He leads us to a table at the back of the restaurant. A large indoor fig with glossy green leaves partially conceals the table from view, and for added protection I take the seat against the wall, because it obscures me completely from other diners.
‘Would you like to see a menu?’ Santiago asks as we take our seats.
‘I’m no expert at eating in restaurants, but isn’t that customary?’
‘I generally rely on Enrique to bring me what’s best.’
It speaks volumes, given what a control freak he is. ‘Then I’m sure that will be fine.’
‘Is there anything you don’t eat?’
His attention to detail makes me feel like the most special person in the world. Danger signs flash. That’s not what this is. It’s not what he wants and it’s impossible for me to want it. Impossible for me to have it. I can’t look beyond this slice of time.
‘Lois?’
I realise he’s waiting for my answer so I shake my head softly and he conveys this to Enrique in Spanish; then, we are alone.
‘How did you find this place?’
‘I first came here many years ago. I was looking at developing a hotel on the foreshore, just over there.’ He points to a window and I lean forward, following the direction of his finger. It’s dark outside, just the faint glow of pale streetlights showing the edge of the road. A beach lies beyond—we walked beside it as we arrived. The moon is shining brightly tonight, casting a silver skein across the ancient, rumbling sea.
‘But you didn’t?’
A waiter arrives with a bottle of champagne. He stands at the table as he removes the foil and pops the top, then tilts the glasses individually to fill them.
Both of us alone again, I run my finger over the stem of my wine glass, watching Santiago. He lifts his glass, silently gesturing to mine. I mimic the gesture, then sip. The drink is ice-cold with the slightest fizz. It tickles my tongue and dances all the way down. I close my eyes to enjoy the flavour and, when I open them again, Santiago is staring at me. My mouth goes dry despite the dousing of champagne. I blink, self-conscious and bursting with sensation.
‘No.’ The word is gruff and it takes me a moment to remember that we were talking about his hotel development.
‘Why not?’
‘In the end, it wasn’t suitable.’
Now, that’s interesting. ‘No?’ I sip my champagne, attempting to appear casual.
‘Part of the charm of this town is that it’s largely inaccessible. This means the number of tourists is limited. I realised that, in building a hotel to capitalise on the area’s appeal, I’d be destroying it.’
My jaw drops. ‘So you pulled out of a financially lucrative deal because it was the right thing to do?’
‘It is entirely different to the Marlsdoven casino.’
I shudder to hear it described this way. ‘Why?’
He leans forward and places his hand over mine. ‘For one thing, the casino will be in a major European city. For another, the hotel here would not have remained lucrative once it had taken away the quaint appeal of a tiny coastal village. I feared making the coastline into a theme park—there is long-term damage in that.’
‘Not a good bet?’ I prompt.
His eyes glitter darkly when they meet mine. ‘Exactly. The odds were not in my favour. Whereas market research shows that the scope for a casino in Marlsdoven is enormous. Believe it or not, your population responded very favourably to the prospect, in the surveys I commissioned. Additionally, thirty-five per cent of travellers returning to Marlsdoven reported wanting a visit to a casino at some point during their trip.’
I close my eyes, a wave of nausea passing through me as I force myself to accept this reality. I already knew it was all but a done deal, but hearing these facts just show me how futile it is to keep fighting him on this.
‘Why do you hate the concept so much?’
I swallow, bitterness making my throat thicken. ‘I’ve told you—’
‘Yes, you’ve told me,’ he interrupts, but pauses as another waiter appears with a plate of food. The fragrance is unmistakably saffron. When he goes, Santiago continues. ‘You’ve told me that you despise gambling, but you haven’t told me why. And I can tell there is more to it. This is personal for you. Deeply personal.’
I stare at my hands. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because your skin grows pale whenever I bring up the casino. You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. This is not just business, nor is it a maternal desire to protect your citizens from the big, bad wolf of gambling. So what is it, Princesa?’
My heart stammers. I shake my head, the demurral meaningless in the face of his question. Why not tell him the truth? It is a secret I’ve protected all my life, which my parents valued, but I don’t doubt I can trust Santiago with it.
‘My uncle was a gambling addict,’ I say softly, toying with the champagne flute. ‘He hid it for many years. He travelled abroad, starting with poker before progressing to the casinos of Europe, where his bets grew increasingly enormous—I think in an effort to recoup some of his losses. He had a generous trust fund but he burned through it in eighteen months. His annual income from our family estates was also exceptional, but he borrowed against his share, mortgaging himself over and over until he was tied up in knots and in debt to less than savoury money lenders.’
I take a gulp of champagne, needing the liquid but also the artificial relaxation. Santiago is quiet, waiting for me to continue, and to my surprise I do. After not discussing Richard for many, many years, it feels important to speak about him. Or maybe it’s just that Santiago has a unique power over me...that with him I want to be completely honest about everything.
‘I think he always struggled with being the second-born son. Nothing was expected of him. He was never spoken of, never valued as more than a contingency plan if something happened to dad. He had a lot of money and fame, but no purpose. No value. And so many limitations.’
