He didn’t form intimate friendships. He was an only child raised by a grandmother whose life was too demanding to offer affection. Yet, for some reason, he had entrusted a one-night lover with his private thoughts.
He had trusted her. When she had said she didn’t sleep around, he had believed her.
Judging by what he found in Berlin, however, she’d moved on very quickly. The innocent act was part of her routine, he had concluded, castigating himself for acting so callow as to follow her.
Nevertheless, when he had the chance to catch her alone, he approached, waiting for the catch of excitement she had kindled in him the week before.
Nothing. She was desirable the way all beautiful women were, but whatever he’d felt in Paris was gone. It had perplexed and annoyed him, made him doubly irritated with himself for thinking they’d had something special.
He’s stood there searching for whatever it was that he’d found so enthralling and she had pretended she didn’t even know him, staring blankly as though he had broken into her bedroom and stolen the diamond hoop earring he was returning.
In those seconds, he had felt as though she was even more of a stranger than she had been before they’d made love—which she was, he promptly learned. He hadn’t slept with Angelique. He had slept with her twin, Trella.
The revelation had been welcome and infuriating. He didn’t care for dishonest people, but his desire to see Trella had renewed itself. He had asked Angelique to pass along his contact details, wanting an explanation. Wanting something he refused to acknowledge, but...
Nothing.
Not one returned call, message or text.
What did it matter? He made himself get over her, focusing on more important things, primarily his duty to marry.
He had made a concerted effort to avoid all headlines containing the name Sauveterre, which wasn’t easy. First, the mysterious, reclusive Trella had come out at a friend’s wedding. That had kept the gossip industry booming through spring and summer, along with other news within the family, making it a challenge for him to change channels or flick screens fast enough to avoid catching sight of her.
Then, just as things seemed to have died down, she’d been caught climbing from her brother’s car looking less svelte than in previous photos. Pregnant, the avid Sauveterre watchers speculated.
So what if she was? It didn’t make a hill of beans difference to anyone’s life, least of all his.
Still, Xavier had looked closely at the photos that emerged, one showing her in a stunning maternity gown at her brother’s engagement party. She didn’t look very pregnant. She had said she was on the pill. If she was carrying his child, she would have returned his calls. He didn’t have anything to worry about, he assured himself.
This latest inflammatory sound bite was more of the same. Had to be. He had a walk-on part in the episodic drama that was the Sauveterre serial. He had slept with her one night. He resented being drawn into scandal for it. He was now engaged. That made besmirching his name unforgiveable. Immediately after allaying his grandmother’s concern, he would insist Trella clear him of involvement so he could reassure Patrizia their marriage plans could continue.
Damn it, he had completely forgotten about Patrizia. He paused to text.
I’ll have this cleared up shortly.
Their match was perfect in every way. Not only would it strengthen both of their countries, but they liked each other. Neither had unrealistic notions like love and passion to muddy the waters. She was nursing a bruised heart and was keen for a stable, reliable situation. A civilized relationship, she kept calling it.
He was pleased to perform his duty in a way he could stand. Patrizia was intelligent, attractive, well-bred. She would have children for the same reason he would: They were expected to. They respected one another. They were on the same page.
He wanted this marriage.
Mario paused with him and knocked, then announced him.
His grandmother didn’t rise as Xavier entered. She didn’t even look up from whatever she was writing with her antique silver pen. The crackle in the fireplace became the only sound along with the scratch of her pen.
He took the bull by the horns. “I’ll refute it and press charges against the source.”
The pen went down and she peered at him over her glasses. She was a well-preserved seventy, her eyes were the same Deunoro blue as his own, her hair more iron than silver. She was overdue to start her morning audiences, which always made her salty.
“The Queen Mother of Zhamair is the source.”
Xavier’s PA had also pointed out that the story had stemmed from Angelique’s soon-to-be mother-in-law. “I haven’t had a chance to confirm that. If she made a statement, I’m sure it’s in reaction to some online nonsense.”