Quite literally the last man on earth she wanted to see.
“Why not?” he asked.
He didn’t recognize her. And why would he? She’d been a girl last time they’d seen each other. She’d been eighteen. And she’d been beautiful.
“Maybe because she doesn’t want people to find her,” she said, bending down to pick tomatoes off the vine, trying to ignore him, trying to ignore her heart, which was pounding so hard she was certain he could hear it.
“She’s not hard to find. Simple inquiries led me here.”
“What do you want?” she asked. “What do you want with her?”
Xander looked at the petite woman, standing in the middle of the garden. She had mud on the hem of her long, simple dress, mud on the cuffs of her sleeves, too. Her hair was covered by a scarf, the color given away only by her eyebrows, which were finely arched and dark.
One side of her face showed smooth, golden skin, high cheekbones and a full mouth that turned up slightly at the corners. But that was only one half of her face. That was where her beauty ended. Because the other side, from her neck, across her cheeks and over the bridge of her nose, was marred. Rough and twisted, her lips nearly frozen on that side, too encumbered by scar tissue to form a smile. Not that she was smiling at him. Even if she were, though, he imagined that grimace was permanent, at least on that part of her face.
This was the sort of woman he expected to find up here. Not a giggling, glittery socialite like Layna. She’d practically been a girl when they’d been engaged—only eighteen, on her way to womanhood. And beautiful beyond belief. Golden eyes and skin, and honey-colored hair that had likely been lightened via a bottle. But whether or not it was natural hadn’t mattered. It had been beautiful—shining waves of spun gold mingled with deep chocolate browns.
He’d known even then that she would make a perfect queen. What was more important was that she’d been loved by the people. And she came with wonderful connections, since her father had been one of the wealthiest government officials in Kyonos, much of his success derived from manufacturing companies based out of the country.
As far as he could tell since his return two days ago, the Xenakos family was no longer on the island. Except for Layna. And he needed to find her.
He needed her. She was the anchor to his past. His surest ally. For the press, for the people. They had loved her, they would love her again.
They would not, he feared, feel the same way about him.
“We have some old business to discuss.”
“The women who live here don’t want to discuss old business,” she said, her voice trembling. “Women come here for a new start. And old...old anything is not welcome.” She turned away from him, and started to walk into the main building. She was going to walk away from him without answering his questions.
No one walked away from him.
He started toward the garden, and blocked her path. She raised her face to him, her expression defiant, and his heart dropped into his stomach.
He hadn’t realized. Of course he hadn’t. But now that he could see her eyes, those unusual eyes, fringed with dark lashes, he knew exactly who she was.
She was Layna Xenakos, but without her beauty. Without the laughing eyes. Without the dimple in her right cheek. No, now there were only scars.
Not very much shocked him. He’d seen too much. Done too much. He and the ugly side of life were well-acquainted. And he knew well that life’s little surprises were always waiting to come and knock you in the teeth. But even with that, this wasn’t anything he’d expected. Nothing he could have anticipated.
From the time he’d left Kyonos, he’d very purposefully avoided news regarding his home country. Only recently, when his sister had married her bodyguard and when Stavros had married his matchmaker, had he read articles concerning his homeland, or the royal family.
Because he hadn’t been able to stop himself. Not then. But every time he opened the window on that part of his past, it was like scrubbing an open wound.
And it took a lot to wipe his mind and emotions free of it all again. A lot of drinking. A lot of women. Things that made him feel like a different man than the one he’d once thought he was, than the one he was trained to be. Things that created happiness. Before they created a gigantic headache.
One thing he’d never thought to look for had been the fate of the woman he’d left behind. But obviously, something had happened.
“Layna,” he said.
“No one calls me that,” she said, her tone hard, her expression flat.
“I did.”
“You do not now, your highness. You don’t have that right. Do you even have the right to a title?”