Where the hell is she now? Is she trying to create an international incident? Because she’s doing a spectacular job tonight of making me look like a complete ass.
Prince Rene Sven Conrad Gaultiere tuned out the excited chatter from his press secretary as he stood on the ornate marble balcony overlooking Gaultiere Castle’s West Ballroom. He surveyed the centuries-old splendour, which was currently festooned in gold and silver décor, lasers streaming across the dancefloor as music throbbed and the clock edged closer to midnight. Like a raptor locating its prey, he found the woman in red satin he’d been looking for amongst the five hundred carefully selected guests, her blonde chignon glittering like a halo in the sparkle of light from a crystal chandelier.
That would be the woman who had been tasked with hosting the traditional New Year’s Eve Ball by his side—to demonstrate the excellent union between their two neighbouring countries—but who had been avoiding him all evening.
The fury he’d been barely managing to keep a chokehold on ramped up another notch.
As if it wasn’t bad enough that Melody Taylor had appeared only moments before the event started, then run off as soon as they had opened the Ball together, she was now busy flirting with Eli Carter.
Of course he wasn’t remotely surprised Carter had sniffed her out, given the US hotel tycoon had an even more notorious reputation for seducing beautiful women than Rene himself—and the gown Mel was wearing plunged so low it turned her curvaceous figure into the Eighth Wonder of the World. But Carter’s behaviour was not Rene’s concern. Melody’s, on the other hand…
She was here representing Androvia tonight—because she was Queen Isabelle’s best friend as well as her personal assistant. This annual event was supposed to highlight the friendship between their two kingdoms—not how low an opinion the Queen of Androvia’s PA had of Saltzaland’s Prince, i.e. him.
As he watched, the woman who had entered the Ball on his arm tilted her head forward inquisitively, and Carter leaned closer to whisper something in her ear… Close enough to see right down the front of her gown.
Rene’s fraying temper ignited.
Who the hell did Carter think he was? Coming on to his date for the evening, on his territory, at his event, in his castle? And what was Melody thinking? Carter was a wolf who would take pleasure in using her influence with Androvia’s Queen for his own purposes.
Rene swore viciously under his breath.
Melody and he had always had a complicated relationship—which had only become more complicated when he’d made the mistake of sleeping with her, four years ago. But she was here to do a job on behalf of her Queen, and her decision to flirt with Carter, who had less ethics than an alley cat, by all accounts, was the final straw.
‘As soon as the clock strikes midnight I’m out of here, Andre,’ he said to his press secretary, interrupting the flow of information about what a spectacular success this year’s Ball had been.
Not for me. Because my co-host has gone out of her way to make it abundantly clear she believes I am beneath contempt.
‘But Your Majesty, we were hoping to get some photos for the press in…’ Andre began.
‘Forget it, you’ll just have to make my excuses… And while you’re at it, make Miss Taylor’s excuses too,’ he added.
Tonight, he was through ignoring—or attempting to laugh off—her antagonism towards him. He tugged his phone out of his tuxedo pocket. Midnight was less than a minute away.
About damn time.
Once the castle bell had tolled the hour, he was heading to his private suite. And Melody was going to accompany him—whether she liked it or not. He had no intention of allowing Carter to seduce her because she was his responsibility. Plus, it was past time he explained to her in words of one syllable that her rudeness towards him in public would no longer be tolerated.
Queen Isabelle had inadvertently presented him with the opportunity to clear the air with her PA when she had asked her friend to attend this event in her stead—while she was on her honeymoon in America.
Ironic to think he had once offered for Isabelle’s hand himself. Not that theirs would ever have been a love match. But the Androvian Queen’s hasty marriage to US sportswear entrepreneur Travis Lord had forced Rene to acknowledge something tonight which he had failed to address for four years. Melody Taylor needed to be taught some manners. He had been treating her with kid gloves, because she was Isabelle’s best friend, and an integral part of the Queen’s entourage—and she had only been eighteen years old that night.
Plus, she had captivated him, more than she should—which had made him determined to give her a wide berth ever since. Although why he found her so fascinating, he had no idea. She was a beautiful woman, but then, he knew a lot of beautiful women.
Perhaps it was her snotty attitude towards him, even before that night, right back to when they were children, which was so unlike every other woman he had ever encountered… Or maybe it was the way she had eventually succumbed to their livewire chemistry—artlessly but without compromise… After all, the memory of her shocked sobs of release, the tight clasp of her massaging him to climax, still had the power to wake him up late at night, hard and ready for her, far too often.
