Her body pulsed with need at the mere thought. How much more intense would the reality be?
And yet she already knew she would refuse. She had to. Alessandro had been right, in a way. She might not be made for the fairy tale, but she still wanted it, and she held herself in enough esteem not to settle for less. And, she acknowledged, just as he did, she didn’t want to get hurt, and she knew, she absolutely knew, if she said yes to his offer, she would. She would give him her heart along with her body. She wouldn’t be able to stop herself.
He’d walk away without a backward glance, his cold heart completely intact, whereas she would, she knew, be left broken and reeling. Why let that happen, for the sake of a few days’ fleeting pleasure, a pleasure that, no matter how incredible, would always be tinted with pain, with loss?
And yet it still hurt, almost unbearably, to force the words she knew she needed to say. ‘I guess we got it out of our system, then,’ she told him, and she saw his expression become shuttered, like a curtain coming down, veiling all that heat and desire. ‘Because you won’t risk more, and I won’t settle for less.’
‘Fine.’ His voice was clipped as he gave one terse nod. ‘That was what I expected.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She didn’t know why she said it, except that was how she felt. Sorry that it ended here, that he wasn’t willing at least to explore the possibility of more. That he had already decided she wasn’t worth it. In some ways they barely knew each other, and yet she already knew she could have fallen in love with him if he’d let her. She would have tumbled as hard and fast as Ella ever had, if not harder. Faster. And that, she knew, was the danger she had to avoid. Because a few days would break her heart right in two.
‘Don’t be sorry,’ he told her brusquely. ‘It’s better this way, really. And in any case, there’s only a few more days left of this trip. After that we’ll never see each other again.’
Was that supposed to make her feel better? She nodded jerkily. ‘Right.’
A silence stretched between them, heavy with the possibilities of what could have been. Candlelight burnishing bare skin, the sensuous slide of silk, of lips and limbs, bodies tangled, joining...
No. It was better this way. It had to be.
‘Goodnight,’ Alessandro said, and then he turned on his heel and was gone.
There was no need to feel as disappointed as he did, Alessandro told himself as he headed back to the ball. As devastated. He hadn’t actually expected Liane to agree to his offer of a brief, no-strings affair. Hell, he hadn’t really been expecting to offer. It had taken him by surprise, just as that kiss had taken him by surprise. The intensity of it, as well as the sweetness. The aching need, along with the sense of completion. At last.
No. It hadn’t been like that at all. It had been a kiss, nothing more. One simple kiss with a woman who happened to set his body on fire. Fine. Sexual chemistry was a proven fact. He could get over it because now, just as he’d said, and Liane had agreed, they’d got it out of their system.
Yeah, right.
He was going to have to believe that, or at least act like he did, if he was going to get through the next few days. Part of him was already longing for the moment when he’d never have to see Liane again and deal with the irresistible temptation she provided, while another, greater, part shied away from such a thought.
Focus.
As he stepped out of the elevator he heard the tinkling of laughter, the clink of crystal, and knew he should go back into the party. Smile, chat, pose. He couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do less.
He was a man of determination, he reminded himself, never tossed about or led by his emotions or desires. He’d seen his father run after every woman who caught his fancy, throwing himself into one relationship after another with a passion that bordered on obsession. He’d near ruined his business in the process and even now, at sixty-five years old, living with another mistress whom he insisted was ‘the one’, he was restless, unhappy, always looking for more. Alessandro had never seen him any other way. He wouldn’t be like that. Not for Liane, not for anyone.
Setting his jaw, he turned and walked into the ballroom.
The next morning, under a bright summer sky, they boarded the jet for Paris. If he’d been apprehensive about seeing Liane after their kiss, he shouldn’t have been, Alessandro soon saw, she’d smiled at him coolly and taken her usual seat, diagonal to him, opening a book without a care in the world. It seemed as if that kiss had got him out of her system.
Why did that thought annoy him to the extreme?
‘An American news channel wants me on their breakfast programme,’ Ella announced as they took off, waving her phone in excitement. ‘Can you believe it? They’ll conduct it by video—they’re calling it “The Prince of Manhattan’s Mystery Princess”!’
‘That’s a ridiculous title,’ Alessandro dismissed. ‘I’m descended from a duke, not a prince.’
‘Surely you’re not much of a mystery?’ Liane interjected as she looked up from her book. ‘They must know exactly who you are, Ella, from your social media profile, as well as the publicity photos that have been taken during the parties.’
Ella’s eyes danced. ‘You haven’t looked at the posts at all, have you? Either of you.’
Alessandro glanced at Liane, who was looking as uneasy as he now felt. He’d looked at them a little, he conceded, sparing a glance for Ella’s phone once in a while when she showed it to him. All he’d seen were artful shots of ballrooms and dresses, champagne glasses and shoes.
‘What are you talking about?’ he asked, an edge to his voice. ‘What is the big mystery?’
Silently, a catlike smile curving her mouth, Ella handed him the phone.
The first thing he saw was the social media account was anonymous—its name was simply The Glass Slipper, the profile pic a close-up of the original shoe, lying on the steps. All the photos, he saw as he scrolled through, were artful, mysterious—a tray of glasses, light from a chandelier glinting off crystal. A shot of Ella’s reflection as she looked in the mirror, but so the viewer only had a glimpse of blonde hair, a diamond earring, the smooth curve of her cheek. The balcony of the London hotel, one slender, pink-tipped hand on the balustrade.
The captions were intriguing, as well as admirably smooth advertising for each Rossi hotel:
Who has captured the Prince’s heart in the heart of LA?
Pining for the Prince with a view of Mayfair...
She’d even included some shots of the suites, captioning each one with something provocative yet whimsical. Each post had garnered thousands of likes, hundreds of comments. And, it seemed, an interview on American television. As silly as it could seem, Alessandro had to admit there was a certain artistry to it all.
‘You’re a talented photographer,’ he told her as he handed back the phone, ‘as well as marketing consultant. I might hire you in that capacity, if your social media career turns out to be unsatisfying.’
‘Oh, I doubt it will,’ Ella told him.
‘Still,’ Alessandro continued with a frown, ‘they must know it’s you, considering the photos we’ve had taken together.’
Ella shrugged, that catlike smile still playing about her lips. ‘We’ll see,’ she said.