‘Her Royal Majesty, Queen Isabelle of Androvia is ready to see you now, Mr Lord.’
Travis Lord turned from the spectacular view of spruce and pine forests and virgin snow through the mullioned window, to find an old guy in fancy velvet knickerbockers and enough braid to sink a gunship standing behind him.
About damn time.
‘Cool,’ he said, hiding his mounting irritation behind a relaxed smile, because he guessed it was cool, in a weird way.
When was the last time a guy from a trailer park in Snowton Colorado got an audience with a queen? Even if he did have more money now than the oldest of Alpine monarchies.
‘Let’s go,’ he murmured.
The guy bowed then directed him out of the antechamber he’d been waiting in for a solid twenty minutes and into a large salon, which, according to Travis’s research, was just one of the White Palace’s ten staterooms.
Luckily Travis had spent his whole life not being impressed by unearned wealth—and the sort of people his mom had once cooked and cleaned for—so he managed to contain his awe. But it was more of an effort than usual. Because the collection of antique furnishings, the vintage oil paintings adorning every wall, and the fanciful gold-plated plasterwork—not to mention the even more stunning view of the Alpine gorge the palace perched on the edge of through six enormous floor-to-ceiling stained-glass windows—made one hell of a statement. In fact, the impressive décor looked like something out of a Disney princess’s palace. Probably because this bastion of old-world elegance—a six-hundred-room, three-centuries-old ice-cream castle, which towered over Androvia’s pristine slopes—was the real-world equivalent.
After walking the length of the gleaming parquet flooring, the courtier led Travis up a wide marble staircase. ‘You have been briefed on the etiquette when greeting Her Majesty, sir?’ the man asked as they stopped in front of a carved mahogany door.
‘Sure,’ Travis replied, humouring the guy.
No way was he executing the bow he’d been advised to do—he was an American, and his ancestors had fought a war so they didn’t have to bow to anyone—but he wasn’t about to get booted out before he’d met the woman he’d flown eight thousand miles to see.
He wanted to buy a piece of her kingdom for Lord Culture’s first European resort and from their research Queen Isabelle might be in the mood to make a deal. She had wealth, and lots of it, but it was all tied up in historic properties like this one, fancy bits of jewellery and the other antique collectables that came with a legacy dating back to the sixteenth century—all of which cost a fortune to maintain and operate. What she didn’t have was disposable income. Plus, his intel suggested she was also having a spat with her Ruling Council over the future of the monarchy itself. They wanted her to ‘merge’ with the heir to a neighbouring kingdom—one of those Eurotrash princes who played hard and didn’t seem to work at all—while she was holding out. Travis Lord could take the pressure off by bringing jobs and investment to her country.
This was a business proposition between equals—so no bowing was required. But he kept that to himself as the courtier nodded, then tapped on the ornate door. A muffled voice told them to come in.
Travis stepped into a large library, which smelled of old paper and lemon polish, the walls covered in bookcases, with an antique desk at the far end.
The young woman sitting behind it, her blonde hair pinned up in a ruthless updo, was a surprise—especially when she stood and walked towards him. Instead of velvet and ermine and the crown he had been expecting, she wore a tailored pantsuit which was probably supposed to look businesslike but hugged her figure as she moved. She was also tiny. Or he guessed the word was petite. She barely reached his collarbone. She looked a lot taller in her press pictures. Her heart-shaped face, wide, slightly sloping green eyes and porcelain skin also made her look younger than her twenty-two years. Her make-up was subdued, conservative even, but instead of making her appear regal and reserved it made her seem oddly innocent—like a teenager who wasn’t yet ready to advertise her charms, instead of a woman in her early twenties, who had to be well aware of the effect she had on men. His gaze tracked to her mouth—the pale pink lip gloss couldn’t disguise how lush her lips were… A bolt of lust shot straight into his groin. And he tensed.
What the hell?
‘Your Majesty, Mr Lord to see you as requested,’ the courtier—who Travis had forgotten was there—announced while executing another deep bow.
‘Mr Lord, we meet at last,’ the Queen said in perfectly accented English, her voice a soft purr of privilege and purpose.
She didn’t offer him her hand in greeting.
Travis yanked himself out of the fugue state he had lapsed into unintentionally, and managed to stop fixating on her lips long enough to figure out she was probably waiting for him to bow, too.
Yeah, not gonna happen.
The courtier cleared his throat, obviously thinking Travis had been struck dumb by his first encounter with royalty—which, annoyingly, wasn’t far from the truth.
