by Dani Collins
She tried on the blue. It had a round collar, cap sleeves and a sheer overlay on the A-line skirt. She was tempted to put her own leather corset belt over it, but tried the belt off the pink dress. It was a narrow plait with a spangled clasp that added some pop against the blue.
She ignored the closed-toe black patent leather pumps and put on her own silver-heeled stilettos. Then she pushed all her bangles so they sat above her elbow. She couldn’t hide the tattoo on her upper arm and shoulder, so she underscored it.
Her hair was in a topknot with wisps pulled out at her temples. Simple eye makeup made her new crimson lipstick all the more dramatic. She was ready to face Luca.
She hoped.
The young man who escorted her—was he a footman?—glanced at her in the various reflective surfaces they passed. She wasn’t falsely modest. She knew she attracted the male gaze. Even before her curves had developed, her mother had coached her to play up her femininity and keep the men around her happy and comfortable.
Manipulate them, was what her mother had meant. Trouble was, she’d taught Amy to hunt without teaching her to kill. Thus, Amy’s first experience had been to successfully stalk a predator and become his prey without even realizing what was happening.
But she wouldn’t think about that right now. The footman was letting her into an office that held a small lounge area and a scrumptious king.
“Amy,” Luca greeted.
The impact of his presence, of a voice that sounded pleased to see her, was a blast of sensual energy that made all the hair on her body stand up.
He was freshly shaved and wore dark pants with a pale blue shirt. Both were tailored to sit flawlessly against his muscled frame. Funny how she almost wished he wore a jacket and tie so this would feel more formal. She wasn’t sure why she wanted him to put up armor against her, but it would have made her feel safer.
Not that she felt unsafe as the door closed, leaving them alone. She just wanted him to put up barriers because she couldn’t find any of her own. She suddenly felt very raw and skinless as she faced him.
So she turned her attention to the old-world decor, the fine rugs and carved wooden columns. No overtly sexual images in here. It was decorated in a combination of modern abstracts, contemporary furniture and a few period pieces. His desk had to be three hundred years old. It was all very beautiful and...impersonal.
He hadn’t moved in. Not properly. He might have erased his father’s presence, but he’d made no effort to stamp the space with his own. He’d been planning his abdication from the day he was crowned.
When she looked at him, she caught him staring at her tattoo.
“You really don’t care for convention, do you?” he said.
Her toes tried to curl, reacting to the conflicting mix of approval in his tone with the suggestion of disapproval in his words.
“Does that bother you?” she asked, voice strained by the pressure in her chest.
“Some.” He poured two glasses of white wine and brought them across the room to offer one. “This is our private reserve. If you don’t care for it, I have a red that’s not as dry.”
“I’m sure it will be fine.” She accepted it, and they touched the rims of their glasses before she tried the wine. It was icy and very dry, but complex with a fruit forward start, a round mouth feel and a brief tang before its soft finish. “This is lovely. I’ll take payment in cases.”
His mouth twitched. He nodded at her shoulder. “Do you mind? I saw online that you had one, but I didn’t see what it was.”
She angled slightly so he could examine the inked image of a bird flying free of a cage suspended from a branch of blossoms.
“Colorful,” he murmured. Something in his amused tone was drier than the wine. It made her feel as though he was making a joke she didn’t understand, but his thumb grazed her skin, blanking her mind while filling her body with heat. “It must have taken a lot of time.”
“Four hours. It hurt so much,” she said with a laugh that was shredded more by her longing for another caress than any memory of pain. “It’s too on-the-nose and was a foolish expense since I was broke at the time, but my mother had always threatened to disinherit me if I got a tattoo. Since she’d gone ahead and done that, I saw no reason to wait.”
“The same mother you spoke with in the car today? The one who spoiled you because you were an only child?”
“Yes. But then she stopped.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’d rather not talk about my parents. It’s a complicated relationship.”
“That’s fine,” he said mildly. “But you can talk about them if you decide you’d like to. This is a safe space,” he added in a sardonic tone that threw her own words back at her.
She choked back saying it didn’t feel like it and said, “Good to know.” She gulped wine to wet her dry throat. “Do you have any?”
“Tattoos?” He snorted. “No.” He sipped his own wine, then walked his glass to an end table and set it down. “I was also forbidden to get one, but that didn’t bother me. I’ve never had much appetite for rebellion. My father thought being king gave him license to do whatever the hell he wanted despite the responsibilities that come with the title. I was taught differently.”
“By your mother and her team.”
“Yes. And his behavior impacted her. She had mental health struggles. That’s why the foundation exists. She started it because she understood the hurdles people face when seeking treatment. She passed away from an unrelated condition, but I often think her depression affected her...” Agony tightened his expression. “Her will to fight. She loved us, but she was very disillusioned. Humiliated by my father’s conduct. Or lack thereof,” he said with a twist of his lips. “He was completely indifferent to the effect he had on her. Not oblivious. He simply didn’t care. If anything, he was spiteful about it. He didn’t want to be a good husband or father or ruler. He set out to prove he didn’t have to conform or put anyone’s needs above his own. As a result, I find rebellion a selfish and unattractive behavior.”
