‘Of course you can. It’s what you do!’
Despite her regal posture and renowned diplomatic skills, the woman was a walking advertisement for all those soft, feminine emotions. She’d raised her younger sibling after her mother’s death, since their father, more concerned with power and his own pleasure, had no interest in family life. She’d been the stable, loving centre of their family.
She’d warmly welcomed Irini, married at twenty and feeling out of her depth in royal red tape and a new country.
Lambis still had the letters full of Irini’s eager confidences. About how caring Amelie was. How easy to talk to. When others counselled against a royal marriage simply for the sake of an unborn child, Amelie had taken the young lovers’ cause and won the day.
For that alone he owed Amelie a debt.
He watched her stiffen, her spine so straight you could use it as a ruler. ‘It may be what I do, as you so dismissively put it, but I can’t this time.’
Lambis opened his mouth to explain he wasn’t being dismissive, then caught himself. Never explain. Never discuss emotions. From a safe distance he might admire Amelie’s loving nature and the way she shared herself with her family as well as her nation, but it wasn’t his way.
Not any more.
Now her hackles were up. He watched, fascinated and, yes, relieved, as colour tinted her too-pale face. Princess Amelie of St Galla was a stunning woman. The warmth of her personality had a way of insidiously wrapping itself around your insides till you could almost believe...
‘You can’t? Why not?’ His voice sounded as if it scraped over ground glass. Not surprising when his throat felt coated with shards.
‘It means, much as I want to, I won’t have a chance. Time’s running out for Sébastien and we can’t afford to wait for time to heal him. Besides—’ she averted her eyes to stare into the fire ‘—the palace is no place for him to recuperate. Everywhere he turns there are memories of his parents. He only has to look from his window to see the bay where they died.’
He heard it now, the faintest tremor in her voice. Behind the faultless display of calm, Amelie was hurting.
Once Lambis would have gone to her and—
What? Put his hand on her shoulder? Cuddled her close? Assured her everything would be okay?
He couldn’t do it. Not least because he knew touching this woman would be the biggest mistake of the decade. There was no knowing where he’d stop once he started.
More importantly, Lambis no longer believed in happy endings.
He couldn’t lie to her. He’d never been able to do that, though for a while he’d been tempted. When, years before, she’d looked at him with those beautiful, luminous eyes and suggested he might spend more time in St Galla, not for Irini’s sake, but for hers. He’d been tempted to let her believe he could be the man she wanted, just to bask in her adoration.
‘Then take him somewhere quiet. Somewhere he can rest.’
Her eyes met his and fire flashed in his blood. ‘Easier said than done. Everywhere we go are reporters.’
‘Yet I didn’t see the paparazzi outside my gates.’ The more he thought about it, the more remarkable it was. He, with his experience as a bodyguard and later, running the best of the best in close personal protection, knew how difficult it was for non-professionals to evade a determined press. Yet Amelie had brought her nephew from St Galla, an island near the coast of France and Italy, all the way to Greece without being followed.
How had she managed it? He wouldn’t have thought it possible for a woman who’d led a sheltered life behind palace walls.
‘For now.’ Her tone, like her face, was stony. ‘You know I can’t evade them long-term. We need somewhere safe and secure.’
Somewhere like this.
‘This is my home, not a safe haven.’ Not for anyone but himself.
‘You promised to protect Seb. I heard you tell Irini when she asked you to be his godfather.’
The mention of Irini was a lead weight dragging at his guilty conscience. Another life he’d failed to protect.
‘I’ll find you both a place you can hide away from the press till you return to St Galla. Somewhere suitable.’
Somewhere not here.
Amelie regarded him coolly. She didn’t raise an eyebrow or twitch a muscle, yet she made it clear his answer wasn’t enough. For the first time in their personal interactions she turned into Princess Amelie. A woman who held her own with heads of state and tough negotiators. A woman with generations of blue blood in her veins. A woman prepared to take him on in his own territory.
No one did that. For years now Lambis had given orders and they’d been obeyed. His advice was highly sought, his presence ditto.
Yet Amelie’s cool regard told him she expected more.
‘So you’ll find your godson a bolt-hole then wash your hands of him?’
Her words pierced his conscience. Or maybe it was what remained of his heart.
‘It’s for the best.’
She shook her head. ‘I truly believed you cared. I thought you a man of honour.’
She rose. His trained eye noticed the slight wobble in her legs. She fought emotion or exhaustion or both, determined not to let him see.
She was so valiant his respect for her soared. Even as he wished her and her demands to the very devil. For she was wrong. He wasn’t the man to help. He wasn’t the man she believed.
She spun on one heel, walking away.
It was what he wanted. Yet his gut hollowed.
‘You said time’s running out.’ The words jerked out before he was conscious of forming them. ‘What did you mean?’
‘Why ask when clearly you don’t care?’ She didn’t even turn to face him. Only the rigidity of her slim frame and the hands clenched at her sides revealed her tension.
Lambis didn’t answer. To say he cared would be tantamount to inviting them to stay, and that he couldn’t do. Yet nor could he see her tension and not respond.
Damn the woman! She’d got under his skin once. He couldn’t let her do it again.
Suddenly she spun round and the change in her was a punch to the solar plexus. Gone was the touch-me-not Princess, the haughty aristocrat. Everything about Amelie spoke of heat and passion. From her flashing eyes to the heightened colour accentuating those high cheekbones and the sweet bow of her mouth, deliciously plump as if she’d been biting it.
The effect was instant and incendiary—a symphony of want turned his body to hot, brazen metal. He’d wanted her before, too many times to count, but not like this—as if he’d incinerate if he didn’t reach out and touch her, taste those kissable lips and possess that poised, perfect body.
Her chin tilted as if she read his lust and was disgusted by it. Yet when she spoke Lambis realised she’d noticed nothing but the worries tormenting her.
‘Because he’s underage, Seb can’t be crowned King. Instead he’ll be officially proclaimed heir and a regent will be confirmed. The date for the proclamation ceremony has been set for his fifth birthday next month. Since he’s no longer an infant, on that day he must personally accept his new status.’
‘And?’
‘And he’s required to speak. To accept his future role and swear an oath. If he doesn’t—’ Amelie paused and the colour faded from her cheeks ‘—if he can’t say the words, another heir will be found.’