“You could always divorce her. There’s some loophole from the eighteenth century about one year being enough.”
“And spark a six-hundred-year feud? I don’t think so. If I marry another European monarch, I’ll have to stick with her for life.”
“So marry someone else. An American. What about your last girlfriend—the model?”
Darias grunted. “Are you kidding? She’d probably turn a divorce into a three-ring circus that would leave her ruling half of Altaleone.”
“Good point. You’d need an ironclad prenup.”
“And what kind of girl wants to start a marriage like that?” The situation was impossible. “Even if I did have one in mind. Which I totally don’t.” He looked around the gallery for Keane Moss, the owner. Not seeing him, he strode toward the front desk. “The angles on the spotlights are wrong. They’re throwing the brushstrokes into relief and distracting from the image.”
The girl behind the desk looked up from her phone. “Sorry?”
“Where’s Keane?”
“He’ll be here in about twenty minutes. Can I help you with something?”
“No, thanks. I’ll wait.” He walked back to Sandro. “You can leave if you want. I have to get this fixed.”
“What about her?” Sandro glanced over Darias’s shoulder.
Darias turned. He didn’t see anyone but the girl at the desk. “What about her? What are you talking about?”
Sandro stepped closer and spoke with a hushed voice. “What about asking her to marry you?”
“Are you mad? I don’t even know her name. She’s not the usual girl.”
“She looks the part.”
Darias turned again. She looked like every other gallery assistant in New York: tall, willowy, beautiful in a generic way. “Looks aren’t everything, you know.”
“You could offer her money, a detailed contract spelling out everything you’d require of her for one year. Then after the last day of that year you go your separate ways.”
“Maybe she doesn’t need money.” This was the dumbest idea he’d ever heard.
“Everyone needs money, Darias. It’s just a question of how much. Think about it. What the heck else are you going to do?”
Darias narrowed his eyes. Was this girl mercenary enough to accept such a proposal? Her long blonde hair was tied back in a neat ponytail, and she wore no jewelry and little makeup on her admittedly very pretty face. She looked far too sensible to accept such a proposal. And she was tapping away on her phone again. “We’d need a clause about how she can’t do that during royal dinners.”
Sandro laughed. And so did Darias. She looked up and her gaze startled him—gray-green and haunting. She put her phone away with a guilty look.
“Don’t mind us,” said Sandro. “He’s the artist.”
“Of course. I know that.” She stood quickly and held out her hand and shook Darias’s. “Emma Ricci. I’m only here three evenings a week.”
“What do you do the rest of the time?” asked Sandro as she shook his hand.
“I’m a teacher. Elementary school, but school’s out for the summer so I’m doing some temping as well.”
Darias could feel Sandro’s eyes on him. Probably thinking about how “nice” and suitable she was. How did he know she wasn’t a porn star on weekends?
Sandro started tapping away on his phone. Probably googling her name. His brother loved to leap into a thing.
Her phone pinged. “Do excuse me.” She frowned as she read the text, then bit her lip—which was disturbingly full and pink. “I know this is going to sound terrible, but—” She hesitated.
Darias lifted a brow. “What? I’m intrigued.”
“Would you mind if I ran out for a minute? Just to the bank on the corner. Since you’re the artist I know I can trust you.”
“I do hope so,” said Darias archly. “But sure. If Keane comes I’ll tell him I sent you somewhere. That’s the kind of obnoxious behavior he expects of a European royal.” He smiled warmly.
She darted out the door, hair flying, before he had time to change his mind.
“Probably just stepped out to buy some crack,” he teased Sandro, as the heavy glass door closed behind her. “Or sell it.”
“Nonsense. Keane would get a full background check on his employees before putting them in charge of all this valuable art. Hey, I found her Facebook.” His face softened into a smile. “She’s posted all these cute animal pictures. “
Darias peered at the screen, which contained a pretty picture of her with the sun in her hair. “She only has twenty-three friends. And she should know better than to leave her privacy settings wide open. This page probably a front.”
“The average person doesn’t have thousands of friends, and isn’t expecting to be stalked by the press. Besides, you should know by now that I’m an excellent judge of character.” Sandro snatched his phone back and tapped some more. “Aww, look at her Twitter feed. It’s full of inspirational quotes.” He tugged his brother’s arm. “Here’s one from Mother Theresa.”
Darias laughed. “And on the strength of that you think I should ask her to marry me?”
“Do you have any better ideas?”
“Darias!” Keane Moss burst through the door, silver hair bouncing, clipped British accent in force. “We were all shocked by the news. How was the funeral?”
“Sad.” Darias had been asked this question at least ten times today alone. His answer was growing rude. “But all went smoothly, so I’m grateful for that.”
Keane glanced at the empty desk. “What have you two scoundrels done with my gallery assistant?”
“I sent her out to run an errand for me,” said Darias quickly, before Sandro could respond. “Sorry. She’ll be back in a moment.”
He felt Sandro shoot him a sideways glance.
“Royal arrogance!” Keane smiled and shook his head. “Irresistible, I’m sure. How do you like the way we hung the show?”
