Their Royal Wedding Bargain

by Michelle Conder

  Once sharing what he would have said was an unbreakable bond, their relationship had grown strained with distance and Rafe was never sure how to bridge the gulf without losing himself in the process. Still, he owed Jag a debt of gratitude, even if his brother didn’t think so.

  Catching the direction of his thoughts before they progressed any further, Rafe shook them off with well-practised ease. This was partly the reason he hated returning home. The memories, the choked feeling of constraint and the heaviness that came over him that wasn’t a part of the life that he lived now. A life based on unsurpassed pleasure, beauty and freedom. A life he lived predominantly in England, where he’d used a stellar investment in technology while attending Cambridge to purchase his first bar and nightclub. He had ‘the touch’ some said, an innate ability to tap into what his clientele wanted and to transform any venue he took over into the hottest place in town.

  Which often made him the hottest property in town, pursued again and again by women looking to change his mind about remaining single. Something he had no intention of doing. Ever. In his experience the novelty factor rarely lasted beyond the bedroom and, even if it did, his parents’ tumultuous relationship had cured him of ever thinking marriage was an institution he wanted to be part of.

  Much better to have fun while it lasted, and move on before anyone got hurt. And if the tabloids wanted to paint him as a playboy prince to get foot traffic on their websites, that was hardly his problem. Something Jag didn’t understand.

  But then Jag was still a little aggrieved about the whole French heiress debacle at this event last year. Having grown bored early on in the night, Rafe had taken her to his hot tub upstairs, only to have her post photos of the two of them to her social media account. If he’d known Jag was in the middle of important negotiations with her father at the time he would have insisted that she leave her phone downstairs.

  An oversight that had led him to promise his brother that he would stay out of trouble this evening. Which wasn’t exactly fair because Rafe rarely went looking for trouble any more. More often than not it found him.

  As if on cue, he saw his sister making a beeline for him as she wound her way through the throng of impeccably groomed guests at the ball.

  ‘I take it the ostrich lost?’ he teased, his eyes going to the brightly coloured feathers covering her skirt. ‘Or do you have plans to return the outfit to the poor creature at the end of the night?’

  ‘Laugh all you want,’ Milena challenged with narrowed eyes. ‘But I love the dress and every feather had already been shed before it was collected. Is that what you were grinning at before? Or was it something else? I swear you had that glint in your eye that said you were up to no good.’

  ‘Just remembering a certain French heiress I met at about this time last year.’

  ‘Oh, please.’ Milena rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t let Jag hear you say the words “French” and “heiress” together in a sentence; he’ll blow a gasket.’

  ‘He needs to loosen up. He got the deal with her father through in the end so it was a win-win for both of us.’

  ‘No thanks to you,’ she retorted. ‘When are you going to start dating women you respect and want to—’

  ‘Don’t say it.’ Rafe shuddered. ‘I like to imagine that you’re still innocent of such matters. And anyway, I promised our esteemed brother that I’d be on my best behaviour tonight, so don’t worry.’

  He gave his sister his trademark grin, knowing that it wouldn’t work one bit. She might be six years younger than his thirty years but she’d always had his measure.

  ‘That only makes me worry more.’ She groaned. ‘And, speaking of Jag, you need to cut him some slack. He’s got a lot on his plate right now.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘The Berenian thing.’

  ‘Still?’ Rafe arched a brow. He knew Berenia was causing problems but he’d thought that would have died down by now. ‘So he didn’t marry their revered Princess last year. They need to move on and get over it.’

  ‘There’s more to it than that. Santara has advanced much further on the world stage than Berenia, which brings its own set of resentments.’

  ‘Yes, but still their incompetence can hardly be our problem.’

  ‘I don’t know the ins and outs of it but... Oh, there’s Jag, looking for us. I was supposed to find you so we can get the official photos out of the way.’

