The Exiled Prince Trilogy

by Jeana E. Mann

  “No. That won’t work. Mr. Menshikov requires a view of Lake Michigan.” Her breasts rose and fell with each breath, perfect and perky beneath the ruffles of her white silk blouse. My fingers flexed involuntarily. Slanting eyebrows drew together over the bridge of her nose. “Is that a suite?” After a pause, her tone grew steely. “No problem. If you can’t accommodate us, I’m sure the Four Seasons will have something available.”

  I put down the phone and stared openly. Her pink lips bowed and a dimple appeared beside her mouth. A bolt of lust hit me squarely below the belt. That mouth, those dimples. The muscles in my throat tightened.

  “Yes? Great. The Presidential Suite will be perfect. Could you send over a menu? Mr. Menshikov will be dining in. Thank you.” She ended the call with a satisfied smirk. “I got you into the Waldorf. No small feat, considering you only gave me a day’s notice.”

  Getting the Presidential Suite at the Waldorf at the last minute was next to impossible. Although she’d only been with me a short time, she’d already proved her competence by achieving tasks like this one. “I never expected anything less,” I said, not to belittle her accomplishment, but to test her. A spark of temper illuminated her eyes; something I’d begun to crave. Occasionally, I called her into my office and picked a fight just so I could see those blue eyes flash. In my world, most people bent over backwards to accommodate my wishes and molded their opinions to echo mine. Not Rourke. Seeing myself through her eyes made want to be a different man—a better man.

  “They’re faxing over the menu. If you’ll pick out what you like, I’ll have your meals prepped.” She dropped her gaze to the phone on her lap. I felt the loss of those pretty blue irises immediately.

  “You decide.” I turned my attention back to the phone.

  “Are you sure? I might do something stupid like order yellow mustard for your sandwich instead of Grey Poupon.”

  I glanced up, faking a glower, loving her sass and fearless rebuke. “Are you mocking me, Ms. Donahue?”

  “Just stating a fact, Mr. Menshikov.”

  We shared a smile, our first, and it was the best damn gift I’d received in years.

  17

  Rourke

  When a week had passed without any major incidents, I began to relax and let my guard down. If Roman knew my identity, he didn’t let on. In fact, he barely acknowledged my presence, except to bark orders. My pride still smarted from his abrupt dismissal after dinner with the Weavers, but I tried to push aside the affront. After all, he was my employer, not my boyfriend. If I was going to last in this job, I had to get over my crush.

  One day after work, as we rode the elevator to the penthouse, I closed my eyes and daydreamed. It was all too easy to forget reality with Roman standing beside me. What if he was my boyfriend? What if we were coming home after a date instead of a long day at the office? The scent of his cologne and aftershave filled my nose. I drew in a deep breath, savoring his manly scent. He shifted his briefcase from one hand to the other, and his shoulder brushed my arm. My eyes flew open to find him watching my reflection in the polished steel door.

  “Tired?” he asked, almost like he cared, and God, I wished he did. I wanted those enigmatic blue eyes to burn with lust and concern for no one but me.

  “A little,” I said, and moved to the far wall, away from the temptation of his tall, lean body. “It was a long day.”

  “Yes.” He glanced at his watch then at the digital numbers above the door.

  I swallowed against the dryness in my throat. Every minute alone with him tested the strength of my self-control. My fingers tightened around the handle of my briefcase. We finished the ascent in silence. The doors slid open. Roman stepped to one side, allowing me to exit first. My high heels clicked on the marble floor while my backside burned under his scrutiny. The butler opened the penthouse doors.

  “Good evening, Mr. Menshikov, Ms. Donahue.” He extended a hand for Roman’s briefcase.

  “Good evening.” Roman shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on a chair. A maid scurried to retrieve it before melting into the shadows. He tugged on the knot of his tie then unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. That simple act and the sight of the exposed notch of his collarbone made my sex pulse with desire. I tripped over the edge of the rug. Roman caught my elbow. “Easy there.”

  “Thanks.” Heat scalded my face. I cleared my throat. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few personal matters to take care of.” I wanted to call Aunt May. Even though our phone conversations often lacked substance, the sound of her voice offered comfort, and I hoped my voice did the same for her.

  “Hang on a second.” His deep command hit all the right places inside me. Our eyes met while his agile fingers dropped his diamond and platinum cufflinks into a bowl near the sofa. Watching him roll up his shirtsleeves nearly buckled my knees. Even his forearms were sexy with their slight dusting of black hair and strong, lean muscles. When he’d finished tempting me, he went straight to the liquor cabinet and poured two fingers of vodka from a crystal decanter. “Would you like something, Ms. Donahue?”