“Ouch,” she said blithely as she set aside her own wine, fighting not to let him see how deeply that knife had plunged.
“I didn’t mean to suggest you’re selfish. I was speaking of the characteristic in general.”
“Oh, but I was,” she assured him. “I was a self-involved brat until such time as that luxury was denied me.” She’d been hurt and feeling abandoned by her parents after they’d divorced and shuffled her off to boarding school. She’d made demands for things she didn’t even want in a clichéd cry for the love and attention she really craved.
Her behavior had spiraled from there and yes, Amy carried some of the blame for what had happened with the field hockey coach. She had known what she was doing was wrong, but so had he. And he’d been a man of twenty-nine while she’d been an eighteen-year-old student in his class.
“I didn’t always direct my independent streak in the best way,” she admitted. “But it annoys me that pushing back on how girls and women are ‘supposed to’ behave is considered rebellion. That’s what I was really fighting. My mother was always saying, ‘Don’t speak up. You have to fit in.’ She buys into this silent agreement with society that women aren’t supposed to draw attention to ourselves because it pulls the spotlight from the really important people. Men,” she stated with a scathing eye roll.
“Ouch,” he said ironically.
She bit her lip, quelling her smile.
He was shaking his head, but taking her remark with good-natured amusement.
She liked him, damn it.
Best to focus on why she was here. “Can I show you the women I’ve identified who might be willing to ruin you?”
“I thought I was already looking at her,” he drawled.
Amy faltered in retrieving her phone.
He sobered. “That was a joke.”
“I know. I
didn’t realize you knew how to make one.” She shakily breezed past her tiny betrayal of a guilty conscience and brought her phone to him. “These are celebrities I know well enough to approach. I am neither confirming nor denying they are clients.”
“Noted.”
They stood so closely, she could feel the heat off his body and detected the mellow scent of his aftershave. He picked up his wine and she heard him swallow as she began to thumb through images, providing a brief biography for each.
“German car heiress trying to start her own fashion line. Country music star, American, won an award for a song about her messy divorce. This is a cousin of a British ambassador. She has a popular online cooking series.”
Luca rejected them all just as quickly. “Too young. No one will believe I listen to American country music. Where would I have met an online chef?”
Six more went by and Amy clicked off her phone. “You’re being too picky. No one will be perfect. That’s the point.”
“If I don’t believe I’m attracted to her, no one else will.” He set aside his glass again.
“What kind of woman do you want, then?” she asked with exasperation.
His gaze raked down her face and snagged on her mouth, then swept back to her eyes. The heat in the depths of his blue irises nearly set her on fire before he looked to a corner.
Amy caught her breath, swaying on the skinny heels of her shoes. She had really hoped this attraction was only on her side. It would have made this a silly infatuation where she was reaching out of her league and had no chance.
It was a lot harder to ignore when she knew he felt the same. The space between them seemed to shrink, drawing them in. Her gaze fixated on the tension around his mouth.
“I...” She had no words. She should have moved away. “I thought you were...” She thought back to that dismissive rebuff he’d given her in London. “Indifferent to me.”
His lips parted as he exhaled roughly. “You do speak your mind, don’t you? I want to be indifferent.” The air crackled between them. “But I’m not.”
What was she supposed to do with that? She could only soften with helplessness. He had to be the strong one.
As they both fell silent, she felt the pull of an invisible force. He moved in such small increments, she thought she imagined that he was drawing closer; but he was suddenly so close that a prickle of anticipation stung her lips. She dampened them with her tongue.
“Amy.” It was a scold that rang with defeat. His hand found her hip as though to ground them both as his head dipped and he covered her mouth with his own.
Sensation burst to life in her. His lips were firm and smooth and confident. Smothering in the most delicious way as he angled and fit and claimed her. Devastated her.
How long had it been since she’d kissed a man? Really kissed one with hunger and passion and a hand that went to the back of his head, urging him to ravish her?
His arm banded across her lower back, dragging her in so her body was plastered to the hardness of his. They rocked their mouths together, pressing tighter, opening wider, exploring deeper.
A moan left her throat and she wound her arms around his neck, clinging weakly as she lost herself to the delirium. No one had ever made her feel like this. Never, ever.
Suddenly he took her by the shoulders and set her back a step. The regressive light in his eyes stopped her heart before he ruthlessly leashed whatever animal was alive inside him.
His hands dropped away as he turned to stand directly in front of her.
“Sì,” he barked and the door opened.
Oh, God. Someone had knocked and she hadn’t even heard it. She dropped her face into her hands.
She recognized Guillermo’s voice, but stayed exactly where she was, hidden by the wall of Luca’s back as she tried to gather her composure.
The men exchanged words in crisp Italian and the door closed again.
“There’s a call I must take.” Luca’s arm reached past her to snag his wine. She heard him finish it in one gulp. “I’ll be tied up for hours. Your meal will be delivered to your room.”
