THERE WERE THREE things Matthias Vasilliás loved in life. The glow of the sky as the sun dipped into the horizon, bathing the world in streaks of gold and peach; the country he was one week away from ruling; and women—but never the same woman for long, and never with any expectation of more than this: sex.
The wind blew in across the hotel room, draping the gauzy fabric of the curtain towards him, and for a moment he looked at it, his mind caught by the beauty, the brevity, of such a fragile material—the brevity of this moment.
In the morning he’d be gone, she’d be a memory—a ghost of this life. In the morning he would fly back to Tolmirós and step into his future.
He hadn’t come to New York for this. He hadn’t intended to meet her. He hadn’t intended to seduce a virgin—that wasn’t his usual modus operandi. Not when he couldn’t offer any degree of permanence in exchange for such a gift.
No, Matthias preferred experienced women.
Lovers who were au fait with the ways of the world, who understood that a man like Matthias had no heart to offer, no future he could provide.
One day he would marry, but his bride would be a political choice, a queen to equal him as King, a ruler to sit beside him and oversee his kingdom.
Until then, though, there was this: there was Frankie, and this night.
She ran her fingertips over his back, her nails digging into him, and he lost himself to her completely, plunging inside her, taking the sweetness she offered as she cried out into the balmy New York evening.
‘Matt.’ She used the shortened version of his name—it had been such a novelty to meet a woman who didn’t know who he was, didn’t know he was the heir to the throne of a powerful European country, that he was richer than Croesus and about to be King. Matt was simple, Matt was easy, and soon this would be over.
For ruling Tolmirós meant he would have to abandon his love of women, his love of sex and all that he was, outside the requirements of being King. His life would change completely in seven days’ time.
Seven days and he would be King.
In seven days he would be back in Tolmirós, the country before him. But for now he was here, with a woman who knew nothing of his life, his people, his duties.
‘This is perfect,’ she groaned, arching her back so two pert breasts pushed skyward and he shoved his guilt at this deception aside, his guilt at having taken an innocent young woman to bed for his own pleasure, to slake his own needs, knowing it could never be more than this.
She didn’t want complications either. They’d been clear on that score. It was this weekend and nothing more. But he was using her, of that he had no doubt. He was using her to rebel, one last time. Using her to avoid the inevitable truth of his life, for one night longer. Using her because right here, in this moment, sleeping with Frankie made him feel human—only human—and not even an inch royal.
He took one of her breasts in his mouth and rolled his tongue over the tight nipple. It budded in his mouth, desperate for his touch, his possession, and he thrust into her depths, wondering if any woman had ever been so perfectly made for a man?
His fingers fisted in her long, silky blonde hair and he pushed her head up to meet his, claiming her lips, kissing her until she whimpered beneath him and the whole of her body was at his command.
Power surged through him at the way this felt, but it was nothing to the power that awaited him, the duty that would soon be at his feet.
For his country and his people, he would turn his back on pleasures such as this, on women such as Frankie, and he would be King.
But not quite yet.
For a few more hours he would simply be Matt, and Frankie would be his...
Three years later
NEW YORK SPARKLED like a beautiful diorama, all high-rises, bright lights and muted subway noise. He stared down at the glittering city from the balcony of his Manhattan penthouse, breathing in the activity and forcing himself not to remember the last time he’d been in this exact position.
Forcing his eyes to stay trained in the opposite direction of the School of Art, and definitely not allowing himself to remember the woman who had bewitched him and charmed him.
The woman who had given him her innocence, given him her body, and imprinted something of herself in his mind.
Inwardly he groaned, her name just a whisper in his body, a curse too, because he had no business so much as thinking of her, let alone remembering everything about her.
Not when his engagement would be made formal within a month. Not when his future awaited—and duty to his country called to him as loudly as ever. Then, he’d been one week away from assuming the throne, and now he was weeks away from making a marriage commitment.
All of Tolmirós was waiting for its King to finally wed and beget an heir. An heir that would promise stability and the safekeeping of the prosperous nation: all of that was on Matthias’s shoulders, as much now as it had been then. He’d run from this fate for as long as he could. His family had died when he was only a teenager and the idea of marrying, having his own children, as though you could so easily recreate what had been lost, pressed against his chest like a weight of stone.
But it was needed; it was necessary. His country required its King to beget an heir, and he needed a wife. A suitable wife, like one of the women his assistant had vetted for him. A woman who would be cultured, polished and appropriate.
His eyes shut and there she was: Frankie. Frankie as she’d been that afternoon they’d met, her clothes paint-splattered, her hair scraped back into a ponytail, her smile contagious. His gut clenched.
His wife—his Queen—would be nothing like Frankie.
What they’d shared went beyond logic and reason—it had been an affair that had rocked him to his core because, after only a matter of hours, he’d known he was in danger of forgetting everything he owed to his people if it meant more time with the woman—she had been like some kind of siren, rising out of the sea, drawing him towards danger unknowingly.
And so he’d done what he was best at: he’d drawn his heart closed, he’d pushed his emotions deep inside, and he’d walked out on her without a backwards glance.
But now, back in New York, he found himself thinking of her in a way he’d trained himself not to. His dreams he could not control, but his waking mind was as disciplined as the man himself, and he saw no point in dwelling on the past, and particularly not on such a brief event.
Only she was everywhere he looked in this city—the lights that sparkled like the depths of her eyes, the elegance of the high-rises that were tall where she had been short, the nimble alertness, the vivid brightness—and he wondered what it would be like to see her once more. Call it idle curiosity, or simply scratching an itch.
He was a king now, not the man he’d been when they’d first slept together. But his needs were the same. His desires. He stared out at the city and the idea grew.
What harm could come from dipping into the past, just for a night?
* * *
‘The lighting is beyond perfect,’ Frankie enthused, glancing her trained artist’s eye over the walls of the midtown gallery. The showing was scheduled for the following day; this was her last chance to make sure everything was absolutely as she wanted it to be.
A frisson of excitement ran down her spine.
For years she’d been struggling. Establishing oneself as an artist was no mean feat, and every spare penny she made was funnelled into trying to keep a roof over