She wondered how he managed to look both furious and guilt-ridden at the same time. What would have happened if she had given in to that impulse and simply leaned forward to close the gap between them?
As though he’d heard her thoughts, a furrow appeared on his brow. He cleared his throat loudly, turning back to his housekeeper without another glance in her direction. ‘Grab a towel for Miss Sandoval before she freezes.’
His cold, uncaring tone only added to the sudden chill that spread through her.
Without saying goodnight, or even looking in her direction, Roman disappeared through the terrace doors, leaving her standing alone, confused and embarrassed in her sodden clothes.
* * *
The walls of his master suite were bathed in a cold powder-blue light when Roman awoke. As usual he had not dreamed, but sleep had taken much longer than usual to claim him. And even then it had been fitful and broken at best. It was as though his entire body had thrummed with an intense nervous energy that refused to allow him any real rest.
Never one to remain in bed once his eyes had opened, Roman stood and threw on his jogging shorts.
In less than five minutes he was stretching on the steps that led to the beach. Within another ten he had completed two laps of the mile-long sandy inlet and worked up a healthy sweat. He ran barefoot on the damp sand until his chest heaved and his muscles burned with effort. And then he ran some more.
Usually a good run was enough to rid him of any thoughts strong enough to affect his sleep. A self-inflicted punishment of sorts, for those times when he knew his mind had begun to grow weak and was in need of strengthening. A weak mind had no place in his life—not when so many relied on his razor-sharp instincts to protect their homes and indeed their lives.
He prided himself on always being able to separate his personal and professional life—especially when it came to affairs with women. Lust never clouded his judgement.
The women he pursued were usually professional workaholics, just like him. Women who were sophisticated in and out of the bedroom and who weren’t looking for sweet nothings to be whispered in their ear once they had scratched their mutual itch.
He had a feeling a sheltered young princess wouldn’t be quite so worldly when it came to no-strings sex.
He picked up speed as he chastised himself for even entertaining the thought of a no-strings affair with Olivia. Guilt settled heavily in his chest as he thought of the night before, of the thoughts that had run through his brain as he had openly ogled his best friend’s intended bride. Stupid, weak fool. The words flew by along with his breath as he exhausted his body with a final punishing sprint.
He had always believed that he deserved punishment for the multitude of sins he had committed in his youth. That no matter how complacent he grew in his wealth, in his power and success, there was always a darkness in him just waiting to ruin everything. It was beginning to seem that Olivia had been sent into his life to tempt that darkness to the fore. To tease him with her elegant curves and squeaky-clean nature.
He had a certain code for how he lived his life—certain people he did not betray and certain things he did not do. A rule book, of sorts, that kept him on the straight and narrow when the impulsive bastard inside him threatened to rise to the surface.
Khristos...
He exhaled hard. He had never been more tempted to break his own rules than in these past two days. Olivia reminded him of one of those perfect, luscious cakes that had always been on display behind the glass of his local bakery as a child. He had stood outside in the cold, salivating over the idea of breaking through that glass and claiming the treat for himself. But at that stage in his life his innocent boyhood self had innately known that would have been the wrong thing to do.
The Roman Lazarov of the present day did not have that luxury. Telling himself to walk away last night had been like standing in front of that bakery window all over again—hungry and frustrated, but unable to do a damn thing but fantasise about how the icing would taste in his mouth.
A delicious torture.
With his breath hard and even, he turned to the horizon and watched as the first flickers of pink and orange began to colour the dawn sky.
One of his favourite things about Isla Arista was the unspoilt view of both the sunrise and sunset from various points on the island. In those few dark months after the tragedy in Zayyar he had often spent an entire day walking here. He could completely circumnavigate the island in a few short hours because he knew the right tracks to take. It was an island of many personalities—smooth and habitable in some places, but fiercely wild and impassable in others.
He turned to begin walking back up to the villa, stopping as he spied a familiar feminine silhouette emerge from the open glass doors onto the terrace.
* * *
Olivia had been unashamedly watching Roman’s progress up and down the beach with interest. It had been impossble not to stare at his broad, muscular form as he powered up and down the sand with seeming effortlessness.
She had debated hiding in her room all day, and avoiding breakfast with him altogether, but she’d decided that was something the old Olivia would do.
She was done with avoiding conflict and simply daydreaming of what she might say if she had the bravery in certain situations. She would sit across the table from him this morning and she would show him how completely unaffected she was by what had happened last night. Or almost happened, rather.
Aside from wanting to prove a point to herself, she had to admit that she desperately wanted to speak with him again. He was so unlike any man she had ever known. It was addictive, talking to him.
She had possibly taken slightly more time than usual in washing and preparing her hair, so that it fell in soft waves around her face. And so what if she had tried on three of the five dresses in her suitcase before committing to one?
The pale pink linen day dress was perhaps a little much for breakfast, but the way it nipped in at the waist and flowed out softly to her knees made her feel feminine and confident. And besides, she was simply taking pleasure in choosing her own outfit without a styling team surrounding her.
