by Lyla Payne
She made a face, her full lips twisting into an annoyed grimace. “I would appreciate you refraining from the nickname. And from the truly astonishing sexual harassment. If you don’t mind.”
“What are you doing here?” Salvadore was suddenly very aware of the fact that he was damp and half-naked. He wasn’t sure what it was about Magdalena Rossi that made him wish he’d grabbed a second towel—or stopped to put on a suit—but he did, all the same.
She glanced away, back out the window. Her cheeks were a delectable shade of pink and the deep breath she took lifted her breasts against her lavender camisole, nipples hard enough that he could see them outlined through her bra and the silky fabric.
He ignored the heated response of his body and, while he waited for her to answer his question, thought back to the last time he’d seen her.
They’d been kids—fifteen, maybe sixteen—and Salvy had already been starting to get a bit of a reputation. Magdalena was different. She was quiet, smart, never let him get away with shit, and had been a good friend.
At least, that’s how he thought things were until he’d gotten the bright idea of reading her diary. It had scared the shit out of him for some reason, the knowledge that a girl like Maggie—his friend—wanted something more. Wanted to change things.
He’d been an idiot, and had grabbed the first willing girl he could find to make out. He hadn’t meant for her to see, or to realize that he’d done it after he’d read her diary, but she had.
She hadn’t come back to the palace for years, and he hadn’t laid eyes on her since.
Maggie Rossi looked at him now with those golden eyes, wary instead of hurt, instead of furious, instead of lustful, but the catch of her breath gave her away.
The electricity between them. She felt it, too.
Salvy filed the knowledge away, unwilling to make a move that could be the wrong one but desperately wanting to take two big steps and kiss her like he should have over a decade ago, now. He had no idea how much he’d missed her until she was here, in front of him.
“I’m answering your summons for my father. He’s…busy, and I’ve been helping more with the creative side of the business.”
It took Salvy a moment to recall why, exactly, he’d asked Gabriel to come.
The ball. Dammit all to Hades.
If this grown-up, tempting version of Magdalena was anything like the girl he remembered, she wasn’t going to be amused by his little trick on the King. There was no avoiding the conversation, though. He needed clothes for the event, and so would the rest of his family, along with the staff.
“Please, have a seat,” he offered graciously. “I’m going to step out for five minutes and get dressed, if you don’t mind. I can have some tea sent in, if you’d like.”
She nodded, her gaze dropping over his bare chest and then to his navel before snapping down to her own clasped hands. Her cheeks weren’t pink any longer—they were bright red, and Salvy needed to get the hell out of here before he popped a tent like a pre-teen Boy Scout.
Desire fed the tension between them, and despite her greeting, Salvadore knew it wasn’t coming only from him. His awareness of her rose to new heights; the smell of her went to his head and he took a step forward, then another, until he was close enough to reach out and touch her.
He didn’t, though. After how he’d behaved all those years ago, he didn’t have the right. He read the truth of his gut feeling in the rigid set of her shoulders—a warning.
“Moo Moo?”
She shook her head, but couldn’t stop half a smile from tipping up her lips. “Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. If you’re still Moo Moo, then I am still Sally. Right?”
“I can’t call you Sally anymore.”
He paused, words stuck in his throat for a good ten seconds before he pushed them out. “My apologies for speaking to you that way, when I came in. I didn’t know…I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Yes, I gathered that.” Her response was wry, and underneath it ran a current of contempt that pushed him back a couple of feet. It wasn’t only what happened between them as children, either—as he’d suspected, his current way of living seemed to disgust her.
If it hadn’t, she wouldn’t have been Magdalena, but he hated the fact all the same.
“If you’ll put some clothes on, I’d like to get down to business. My father is expecting me home shortly,” she continued.
“Very good.”
He left the room wondering if that meant she’d accepted his apology. He knew he shouldn’t speak to any woman that way, but the truth was, most of them liked it. Craved it. Begged for more.
Maggie is not most women.
She hadn’t been most women at sixteen, and he could see that had only grown more true over the years. It was the reason he’d never gone to apologize, or to tell her that he felt the same things she’d written in her diary.
Salvy changed quickly, trying not to think about her curves in that flimsy outfit, and was feeling much more prepared when he stepped back into the room in a navy pinstriped suit and a light blue tie that his stylist promised brought out his eyes. He’d asked if it had purposes other than making him appear handsome in the tabloids, and then tied her up with it.
Father had let her go. Pity.
“Okay, business it is,” he said briskly, focusing on pouring himself a cup of tea and not on the woman with her legs crossed at her slim ankles. “I asked for Gabriel because the palace is giving a ball at the end of the month, and we’re going to need custom designs for the royal family, as well as the staff.”
Her lips parted slightly, surprise in her honey eyes. “A ball?”
“Yes. You should have received an invitation.”
Then again, perhaps she hadn’t. Maggie’s family wasn’t considered upper crust, but he thought that Stefano was going to send the invitations to everyone and just ensure the wording made clear who should attend.