Even her animosity towards him had failed to kill their chemistry completely, which would almost be funny if it weren’t so damned annoying.
But as the world-famous DJ the Castle’s events planner had flown in from Ibiza paused the music to count the seconds down to midnight, Rene dumped his untouched champagne flute on a passing tray.
Enough is enough. Tonight, she has pushed me too far.
He headed down the wide marble steps towards the ballroom below, ignoring the many attempts to waylay him en route.
No more kid gloves. No more avoidance. No more failing to confront the elephant in the room.
Melody had brought this on herself with her escalating rudeness towards him over the past four years.
Tonight, she needed to learn the lesson he had learned during the intervening years, that her hurt feelings were not a good enough excuse to disrespect him and, more importantly, his office and his country, in front of their guests, the international community and the world’s press.
No one—not even that upstart Carter—was going to stop Rene from getting that damn elephant off his chest once and for all.
One thing was for sure. Melody Taylor would not be able to ignore him—or give him the side-eye—a moment longer once this never-ending event was finally over… In ten seconds and counting.
*
‘Three! Two! One… Happy New Year, everyone!’
Mel clapped as the crowd erupted around her—relief flowing through her.
If only Isabelle had known how much spending the night in Gaultiere Castle would cost her. But the hours she had been forced to be in Rene’s home were nearly over.
Thanks to her carefully planned late arrival and all the demands on the Prince’s time at an event like this, she had only had to spend five minutes by his side—which had kept the emotions he stirred under strict control.
Now all she had to do was make a swift and dignified exit.
The Castle’s guest manager had assigned her a suite for the night in the East Wing, but she had no intention of waking up here tomorrow—the risk of seeing Rene again far too great. So she had arranged for an all-terrain vehicle to be made available to her in the Castle’s garage. The five-hour drive through the mountains at night could be perilous, especially at this time of year, but the weather forecast was favourable, and the route had been clear when she and the rest of Isabelle’s staff had arrived this afternoon.
All she had to do now was change out of the ball gown and flee. No one would even know she had left ahead of schedule until she got back to Androvia.
She edged her way through the packed crowd of revellers, who were busy planting impromptu kisses on each other. But before she got more than a couple of steps a soft tug on her elbow found her pulled against the chest of Eli Carter.
‘Happy New Year, Ms Taylor,’ he murmured in his deep American accent.
She pressed her palms against a solid wall of muscle to resist falling any further into his arms as the crowd surged around them.
Carter had been charming up to now, his interest in her flattering, and it had helped take her mind off her tumultuous reaction to being in Rene’s home for the first time. But the hotel magnate’s closeness now felt a lot more forward.
‘How about a kiss to celebrate the New Year?’ Carter said, the arrogant amusement in his gaze almost as disconcerting as the abrupt switch from charming to flirtatious.
Tall, dark and hot, with an ego the size of the Castle itself, Eli Carter clearly had seducing women as one of his superpowers. And while he hadn’t been remotely pushy up to now, she knew a womaniser when she saw one.
Thanks so much, Rene Gaultiere.
She couldn’t quite shake the feeling that there was a cynical edge to Carter’s interest in her—which had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with Rene—because he’d asked her a lot of probing questions about Saltzaland’s Prince during their discussion. But while she had very personal reasons for avoiding Rene, she had sensed Carter had reasons of his own for disliking the Prince.
She’d deflected Carter’s questions easily enough, because the last person she wanted to talk about, let alone think about, was the man she had been determined to avoid all evening. And luckily, she was not the same naïve, insecure eighteen-year-old who’d once fallen for Rene’s charms. But she didn’t have time to deal with Carter now.
‘Nice try, Carter, but I’ll pass,’ she said, forced to lean close to him as the noise levels in the ballroom reached deafening.
‘Shame,’ he shouted back, although he didn’t look particularly crestfallen, increasing her suspicions that he’d had a hidden agenda tonight she wanted no part of.
But just as he let her elbow go, the crowd parted behind him—and Rene appeared from nowhere.
Mel’s heartbeat rammed her ribs—and plunged between her thighs.
The black tuxedo he wore was perfectly fitted to his tall, muscular physique, the shimmering lights from the antique chandelier above their heads casting his handsome face into stark relief.
She hated herself for noticing how magnificent he looked. But, to her surprise, instead of saying something cutting or, worse, dismissive, Rene grabbed the billionaire’s shoulder and yanked him away from her.