  ‘Lead on,’ Rafe said with amusement. He’d smile and play nice so his brother would have nothing to grumble about at the end of the night. Then tomorrow he’d fly home and resume his normal life, which wasn’t dictated by pomp or protocol.

  ‘Rafa.’ Jag greeted him with a hint of stiffness. ‘I wasn’t sure you were going to make it this year.’

  ‘Never miss it. Especially if there’s a French heiress to be had.’

  ‘Rafa!’ Milena scolded under her breath. ‘You promised.’

  Rafe laughed. ‘Don’t worry. Jag knows I’m joking.’

  ‘Jag hopes you’re joking,’ his brother muttered. ‘And just because you made a career out of annoying our father don’t feel that you have to carry the tradition on with me because I’m King.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ Rafe grinned. ‘I hear you’re having some issues with the Berenians.’

  ‘Don’t mention that word. I swear they’re the most stubborn people on earth.’

  A photographer stopped in front of them. ‘The lighting is probably better over by the far column, Your Majesty; do you mind moving in that direction?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Jag said, casting his eyes across the sea of chattering guests until he spotted what he was looking for. He crooked his finger, a small smile playing at the edges of his mouth, softening his face in a way Rafe had rarely seen before. Following his line of sight, he watched as Jag’s new wife made her way towards them. Clearly pregnant, in a slim-fitting gown, she looked beautiful and only had eyes for his brother.

  When she reached his side, Rafe could have sworn the rest of the room dissolved for both of them. Bemused, he wondered what it felt like to want someone that much, and then decided he didn’t want to know.

  ‘Good evening, Your Majesty,’ Rafe greeted his new Queen. ‘You’re looking as beautiful as ever.’ He took her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Should you ever tire of my stiff-necked brother, you only have to—’

  ‘Rafa—’ Jag began warningly.

  Queen Regan laughed softy and placed her hand on his brother’s arm. ‘Always the devil, Rafaele.’ She smiled at him. ‘It’s a skill to make a pregnant woman blush. But where is your date tonight? I understand you’re seeing a Spanish supermodel. Ella? Or Esme?’

  ‘Estela,’ Rafe corrected.

  ‘My apologies.’ She glanced around curiously. ‘Did you bring her with you?’

  ‘Unfortunately, we had a difference in priorities and parted ways.’

  ‘And you’re clearly crestfallen.’ Regan arched a brow, a playful glow in her eyes. ‘Do I want to know what those priorities were?’

  ‘If you two are quite finished flirting,’ Jag said with an edge of menace in his voice, ‘the photographer is waiting.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Regan threaded her arm through his. ‘But I’m a married woman now. I have to live vicariously and Rafaele always has such interesting stories.’

  ‘I’ll give you an interesting story later on,’ Jag promised throatily. ‘For now just smile and imagine it.’

  ‘Whatever they have, I don’t want it,’ Rafe grouched, lining up on the other side of his sister.

  ‘It’s called love,’ Milena said impishly. ‘And I can’t wait to experience it.’

  ‘Just don’t fall in love with anyone I haven’t checked out first,’ Rafe warned sternly.

  ‘Oh, fiddle.’ She waved him away. ‘You and Jag are as bad as each other. You’re more alike than you might think.�
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  She was wrong. It had always been easier to be the bad to Jag’s good. But he didn’t offer an objection. Instead he pasted a smile on his face and pinched his sister’s side just as the photographer clicked the shutter. Milena kicked his ankle in return and it was their usual game on to see who could make the other break first.

  Two hours later, bored to the bone, Rafe thought about heading to his hot tub—alone—when he saw her. A vision who appeared to be nude at first glance but who, unfortunately, wasn’t. But she was breathtaking, with her dark hair, smooth caramel skin and elegant cameo-like profile. Her delicate features were complemented by slender curves and long legs.

  They’d fit, he realised with a jolt, somehow already knowing just how good they would be together though he’d never even spoken to her. Instantly intrigued by the notion that he wanted to know the colour of her eyes and the taste of her lips under his. He wanted to feel her warm silken skin and feast his eyes on her sweet curves as he stripped that clever gown from her body with aching slowness for the very first time.