Salvy didn’t elaborate on the reason for the ball. She would find out soon enough, he supposed, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that he was looking for a wife. In the light of her beautiful face suddenly and unexpectedly back in his life, he felt even more ridiculous about the entire thing. Maggie had never had patience for fools, and he feared that was what the endeavor made him.
“There was something on the table but I didn’t open it.” She gave herself a little shake and her gaze sharpened. “This is a huge job. We’ll have to rearrange our other clients.”
“We’re willing to pay handsomely, of course, and that the crown takes priority has always been our arrangement with your father. I trust that’s still intact.”
Maggie nodded, biting her lower lip in a way that made him want to do it for her. “Of course. I’ll start making arrangements immediately, though the end of the month doesn’t leave us much time. We’ll get started first thing tomorrow, if that’s amenable to you?”
“Yes. I’ll be here, and I’ll make sure Father and Nico will be, as well.”
“What about Luca?”
Salvy shrugged. “I’ll see. He’s not exactly keen on being helpful, and Nico says he’s been out of the country lately.”
“Very well.” She stood and smoothed her skirt, then lifted her bag over her shoulder.
Salvy reached out as she walked past him, his hand grazing the soft, bare skin of her arm. Maggie paused, her warm gaze flitting to him and away. In it, he saw a war between irritation, disgust, and familiar affection.
He waited until she looked at him again, and this time he did not allow her to break the connection. His fingers curled around her arm, the tips brushing the inside of her wrist as heat flowed between them. How had he been so stupid as a boy to never have noticed how she made him feel?
“Maggie,” he breathed. “It is so very good to have you back in the palace.”
Her tongue darted out to wet her lips and his heart skipped. She said nothing, frozen like a deer in the hunter’s sights as he t
ugged her closer, closing the small gap of space between them.
He wanted her, right then and without hesitation, but he didn’t deserve her. He had always known that.
Gently, slowly, he slipped his hand under hers and raised it to his lips. The kiss he brushed across her knuckles felt intimate, so much so that he wanted to pull away.
Salvy dropped her hand and waited for her to make the next move. He supposed it was too much to hope for, that she might start to strip off his clothes—or her own—but he didn’t expect her to flee.
But she did.
Chapter Six
Magdalena
Magdalena made it out of the palace and into her car without breathing, it seemed. Her heart raced and her knuckles, so recently touched by Salvadore Piacere’s lips, felt like they were on fire. The blood in her veins was too hot, ran too fast, and she sat behind the wheel just breathing for a good five minutes.
The man was a menace. A playboy, a prince who took no responsibility for his people, and probably carried a dozen communicable diseases. She could never hate him, but she had spent years cultivating a disdain for the way he had chosen to live his life in order to protect herself, and now?
Ten minutes in the room with him and her body was about to spontaneously combust.
She could handle it. She’d had a crush on him the whole of her girlhood and had managed to hide it, at least until he’d broken their trust and read her diary. He obviously hadn’t felt the same way—if he had, he never would have kissed that girl ten minutes later. He would have come after her.
That had never happened no matter how many dreams she had where it did.
This was a disaster. Not only as far as the reminder of her taped-together ego, but in that she would have to spend nearly all of the next three weeks at the palace. Her father’s shop wouldn’t be big enough to handle the load; the rooms set aside as a workshop at the castle would be a much better fit. That meant pushing the majority of the orders they had pending, and declining orders from all of the ladies who would be desperate to attend a ball at the behest of the King.
A ball. Maggie’s lips twisted. Why on earth would the Piaceres think that was a good idea in the current economic climate? It would cost a fortune, and the people they ruled were losing their homes to a predatory real estate mogul at an alarming rate, alongside high unemployment and a dismal exchange rate.
She started her car and headed toward home, her righteous anger now tamping down her ridiculous hormonal reaction to Prince Salvy. Perhaps she should accept that her body would never get the memo from her head on that man, because if she was going to spend weeks in his company, she would have to find a way to deal with it.
You’re not sleeping with him, or kissing him, or letting those damnable blue eyes talk you into anything remotely sexual. You’re not like those other women, swooning over his abs and his title.
That was true. She had never loved Salvadore because of those things. She had fallen for his kindness, his sharp mind, and his willingness to read hers. Salvy had been the one to nurse a baby rabbit into adulthood when Nico deemed it a worthless cause. He’d been the one to hold her hand while she got stitches in her knee.
For those other women, the crown was all that mattered, but to Maggie, it had always been the thing that she knew would take him from her.
By the time she’d gotten home, the places where he’d touched her were only tingly, not on fire. Progress. She tossed her keys and picked up the creamy invitation from the palace, then went to find her father.
He was awake and in the shop, sitting in his favorite work chair with a half-made dress on his lap. His hands were trembling and idle as they rested atop the emerald green satin. The sadness coming off him made it hard to breathe, and Maggie dropped to the ground at his feet.
“Hey, Papa. We have trouble.”
“What else is new?” he mumbled, still staring at the dress. Maggie saw that he’d snagged the delicate fabric with a bad stitch but didn’t comment.