‘Touch her again, Carter, and you’ll regret it,’ he announced, the low-grade fury shocking Mel, but not as much as the spurt of awareness. Or the horrifying shot of arousal as his broad shoulders flexed under the expertly tailored tux.
But then his furious glare landed on her. ‘We’re leaving.’
Her back stiffened with indignation—and hurt. She dismissed it. She didn’t care what Rene thought of her. She had stopped caring a long time ago.
But how dare he look at her like that, as if she had done something wrong by talking to Carter, when he was the biggest libertine on the planet?
Carter threw up his hands in a defensive gesture, but the mocking tone was unmistakable when he shouted a reply above the chorus of ‘Auld Lang Syne’.
‘Perhaps we should let the lady decide who she wants to celebrate the New Year with, Your Majesty?’ he all but sneered.
‘The lady does not intend to celebrate it with either of you,’ Mel interjected, her fury at Rene’s high-handedness building. ‘Because she’s going home.
She didn’t wait to watch the pissing contest continue, turning to push through the crowd. Before she could reach the ballroom’s service doors, though, a large hand grasped her wrist, forcing her to an abrupt stop. She knew whose hand it was when sensation sprinted up her arm.
‘Not so damn fast.’ Rene was so close she could smell him, that devastating aroma of cedarwood soap and man and expensive cologne.
The anger she wanted to feel tangled with the hole in her gut she had spent four years repairing. And the inappropriate yearning—as she recalled his touch, so sure and devastating, the feel of him, so overwhelming inside her… And the morning after, when he’d been gone and her heart had imploded.
‘Release me.’ She struggled against his hold.
‘The hell I will. Where do you think you’re going now?’
‘None of your business.’ She wasn’t about to tell him of her plans, even though he couldn’t possibly want her here, any more than she wished to be here.
She jerked her hand loose and shoved open the service doors, then lifted her skirts and ran past the line of waiters holding trays of champagne flutes aloft. But as the music faded behind her, she could hear running footsteps cutting through the noise coming from the kitchen.
She had barely made it through the kitchen doors before her pursuer snagged her wrist a second time. ‘Stop, dammit. What are you running from, you little fool?’
She skidded to a stop, aware of the scene they were making in front of the kitchen staff, who were all watching with varying degrees of avid curiosity and shock.
She wondered what exactly was so shocking—that their Prince was behaving like an overbearing arse, or that his date for the evening was trying to get away from him?
‘I’m running from you. Who else?’ she snarled, breathless—it had been a long night already, and she was fast losing patience with his overbearing arse routine. ‘Now, go away and leave me alone.’
‘That does it. I’ve had enough of your nonsense tonight,’ he said and then, to her utter shock, leant down, gathered her legs and scooped her up and over his shoulder.
Suddenly, she was upside down, staring at a pair of tight male buns clad in black serge, her belly bouncing in time with his purposeful strides.
It took her a full second to process what was happening. Mortification tightened her lungs, her breasts all but spilling out of her gown. But as soon as she had caught her breath, she began to kick and punch in earnest.
‘Put me down, you oaf!’ she shouted.
But he ignored her, even as her shoes flew off, and he marched her through the crowd of chefs and porters and serving staff—who were all gaping at them now in stunned silence.
‘You want me to drop you on your head, then carry on struggling. Otherwise, be still,’ Rene demanded.
She choked back a sob of outrage but stopped fighting, because hitting the deck in front of all these people would surely be worse.
After several eternities, they made it through the kitchens and into the bowels of the Castle. As the metal doors swung closed behind them and they were alone, she gave his back another almighty punch with the last of her strength. He didn’t even flinch.
‘Put me down right now, or I will scream my lungs out,’ she threatened, impressed with the steadiness of her voice, given that her insides had turned to mush.
His shoulder hitched under her belly. ‘Go ahead, no one will hear you.’
But after he had pushed through another set of doors, he finally deposited her on her feet in the ornate entrance hall of the East Wing.
Her bare toes sank into the embroidered silk carpet. She wrenched up the bodice of the far too revealing dress, which had dropped dangerously low during her ignominious exit through the kitchens, then lifted her head to glare at her kidnapper. Unfortunately, without the benefit of her heels, she had to look way, way up. The man was at least six foot two and she barely reached his collarbone.
It was just another humiliation to add to all the others he had heaped upon her over the years.
The cavernous hall—its twin mahogany staircases leading to the gallery above them and the guest suites—was eerily quiet and dimly lit, the muted lighting from the wall sconces casting shadows over Rene’s saturnine features.
