by Ana Calin
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in
any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage
and retrieval system, without permission in writing
from the author except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in reviews.
Publisher’s Note:
This is a work of fiction,
the work of the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance to real persons or events is
coincidental.
Copyright 2018 – Ana Calin
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER I
Juliet
MY FIRST PRESS CONFERENCE is a nightmare. We’re talking a monstrous gathering at the old Opera House that traps me between other reporters, more experienced than me, and more ferocious than my ribs can take. Their jabs to my sides are merciless as they battle for the best spots and best visibility to be picked for questions, but I’ll be damned if I give in.
“Move out of the way, blondie,” a guy blurts as he shoves me.
Gripping my overlarge smart phone to my chest with one hand, I hold on tightly to the rail in front of me with the other. Keeping a spot in the first row is always a struggle, my rather fragile frame suffers, my hair is electrified like a white-blond version of Jackson 5, but fuck it.
Hang in there, Juliet Jochs. For the prize.
My prize, my target, my beacon is Radek Basarab, a prince from the Carpathians. Though I haven’t seen him in person yet, I know all there is to know about the scrap of public persona he maintains. In short, he’s young, eccentric, and so immensely rich that he can’t be clean. Where he comes from, clean businessmen don’t make it like he did. In only a few years he increased his family’s inheritance by no less than fifty percent.
“Ladies and Gents, I give you prince Radek Basarab, our patron and benefactor,” the master of ceremonies finally announces, rubbing his piggy hands together. His lips draw in an ass-kissing smile, while his eyes turn to the spot where Prince Radek is expected to appear.
The commotion stills for a few blessed moments that allow me to fill my ribcage with air. Clapping of hands announces the prince is close. I look to the side to watch him as he walks up the stairs onto the stage, his shadow licking the velvet curtain as he moves flowingly towards the master of ceremonies.
There are few pictures of him on the web, none of them clearly focused, but enough for me to recognize him. I expected the tall, princely frame in a dark suit, but I didn’t expect the striking beauty of his face—I’m not the only one to notice it; there are whispers everywhere. Must be the contrast between his ivory-white skin and his lips like dark blood that has this knock-back effect. His face is too pretty for a guy, and sure as hell too young for his notorious money-making skills.
After the master of ceremonies thanks him with heavens and earth for buying the old Opera House and saving it from being torn down and transformed into yet another mall, Radek takes the mike.
“It’s an honor to become the owner of this magnificent symbol of your history.” His voice is musical, hypnotically pleasant. That, paired with his looks, distracts me from what he says next, but I snap right back to myself the moment questions are announced.
My arm shoots up into the air at once with all the others but, no matter how hard I try, the master of ceremonies doesn’t pick me.
Of course he doesn’t. I’m a new reporter, and young ones are usually too ambitious for their own good. At least that’s what I heard him say before the auction.
No doubt, the master of ceremonies knows I’m going to talk about the elephant in the room. Is Radek Basarab supporting corrupt officials in his country? Has he helped boycott all attempts of building infrastructure in order to block foreign investment? Who is he bribing in order to get his hands on the most valuable pieces of real estate in his country and beyond, and what is his ultimate purpose for amassing properties all over Europe? He usually keeps his business shrouded in mystery, but the old Opera House is too much of a national gem, so it proved impossible to keep the transaction behind closed doors.
Hell, now that I see his face clearly, even his beauty is freaking suspicious about him.
Only inquiries about renovation make it to the stage, about other properties the prince intends to acquire, but then there’s a question about his love life. The prince is very private about it, but he gives the brunette who asked a seductive smile.
“Sadly, I haven’t met the love of my life yet,” he says in his musical voice that makes the brunette blush. “But I sure hope Cupid takes his aim on me soon.”
The brunette isn’t the only one who sighs like a hopeful idiot upon his answer. This beautiful bastard has women at his feet, and he sure as hell knows it. He plays on it, seducing them, depleting them of attention, admiration, adoration, sex, then throwing them away like broken shells.
“Maybe Cupid’s arrows just splinter against your steely heart,” I call out on an impulse. All heads turn to me, including Prince Radek’s. Eat this, pretty bastard. “Considering your looks and wealth, you must be spoiled for choice. I’m surprised you haven’t found someone to your liking yet. Unless you think none of your admirers is good enough for you.” I shrug. “Just sayin’.”
Prince Radek’s eyes lock on me. I can’t see his eye color from here, but from the few pictures on the web I know his irises are turbid blue, like murky water, impossible to see through. But one thing is crystal clear—behind them lies a poisonous snake.
“You’re prejudiced, Miss Jochs,” he muses, tilting his head to the side and narrowing his eyes. Startled, I glance from him to my nametag, then back again. Wow, what an eyesight.
“I don’t get around that much. Part of my work requires solitude, part of it bleak attorney offices and long negotiations, rarely ballrooms and select social circles, as you might imagine. I don’t actually meet so many women.”