  “Um, no, thank you.” After spending the day in close proximity with him, a drink sounded heavenly, but I couldn’t trust myself. Liquor tended to loosen my tongue, as well as my inhibitions.

  “Suit yourself.” He tossed down the drink, refilled the glass, then sank into the nearest leather armchair with a groan. The ice tinkled against the glass as he swirled the vodka around and around. Finally, he lifted his gaze to mine. “Do you know anything about young girls, Ms. Donahue?”

  “No. Not really.” I shifted from one foot to the other. The balls of my feet burned from twelve consecutive hours of work. “I’m an only child, and I don’t have any friends with children.”

  “My daughter’s birthday is today. I’d like to get her something special, even though—” He stopped midsentence and began again, his smooth voice faltering. “I’d like to get her something nice. Can you help me?”

  “It must be hard to be away from her.” A sudden pang of sympathy squeezed my heart. For all of his arrogance and confidence, the desperation in his words struck a chord inside me. I wanted to touch his cheek, to offer words of comfort, to do something to lessen his pain. Instead, I froze and stared at the painting over his left shoulder.

  “I feel like my fucking heart has been ripped out.” He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the black locks, and sighed. “And I can’t do a goddam thing about it.”

  “I’d love to help. What did you have in mind?” From the edge of the chair across from him, I waited for his answer. Meanwhile, the lump in my throat grew larger and more uncomfortable.

  “She’s a bit of a tomboy.” The sober line of his mouth softened, the corners turning up in amusement. “She likes horses and soccer and her favorite color is purple.” An incredible softness overtook his sharp features. I blew out a breath, stunned by the transformation. Angry, smoldering Roman Menshikov held a potent kind of charm, but this tender and introspective man made my heart gallop and my panties dampen. “At least, she did. I haven’t seen her in a while. Kids change so quickly.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” I gave him a reassuring smile and stood on wobbly legs.

  “Thank you.” His gaze turned to the wall of windows and the twinkling city lights outside. A chill settled in the room. I shivered and got to my feet. “That will be all, Ms. Donahue.”

  “Good night.” I left him there, in his chair, alone in the darkness, when every cell in my body screamed to pull him into my arms. This man tied my insides into a knot. With every passing day, I tumbled deeper and deeper into a vortex of desire and desperation. And I knew, with all my heart, that this fairytale would end with my heart in shreds.

  18

  Rourke

  The next week, on the one-month anniversary of my hire date, Nicky walked into my office, unannounced, and sat on the corner of my desk. I glanced up from Menshikov’s social calendar and frowned. Nicky smiled back at me, his g
rin slow and lazy. By the sparkle in his gray eyes, he had mischief on his mind.

  “Good afternoon, Rourke. May I call you Rourke? After all, we’re old friends, right?”

  “Ms. Donahue is fine.” Better to set clear boundaries between us from the start. I’d been dreading this moment since the first time he’d appeared at Roman’s door. Keeping my cool, I placed my pen on the desk and smiled up at him. “What can I do for you? Mr. Menshikov’s on a phone call. Do you want me to let him know you’re here?”

  Today, he wore jeans, and a navy blazer, the throat of his ice-blue shirt open at the throat, exposing a sliver of smooth, tanned skin. “Actually, I’m here to see you. I thought maybe we could have dinner tomorrow night.”

  Blood thundered through my veins until I heard my heart beating in my ears. I glanced at Roman’s closed door. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?” With a graceful slide, he moved to my side of the desk, so close I could feel the heat of his legs on my forearm. Gooseflesh prickled along my skin. “We can pick up where we left off the night of the masquerade.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I tried to scoot my chair from the desk, but his foot lodged against the wheel, blocking my escape.

  “Come on, Cinderella. Don’t play that game with me. It’s insulting.” He picked up my pen and twirled it between his fingers, an impish smile playing on his lips. “Unlike your boss, I’m not blind to what’s in front of me.”

  “Please.” Fear thickened in my throat. “Keep your voice down.” My nervous glance slid to Roman’s door.

  “Don’t worry, love. Your secret is safe with me. I won’t tell as long as you have dinner with me—tomorrow night.” With slow deliberation, he placed the pen in the carousel next to my computer screen and drew my hand into his.

  “That’s blackmail.” The touch of his lips to my hand sent an electric shiver up my back, a bizarre combination of revulsion and desire.

