing men with fat money clips.
“Can I call you later, Mom? We’re almost at our destination.”
