Ana looked at her guards, who stood there, ultra-professional, in standard bodyguard pose, their hands clasped in front of them. The two guards shared a quick glance.
‘We did provide a briefing, Mr North… Your Highness,’ one of them said, a moment later. ‘However, it has been a very long and trying day—’
‘Oh, God!’ Ana exclaimed suddenly, cutting him off. ‘Really? I’m so sorry.’
She sighed and twisted her fingers in a thick strand of dark brown hair that had fallen loose from what even Rhys could recognise as a wedding hairstyle.
‘I honestly don’t remember much since I left the church. Thank you for so politely excusing the fact that I’ve obviously totally ignored everything you’ve said to me. I’ve just been a joy today, haven’t I? Jilting one man, ignoring others…’ She buried her head in her hands.
Rhys interrupted her self-flagellation. ‘Drink?’ he asked.
Her dark head popped up instantly. ‘Yes, please,’ she said.
Then she flopped back onto his couch, resting her head on the back, her gaze trained on the ceiling.
A few minutes later—after directing the guards to the kitchen to help themselves to a drink and his limited selection of food—Rhys stood before her, drink in hand.
‘Your Highness…?’ he prompted.
Slowly she pushed herself forward until she sat neatly at the edge of the couch again. She briefly met his gaze, and he couldn’t miss the exhaustion and emotion in her eyes. She wasn’t crying, though—didn’t even look close to it.
‘Ana,’ she said. ‘Please call me Ana.’
He nodded. ‘You can address me as Mr North,’ he said, very seriously.
Her eyes widened, and he watched her try to determine if he was joking.
A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. ‘Okay,’ she said, with the same mock-seriousness he’d employed. ‘I will—Mr North.’
He smiled at her, meeting the sparkle in her gaze. He liked that sparkle, was glad he’d managed to elicit it from her.
‘Rhys,’ he clarified, ‘is fine.’
She grinned. ‘Oh, no, Mr North. I insist. About time someone else had an unnecessary title. Vrag knows, I’m sick of mine.’
‘Vrag?’ Rhys asked, as Ana took the squat ice-filled glass tumbler he handed her.
‘The Devil,’ she explained. Then took a long swallow of her drink. Instantly she coughed, slapping a manicured hand to her throat. ‘What is this?’ she asked.
‘Gin,’ he said.
‘Just gin?’
He nodded. ‘You look like you need a stiff drink.’
She smiled again and then took another, more measured sip. ‘You, Mr North,’ Ana said, ‘are absolutely right.’
* * *
Ana watched Rhys as he walked over to the kitchen to talk to her guards. She wasn’t at all surprised he was ex-military. In fact, he still looked absolutely fit enough to be serving. In his charcoal-coloured T-shirt the muscles of his biceps and arms were clear to see—so different from Petar’s lean frame. Petar was very good-looking, but in a more sophisticated way than Rhys. He was all elegant lines and tailored suits, while Rhys looked rough and strong and practical—the kind of guy who’d carry you out of a burning office building rather than work inside it.
No.
She took another unwise gulp of her drink, wanting another punishing burn of alcohol to travel down her throat. Honestly, mere hours after running away from her fiancé was she really comparing him to another man? And finding her fiancé lacking.
She finished the drink. Even as the liquid warmed her belly she felt like the worst person in the world.
Although she knew now—incontrovertibly—that she did not love Petar, and had never loved Petar, he didn’t deserve having to wait at that church’s altar for her never to arrive. To have the whole church witness that humiliation.
And it wasn’t even just the church. With the wedding being televised, all of Vela Ada would know. He’d been dumped in the most public, most humiliating way possible.
And it was all her fault.
Yet she sat here, in a luxury home on a mountain, having an absolutely gorgeous man serve her drinks and make her laugh. She was being protected from the aftermath of her decision, and she knew it didn’t reflect well on her that she was in no way regretting her decision to run as far away as possible.
She could not be in Vela Ada right now. She could not see Petar right now.
She needed some space to get her thoughts in order, to work out how she’d got to this point, how her life had got to this point.
But Petar did deserve an apology. And more than the swiftly written, utterly insufficient I’m sorry she’d texted to him as the car had whisked her down that cobblestone street.
She stood and walked the short distance to the kitchen. The living space wasn’t very large, and it was all open-plan—with the kitchen to one side, a long dining table in front of it and couches to its left.
All three men in the kitchen immediately turned to assist her. It was one of the nicer perks of being royalty—having people immediately pay attention to her. Quite different from her previous life, where she remembered being talked over in meetings or ignored by sales assistants. Although it did seem unfair that such courtesy wasn’t offered to everyone…
‘Excuse me,’ she said in Slavic to her guards. ‘I was just wondering where my phone and bags are.’
‘We’ve put them in your room, Your Highness,’ one of them replied.
She’d learnt long ago that palace staff would not just call her Ana.
Rhys seemed to have got the gist of the conversation. ‘I’ll show you your room now,’ he said. He gestured down the corridor and followed close behind her.
There were only a few doors off the hallway, and he directed her into the first one.
The room wasn’t large, but it had plenty of room for a queen-sized bed and a narrow writing desk against one wall.
‘There’s a private en suite bathroom through there,’ he said, nodding to the far corner of the room. ‘I chucked a few towels in there, but let me know if you need anything else. I’m not used to having guests up here, so there isn’t any fancy soap, candles or potpourri and whatnot in there. Sorry.’
He did not look at all apologetic.
‘I’ll manage,’ Ana said, and realised she was smiling again. How did Rhys do that? When he talked to her, it was as if she forgot everything that had happened today. Or this year, really.
They both stood in the doorway, and Ana was suddenly aware of how very close they were to each other. She had to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze, and she could actually smell him—the scent of his cologne or his deodorant or something—something clean and fresh.
She also registered the colour of his eyes for the first time: a dark blue that was almost grey. Outside, she hadn’t been able to determine the colour of his hair, but when they’d walked in she’d realised it was a very dark blond. This close to him she could see more variation in the thick, shaggy hair—blond and brown and even a few strands of grey.
How old was he?
Her gaze travelled over his face. He had thick eyebrows and strong, quite full lips for a guy, though without even a hint of femininity. There were a few