He’s lying. He must be. But I just can’t open my mouth to speak again, to challenge him further. His porcelain face compels you to stare. His skin stretches young and flawless over a masculine bone structure, his lips blood red and carnal. The more I look at him, the less I’m able to look away, and his feline smile tells me he’s used to that. The guy’s a born seducer, a magnificent beast that breaks hearts for the fun of it.
His attention leaves me shortly after our exchange, but he glances at me every now and again. Before he leaves, followed by his bodyguards, I manage to snap a few pictures of him with my smartphone. I check their quality a few times, delete the bleary ones, and keep two that Herald, my boss and crush, should be happy with. He’ll be so proud of me when he sees my interaction with the shadow prince all over national press tomorrow morning.
I WAKE UP IN THE MIDDLE of the night from headlights flashing between the slats of my blinds. I glance at the electronic clock on my side-table. It shows a glowing red two a.m. that hurts my eyes.
My tongue sticking to my palate, I step into my slippers and drag myself to the kitchenette for water when I notice
my smartphone blinking a weird violet. I frown at it with the water still in my hand, struggling to understand. It usually blinks green when the battery is full, red when it’s almost empty, never violet. Confused, I pick it up, punch in the code, and swipe. Then I drop it and the water like they burn. The glass smashes on the floor, but the phone remains intact after it hits the counter.
I analyzed and overanalyzed the pictures I took of Radek Basarab after the conference, and I’m pretty damn sure he wasn’t looking my way in either of them. I’m also sure the last thing I did before I put away my phone was NOT looking at his picture, so why does the screen light up to it? And why is he looking straight back at me, like he knows what I’m doing, when I know for a fact I photographed the side of his face TWICE?
The blue in his eyes seems strange, too. Frowning, I look closer. No, the blue isn’t strange. His eyeballs seem rolled backwards, revealing the whites, his skin pale, a ghost staring back at me. His blood red lips go pale as death, and a grin begins to stretch along his face slowly, the skin cracking.
I jolt backwards, knocking down the stool behind me. On the kitchenette counter, the screen goes dark. I don’t feel safe enough to fall asleep again, yet by the time dawn begins rippling along the horizon I’ve formed a reasonable theory in my head—Radek Basarab is a powerful man who can pay for manipulating technology. He must have had some tech wizard hack into my phone from some basement, and scare me witless as punishment for making pretty boy look bad all over national press. The more I think about it, the more my ego swells. One way or the other, the prince has taken serious notice of me.
CHAPTER II
Juliet
Two days later, Herald invites me into his office. I’m nervous as I close the door behind me, ruffling the curls that make a halo around my head. I cross my legs awkwardly on the chair, pulling at the rim of my skirt to cover my knees—I wouldn’t want him to think that I’m trying to seduce him in some cheap way, right?
“One moment, Juliet.” He holds up a finger without looking up from the paper he’s reviewing with a frown before signing. It takes a while until he acknowledges me again. This might seem condescending to others, but look at it this way: Herald Gruff is the boss at a highly reputable magazine, one could go deaf on the bustling in the cubicles room just outside his office alone. That’s a lot of responsibility, not to mention it requires a fuckload of authority, sure he seems an asshole.
“So,” he says, pulling out a drawer and pushing a file under my nose. “Because technology isn’t to be trusted nowadays, I’ll approach this sensitive subject in paper form.”
I glance from the file to him, trying to process “don’t trust technology” and “approach subject in paper form.”
“But our work is entirely technology-based. We’re an e-zine, we don’t even sell printed issues. Actually, we loathe all things ‘printed’, don’t we?”
“Just open it,” he prompts.
Herald Gruff is a bit older than me—okay, a whole chunk older—so he can get cranky. He doesn’t have the most handsome face, but a good body, since he swims daily, and intelligent if not pretty eyes. There’s something of a skinny bulldog to his face, but he was once obviously attractive. Not that it matters. Nothing is more attractive than a man who exudes self-control, power and authority.
As I leaf through the file, he says, “Radek Basarab, the prince you picked on a few days ago at the press conference.”
“This isn’t much more than what I’ve covered on him,” I note as I go through the file rapidly.
“It’s hard to get information, the guy is very private about everything.” Herald leans back, pushing his hands through his ashen hair. It’s good to see him relax a little.
“I believe he’s blocking foreign investment in infrastructure in his country from the shadow, you know that. I want you to discover his reasons and then help me expose them.”
I blink at him. This opportunity isn’t only huge, it’s a career-making turning point. A you-almost-got-me smile stretches on my face, while I wave a finger at him.
“Come on, what’s the catch?”
“Catch?”
“You’re not offering me this job just like this, are you? I mean, this is huge, and probably for someone with far more experience. Why me?”
There’s a pause and steady eye contact before Herald replies. “Because you’re the only person he has shown interest in in a very long time.”
There’s zinging in my ears, and my stomach twists. Shown interest. This feels surreal.
“What did you just say?” I whisper.