Instead, she ripped open the royal seal on the back of the envelope and extracted a thick, expensive card stock printed with the same golden swirl as the address. Her mind went blank as she read it, and the pieces of the puzzle Salvy had failed to give her clicked into place.
His Royal Highness King Alfonso Piacere extends the following invitation to all available ladies in Cielo:
The Royal Family is hosting a formal ball, to take place over three days at the end of November at the palace in Arcobaleno. The purpose of which is for Prince Salvadore Andrea Piacere to choose for himself a bride befitting his station.
You are cordially invited to join the festivities, to include feasting, dancing, and on the third day, a royal wedding. Please note that the dress is formal and that accommodations will be provided.
“What is it, bella mia? You look as though that piece of paper has spit in your eye.”
It took Magdalena another moment to gather herself. Now that she’d read this smarmy invitation, the lust in her blood receded completely to make room for her growing disgust. Not only a ball, but a party to choose a bride? Were they serious?
Other phrases from the invitation danced in her mind, namely the not-so-subtle reminder that only ladies of certain birth would be eligible to…to what? Degrade themselves for a chance to be a princess? Enter into an arranged marriage with a man who would surely have no intention of turning away from his countless mistresses?
She crumpled the invitation in her hand and tossed it into the fireplace, the second time that week that she’d chucked an offensive piece of correspondence into the flames.
“It’s what I wanted to talk to you about—Prince Salvadore summoned you this morning so I went to find out what they’ll require. It turns out the Piaceres are holding a ball at the end of the month, and they, plus their staff, will require new formal wear for the event.” Maggie bit her lip. Three days, plus a wedding. Salvadore himself would require at least six changes of clothing. They would need to hire a staff.
“You’ll have to handle it,” her father said, his tone worn through with fatigue. “I know you’ll do a wonderful job, and that Salvadore and Nico’s fondness for you will prevent them from any comment on my absence.”
She didn’t know about that. Salvy had made it clear this afternoon that he was happy to see her again, but she doubted it was out of brotherly fondness. Knowing the man he’d become, he probably saw her as some kind of conquest that had been meant for a mark on his teen bedpost but had somehow gotten away.
He had another think coming, if he had any notion of that being a thing that would happen.
This ball. Ugh. It smacked of Salvadore’s disrespect for the crown, of his tendency to flout the seriousness of his position and influence, but King Alfonso? Why had he agreed to such a tasteless event?
As one of the last monarchies in the Mediterranean, the Piaceres had taken care to paint themselves as levelheaded benefactors, not this…attempt to recall the storybook royals of old.
“You can do this. You’ll need a staff, at least a dozen, I’d say. The usual seamstresses and tailors will be ready to help, and you can move into the rooms the King set aside for occasions like this at the palace. The workshop there will accommodate you.”
Magdalena knew that this would be her father’s answer, but the reason for the ball stuck in her craw. She didn’t want to help Salvadore, or any of them, waste that sort of time and resources, but she knew it would ruin her father’s legacy if she refused.
Not to mention she’d have a hard time getting clients as the former royal tailor.
A truth fluttered at the back of her mind, asking a question about why the ball really upset her so deeply, but Maggie refused to look right at it. She had reason enough.
“Okay, Papa. I’ll get started right away. I told Salvadore that I would begin work first thing tomorrow.”
He reached down and patted her cheek, his hand steady for once, and a great comfort. “You will do fine. The princes were yo
ur playmates, once. Do your best to remember the boys they were, but do not assume you know the men they’ve become. Yes?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Make your phone calls and then enjoy a night with your friends. It will be your last one until this business is done.”
Maggie got up and kissed her father’s papery cheek. It sounded nice, but she couldn’t leave him alone, she thought as she wandered back into the main house to start making phone calls.
She couldn’t leave him alone for the next three weeks while she worked at the castle, either. A nurse would have to be hired, or at least someone who could move in and look after him while Maggie was off making clothes for a narcissistic prince.
It took a couple of hours to pull together a plan for the next three weeks, but when she hung up the phone for the twentieth time, she thought everything was in order. One of her father’s oldest friends, a woman named Juliet, had agreed to come from the country and stay with him the whole time. A dozen seamstresses and tailors had agreed to drop everything and join her at the palace the following day—most of them had been expecting her call, after receiving invitations of their own.
Nothing sounded better than dinner with her father and crashing into bed. The day had been long, starting with the worthless trip to Matrigna’s offices, then the emotional bodyslam of seeing Salvadore again, followed by the invitation and the slew of work that followed.
The phone rang as she chopped vegetables for dinner, and Maggie reached for it with a weary hand. “Hello?”
“Is this Magdalena Rossi?”
“Yes.”
“I received your message from my office. I was calling to follow up on my request to buy your father’s property.” The voice was silky and masculine, somehow familiar, although she couldn’t place it.
“We won’t be selling.”
“I think you should reconsider.”
“Why would I do that?” All of the irritation and anger and tamped-down lust that had spiked and ebbed in her blood all day rose to the surface, until Magdalena burned with the need to unleash it. “We’re not selling. I don’t care what you do to us.”
