by Riley Pine
Then I’m reminded that I risked my heart once, and the payoff was total devastation. No, thank you. I’m good with focusing on everything and anything other than that.
I wave to X and hold up a finger, letting him know I’ll be right there. Then I turn to face my sister, staring into icy blue eyes that mirror my own.
“Remember, Maddie, we need this fee. We are almost due for another quarterly payment at Silver Maples.” Gran’s been deteriorating, her Alzheimer’s getting worse almost by the week. We’re her sole financial support. Actually, we’re her sole everything. As much as it kills us not to have her at home, caring for her like she did raising us, her condition has declined too much. Silver Maples is a top-rated facility, one of the best in Europe. And it’s priced accordingly. It’s just out of our financial means at the moment, but I intend to change that.
I don’t mention the part about receiving no fee at all if I don’t get Nikolai down the aisle—if he is my first and only fail. I also may have omitted that despite my vow to find him a suitable queen, I already know what it feels like for his stubble to chafe my thighs, for his tongue to swirl around my swollen clit. Or to know that despite the matches that are perfect for Nikolai Lorentz on paper, the only chemistry I’m sure of at this point is whatever happened in that garden maze between myself and our future king.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath and slip past her. I need to stop thinking myself into climax before I’ve even had my first sip of espresso. “I’m late.” I grab my dossier off our small kitchen table and reach for the small cup that should have three shots of my morning wake-up medicine when I realize the espresso machine is unplugged. I never forget my morning shot. Ugh. I am way off my game, which is not an auspicious beginning to day one with my most important client. “Shit,” I say louder and then groan my acceptance at another morning with an empty belly. I kiss my sister on the cheek. “Love you!” And then I dart out the door before she has a chance to respond.
Not that I’m expecting a repeat performance of what happened yesterday, but I wear my auburn waves loose today—in case of any mishaps. Better to have my hair down and unfettered than to attempt the whole conservative look only to wind up disheveled and unkempt. Because I much prefer kempt.
X holds open the car door, and I enter to find a veritable feast waiting for me on a small table attached to the wall that separates the rear of the vehicle from the front. There’s a bowl of the reddest strawberries I’ve ever seen, a small basket of scones and a stainless-steel travel mug of what I assume is coffee.
My eyes widen as I lower myself into my seat, and I glance at X before he closes the door. He offers me a small bow, and I blush, embarrassed at the royal treatment when my upbringing is probably more common than he can imagine.
“Compliments of His Royal Highness, Prince Nikolai.”
While I’m sure my fresh breakfast probably cost him no more than a few seconds of his time, a quick royal order via text, I can’t fight the warmth spreading through my veins that he thought of me at all.
“Thank you, X,” I say with a smile I’m unable to suppress, and he nods before closing the door.
I settle into the plush leather of my seat, pulling a napkin that’s folded in the shape of a swan from the table before me. A pang of guilt rests in my chest for whoever created this small masterpiece only to have me stain it with berry juice or dripped coffee. Yet I shake it out, a swan no more, and lay it across my lap as X pulls smoothly from the curb.
I opted for pants today—a cropped black pair with a green silk blouse. And flats. I’d pretty much taken every precaution to avoid a repeat performance with the prince, and I smile smugly to myself at how easy it will be to keep my panties on today.
I unlock the lid to the mug and breathe in the rich aroma, biting back a moan as I do. Whatever brand of coffee is in there, it’s miles above the quality of the espresso I buy on sale at the corner market.
I knock on the window that separates me from X, and instead of him lowering it, his voice pipes through a speaker to my left.
“Can I help you, Miss Kate?”
I roll my eyes at his insistence on formality but decide not to give him a hard time.
“It’s kind of lonely here,” I tell him. “Can we talk without the intercom?”
I hear him clear his throat. “As you wish, Miss Kate.”