She nodded jerkily and made herself lift her head and turn to face him. She cringed as she saw him, saying remorsefully, “My lipstick is all over your mouth.”
He swore and swiped the back of his hand across his lips, noted the streak of red and swore again, this time with resignation.
“I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.” A muscle in his cheek ticked.
Her stomach clenched around the pang his regret caused her.
“I know better, too.” Her voice rasped and the backs of her eyes were hot. “I’ll go.”
“Amy.”
She turned back.
Compunction was still etched across his face, but he held out a handkerchief. He touched her chin, urging her to lift her mouth. In a few gentle swipes, he cleaned the edges of her lips.
He then used the same soft linen to wipe his own mouth. He dropped his hand and let her examine his work. All trace of their kiss was gone as though it had never happened.
She nodded, too empty to feel anything but despondency. She swallowed a dry lump from the back of her throat, turned and left.
CHAPTER FIVE
LUCA TOOK THE CALL regarding a handful of Vallia’s elite military serving overseas on a humanitarian mission. No one had been injured, but there’d been an incident that required he draft a statement and follow up with calls to overseas contacts.
By the time the whole thing was put to bed, it was long past time he should have been asleep himself.
“Take the morning off,” he told Guillermo as he rose from his desk.
“Signor.” Guillermo had an uncanny ability to inject a host of meaning into that single word. This one held appreciation for the sentiment, protest that the extra sleep wasn’t necessary, caution and concern and a waft of smugness that he’d been right to warn Luca against Ms. Miller.
“I’ll speak to the Privy Council in the morning,” Luca said, meeting Guillermo’s gaze with an implacable one. “You needn’t make any reports to them on this evening. At all.”
Guillermo’s mouth tightened. “As you wish. Sleep well.”
Luca didn’t. He got slightly drunk while roundly berating himself even as he stood on the terrace off his bedroom, overlooking the Roman pond surrounded by sexual gymnastics.
If Amy had been wandering around there like a lost ghost, he would have had a reason to go out to see her, but she hadn’t given him one.
Kissing her had been such a stupid thing to do. A mistake. Mistakes were something else he’d never had the appetite for. He’d been so scrutinized all his life, so quickly corrected for the tiniest errors, he had little tolerance for imperfection, especially within himself. He was the Golden Prince, after all.
And Amy was...
The image of her tattoo came into his mind, oddly pretty and feminine despite the jailbreak it depicted. He had wanted to clasp his hand around her warm arm and set his mouth against the ink. Taste her skin and kiss that small, pretty bird that he instinctively knew had been as chirpy inside that cage as she was outside it.
What kind of woman do you like, then?
Not anyone like her—with her cheeky remarks and hair that looked like it had already been mussed by raunchy sex. Not someone who didn’t so much get under his skin as draw him out of his own. One who made him want to shake off his restraints, self-imposed and otherwise.
One with whom he’d already broken a cardinal rule of keeping his hands to himself.
He managed to sleep a few hours, then got an early start on his day. He met with his Privy Council, spoke briefly with his sister who was distracted as she wrapped up a diplomacy conference in North Africa, then made his way to the meeting of the gala committee.
Amy was holding court and faltered when he entered. She was like
a tropical bird in pinks and greens and gold. Beautiful, if projecting an air of delicacy that he hadn’t expected. There were hints of shadows beneath her makeup and a wary fragility in her smile.
“Your Highness,” she greeted.
“Continue,” he said, waving everyone to stay seated while he remained on his feet at the back of the room. “I want to hear your pitch on the pajamas.”
“I’m almost there.” She glanced at her slide presentation and finished talking about the recruitment of influencers. She switched to photographs of elegant satin pajamas.
“Sometimes we want to call in sick to life.” Her apprehensive gaze flicked to him and her laser pointer wasn’t quite steady as she circled the pajama shirt. “Sometimes we need to feel safe and cozy as we navigate personal challenges. Asking celebrities to model the foundation’s merchandise isn’t about making mental health struggles seem glamorous. Yes, it’s a fundraiser and some people will be motivated to buy the pajamas because of who wore it best, but we’re also promoting self-care. We’re saying it’s okay to have a pajama day.”
Amy paused for reaction, seeming to hold her breath.
Heads turned to gauge his reaction. One voice said pithily, “There’s no way to have them printed before the gala.”
“No,” Amy agreed. “The campaign would be announced at the gala with an opportunity for those attending to place preorders. People love to be on the ground floor of something new. When they received their pajamas, it would bring the foundation back to their minds. In a few months, you could offer a new color and send out reorder forms. Later in the year, you could host a low-key pajama party.”
“That doesn’t sound very dignified,” someone murmured.
“I like the central message,” Luca stated firmly. “And it offers flexibility moving forward. My vote is to go ahead. Amy, I’d like to meet with you on another matter when you’ve finished here.”
* * *
The attitude in the room changed as Luca left. A few old guard on the council were sitting as though perched on a pin, but they were the type who didn’t like change. The rest had been hiding their interest for fear of offending them. Now that Luca had granted royal assent, several people had excited questions and seemed eager to carry the campaign forward.