‘And so he started gambling,’ Santiago murmurs sympathetically.
I nod. ‘My father blamed himself. He was busy with his obligations and family. They grew apart but dad always thought my uncle was happy—just living life with the kind of freedom my father would never know. If anything, I think he envied Richard a little.’ I sigh.
‘How did he find out the truth?’
‘My uncle committed suicide.’ I say the words robotically.
Santiago’s brows knit closer together, his surprise evident.
I grimace. ‘Nobody knew,’ I explain. ‘At the time, it was reported that he died after a long battle with an illness. And that’s not a lie,’ I hasten to add. ‘Gambling addiction is exactly that.’
He dips his head in acknowledgement.
‘He left a note. It revealed the extent of his losses. He felt helpless. He was in a cycle of forever trying to dig himself out of trouble. He would hope for one more win, that that would be enough to start making repayments.’ I shake my head sadly. ‘My father felt incredibly guilty. He had money; he could have helped. But my uncle was too ashamed to ask.’
Silence falls between us.
‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ Santiago’s voice is carefully mute of emotion, so I don’t know if the story has had any impact on him.
‘Thank you.’ I sip my champagne. The noise of the restaurant swirls around us, but I barely hear it.
‘Your family must have been devastated.’
‘Yes. He hid his addiction so well, none of us had any idea until it was too late. Per Richard’s wishes, the truth surrounding his death was never revealed.’
More silence, softened by reflectiveness.
‘How old were you?’
‘Eleven.’ I close my eyes against a wave of memory. ‘It killed a part of my father, you know? He loved his brother, had always felt protective of him, and losing him li
ke that... I know he blamed himself.’
‘That’s futile.’
‘Perhaps. But it’s also unavoidable.’ I offer a tight smile. ‘He was different after that. My father became obsessed with duty and responsibility, with making sure I understood the importance of our role to the kingdom. I used to think when he was lecturing me that he was imagining his brother in my place, saying the things he wished he could have said to Richard.’
Santiago’s expression is analytical, his eyes scanning my face. ‘And you wanted to please your father,’ he murmurs eventually.
I lift one shoulder in defiant acceptance of that.
‘You want to please him still,’ Santiago presses and, even though it’s true, I feel as though it’s a criticism.
‘I want to make him proud,’ I say eventually.
‘And how do you do that, Freja? What do you need to do?’
‘That’s easy,’ I respond tightly. ‘I do exactly what I’m meant to do. What I was born to do.’
‘And never deviate from what’s expected of you?’
I press my teeth into my lower lip. ‘No,’ I agree after a moment. ‘Never.’ I don’t know why, but admitting that aloud feels a little like cutting off something important. I turn away, but he draws my attention back.
‘Freja...’ he says gently, lacing our fingers together. I stare at the contrast in our skin, his dark, mine fair, the juxtaposition enchanting. ‘You say your uncle grew up second best, knowing he was second best. And you are right. Gambling is an addiction. For some people it fills a void. I just wonder that, if it weren’t gambling, your uncle might have relied on another crutch. Alcohol, drugs. Both of which are equally harmful.’
I lift my gaze to his, thinking of his own experience with substance abuse, parents who’d been either high or drunk his entire childhood.
‘He gambled,’ Santiago continues. ‘But I do not know if it necessarily follows that gambling is inherently bad.’
I drop my eyes back to our hands, staring at them. ‘It killed him.’
His lack of response speaks volumes, and I don’t entirely disagree with him. My uncle wasn’t happy. He was looking to fill a void and he found his way to gambling. The initial high of winning made him feel good, possibly for the first time in his life. Maybe if he’d tried drugs or got into binge drinking it would have been the same.
‘After the funeral, I remember my father saying that gambling is the scourge of the world...that for all that it’s been around since time immemorial it should be banished, and that if he had his way it would be. He had no power over the world, but at least in Marlsdoven he could make sure the country was never touched by such a harmful practice.’ My voice shakes a little. I reach for my fork, pressing it into the rice on my plate. Steam billows towards me. ‘I didn’t think about those words again until you made your offer.’
‘And your first instinct was to reject the proposal.’
My lips tighten into something like the ghost of a smile. ‘I don’t really have that power. Perhaps if I asked the Prime Minister... But without an alternative that is just as beneficial to our economy...?’ I shake my head sadly. ‘I’m aware that I have a bias here. I know what I want is unreasonable.’
‘But, if there is to be casino in Marlsdoven, you need it to be on your terms.’
My eyes widen as they lift to his. I nod. ‘It has to be worth it. I don’t know how I can make peace with what I owe my father, my uncle, if I don’t at least try to fight this.’
He reaches for his glass and has a drink without relinquishing my hand. ‘Two years ago, when I first started looking to put a casino in Marlsdoven, your government provided me with a list of land options. I chose this site because of the historic nature of the land as well as its primacy within the city––on the river bank, with easy access to the CBD. I am as convinced now as I was then that this will be the best place for the project.’