After twenty minutes of waiting, her stomach rumbling, with a beautiful display of fresh fruit and pastries spread out before her on the breakfast table, Jorge informed her that Mr Lazarov would be working all day and had decided it was easier to eat in his office.
She told herself that she wasn’t bothered in the least as she poured herself coffee from the French press and nibbled on a piece of melon. She didn’t care that he had chosen to avoid her. It was better, really. There was no one here to goad her, to push her to think about things she wanted to avoid. No all too perceptive slate-grey eyes watching her, making her skin prickle.
Eventually she gave in to the tantalising breakfast display and grabbed a large sugar-frosted croissant, smearing it liberally with butter and strawberry marmalade. The sticky sweet treat was like heaven itself as she washed it down with the fragrant gourmet coffee. Pastry was firmly on her list of never foods.
Regret was inevitable, and it washed over her as she self-consciously smoothed her dress against her stomach. Another result of the life she led was the constant pressure to stay slim, to stay as beautiful as possible in order to live up to her persona.
She had always harboured a soul-deep envy of her sisters and their seeming lack of pressure to play a part for the public. As the oldest, Eleanor was to be Queen one day—a position she took very seriously. She was naturally rake-thin, and always immaculately dressed, but the only media pressure she had to deal with was speculation on when she would start producing little heirs of her own.
Cressida was rarely, if ever, seen in the media. As a respected researcher in her field, she had somehow been allowed to study and live an almost civilian lifestyle in London, with only the barest minimum security detail.
Olivia sigh
ed. The only skills she had were those best suited to what she was already doing, along with the uncanny ability to daydream herself out of any situation.
She had always adored the more dramatic movies—the ones where the heroine went through hell in order to get her happy ending. Maybe this was her punishment for refusing to adapt fully to real life?
Now, the information that lay inside that folder up in her room had the potential to change her life. To give her a little of the freedom she had longed for, for the past ten years. But, as with every choice, there would be some fall-out. And that fall-out would affect the people of her kingdom for many years to come.
Roman had said that she was spoilt and selfish. If that were true then she would have simply walked away from her place in the royal family as soon as she’d legally become an adult. Or when she had been made aware of her private inheritance three years ago.
It was her ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card—a golden ticket to civilian life. But she was a royal of the realm at heart, and her father knew that. Hence why he so easily used her own loyal nature against her and made sure that she knew the consequences of her actions if she were to defy him.
She knew her father spoke the truth when he said that this marriage had the potential to solve all of Monteverre’s problems.
Could she really be the person to stand in the way of that?
CHAPTER SIX
OLIVIA SAT UP quickly in the bed, feeling a sharp pain shoot through her neck. In her exhausted state she must have fallen asleep with her head propped on one arm. A quick look in the mirror showed that not only was her hair an unsightly nest, but she also bore a hot red patch on her left cheek from her uncomfortable position.
She stood up and walked to windows. A silvery moon had risen high above the bay below, casting pretty shadows all along the gardens that surrounded the villa. It was certainly past dinner time, she imagined, but still her eyes widened as the clock showed it was almost midnight.
Disorientated and groggy, she quickly ran a brush through her hair before making her way downstairs.
The villa seemed to be completely empty, and devoid of all human presence. The air was cool out on the terrace, and she half wished she had thought to take a sweater. From her vantage point she had a spectacular view of the glass-fronted villa in all its warm, glowing glory. At night, somehow the place seemed even more beautiful than it was during the day. Soft lighting warmed the space from within and made it look like a wall of glowing amber stone.
The garden was lit up with small spherical lights that appeared to float in mid-air. Tall, thick shrubbery blocked her view of the moon and its hypnotising glow on the waves. She was filled with energy, and suddenly wanted nothing more than a brisk walk along the moonlit beach.
As she made her way towards the edge of the lights she paused, briefly wondering if it was wise to venture away from the villa. The island was completely private, so she felt she was in no real danger so long as she kept to the well-lit parts. But that didn’t mean that her brooding guard would take kindly to her exploring without permission...
That thought was immediately banished once she remembered how her host had effectively barricaded himself in his office for the day. She hadn’t so much as caught a glimpse of him since seeing him running on the beach.
Her arms instinctively wrapped around her midriff, shielding herself from both the cool breeze and her thoughts as she made her way down the steps to the beach. Who the hell did he think he was anyway? Did he think that she would shadow him around? Begging for his attention?
She had much more pressing things on her mind than brooding Russians with ridiculously inflated egos.
The steps at the back of the house were steeper than she had anticipated. The drive up in the Jeep had not truly given her an appreciation of how high up the house was perched above the marina. She momentarily considered turning back, but stubbornness and curiosity made her keep moving. There was a safety rail on each side, and small lamps to light the way—it was not truly dangerous.