Travis ignored the prompt. ‘Your Majesty, you’re a hard woman to get an audience with,’ he said, then offered her his hand. ‘But it’s good to meet you at last.’
The courtier gasped. Travis ignored the guy some more.
The Queen glanced at his open palm. If she was surprised, or even annoyed, by his refusal to follow protocol though, she managed to contain it and hesitated for less than a second before accepting the handshake.
Her palm was cool, and her fingers long and elegant, but her small hand disappeared in his much bigger one. Her tiny jolt of surprise, the little frisson of electricity, echoed in his groin.
Was he getting turned on? Weird, but kind of intriguing, too.
He released her hand, but then caught a lungful of her scent—and wondered how something so subtle could be so intoxicating.
The courtier had stiffened up like a poker, his outrage at the break in protocol emanating off him like a force field.
The Queen sent the guy a polite smile and he melted like a snowman on a Florida beach. ‘Arne, could you leave us now?’ she said. ‘And tell Mel we’ll be ready for the tea tray in twenty minutes,’ she added.
She turned to Travis, the polite smile becoming politely inquisitive. ‘Unless of course you would prefer coffee, being an American?’
‘Coffee works,’ he said, trying not to get dazzled by the smile—which managed to brighten her whole face despite her reserve.
‘We can dispense with the titles now,’ she said, as soon as the courtier had disappeared. ‘I’m afraid Arne worked for my father and he’s a terrible stickler when it comes to protocol.’
Travis nodded, relieved. Being unexpectedly turned on by this woman was one thing, having to treat her with fake deference was another. Maybe she didn’t consider him to be an equal, but she was well bred enough not to show it—which was good, because he didn’t really give a damn what she thought of him. He’d never let anyone’s opinion of him—high or low—stop him getting what he wanted.
She directed him to a leather armchair in front of her desk. ‘Please take a seat, Mr Lord, we have a lot to discuss.’
He detected the tight tone and noticed the polite smile had left the room with Arne the Stickler. Interesting.
He took the seat she suggested and watched her walk back around her desk and sit down. Her movements weren’t quite as fluid as they had been when she’d walked towards him, nor as precise. Seemed Her Majesty was a little tense. More interesting.
‘So, I take it you know why I wanted this meeting?’ he said, deciding to cut to the chase.
Fast and direct was how he rolled. It was the way he’d ridden a snowboard to a gold medal in the world championships as a teenager and made his first billion while creating his own brand sportswear in his twenties. He’d also told his negotiators to give the Queen’s advisors a heads up while they’d been angling for this meeting. As interesting as it had been meeting the woman in the flesh—and getting a glimpse of how European royalty lived—he hadn’t come here to sightsee. Or genuflect.
She gave a stiff nod. ‘You wish to acquire a three-thousand-acre portion of Androvia’s White Ridge to build a ski resort. Land which has belonged to the royal household for ten generations and has remained untouched.’
‘That’s about the size of it, yeah.’ He leant forward, surprised she was being equally direct, but also impressed by the shrewd intelligence in her gaze. He hadn’t expected her to be a pushover, but he also hadn’t expected her to handle the negotiations herself. Even more interesting.
‘Although it’s going to be primarily a snowboarding resort—not a ski venue,’ he said. ‘And while we want to develop the land, it’s the untouched quality of the wilderness which makes it attractive to us. Lord Culture is all about exclusive bespoke resorts which blend with the natural environment. Any construction we do will be ecologically sustainable and supremely sensitive. The idea is to enhance the White Ridge, not destroy it. We give our clients unique wilderness experiences. Our two resorts in the States are award-winning and speak for themselves.’ He took a breath, then went in for the kill, because straight talking was one of his superpowers. ‘Plus, we both know you’re between a rock and a hard place at the moment, Your Majesty,’ he added, enjoying the way she stiffened even more.
‘How so?’ she asked, the prim tone not matched by the flash of fire in her eyes. So, the Queen had a temper, good to know.
‘A deal of this size with Lord Culture will bring thousands of much-needed jobs to your subjects and substantial investment in your infrastructure and will also give you, personally, increased financial clout. Enough so you won’t have to contemplate hooking up with the playboy prince next door if you don’t want to.’
*
Isabelle jolted with shock at the audacious—and far too personal—observation.
She’d met Americans before, she knew they didn’t tend to stand on ceremony, but she’d never met anyone as forthright as Travis Lord.
She’d thought she’d been prepared for this meeting. She’d done her research after all, as what she had to suggest to this man had to be managed very carefully.