Darias launched into a litany of complaints about the spotlights and pointed out three paintings that needed to be rehung on the same wall as they were a triptych of sorts. He was about to suggest raising another painting higher when the door opened and the girl came back. She froze when she saw her boss standing there.
“I told Keane I’d sent you to run an errand for me,” Darias said with a deadpan expression. “I do appreciate it. Did it go as planned?”
“Uh, yes. Just as planned.” She blinked, looking confused.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She looked from one to the other, obviously trying to figure out what was going on. “Mr. Moss, there are some messages on the desk in your office.”
“Thanks, love. I’ll get onto the boys about fixing the lights while I’m in there. Back in a mo.”
Keane loped off toward his office. “Now’s your chance,” hissed Sandro, before he moved off to the furthest corner of the gallery.
Darias walked slowly over to the girl at the desk. She’d pulled out her ponytail band and her long blonde hair hung over her face as she tapped into her phone again. She looked up as he approached. “Thank you for covering for me.”
“What were you doing at the bank?” asked Darias. Why beat about the bush?
She flushed. “I had to transfer some money to my brother.”
“In such a rush that you had to abandon your desk?”
“He’s in some…trouble.” She glanced about. “He borrowed money from the wrong people and I had to get it to him right away.”
“A lot of money?”
She nodded. Her pretty face was drawn and she looked like she was about to cry.
Sandro might well be onto something. “I have a proposal.”
Emma shrank into her chair. It was nice of him to make an excuse so she didn’t get fired, but she didn’t intend to return his favor with a sexual one. He probably had no idea that she was propositioned by half the men who walked into the gallery. Especially the artists. They had the biggest e
gos. “Oh?”
Darias Leone—the gallery’s most overpriced artist and a wealthy European royal to boot—towered over her desk. “I need a wife.”
She had no response to that. Her phone pinged with the arrival of a text.
His dark eyes flashed. “Go ahead. Check it.”
She did. Her brother saying thanks with a lot of exclamation points. Jesus. Fourteen hundred dollars? The amount got bigger each time. She’d just given him her rent money. Thank goodness she had this second job. Temping was great when you had a steady gig but she’d only worked two days last week. “My brother. Problem solved.” She managed a shaky smile. “Thanks again.”
“You need money.” It wasn’t a question.
She shrugged. “Who doesn’t?”
“You need money; I need a wife for one year. It would be a purely business arrangement, totally secret. You’d play the part, I’d pay you handsomely, and at the end of that year we’d part amicably and no one would ever know the truth.”
She blinked. Her heart pounded, and she wasn’t sure if it was from the sheer madness of the proposal he’d just hurled at her or the fierce stare that pinned her to her chair while he made it. She scrambled for a response. “Won’t you have to live overseas?”
“Altaleone. It’s in the Alps just north of Italy. I’m to be king. At least if I can find a wife in less than thirty days.”
She knew most of this already. The daytime gallery assistant had clued her in with all the gossipy details about Darias while exclaiming over how hot he was. “I can’t imagine it would be so hard to find a wife. You’re very handsome, successful”—she gestured to the gallery, which displayed nearly three million dollars in potential sales of his work—“and royal. I think you need to talk to the Millionaire Matchmaker.”
“I need things simple. Cut and dried.”
“But you don’t know me at all. What if I’m crazy?” She lifted a brow and widened her eyes as if to suggest it might be a possibility.
“My brother prides himself on being a great judge of character and he’s already vouched for you.” Now a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Meet me for a drink after your shift. What time do you get off?”
She stiffened. This was the kind of proposal she’d grown used to. He probably just wanted to promise her the moon and get her in the sack, then dump her. “I don’t think so.”
“Emma! Can you come back here a moment?” Keane’s voice called from the back of the gallery.
“Excuse me.” She scurried off, relieved to escape his punishing gaze. Keane took off his reading glasses as she entered. He hated being seen in them. “Darling, can you take Darias and his brother out to Lucci’s and buy them dinner for me?” He stuck out his business credit card. “I want them out of here while the show is rehung, or he’ll micromanage every detail and we’ll never get it done. The photographer from Art World is coming first thing tomorrow so I don’t have time for fussing.”
She gulped. “What about the front desk?”
“The show’s not open yet, so never mind the front desk. Quickly, please. Dan and Aziz will be here any minute.”
“Uh, okay.” Really? At least she’d get a free dinner out of it. And it wasn’t as if he could make her marry him. How bad could it be?
CHAPTER TWO
Not surprisingly, Emma had no trouble convincing the brothers to eat out with her. While they walked the two blocks to the restaurant, she wondered silently what else she could do in the evenings to supplement her meager teacher’s income when she got fired from this job. She knew Keane had hired her entirely for her looks, but this was ridiculous. Was he going to blame her if she made their biggest client angry by refusing to marry him?
“Why did your brother borrow money?” Darias watched the waiter fill their glasses with red wine. His brother Sandro pored over the menu.
Emma hesitated. This was her personal business. On the other hand…“Drugs. He’s an addict.” Perfect, really. He’d hardly want a royal wife with a junkie brother.
