Be my queen had hovered on his tongue from that first night he’d claimed her, been claimed by her, burning for the moment he could utter the demand.
Ernesto, the one man he trusted, the man who’d raised him after his parents’ deaths, had urged him not to let her occupy his focus as he campaigned for the crown. But he hadn’t been capable of listening, had writhed in impatience until he could rush back to her, join with her, melt in her.
And it had cost him. His enemies had capitalized on his distraction, had hit where he hadn’t anticipated, forced him into retaliations that had grown more uncalculated. They hadn’t guessed to what they’d owed their growing advantage, but they’d used his dwindling finesse against him. And he’d been in the throes of all-consuming hunger for the first time, hadn’t even noticed the damage until it was too late.
It had ended in an injury he couldn’t have anticipated, a dishonor and a deprivation that had felt worse than a death sentence. Fury and frustration had almost finished him those first days. Only one thing had made him hang on to his sanity, had stopped the spiral of retaliation he’d embarked on. Phoebe. He wouldn’t care that his country had disgraced and shunned him, or even if the whole world deserted him. He had her.
He’d waited for her to contact him, to pledge that he did have her, but she didn’t. And each day of silence became a tentacle of suspicion spreading through his thoughts and memories.
He’d been eager to make her his princess, to claim her, but he’d done everything to keep their relationship secret. It hadn’t been official, but it had been made clear to him that the crown came with the woman all those in power wanted as queen attached: Clarissa, the king’s daughter. That was why he hadn’t proposed to Phoebe. If he had, worthy or not, the council would have found a way to deny him the crown. He’d intended to take it, then enforce her as his queen. But they’d denied him the crown anyway.
And her continued silence had started to wear another guise. Self-interest. Could she have been so amenable to secrecy not because she realized the risks of exposure, but because she’d been hedging her bets in case their relationship didn’t lead where she’d hoped? Wallowing in their clandestine affair while keeping her virginal image? Did her silence mean she’d thought it time to drop him now that he’d never be king of Castaldini, wasn’t even a prince anymore? She didn’t even think him worth a phone call? Not even one of consolation, for old times’ sake?
Driven over the edge by the malignancy of doubt, he’d succumbed, reached out to her. But he’d been so damaged by her lack of communication, he’d later wondered if he hadn’t steered their reunion to that mutilating end. He’d spent the next five years tortured by the memory of their last time together, dissecting her every word and expression until he almost went mad. He’d found himself constantly dialing half her number before hurling the phone away.
The only thing that had saved his sanity was launching himself into his work as if possessed, catapulting himself from the roster of prosperous businessmen to the top of the food chain of world-shapers.
And every step of the way he felt sundered down the middle, as if he were missing his other half. He told himself over and over she wasn’t that. But he never succeeded in convincing his heart.
He sought news of her like he did sustenance. He found out the results of her every law-school exam, each report of her sister’s improvement before she did. He made a deal with himself. In case she’d rejected him because he’d asked her to give up “responsibilities and aspirations” he had no right to, when she’d fulfilled those things, he would again demand that she join him in exile. She’d have no reason to say no then, if what they’d shared had been real.
When her sister’s health and marriage had stabilized and she’d obtained her law degree and was about to begin a new phase in her life, he’d sent Ernesto to her again, with a note. All he could bring himself to write. I do need you. Still.
The five words felt like an exposure of his soul with no guarantee that he wasn’t jeopardizing what was left of it.
He dreaded her response. He shouldn’t have worried.
There had been none. In lieu of a response, she’d announced her betrothal to his cousin Armando. That very day. And he’d had to face it once and for all.
She had been after a royal title, like her sister. He’d been her best ticket once. Armando was her new one.
The obliteration of hope, of belief in her, in what they’d shared, had extinguished his humanity for a while, he supposed.
But he’d lived on, risen higher. And the days passed. Then she broke it off with Armando. Almost a year ago. And all his convictions had dissipated again. He went back to feeling like he was constantly holding his breath. He refused to ponder what for.
Then she’d walked back into his life last night.
And he’d admitted it. She was what for. Whatever she was, whatever she felt, her hold on him was unbroken. Maybe even unbreakable.
Just as he’d succumbed, reached for her, and she’d seemed on the verge of surrender, she’d pulled back. She’d left him doubled over from frustration and walked away. Again. This time telling him, in so many eloquent words, good riddance.
It had to be a ploy. What else could it be when she’d run away without gaining any response concerning her mission, proving it wasn’t her objective after all? What other explanation could there be for dangling herself in front of him only to snatch herself away? What else could she want, except for him to give chase?
As she’d walked out, it had come to him. The reason that had been missing from his life. And his plan had formed…
“A spendthrift as well as a man who muddies professional situations with personal vendettas. I’m scratching my head here wondering how you became a mogul and a billionaire.”
Phoebe.
Announcing her arrival with another lash of provocation. He closed his eyes, suffering his body’s reaction in resignation now.
A groan still escaped as he turned to face her. She was framed in the entrance of the restaurant/nightclub, swathed in the stark light he’d had trained there. Wrapped in an invention designed to blow all his valves, a creation of gray-silver that seemed to have been spun from the luminous seas of her eyes, with the flawlessness of her neck and shoulders shown to distressing advantage by an off-shoulder neckline and a chunky, relaxed wave of raven gossamer brushing just above a hint of a cleavage, she could have stepped out of a black-and-white silver screen classic. With the only splash of color spread across the elegance of her cheekbones and the dewiness of her lips, she seemed like…like…
He didn’t know. The feeling crowded inside him, yet couldn’t be translated into words.
But what did he need words for, when he had actions?
He moved just as she did. As if by agreement, they kept a dozen feet between them, moving parallel to each other, mirroring each other’s steps, seeming to fall into the choreography of a memorized dance. They’d always moved to the same internal beat, as if aware of every impulse powering the other’s body. Blood pressure inched upward into that danger zone he was discovering he relished, was getting addicted to.
She glided up the walkway’s curve to the table he’d had set for them, overlooking the dance floor on one side and the blazing Manhattan skyline on the other.
He reached the table the same moment she did, placed his hands palms down on the wine-red silk tablecloth, leaned toward her. “What have I done now to deserve a demotion from simply worthless to seriously wasteful and wretchedly unprofessional?”
She placed a tiny tasseled bag on the table, titled her face at him. “What haven’t you done? First that fifteen-grand-a-night suite, and now this, an exclusive New York night spot where becoming a member carries a hundred-grand price tag and a single visit costs a few grand per person.