He ripped off his bowtie and wrestled open the top two buttons of his dress shirt, then thrust the tie into his pocket, glaring at her as if she were the guilty party. Controlled fury rolled off him in waves. The spark of antagonism arced between them, ready to ignite the bristling tension like an accelerant in a sea of petrol, while making her brutally aware of how isolated they were.
The intimacy was as terrifying as the emotions making her breathing clog in her lungs. This was the first time she had been alone with Rene since that night. She should walk away. But her feet were rooted to the carpet, her accelerated breathing, her thundering pulse—the fallout from their wrestling match—making her annoyingly light-headed.
‘What did you mean,’ he demanded, his voice still rough with anger, ‘about going home?’
Had she said that? Her dazed mind struggled to come up with an explanation, while also trying to understand why he cared.
‘It was a figure of speech,’ she managed. ‘I’m going to my room.’ At last, the strength returned to her legs and her feet began to cooperate.
But as she swung round his strong fingers grasped her upper arm and swung her back again.
‘Wait a damn minute…’ he said.
Sensation shot up her arm again. He hadn’t touched her since that night, for four years, and now he couldn’t seem to stop touching her. Her reaction was as volatile and all-consuming as it had been then—which would be humiliating if it weren’t so pathetic.
‘Don’t touch me,’ she said, but even so she was surprised when he released her. And lifted his hands, palms up.
‘Okay, but dammit…’ He thrust his fingers through his hair, raking the dark locks into haphazard rows, his frustration clear when he spoke again. ‘Don’t walk away from me again, Melody…’
The way he said her full name struck something deep inside her, that black hole of insecurity he had discovered once before and exploited so easily. She wrapped her arms around her waist to contain the panic threatening to overwhelm her.
But then he sighed and added, ‘We need to talk about that night because it’s…’
‘No, we don’t.’ She cut him off with as much determination as she could muster, while being wrenched back in time to the biggest mistake of her life.
She’d been such a fool that night—such a naïve, eager, innocent, romantic fool. Why on earth had she trusted her virginity to him when she’d always known what a shallow bastard he was, especially where women were concerned? That her body still didn’t seem to have learned that lesson only made her panic increase.
The only saving grace was that he would never know he had been her first…and her only lover. So far.
‘I’m exhausted. It’s past midnight and I want to go to bed,’ she said, trying to keep her voice even when she was shaking inside.
Why was he bringing that night up now? Was he trying to destroy what was left of her composure?
‘The last thing I need to talk about is ancient history,’ she added, stepping away from him cautiously, as if he were an unexploded bomb. Because that was what this whole hideous standoff suddenly felt like. Explosive and terrifying.
She’d hated how easily he had forgotten her in the days afterwards, when she had tried to contact him… But his carelessness then, and the easy dismissal, was her insurance now against her body’s idiotic reaction to him, still.
The fact that he had never referred to their night together had become a boon eventually instead of a cause for sadness and recriminations… It had given her a chance to repair the damage he’d done by discarding her so carelessly. And now he was trying to make her feel like nothing again… Well, no thanks.
‘So, if you’re finished with your caveman act…’ she said, but before she could get away he snagged her arm again.
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ he said.
‘Let me go,’ she demanded.
‘Only if you promise not to run until we’ve got a few things settled.’
‘Fine. I promise,’ she blurted out.
She needed him to stop touching her. Because the feel of his fingers, after all these years, was playing havoc with what was left of her equilibrium.
He released her and slung his hand into his pocket. His gaze seared her skin. But she forced herself to stand tall and to ignore the riot of sensations and emotions—which were screaming at her to run again. She’d tried that already and it hadn’t exactly worked in her favour.
‘So, you’re not planning on heading back to Androvia tonight?’ he asked, his penetrating gaze astute and surprisingly lucid.
Why wasn’t he drunk—when he had a reputation for overindulging at parties?
She struggled to contain the guilty flush—and thanked God for the low lighting. ‘Of course not. It’s pitch-dark, it’s probably snowing, I’m exhausted and it’s a five-hour drive in daylight.’
He studied her for the longest time, clearly not convinced by her denial. But then the penetrating glare softened a fraction.
‘Fine, you can go,’ he said, as if she needed his permission. ‘On the condition we have this out in the morning. No more avoidance tactics.’
Like hell we will.