The window lowers, and I pop a strawberry into my mouth before leaning toward the open space between us. But the expanse is too wide for my torso, and I end up falling to my knees, a dribble of berry juice on my chin. I wipe it clean and scoot the rest of the way to the window frame, leaning through it so X’s strong profile is in view.
“Did you make the swan?” I ask.
His eyes remain on the road as he replies. “No, Miss.”
“Did you make the coffee?”
“No, Miss.”
“Would you like a strawberry?”
At this I see the faintest tug on the corner of his mouth, and I decide that along with making sure I send Nikolai Lorentz down the aisle, I’m going to make X smile.
“No, Miss,” he says, and my shoulders sag.
I follow his eyes to the road ahead and realize we’re not headed in the direction of the palace. For a second my heart stutters in my chest.
“Okay, you’re not going to ply me with strawberries and scones only to dump me in the river with a backpack full of stones, right?”
Again that twitch of his lip, but it doesn’t go beyond that.
“We are heading to the river,” he says. “But His Highness said nothing about a backpack.”
I narrow my eyes even though he won’t look in my direction. Despite heading toward the body of water I’ve avoided most of my living years, I decide to trust my life is not in danger and slide back to my seat, this time bringing a warm blueberry scone with me. Seriously? How is it still warm?
Just as I relax and bring the pastry to my lips, we roll to a stop. X, however, does not leave his seat. Before I can ask him if we’ve reached our destination, my door opens, and I see the prince—not in a rumpled dress shirt and tuxedo pants but in a fitted black T-shirt and dark washed jeans. I know what I said about not being a preteen fangirl, but holy hell. This man in the flesh is a vision to behold.
He extends his arms wide as if he’s brought the world to my doorstep, and based on the breakfast alone, it feels like he has.
“We can’t possibly be expected to work indoors on a day like today,” he says, his gray eyes shimmering silver in the sun.
He offers me a hand, and I take it, grabbing the dossier with my other as he pulls me into the fresh morning air.
“No,” I say, trying to convince myself that the smoldering heat in my core is from the coffee I leave behind in the car. “I guess we can’t.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Nikolai
“THANKS FOR BREAKFAST.” Kate regards me uncertainly.
“Seems only fair, Miss Winter. Especially after the delicious feast you offered me yesterday.” Here’s hoping that my wolfish smile covers any sincerity that might poke through my veneer. “Nice pants, by the way.” They fit slim against her shape, hugging the soft swell of her thighs, tapering at her small waist. I take my time drinking her in for two reasons. One: she looks even better than she did in my dreams last night. Two: it’s time to scare her off.
I don’t care a whit about ancient marriage requirements. But my father is the king, and Edenvale is a strict monarchy. No constitution. No parliament. His word is absolute law.
But despite his decree, I cannot marry. I will not. My heart hasn’t been whole for years. To subject a woman to a lifetime of darkness—to a love I cannot give—is anything but fair. I may not play by the rules in my day-to-day—or night-by-night—affairs, but I am straightforward. Each beauty I bed knows full well I have nothing to offer the morning after other than
burying my cock in her one more time.
I do like a proper goodbye, after all.
And I also like to be clear that I will not share my future crown.
Father has to be bluffing about this twenty-ninth birthday bullshit. He can’t take the throne from me. He wouldn’t. What are his other options? Benedict would yield our sovereign power to the Roman Pope. Damien? My cousin Ingrid, who is still a child? Nightgardin would be licking its chops if that happened.
A hot copper taste fills my mouth. The inside of my cheek hurts from the involuntary bite.
Damien destroyed my world. His scandal nearly brought down our entire lineage. Now he is banished. Not even allowed to claim Edenvale citizenship. No, that bottom-feeder will never be permitted to call himself more than “King of Traitors.”
Father has no other choice, if he wants to avoid passing the crown from his bloodline. He will have to relent, to compromise, come around and see things from my point of view. It is that or let the kingdom fall to ruin, and that—he knows—is not an option.