  As if sensing the heat of his thoughts, she turned her head, her eyes instantly finding his.

  She blinked, as if she felt the caress of the erotic images coursing through his brain, a flush touching her high cheekbones. Or was that just his imagination going overboard? It certainly couldn’t be because of the fool standing in front of her. Count Kushnir wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like that if he had a set of instructions and an accompanying magnifying glass.

  Rafe let a slow grin curve the corners of his lips, noting the way her eyes widened with alarm as if she too already knew that they were destined to become lovers.

  Because they would become lovers. Tonight, tomorrow night—for Rafe it was already a forgone conclusion. He only hoped she wasn’t one of those women who liked to play hard to get, imagining that if he had to work for it he’d be more interested. He wouldn’t. Because he couldn’t be more interested in this woman if he tried.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ALEXA FELT PRINCE RAFAELE’S gaze on her as if it were a tractor beam.

  This was it. The moment she’d been waiting for. The moment he’d notice her so that they would meet and she could introduce herself. Not that she’d probably need to do that because he would surely know who she was but still, it was the polite thing to do. She’d introduce herself, make small talk and...and...

  ‘Choo-choo...choo-choo!’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Forcing her attention back to the man in front of her, with a noble Russian lineage dating back before Peter the Great, she tried to smile. ‘I don’t think I heard you right?’

  At least she hoped she hadn’t. But no...there it was again. An obnoxious, high-pitched noise as he mimicked the sound his toy steam engine made as it trundled around an apparently life-sized track. It reminded her of the stories of sybaritic kings of old who set up lifelike warships in large lakes and watched them battle for supremacy. If she had thought this man might be a possible candidate for a fake engagement should Prince Rafaele turn her down, he’d just convinced her to look elsewhere. The only thing she could fake in this man’s company was a smile. And even that was growing old.

  ‘May I interrupt?’ A smooth deep voice beside her thankfully broke off the man’s description of yet another steam engine.

  Expecting the voice to belong to Prince Rafaele, she breathed a heavy sigh of relief intermingled with disappointment when it wasn’t. Immediately her eyes cut to the place she had last seen him but he wasn’t there any more.

  ‘Your Royal Highness?’

  Somewhat perplexed that the Prince had simply walked away after staring at her so openly, Alexa smiled at the newcomer beside her. What had he asked her? To dance? ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  She didn’t actually want to dance but maybe movement would help settle her suddenly jangled nerves.

  It had been the look the Prince had given her. That all-encompassing male glance that had raked her from head to toe and then pierced her with heat. It had completely thrown her. Of course she’d known he was good-looking. The mouth-watering photos Nasrin had dredged up on the Internet were demonstration enough of that, but in the flesh... In the flesh he was something more. More charismatic. More powerful. More sensual. More physical.

  Taller than those around him, he’d been wide-shouldered and lean-hipped, his body exuding the kind of animal grace that drew the eye of anyone in his vicinity and held it. His dark brown hair was cut in longer layers, framing his chiselled jaw and well-shaped lips to perfection.

  In many ways he’d reminded her of King Jaeger but this man had a laconic, laidback sense to him that was powerfully sexy, and strangely she’d never once thought of the King as sexy.

  Powerful, yes. Intimidating and regal, yes. But she’d never looked at him and felt her blood pump faster through her veins, as had happened from one long, wicked look from Prince Rafaele.

  Feeling guilty that she was completely ignoring the man who was currently holding her at a respectful distance on the dance floor, she tried to dredge up something interesting to say to break the silence between them. God knew she had years of banal small talk rolling around inside her head but, for the life of her, she couldn’t seem to recall any of it, her brain stuck on the strange lethargy that had entered her body at Prince Rafaele’s heated stare.