“I’m sure you heard me the first time, Juliet.” Herald points to the file like an unhappy teacher at sloppy homework. “This file is only scratching the surface of a very deep, dark lake. I need you to probe this lake.” He leans in, gaze pointed like a gun to the center of my forehead.
“But, Herald.” My voice cracks on his name, and I clear my throat. “In wha, er, in what way did he show interest in me?”
He smirks, giving me a once over. “I was surprised at first, too.” He motions with a hand towards me from head to toe. “I mean, it’s not like you’re not cute and all, but compared to the kind of women who must surround him....” He purses his lips and whistles, waving his hand like he just touched something hot. It’s as if he’d forgotten all about the night two weeks ago, the office party, when he crammed me in a corner of this very office and kissed me, confessing under his breath that he secretly wanted me.
I still vividly remember his eager tongue, tasting of vinegar from the wine he’d been drinking. Even though I wanted him, I wanted him sober, smelling and tasting nicely. I felt his desire rock hard pressing urgently against my mound, and pushed him away on an impulse, saying, “Not like this.”
“You have nice natural blond hair, curly and all, but face it—it’s too short, barely even reaching your shoulders, it’s a mess on top of your head. With your pale eyebrows and eyelashes and snow-white skin, you look like a pretty corpse,” Herald continues, analyzing me with sharp eyes. “You could use some contrast, like dye your hair and your eyebrows or something.”
Jesus, what comes next, pump up your lips, get a nose job—God knows I could use one? I push myself off the chair, swiping the file off his table.
“Why are you doing this, Herald?” I demand, pacing slowly around and pretending to leaf through the file. It’s easier for me to stand up for myself when I’m not looking at him, he’s too intimidating and easily angered. “Is it because I ran out of here two weeks ago? Because, if that’s the case, you could make a move on me now, sober, and I wouldn’t say no.” My gaze rests on him. He’s smirking, dark eyes glinting at me from under ashen eyebrows, the corners of his mouth pushing his cheeks aside into a wrinkly smile that speaks of experience, resilience and authority.
“Get this job done properly, and you’ll have that and more, Juliet.”
My heart gives me a pang of outrage. Is he offering himself as a prize? No offense, I might not be the prettiest, or the smartest, but I am like a lifetime younger... Then I want to slap myself. How can I be so conceited? He’s far more valuable than me in so many ways. If I can prove myself to him, then I might assume some of all that value for myself. I raise my chin, closing the file and holding it against my chest. I’m looking at him from higher ground, since I’m standing up, feeling grand, even if for only a moment.
“You can rely on me for this job.”
“I hope you appreciate that I trust you with it, considering your lack of experience and your young age.”
I frown at him. “There’s a reason why you chose me for the job, which reminds me. In what way has the prince shown interest?”
“His people called the e-zine to inquire about you. They wanted to hire you, and offered to purchase you from us if it must be. I figured his interest must be serious, since he can have anyone he wants, you know.”
My ears start buzzing.
“Purchase,” I repeat quietly. “But what could he
possibly use me for?”
“That’s for you to find out.” He gets up from his chair, walking to me. I barely register the time lapsing until he reaches me, placing a hand on my shoulder. I tilt a bit under it. Looking straight into my eyes, he says, “I agreed, Juliet. I agreed to trade you, but I have my own agenda.”
“You traded me like I’m a thing?”
“No. I traded you like you’re Ronaldo.”
I have this overwhelming urge of hurting him. Rage heats up my face. “How can you be sure I won’t betray your agenda to the prince?”
He smiles, which makes his cheeks look like a wrinkly bulldog’s again. “I’m sure, because the prince can’t offer you what I can. You see, while he can pay a thousand times better, his headquarters is deep in some obscure, impossible to penetrate mountain forest. Money won’t be of much use there, not to mention that the social environment... Well, I imagine it’s not what your half German half American upbringing has taught you to strive for and adjust to. I, on the other hand, offer you money and position when you’re back here in Berlin.” He brings his face closer to mine, and I realize I’m pushed against the wall, clutching the file as the only shield between us. “Because I will have you back. And when that happens, with all the data you’ll have on the prince, we’ll go huge. You’ll have fame, all doors will be open for you, and you’ll be made editor-in-chief immediately.” He shrugs, taking distance and letting his hand drop off my shoulder. “Many will offer you career choices, though. If you’ll want to go for a position at one of the 5 best journals in the country, you’ll be free to do so. We can set that in stone through contract right now, if you like.”
I must admit, career advancement baits me. When I’m alone I fantasize about power—me in a black Armani suit to starkly contrast with my blond hair, pale face and pale eyes, looking striking if not attractive to whoever walks into my sky rise office.
Soon I’ve signed two contracts—one that transfers me to the prince’s company, and one stating my liberty of choice when I’m back with Herald. The job description I have with the prince’s firm is still drawn in general lines, but it includes my PR-ing for him, especially polishing the personal profile he’ll show Europe. Pretty much creating a better defined public persona that he can then display.