To her surprise, his eyes filled with compassion. “You probably aren’t helping him by funding his habit.
“I know, but what am I supposed to do? Let him get his kneecaps broken?”
“Sometimes people have to hit bottom before they can find their way back up again.”
She shuddered. “I’m trying to make sure he doesn’t hit bottom too hard. He’s the only family I have left. If I could just convince him to go to rehab.…” She took a sip of wine, then regretted it when the acrid taste burned her tongue.
His eyes brightened. “I know the owner of the best rehab in the city. The Fountains. We could book him in today.”
“We? You don’t even know him.” This man was too much.
“It’s perfect, don’t you see? Your brother goes to The Fountains—which is very expensive, and I will pay every penny—and you come to Altaleone for a year. In a year’s time, your brother will be clean and sober, and you can come back to New York with a nice big bank account and start over.”
“It’s an excellent plan,” said Sandro, who was almost as annoyingly good-looking and self-confident as Darias. “And I can vouch for Darias. He’s a man of his word in every way.”
“Except that he’s planning to live a lie for a solid year.” She looked right at Darias while she said it. “Is that really how you want to start your reign as king?”
His brows lowered slightly. “Of course not, but my main concern right now is helping my mother through a terrible shock. Altaleone is a very small country. You’d have few public appearances and official duties. The year would be over before you know it.”
“I have a career!” she protested. “I spent years working for my degree, and I’m finally a teacher. I love my work. I don’t want to leave it to go live in some fantasy fairy tale for a year.”
Sandro laughed. “A lot of people would love the chance to live in a fantasy fairy tale.”
“Not me. If things look too good to be true, they scare the hell out of me. I was thrilled that my brother hadn’t asked me for money for six whole weeks. Turns out he was borrowing it from the mob.”
Darias cocked his head slightly. “The Fountains has a ninety percent success rate. I don’t think anywhere boasts better results.”
She’d heard of The Fountains. Of course it had never crossed her mind that she’d be able to afford to send Jonas there. Not that he’d agree to go, of course.
Darias leaned toward her, fixing her with his dark stare. “Do you want to look back a few years from now and realize that you had a chance to send your brother to the best rehab facility in the world, and you turned it down?”
She swallowed. He had a point. “But I don’t know anything about pretending to be queen. I’m from South Orange, New Jersey. I barely know which fork to use.” She gestured at the forks on the white tablecloth.
Darias snorted. “That stuff is easy. You can pick it up in an afternoon. It sounds crude, but you look the part and that probably is more important than anything.”
Her back stiffened as his eyes traveled over her face and neck. “Won’t they be expecting you to marry an aristocrat?”
He shrugged. “Beauty trumps titles. And even royal families aren’t as old fashioned as they used to be. Look at William and Kate in England. She’s not an aristocrat.”
Emma felt her chest grow tighter. “One year exactly?” Twelve months. Was it really that long? “And you’d pay for my brother to stay at The Fountains for that entire time?”
“As long as he needs to be there. And I’d pay you one hundred thousand dollars up front on the signing of the contract, to do whatever you like with, and another hundred thousand at the end of the year. In the meantime, all your expenses will be taken care of and you’ll have a generous allowance for clothing, entertainment, anything you want.”
She felt ill. Was she seriously considering this? From what she’d read and heard about Darias he seemed like a decent guy. Heck, a lot of women would probably
kill for this opportunity. A hundred thousand dollars was a lot of money. It would take her years to save that much at her job. Not that she could ever manage to save anything with Jonas borrowing and wasting every cent she earned. And she’d be getting two hundred thousand in total—and living for free for an entire year.
And Jonas—if he could get off drugs it would transform both of their lives.
“You’d have to keep it a secret from everyone, even your parents.” Darias looked so calm. “You’d never be able to tell them the truth.”
“My parents are both gone.” It was hard to say, even now, when her mom had been dead almost a year. “My brother is my family. I couldn’t tell him the truth either?”
“You could just tell him that you fell madly in love with me.” The twinkle in his eyes showed that he found the situation amusing. “Do you think he’d find that hard to imagine?”
She looked at Darias, gorgeous, rich, royal and dangerously charming. “No. But what if he won’t go into rehab? I couldn’t leave unless he was safely there.”
“I’ll talk to Licia, my friend who owns it. I’m sure she’ll have a solution. They kidnapped Katie Reese when she was at her lowest, and now she’s up for a Tony. I know they pride themselves on working miracles.”
Emma let out a long, slow breath. One year. Three hundred and sixty-five days. She’d survived hard times for a lot longer than that.
“You’re thinking about it.” Darias looked pleased. The waitress came over, and he shocked her by ordering for all three of them—in Italian. “I didn’t want you to be distracted by another decision. Trust me, I will take care of your every need during this one year.”
“That’s a big promise.” How did he know what “needs” she would have? She certainly didn’t.
“I don’t shirk my commitments. That’s why I need a wife on short notice. Do you think I really want to leave New York City and go live in an ancient castle? It’s my duty. You can trust me to do my duty to you.”
A Prince for Christmas (Royal House of Leone Book 2) Page 6
