My Forbidden Royal Fling

‘It would be the first casino in Marlsdoven.’

‘And you don’t approve.’

Alarm bells sound in the back of my mind. Does he know about my uncle? Or is he simply hazarding a guess? ‘Why do you say that?’ There is a noise as he places his glass down. A cursory glance shows he’s half-finished it.

‘The negotiations are complete, your government ready to sign off.’

‘It’s crown land. The government can’t sign off without my agreement.’ It’s a small, unthinking admission and I realise what I’ve said as soon as I finish.

‘And for this reason you have organised a covert meeting at the eleventh hour to forestall the big, bad developer from corrupting your quaint kingdom?’

Fire spills through me. My lips part on an indignant rush of breath; I’m grateful to be holding the tea cup or I’m not sure what I might do with my hands! I cannot think that I have ever been spoken to like this, with such obvious disrespect, and such cynicism and dislike. And how can he downplay the seriousness of this? I’ve seen first-hand what addiction can do! I know the evils that come from places like his casinos. If there is to be one in Marlsdoven, then the benefits had better far outweigh the risks.

‘This is not a covert meeting,’ I respond to the first charge, too emotionally invested in the second to trust myself to speak to it sensibly. ‘Nothing about my life is covert. Your name is in my daily schedule.’

His disbelief is obvious. ‘I note I was directed to come to the back gate of the palace, brought through rear doors with no photographers in attendance.’

Heat prickles beneath my skin because his observation is accurate. While it’s not exactly ‘covert’, I did try to keep the meeting off the press’s radar. Spurred onto the defensive, I respond, ‘Would you have liked to be photographed, Santiago?’

I use his first name and realise I like the taste of it in my mouth. I’d started to think of him as Santiago since seeing so many photos of him during my research. I don’t care. We’re beyond the bounds of etiquette now, anyway.

‘My comment was more about your feelings than mine,’ he says, neatly turning the argument on me, studying me as though I’m a science experiment. I remember belatedly the advice in the security report: he has a savant’s genius when it comes to finding what makes people tick. ‘I have no issue with being ushered into the palace like a shameful secret, but I find it telling that this was your choice.’

I open my mouth to object to this characterisation but change my mind. After all, why should I be ashamed of my feelings? ‘I don’t see the point in advertising your intentions to my people until we’re confident the development is going to proceed.’

He reaches for his beer, takes a drink then replaces the glass on the table, standing in a lithe, graceful movement, walking towards me before I can properly realise what he’s doing. I have no time to brace for his proximity. He’s wearing an aftershave that sends my pulses into overdrive, but not enough of it, so I have to breathe deeply to catch the intoxicating masculine aroma.

Every hormone in my body is doing a dance.

‘Your Prime Minister is desperate for this to happen.’

‘Naturally. You’re looking at spending billions of dollars. Of course he’s keen.’

‘This doesn’t sway you, though?’ he asks, looking around the palace as if to emphasise the wealth at my fingertips. If only he knew! Our small country is far from prosperous. The privatisation of most of our state-owned assets shortly after my parents’ death, when I’d been too young, inexperienced and grief-plagued to understand what was happening behind my back, means much of our revenue is being paid to offshore companies.

‘Selling crown land is a difficult business,’ I murmur, remembering the lessons I learned as a seventeen-year-old. ‘Once sold, it’s gone. Everything needs to be structured so the advantages to the country outweigh the loss of such an asset.’

His eyes narrow. ‘You don’t think the casino will do that?’

No. Casinos are dangerous. I bite back the thought, knowing how counter-productive it would be to rely on this man’s compassion and comprehension. ‘I think it could,’ I say with a small lift of my shoulders, my heart pounding as we draw closer to the crux of my argument. Somehow, he’s brought me here without my realising it. I wanted to take time to charm him, to impress him with the country’s history and cultural importance, to form some kind of rapport. But he’s cut through all that and found the kernel of my reservations so easily, so skilfully.

‘Then let’s talk, Princess. What do you need from me?’

CHAPTER TWO

WHAT DO I need from him?

My mouth goes dry as I struggle to come up with any kind of answer. My brain is clogged, completely overwhelmed by him, my body overtaking all my instincts. So, instead of focussing on the simple business of the matter at hand, I find myself aching to reach out and touch him, to feel for myself if that broadly muscled chest is as firm as I imagine it is.

What the heck is happening to me?

I have made it through my entire adult life without going gaga for a man, and yet here I stand, with exactly the man I need to keep my wits with, and I risk turning into a blathering fool.

‘Shall we go over your proposal?’ I suggest, the idea literally going off like a light bulb, because if we pore over contracts surely that will negate the impact he has on me?

‘Isn’t that what we’re doing?’

‘I mean properly. At a table, with the documents. It would be easier to address my concerns this way.’