The soles of her sandals slid suddenly against the stone surface, making her gasp as she teetered forward precariously. The world seemed to shift for a split second before she clambered back, grabbing the rail for dear life.
She slid off her sandals, abandoning them on the steps. Her bare feet gave much better grip for the rest of the way down, and soon she reached the very bottom. The sand was cold and damp under her toes but the midnight air was balmy. She took a moment to stop and simply bask in the utter stillness of it all.
It reminded her of the warm nights her family had spent out on the terrace at their summer estate. The beautiful countryside manor in the southern peninsula of Monteverre was the setting of most of her fondest childhood memories. Back in the days when her grandmother had reigned over the kingdom as Queen and her father had simply been the young, handsome heir to the throne.
There had been no palace for the three young Princesses—no twenty-four-hour bodyguards. Her grandmother had ensured they were given as normal a childhood as possible, considering the circumstances.
And even as father had grown ever more reckless, and her mother had retreated into her brandy glass, Mimi had been there. Until all of a sudden she hadn’t.
Olivia shivered, taking a few long strides across the sand until she reached the long whitewashed jetty of the small marina that she had arrived at. It looked different in the semi-dark, with only a few lamps illuminating the shadows. Roman’s sleek yacht was a dark shadow in the distance. The moonlight glowed against its polished glass body, smooth, severe and striking—rather like the man himself, she thought.
The marina also housed a handful of other vessels. A couple of top-of-the-range speedboats—likely for sporting use—a small rescue dinghy, and the one that had caught her eye the moment she had disembarked the day before: a magnificent vintage sailboat.
In the dark, it was hard to see any of the fine detailing. She reached out, running her hand along the smooth silver lettering emblazoned just above the waterline.
‘“Sofiya”,’ she said out loud. ‘Just who are you named after, I wonder?’
‘That is none of your business.’
The deep voice boomed from behind her, startling her enough to make her lose her footing and fall hard against the side of the boat. She fell for what seemed like minutes rather than milliseconds, before strong arms grabbed her around the waist and lifted her swiftly upright.
‘Planning a midnight escape?’ Roman asked, his accent both intimidating and strangely welcoming after the prolonged silence of her day.
‘You...you startled me,’ she breathed hard, her voice little more than a breathy whisper.
His hands were still on her waist, the heat of him seeping through the material of her dress. She reached down, covering his hands with her own for a moment before pushing them away and taking a tentative half-step back.
The loss of heat was instant. Her skin prickled with tiny bumps, as though calling his touch back.
‘If you insist on sneaking around outside in the dark, I might rethink the terms of your stay here.’
‘The terms? I assumed I had been abandoned to my own devices.’
‘Fine, then. Let’s get this straight. You will only leave the house in daylight hours, and you will clear it with me first.’
‘You expect me to just sit around all day and go insane from my own thoughts?’ She half laughed. ‘This is an island—where could I even go?’
‘I have learnt not to underestimate you.’
He crossed his arms and for the first time she noticed he wore only a dark-coloured sleeveless workout shirt and cut-off shorts. Her eyes took in the bulging muscles that lined his shoulders, his lean, hard biceps and strong forearms. Her gaze wandered once again to the strange black band that stretched around his left arm, just under the elbow. The design seemed intricate, but she quickly looked
back up to his face, aware she had been gawking.
‘Are we clear?’ he asked, scowling down at her from his impressive height.
Olivia fought the urge to roll her eyes at him in all his perpetually sardonic glory. She had a feeling this was what it would be like to have a surly, unimpressed guardian angel following her every move.
In this light he certainly looked the part. The glow of the moon emphasised his harsh features, making him even more darkly attractive. But good looks and incredibly broad shoulders would never account for a severe lack of sense of humour. Did the man ever smile?
‘Are you like this all the time or just around me?’ she asked, turning on her heel and walking away from him, back towards the sand.
‘Oh, you’re telling me how I am now?’ He fell easily into step beside her, mild amusement on his voice. ‘Please enlighten me.’
‘You are controlling. And rude.’ She said, counting off on her fingers. ‘Judgmental, intimidating, far too serious—’
‘You are accusing me of being rude?’ He clutched a hand to his chest as though mortally wounded.
Olivia stopped just short of where the wooden planks gave way to hard sand and turned to face him in the dim light of the spherical lamps that lined the small marina. ‘You’ve just instructed me that I cannot leave the house without your permission.’
He smirked, reaching out to stop her when she made to move away with irritation.
She crossed her arms and met his eyes, determined to have this conversation like an adult.
‘Olivia, closely controlled security is only required if there is a risk of the client putting themselves in danger. Unfortunately for me, in your case, that means, yes, it’s needed.’ He sighed. ‘And I am not prepared to shadow you around this island simply to provide you with a more enjoyable experience.’
‘Are you telling me I’m under house arrest just because you’re determined not to spend any time alone with me?’ she said with disbelief.
One Night With The Forbidden Princess (Monteverre Marriages Book 1) Page 8