But the minute the former snowboarding champion and billionaire entrepreneur had strolled into her study, she had begun to wonder if she had bitten off a lot more than she would ever be able to chew. For starters, Travis Lord was enormous. Lean and muscular—as befitted a man who had once reached the pinnacle of a dangerous and demanding sport—but also incredibly tall. He had to be at least six four when she was only five three in bare feet. And while she’d known he wasn’t a small man, and had worn her highest heels to compensate, even so, he made her feel exceptionally short.
The feel of his callused palm, closing over hers—the scrape of roughened skin, the warm dry flesh—had been supremely disconcerting too. Even that brief contact had made sensation sprint around her entire body. And that was before she had factored in the question of why exactly she had given in to the impulse to shake his hand in the first place. The whole concept was completely alien. But when he’d offered his palm, something untoward had come over her and she’d had the unprecedented desire to take up the dare. Because that was exactly what she had seen in his eyes—the warm hazel flaring with provocation, challenging her to allow him to demolish centuries of protocol less than a minute after meeting her.
She’d also been prepared for his striking appearance. She’d seen the many photos of him over the years. First as a teenager, taking every title and breaking numerous records with a reckless natural talent that had dared fate at every turn, until he’d fallen to earth in a brutal accident that had almost cost him his life at the age of only nineteen. But he had risen from the ashes of his athletic career in his twenties, modelling his own skiwear, which had become North America’s most sought-after brand within a decade.
Now he was in his early thirties, his looks had matured from the sun-kissed athletic beauty of his youth to a supremely masculine handsomeness. His features, once so finely drawn, were now weathered by a scar on his cheek and another that slashed across one brow, not to mention the break on the bridge of his nose. His dark wavy hair was glossy but needed a trim, being long enough to curl against the collar of his shirt. And while the designer suit he wore was perfectly tailored to all those muscles—the man obviously kept in shape even if he was no longer a professional sportsman—the expensive fabric still only barely contained his rugged physique.
What she hadn’t expected though were for his looks to have such a profound effect on her. She’d met good-looking men before, but she’d never had the urge to stare at one… Or, indeed, allow him to shake her hand.
And then there was his scent, which she had got far too intimate an acquaintance with as he had loomed over her. Not expensive cologne, but clean cedar soap underlaid with something musky and even more compelling.
She had been taught from a young age to keep a ruthless leash on all her emotions, and never to let her reactions show. But something had overwhelmed those years of training from the moment he had walked into the library.
As she stared back at him now, trying to compose herself after his shockingly inappropriate comment, she realised the brilliant scheme she had come up with late at night, over many months, after stressing about the prospect of having to consider marriage to Rene Gaultiere, the neighbouring Prince of Saltzaland, might not be so brilliant after all.
She’d assumed she would be able to make this man an offer he couldn’t refuse and then control the outcome. She wasn’t anywhere near as confident about the second part of that equation now. But as his audacious comment echoed into silence and his dark eyes narrowed, the masculine challenge—and dominance—in his gaze reawakened the strange compulsion which had prompted that ill-advised handshake.
Struggling to channel it rather than succumb to it this time, she delivered the line she had been rehearsing for weeks. ‘That being the case, I have a counter offer.’
He didn’t look surprised, but then she hadn’t really expected him to, as she had already gathered he was even better at controlling his reactions than she was. Either that or he’d had all semblance of sensitivity ironed out of him long ago. A distinct possibility, given his difficult upbringing—as the child of a single mother who had cleaned lodges in an expensive ski resort in Colorado while living miles away in a trailer park. She’d found no reference to his father in the press clippings.
‘You haven’t heard what I’m willing to offer you for the land yet,’ he said, not taking the bait. Yet.
‘I cannot sell you the land, Mr Lord,’ she said. On that much she had to be clear. No Androlov had ever sold off any of the kingdom, it was the royal family’s heritage and, as the last of her line, she did not intend to be the first to break that tradition. It was why she was being forced to think outside the box—way outside the box.
‘Then why did you agree to this meeting?’ he said, his scepticism searing.
‘Because I have another proposition.’
‘Uh-huh. Let’s hear it,’ he said. Taking the bait. Finally.
‘I will lease you the land you require for your resort.’
‘A lease is no good to—’
‘For one hundred years with all requisite permissions to develop it which you may require, as long as you stick to Androvia’s strict rules on sustainability,’ she countered before he could sidetrack her again. ‘But on one condition.’
His frown levelled off. ‘Go on.’
She took a steadying breath, let it out slowly, and—feeling oddly exhilarated—forced herself to let go of twenty-two years of caution and control, so she could finally take charge of her own—and her country’s—destiny.
‘You agree to marry me, Mr Lord.’
