And for that, he was glad. It was her will he had always respected, found himself irresistibly drawn to. Her strength of character. It was a quality he required in a wife, a woman who could accomplish extraordinary things with him—change the very fabric of a nation that had suffered greatly. Few would have the courage to take on the challenge he was about to offer her. Stella had been born with it.
He caught the proprietor’s attention, secured a private table outside on the edge of the patio, then returned inside to lean against the wall opposite the washrooms, arms crossed over his chest. When Stella emerged and headed directly for the exit, he cleared his throat.
“I thought you might need help finding the table,” he offered in as benign a tone as she had drawn him in with. “Château Margaux okay?”
Her eyes widened, then narrowed, a series of emotions flashing across her arresting face as she formulated an alternate game plan. “Lovely,” she announced, swishing past him into the restaurant.
He followed, a surge of amusement filling him as he contemplated her better-than-average backside, set off to perfection in formfitting blue jeans. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt alive, awake to the zest of a life he’d lost his taste for. It figured Stella would be the one to snap him out of it.
Guiding her to the table on the patio with his fingertips at her elbow, he held her chair out for her. She sat down, allowing him to push in the chair. He deliberately let his fingers brush her shoulders as he lifted his hands away, eliciting a visible flinch from the princess. A test. He recorded it with satisfaction. She wished it to be hate, but he knew it was anything but.
He fixed his attention on the woman sitting across from him while he waited for their server to uncork the impressive bottle of Bordeaux. Devoid of makeup, with her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, the bold, strong lines of her face were a challenge in themselves. Not classically beautiful, but unforgettable when paired with her ice-blue eyes and blond hair.
Where every other woman had eventually faded to a blurry replication of the last, Stella had remained unique. The one he couldn’t group with all the rest. The one his twenty-three-year-old self had somehow resisted with an impressive display of self-control. Just.
The waiter left the wine to breathe. Kostas laced his fingers together on the table and addressed the land mine that lay between them. “I’m sorry about Athamos. I know how much you loved him. I understand the grief you and your family must be going through.”
“Do you?” She lifted her chin, fixing those spectacular blue eyes on him. “I don’t think you could possibly understand the grief we feel because you are alive, Kostas, and Athamos is dead.”
He drew in a breath at the direct hit. He had expected it. Deserved it. Had spent every waking moment since the night Athamos had died wishing he could turn back time. Wishing he could bring Stella’s brother, the former crown prince of Akathinia, back to his family. But he couldn’t. The events of that night would always be a waking nightmare for him. A reminder of his flaws. All he could do was forgive himself for his mistakes and attempt to move on before he destroyed himself, too. With a country resting its hopes on him, that wasn’t an option.
He held her cold, bitter gaze. “He was a friend as much as a rival, you know that. Our relationship was complex. I need to take responsibility for what happened that night, but both Athamos and I agreed to that race. We both made bad decisions.”
Fire disintegrated the ice in her eyes. “Yes, but you were the ringleader. I’ve heard the stories about you two in flight school—they’re legendary. You egged him on until neither of you could see straight past your obsession to win. But you weren’t collecting points to be top dog that night, you were gambling with your lives. How can I forgive you for that knowing Athamos was following in your trail? In your suicidal jet wash?”
“Because you need to,” he growled. “Because bitterness won’t solve anything. I can’t bring him back, Stella. I would if I could. You need to forgive me so we can move on.”
“It’s too late for forgiveness.”
He closed his hand over hers on the table. She yanked it away, glaring at him.
“What was so important you couldn’t have come to us and explained what happened? What was so imperative you needed to walk away without putting us out of our misery?”
“I should have.” He closed his eyes, searching for the right words. “What happened that night rocked me...shattered me. I needed time to process what had happened. To pick up the pieces...”
“And that was more important than the precious peace and democracy you preach?” She fired the words at him, her hand slicing through the air. “While you were finding yourself, we were living in fear, terrified your father would annex Akathinia back into the Catharian Islands. How could you not have intervened?”
His fingers curled around the edge of the table. “My father was the king. Short of overthrowing him, spearheading a mutiny against my own flesh and blood, the only thing I could do was try to reason with him. It wasn’t working near the end. He was losing his mental faculties, suffering from dementia. I had to bide my time until I took control.”
“So you put yourself into a self-imposed exile?”
“I went to Tibet.”
“Tibet?” Her eyes widened. “You went to live with the monks?”
“Something like that.”
She stared at him as if searching for some sign he was joking. When he said nothing, she sat back in her chair, eyes bleak. “Did your sojourn afford you the forgiveness you craved? The absolution? Or perhaps it was peace you were looking for. Lord knows we’ve all been searching for that. We didn’t even have a body to bury.”
He brought his back teeth together. “Enough, Stella.”
“Or what?” She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I am not your subject, Kostas. You can’t fly in here, interrupt the first vacation I’ve had in years and order me around like your dictator of a father loved to do. You’re the one walking on very thin ground right about now.”
He was. He knew it. “Tell me how I can make this right,” he growled. “You know we need to.”
The waiter arrived to pour their wine. Dispensing the dark red Bordeaux into their glasses, he took one look at their faces and melted away. Stella took a sip, then cradled the glass between her palms, eyes on his. “What happened that night? Why did you race?”
His heart began a slow thud in his chest. Every detail, every minute fragment of that night was imprinted on his brain. He had promised himself he wasn’t ever going there again, and yet if he didn’t, Stella would walk out on him, he knew that with certainty.
“Athamos and I met a Carnelian woman named Cassandra Liatos. We both had feelings for her. She was torn, liked us both. We decided to settle it with a car race through the mountains—the winner got the girl.”
Her jaw dropped. “You had a pink-slip race, except the prize was a woman?”
His mouth flattened. “I’m not sure that’s a fair comparison. One of us had to back off. Cassandra couldn’t make the call, so we did.”
“So she was merely a pawn in the game between two future kings?” A dazed look settled over her face. She rubbed her fingertips against her temples and shook her head. “That wasn’t my brother. He didn’t treat women as objects. What was wrong with him?”
His gaze fell away from hers. “It was not a rational night.”
“No, it was a deadly one.” The rasp in her voice brought his eyes back up to hers. “Where is Cassandra now? Were you with her after Athamos died?”
“No. It was...impossible to move on from there.”
Stella looked out at the sunset darkening the horizon to a deep burnt orange. The convulsing of her