What exactly did he think they had to talk about, anyway? She’d thrown herself at him that night, believing they’d made a connection of some sort, and he’d let her, then he’d left before she’d woken the next morning and ghosted her for weeks afterwards until she’d finally got the message: that she was just another notch on his bedpost who meant nothing.
On what planet would she want to revisit that humiliation? And to what end? So he could tell her again, in words instead of deeds, that she was a nobody? That he’d used her for a quick endorphin fix because she’d been willing and available? No, thanks.
‘Your animosity towards me is starting to impact my work, and yours,’ he continued in that authoritarian tone as if he were the boss of her. ‘Tonight’s little farce being a perfect example,’ he continued. ‘And with Isabelle now happily loved-up with her new husband we may have to deal with each other a lot more often.’
Her temper reignited at the patronising statement—the gall of the man, questioning her professionalism. She’d come here, she’d allowed herself to be dressed up like a courtesan and spent five never-ending minutes on his arm being treated like an accessory. And then four endless hours avoiding him so they wouldn’t have a spat in public… And this was the thanks she got.
‘I’ll see you at breakfast, ten o’clock sharp, so we can discuss how to repair our working relationship,’ he added. ‘Or, rather, how you are going to start doing your job. And stop trying to screw up five hundred years of diplomacy between our two countries because of a few hurt feelings. You’re not eighteen any more, Melody. And my patience with your childish attitude towards me is at an end.’
You bastard.
She bit into her lower lip, hard enough to taste blood, to stop herself from reacting to the carelessly cruel statement.
Her role in Androvia as Isabelle’s trusted assistant was something she took incredibly seriously. It was the achievement she was most proud of, the one thing she excelled at. She made it her business to know and understand Isabelle’s role and her responsibilities as Queen, to support her and counsel her, not just because she was paid a generous salary, but also because Isabelle had been her best friend since they were both ten years old.
She would never let Isabelle down… Not again, anyway.
That she had allowed Rene—or, rather, the incident between them four years ago—to compromise that closeness, that friendship, because she had never had the guts to confide in Isabelle what had happened that night, still upset her, and made her feel miserably guilty.
That he was digging at that sore spot by questioning her professionalism felt so unfair. But she sucked in a breath and refused to react. Because that would only prove his point. That she was an overemotional basket case who still wanted his approval, when nothing could be further from the truth.
And arguing with him had always been a pointless exercise. Rene knew all her weak spots and had none of his own—because he had always been more than happy to wear his arrogance and entitlement like a badge of honour.
The good news was, Rene was wrong about the impact of Isabelle’s marriage to Travis Lord on their working relationship.
Because Mel knew that Isabelle’s marriage was a sham. That her friend had only married the American sportswear entrepreneur to circumvent her father’s will and facilitate a land deal. In fact, Isabelle’s ‘loved-up’ new marriage was only due to last a year. After this debacle, Mel would simply impress upon Isabelle that asking her to act as a proxy in the Queen’s dealings with Saltzaland’s Prince was not a good idea, diplomatic-relations-wise.
Luckily, Isabelle knew that Mel and Rene had always been at loggerheads—ever since they were children and Rene had teased them both mercilessly whenever he visited Androvia’s White Palace with his father. So Isabelle would not question her continued animosity towards him now. Or request she host any more balls on his arm.
‘If you really wish to discuss our working relationship tomorrow morning, you can,’ she managed, determined not to let him see how much his patronising accusations had hurt her. ‘But FYI, my desire not to spend time with you has nothing to do with one night of poor judgement and everything to do with what an overbearing arse you have been ever since you were sixteen,’ she finished with a flourish, glad when his eyes narrowed.
‘I’ll want your word on that,’ he snapped, still behaving as if he were the boss of her.
‘Go to hell, Rene,’ she shot back. She was not about to give him her word because he didn’t deserve it. Plus, she planned to be long gone by ten tomorrow morning—and her word actually meant something to her, unlike Rene.
‘You can bully everyone else,’ she added. ‘But you can’t bully me. Because I know exactly who you are. Now more than ever.’
She swung round—finally—and marched up the staircase in her bare feet, aware of him glaring at her. She kept her spine straight and refused to look back, but she could feel the prickle of awareness tangling with the anger and indignation in her gut every single step of the way.
But as she hurried to her guest room, she couldn’t help berating herself again, for once being young and foolish enough to offer her heart to the Prince of Saltzaland on a platter. She should have known, even as a naïve eighteen-year-old, that an entitled bastard like him would trample all over it.