He’s right. The land is ripe for development.
‘Your government offered me the land,’ he repeats. ‘Did you know that?’
I nod. ‘Every year we discuss which areas might be used and for what purpose. There has long been talk of urbanising that section of the city.’
He considers that a moment, taking a bite of his own meal. I follow suit, tasting delicate spices and butter in the rice. ‘You would prefer a different kind of development.’
‘Yes.’
‘Such as?’
My first instinct is to tell him I’ve never really thought about it, but that’s a lie. ‘I always hoped it could be turned into a culture and arts precinct. Museums, galleries, a new theatre for ballet. Even a stadium for sporting events. I hoped we could celebrate the rich history of our arts, but the funding just isn’t there.’ I expel a soft sigh. ‘The previous government badly mismanaged the budget and, as a result, our country’s finances are in need of conservative management. It isn’t the time to be investing billions of euros into a culture precinct, even though I think it would be incredibly beautiful and a great addition to our country.’
‘And it would make your parents proud.’
My eyes ping to his and I nod jerkily. ‘Yes.’
‘Whereas, by allowing this casino to be built, you feel that you’re betraying them.’
I flutter my eyes closed. ‘I am betraying them. But it can’t be helped.’ I try to smile. ‘I’m old enough to know when I’m fighting a losing battle, Santiago. I suppose the best thing to do now is focus on the positives of your development.’
I can see how unsatisfied he is with that, but he lets the conversation drop, squeezing my hand once before releasing it.
‘How is your entrée?’
‘Delicious,’ I murmur, though I barely taste it. The conversation has filled me with emotional ambivalence. I change the subject awkwardly. ‘Casinos are only a part of your business, aren’t they?’
For a moment I feel as though he’s going to return to our earlier discussion but then he begins to explain that, while casinos were how he first built his fortune, he’s since diversified into a wide array of interests—from hedge funds to tech companies to boutique hotels and banks. He has fingers in many pies.
The food is perfect, and as our conversation moves away from the matter of the casino he wishes to build I am blissfully content. By the time we leave, the restaurant is empty.
‘Oh, my goodness, I didn’t realise how late it is. I’m sorry we kept you,’ I apologise to Enrique.
He smiles warmly. ‘It is no problem. We are always here anyway.’
Santiago embraces him once more, in the Spanish style, then loops an arm low around my waist, guiding me into the night air. In the distance I catch the gleam of his helicopter, and by unspoken yet mutual agreement we slow down, neither of us in a rush to reach it too soon.
‘Thank you for bringing me here. I’ve had a wonderful night. I don’t want it to end.’ I laugh shakily.
He stops walking altogether then, turning me to face him. For the briefest moment, he is stricken, as though fighting a war within himself. He stares down at me, through me, inside me, and then expels a soft, slow breath. He lifts a hand, tucking the brown hair of my wig behind my ear.
‘No?’
I shake my head, incapable of speech.
His eyes soften and I have the distinct impression he’s surrendering to something he wishes he could fight. ‘Then it doesn’t have to, Princesa.’
CHAPTER TEN
DAWN LIGHT SHIFTS across the bed and I reach for Santiago instinctively, my fingertips brushing the sheets in search of him. But he’s not there, of course. I have no concept of what time he left, or if he tried to wake me to say goodbye, I only feel a sense of incompleteness that he’s not here.
It jolts me awake, so I stare at the view revealed by my window of the sun cresting over the city, and the glistening ocean, and wonder at how he’s
become so important to me in such a short space of time. What happened to a secret, sexy fling? A bit of fun before I go home and pick up the mantle of my responsibilities, finally becoming Queen of Marlsdoven, and all that entails?
Except he is fun, too, even as I recognise he’s become something...more...something difficult to characterise. I smile as I shower, remembering the night we shared, the way he kissed me, touched me so reverently, as though he were worshipping me...as though I completed him. Of course I don’t—that’s just me trying to make sense of such an intimate physical act, of the way it feels when we’re together. So right.
A frown is on my face as I get ready, choosing a sunny dress and sandals for my last day in Barcelona. The thought is at the edge of my mind all day, an awareness of time racing towards a finish line I no longer want to reach. What if I were to extend my trip?
Except I can’t. There’s a state dinner tomorrow night. That’s the reason I booked my visit for these dates. I can’t miss it. Not even for this.
No, I have to leave as originally planned, and then that will be the end of this.
It’s late in the afternoon when my phone buzzes.
Are you free for dinner?
I roll my eyes, a smile lifting the corners of my mouth.
Who with?
Funny! I’ll be back in Barcelona around six p.m. Okay?
My heart notches up a gear. Okay? It’s better than okay. It’s at least two hours earlier than I had expected him for dinner.
Sure. See you then.
He arrives five minutes early, carrying a large brown paper bag, and my heart races at the sight of him. He’s wearing jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearm tattoos. His skin is a golden brown, his hair pushed back from his face so the intensity of his eyes is all the more obvious. My nerves go into overdrive.
My Forbidden Royal Fling Page 11