My shoulders relax. I’ll indulge in Miss Winter’s little game for the time being, but she doesn’t know that I’m the one writing the rules, and that I only play to win.
“Ahem, Highness?” Her exaggerated throat clearing breaks my thoughts. “My eyes are up here.”
I allow my gaze to slowly rake over the swell of her perfect breasts. “I know exactly where your eyes are, Miss Winter, and might I say that’s a fetching color of shadow. Makes your eyes appear deeper than the Bottomless Lake.”
Kate sucks in a ragged breath, one evidenced by the rapid rise and fall of her chest rather than heard.
“Can we get down to business?” Pleading fills her voice.
“That all depends. Would getting down to...business bring you pleasure?” I dribble innuendo over every sentence. My mask is perfect. I’m every inch the rakish rogue everyone has come to expect. Kate Winter has no idea that my heart accelerates in her vicinity, kicks into fifth faster than my Ferrari 250 Testa Rossa.
And she never will.
She balls her free hand into a fist while the other clutches a portfolio, her fingertips white from her grip. Bet Little Miss Ice Queen would love nothing better than landing a punch right in my arrogant smirk. She can take a number. There are many in the line before her.
Plus she’s safer wanting nothing more to do with me than our business dealings.
“X,” I call, not breaking my gaze. “The poles.”
“Very good, Highness.” He clicks his heels and strides to the trunk of the Rolls. Good old X. Familiar as my shadow.
“I’m not really a nature girl.” She casts a baleful look at the long grass, swatting away a hovering insect. “But I am excited to get to work. Here is the dossier.” She brandishes the portfolio. “I spent last night reviewing suitable prospects and have winnowed your choices to five viable candidates.” She clears her throat. “Your parents offered some input as well, wishing the choice to be someone who would buoy your image and thereby the image of the throne. Your stepmother in particular took a keen interest. The queen is a woman of many opinions.”
I arch a brow. My hag of a stepmother has many feelings about my existence, none of them good. “I thought we were to do some sort of personality profile.”
She breaks eye contact. “Your stepmother didn’t think it was necessary to invest too much in compatibility since—well—since you don’t intend this to be much of an emotional connection. You’ve made that point crystal clear. So I’ve been instructed to provide you with appropriate choices.”
“Fascinating.” A cold front blows over my chest, transforming my tone to sheer ice. I spent last night milking my cock, dreaming of her sweet, soaked pussy, and all the while she’d been reviewing appropriate brides. Not once in five years have I given a single fuck what a woman thinks about after I’ve been with her.
Not once until today.
How much is Father paying her for this trouble? My stepmother would bankrupt the royal coffers if it meant having her revenge. She won’t play me the fool the way her daughter did. Victoria made me believe that a kiss meant love, not a fast track to sink her claws into my wealth—or my future throne.
These days the only crown jewels I’m prepared to offer the opposite sex rest between my legs. It’s likely she is conspiring with my stepmother. No doubt yesterday’s unexpected encounter was part of her carefully constructed ruse designed to disarm me. Being heir to the Edenvale throne means living with an invisible target on my back. The thing is, though, that I already know there’s a sniper in my midst, and she sleeps in my father’s bed.
My smile is as cool as her name. If Kate Winter hopes to lie in wait to stab a proverbial blade between my shoulder blades, then I hope she has the patience of a saint, because I aim to give her no such satisfaction.
X returns, and her expression morphs from confused to horrified.
“Fishing poles?” She gasps. “Is this your idea of a joke?”
“Fishing is one of my many hobbies,” I lie smoothly. “And it seems an apt metaphor given our current situation.” I take a pole from X and hand it to her.
She grips it without complaint, understanding the gesture isn’t a request, but an order from her prince.
I grab the dossier from her other hand, not bothering to look inside, and hand it to X. “We won’t be needing that just yet,” I say, then turn my attention to Kate. “After all, there are many fish in the sea, correct? Or should I say...river?” I pivot and stride toward the old Roman bridge. “And how can I be sure of your skills in catching one for me until I see you in action?”
