My Forbidden Royal Fling

A beat passes. ‘You’re staying in Marlsdoven tonight?’

A small smile flickers on Santiago’s lips. I stare at them, mesmerised. ‘If you are free to meet tomorrow, then sí.’

‘Her Highness has already agreed to it,’ Henrik says with over-the-top conviviality. ‘Come, let’s go and marvel at your site.’

I half-expect—and hope for—Santiago to tell Henrik to get lost. After all, he’s not the kind of man to be told what to do or where to go. But he falls into step with the Prime Minister, cutting through the crowd with ease. I watch him go, perturbed and on edge.

Knowing he’s here makes it impossible to concentrate. I rarely drink at events such as this—a message drummed into me when I was first conscious of alcohol and the powers it has to remove barriers—but I murmur a request for a glass of champagne to a palace staff member, grateful when a crisp, cold flute is placed in my hand a moment later.

The first sip is bliss but does little to calm my raging nerves. The evening passes in a blur. I go through the motions––making conversation, smiling, posing for photographs, remembering tidbits about each attendee’s life as I have been trained to do––but all the while I’m conscious of Santiago, particularly the way he watches me. I feel his eyes on me and their possessive heat is like a glow building in my chest, burning brighter as the night wears on until finally it’s over and I can escape.

* * *

All morning I’ve been waiting for this, yet the moment he strides into the drawing room, my breath catches in my throat and I feel as though my knees will no longer support my weight.

‘Mr del Almodovár,’ I murmur, for the benefit of the liveried soldiers who stand sentinel at the doors.

His eyes narrow imperceptibly and the air between us sparks with electricity. He closes the distance slowly, an agonising journey that makes me want to cry out. I force myself to remember that I’m a princess, and here in Marlsdoven I must behave like it. What we shared in Spain might as well have taken place between two different people.

But when his eyes roam my face it is as though I’m being ravaged. Heat flicks through me, slowly at first, but then with a flaming urgency burning me so my cheeks are hot and my lips part.

Finally, he reaches me, his lips twisting in a cynical half-smile. ‘Your Highness.’

His voice runs down my spine like treacle and I fear my knees might actually buckle if I’m not careful. I need to sit down but I’m incapable of moving. I stand there, staring at him for a long time. The quiet clicking of the door as it closes rouses me from my stupor.

‘Santiago.’ Alone now, I use his name, but it’s a form of torture because it reminds me of an intimacy we can never share again.

‘Freja.’

My heart jolts. He’s watching me carefully, his manner apparently relaxed, yet there’s a tension on his face that makes me wonder if he’s feeling as many emotions as I am. But of course he’s not. This is Santiago del Almodovár. What we shared was earth-shattering and life-changing for me but for him? It was just another affair in a long string of affairs. I meant nothing. I force myself to remember that as I stare across at him.

‘How are you?’

It’s a polite question, little more than a civility, but my heart trembles when he asks it.

‘Fine,’ I lie. There’s no sense in telling him that every moment since leaving Spain has been a form of torture...no purpose in telling him that the time we spent together has changed me in a fundamental way. ‘And you?’

His response is to lift a shoulder indolently, then gesture to the chairs across the room. ‘Shall we get down to business?’

My brows knit together reflexively. ‘Oh,’ I respond quietly. ‘I—Yes. I mean, if you’d like.’

There is a coldness to him that makes me shiver. I feel his distance from me and want to shake him. ‘It is why I’m here.’

It’s just a statement of fact. It shouldn’t bother me but I feel like I’m being pushed into a stream of lava.

‘We could have dealt with this over email,’ I say with quiet reserve.

‘And yet you haven’t.’ His eyes lance mine. ‘You haven’t sent the contract back.’

My stomach drops to my toes. He’s here for the contract; that’s all. No part of this is because he wants to see me. Disappointment is like a chasm in my chest.

‘Not for any reason,’ I murmur, my voice halting. ‘I’ve just been busy.’

He slices me with a look, as though he knows I’m lying, then moves towards the table set up beneath the window. The contracts have been laid out on it. I watch him from where I stand, watch his autocratic profile as he regards the documents.

‘You’ve read them, I presume?’

I nod, but he’s not looking at me.