  ‘I hate to cut in, Lord Stanton, but you need to contact your office. Something about a paternity test being carried out with your name on it.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Her dance partner instantly dropped her hand and frowned at the man she’d been waiting all night to ‘run into’ with horror. ‘That can’t be true.’

  Prince Rafaele gave an indolent shrug of one wide shoulder. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’

  Alexa frowned as Lord Stanton mumbled an apology and carved a purposeful path through the crowded dance floor as if the devil was on his trail.

  ‘Allow me,’ the Prince said, taking her into his arms and holding her much closer than Lord Stanton had done.

  It took her only a moment to realise that he’d done that deliberately, and that there was probably no paternity test in the works at all.

  ‘Was any of that true?’

  ‘Not a word.’

  Alexa didn’t know whether to laugh or frown at his candour. ‘That wasn’t very nice. I think you really scared poor Lord Stanton.’

  ‘Only because it’s happened to poor Lord Stanton before.’

  ‘It has?’ She blinked at him. ‘How do you know that? Is he a friend of yours?’

  ‘I know everything. But no, he isn’t a friend. Not even close.’

  ‘He’s not going to be happy when he finds out you lied.’

  ‘Probably not.’ The Prince raised an eyebrow as if to say he couldn’t care less, his gaze skimming her face. ‘But first things first. That soft accent I can hear in your voice isn’t French, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’ Before she could think too much about his question he manoeuvred her closer, distracting her. ‘Now I can just enjoy how good you feel in my arms.’

  Incredibly aware of the warm male chest mere inches from hers, Alexa’s breath caught. One of his hard thighs was pressed ever so slightly between her legs, keeping her slightly off balance, so that she had to grip onto his hand to stay upright. Aware that she’d never felt such a powerful response to anyone like this before, she automatically drew back, her reaction causing a slow masculine grin to curve his lips. ‘Too fast for you?’

  ‘I...’ Completely unprepared to be meeting him like this, let alone be plastered up against his hard body, Alexa frowned. ‘Yes. I don’t like being crowded.’

  Truth be told, she wasn’t used to being touched like this. Her father had never been overly tactile and, as her mother had died giving birth to her, she’d been raised by a procession of nannies, each one leaving before she or Sol could become
attached to them. It had been her father’s way of training any neediness out of them, his methods intended to instil in them both a sense of objectivity and distance befitting a monarch of their realm.

  She still remembered the day her beloved Mrs Halstead had left. At five, Alexa had cried herself into a stupor, thus proving her father’s point. After a while she had stopped crying when people left but, given the mistake she’d made with Stefano, the lesson in objectivity had taken much longer to master. And sometimes she worried that she still hadn’t got it. Especially now, when she was struggling to remain objective in this man’s arms.

  ‘By all means I can do slow,’ he said with a grin, his mesmerising eyes flicking over her with sensual intent.

  Even though she had dressed to attract attention she was so unused to men flirting with her it took Alexa a moment to assimilate his meaning. When she did, heat curved up the side of her neck. She hadn’t fully worked out what she was going to say to him when they finally met so she found herself at a loss for words. It was only her love for her country, and a desire to placate her father, that had her still considering going ahead with her plan.

  Because ordinarily she wouldn’t go near a man like the Prince. And not just because of his bad boy reputation but because he was too big and too male—his level of testosterone swamping her and making her way too aware of him. It was like being confronted by an enormous, sated wolf; even though you knew it was well fed you still couldn’t relax in its presence for fear that it might pounce just for the fun of it.

  The orchestra music changed tempo and she realised that the Prince danced very well, his movements fluid and graceful as he moved her in time with the beat. Wondering how to gain control of the situation and suggest a place for them to sit down and talk, she was completely unprepared for his enticing all-male scent to swamp her as he leaned in closer.

  ‘You’re exceptionally beautiful,’ he murmured, bringing her left hand up to his lips in one smooth move, smiling against her fingertips. ‘And unmarried. Two of my favourite attributes in a woman.’