Kate
It’s a stone bridge, I remind myself. A sturdy, stone, won’t-crumble-beneath-your-feet bridge. There’s no need to tell him I can’t swim.
Though the swelling in my ankle has gone down, the lingering ache still slows my gait. He walks a few paces ahead of me, not bothering to wait. Decidedly different behavior from yesterday when he carried me after my fall—saw to it that I made it home safe. Hell, he even sent me breakfast this morning. I knew I was stupid to think it meant anything more than feeding the help, that Nikolai Lorentz was anything other than what the media portrayed.
I catch up to him at the center of the bridge where nothing else waits for us other than two buckets, one of which must be bait, the other to hold what we catch. I swallow hard when I note the height—or lack thereof—of the stone wall separating us from the river below. Nikolai perches casually on the low barrier, reaches into the bucket and pulls from it what looks like a small slice of sausage.
“What is that?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.
He shrugs. “X prepared it. Says it’s his best recipe for catching trout. You met Beatrice in the kitchen yesterday, yes? Our head cook? Tonight’s royal meal depends on what you catch for us today.”
His tone is more cold than playful, yet I decide to humor him.
“Well, then,” I say. “I’ve got plenty of suggestions for takeout when this goes royally amiss.”
He buries the hint of a smile, but I see it nonetheless and take it as a sign that I do have the power to break through whatever wall he’s hiding behind today. I remind myself that my livelihood depends on it and let out a breath before reaching into the small bucket and pinching a slimy piece of bait between my thumb and forefinger.
I shudder at the feel of the foreign substance against my skin but do not dare complain. I watch as Nikolai fixes his bait to his hook and mimic his movements precisely. Maybe this won’t be so difficult after all.
He raises a brow. “You’ve fished before?”
I shake my head. “I’m a quick learner,” I say, realizing I’ve nowhere to wipe my hand and opt for the ledge of the wall I don’t dare sit on myself.
He casts his line into the river, and again I follow suit.
Piece of disgusting, slimy cake.
He finally grins. “May the best fisherman win,” he says. “Not that it’s a competition.”
I smile. “You’re on, Your Highness.”
We fish in silence, him still sitting on the wall while I stand a pace behind it. In less than three minutes his line tugs at the pole, and Nikolai whoops in response, standing to reel in his catch.
I can’t help but marvel at the ease of his movements, the flex of his biceps as he rotates the crank on the pole. And it’s this lapse in my attention, this gravitational pull he seems to have on me despite every bit of logic saying it shouldn’t, that causes the tug on my own line to catch me off guard.
My body yanks forward, and I stumble. It all happens in the space of a few seconds. I don’t even have time to scream before I knock into the wall and pitch right over it.
The water is cool, yet it burns my lungs and throat as I panic and breathe it in. I cough, but it only makes me take in more water. In this strange, suspended panic, I note the clarity of the river, that I can see through the surface and to the bridge to where it looks like something is falling toward me as I sink.
As quickly as I was yanked off the bridge, strong hands wrap around me and tug me toward the surface. When I break through, I cough up the water I couldn’t release seconds ago and gasp for air. Instinct has me thrashing in his arms, but he doesn’t let go.
“Kate!” he yells, his voice hoarse. “Christ, Kate! Stop fighting me and put your feet down. It’s only five feet deep!”
His words register, and I cease movement, letting my legs straighten below me while I still cling to his arm with my own.
My shoes touch the riverbed, and I stand on my tiptoes, my five-foot-five height keeping my face well above water.
We reach the bank, and I collapse onto my ass, humiliation seeping in as I cough up another mouthful of water.
Nikolai falls onto his back, panting, his T-shirt and jeans plastered to his muscled frame.
“Christ almighty,” he says, catching his breath. “Why didn’t you tell me you couldn’t swim?”