  “I know. It’s exciting, isn’t it?” Over my knuckles, his eyes flashed. “Come on. Say yes. I have a table for two at Swerve.” The warm puff of his breath seared my skin.

  The door to Menshikov’s office opened. I tried to reclaim my hand, but Nicky held fast to it.

  “What’s going on?” Roman’s eyes narrowed. “Stop harassing the staff, Nicky.”

  “Am I harassing you?” Nicky asked, still holding my hand. This time, I managed to jerk it from his grasp. His chuckle brought a flush of heat into my cheeks.

  “No, it’s fine.” I dropped my hands into my lap, afraid Nicky would blurt the truth to my boss if I protested.

  “It doesn’t look that way to me.” A muscle ticked in Roman’s cheek as his gaze caught mine and held it. We rarely looked directly at each other, but every time we did, heat and lust and restless yearning lit up my insides. “What did you need, Nicky? I’ve only got a minute.”

  “Actually, I came here to see Cin—Rourke.” He corrected himself at the last minute, sending my heart into palpitations. “We’re having dinner tomorrow night.” Nicky lifted his thick brown brows at me. The bastard had me over a barrel, and he was enjoying it way too much.

  “Really?” The way Menshikov dragged out the two syllables denoted his disapproval. It gave me a weird sense of satisfaction. Although I knew in my head that a romance between us was out of the question, my heart wanted him to be jealous.

  “Eight o’clock then?” Nicky asked. When I nodded, the dimple deepened in his right cheek. “Excellent. I’ll send my driver to pick you up.”

  Roman’s chest rose and fell with a deep exhale. Sometime during the day, he’d ditched his suitcoat, unbuttoned the sleeves of his white dress shirt and pushed the sleeves up to his elbows. A gleaming Bulgari watch encircled his wrist, gold casing winking in the lights. His fingers flexed at his sides before he shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  19

  Roman

  That night, unable to sleep, I crept into Milada’s purple-and-white bedroom. Posters of boy bands, pictures of her friends, and horse show ribbons covered the walls. One photograph caught my eye. It had been snapped at her eighth birthday party. Her broad smile and ponytails brought a lump to my throat.

  I sat on the bed, beneath the ruffled canopy, and drew her pillow to my nose. It smelled like her, like bubble gum and sunshine. Hurt and frustration welled up inside me. I wanted to break something or someone. Instead, I stretched out on the bed and tried to reason away the anger.

  On the desk next to the window, sat a large purple gift box. Rourke had found a matching saddle and bridle, all the rage among the horsey set, complete with gold appointments and monogrammed initials. Milada was going to be ecstatic when she saw it—if she ever came home.

  Overcome by futile emotions, I sprang to my feet and stormed downstairs to the study. If I couldn’t sleep, maybe I could get some work done. At the threshold, I collided with a soft, warm body. I grabbed Rourke by the biceps to keep us both from falling.

  “Fucking hell,” she shouted. The impact of our collision knocked a folder from her hands. Papers scattered across the floor. I choked back a laugh as she realized what she’d said and to whom she’d said it. “I apologize. You scared me. I don’t usually talk like that.” A red tide raced up her neck to her hairline.

  “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have startled you. What are you doing?” Together, we gathered up the documents.

  “I forgot to make copies of the reports like you’d asked.” She brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. I curled my fingers, fighting the urge to do it for her. “I know you’ll need them first thing.”

  “It could have waited.” Our eyes met, and my heart did a dance. “I’m not that much of an asshole, am I?”

  “Honestly, yes.” She blew out a deep breath. “We both know you’d blow a gasket if these weren’t on your desk first thing.”

  The truth stunned me into silence. I blinked and took a step back. Her lips tightened into a thin line. Until now, I’d never really cared what anyone thought of me. From the chill in her blue eyes, I’d crossed the line with her more than once. Her opinion mattered more to me than I realized.

  Because I was too stubborn to apologize, I gave her a tight nod. “We can talk about it tomorrow.” My gaze fell to her fuzzy pink robe and pajamas. “Are those pigs on your pants?”

  “Oh, yes.” Her flush deepened. She drew the edges of her robe closed and tightened the belt around her waist. “Everly gave them to me as a joke. She’s—never mind.” She snatched the last of the papers from my hand and scorched a path down the hall. I watched her go until she disappeared around the corner.

  20

  Rourke

  The next morning, Ivan met me in my office at a little after nine. He dropped a folder on the desk and tapped it with two fingers. Although he still intimidated the hell out of me, our relationship had relaxed enough to call each other by our first names. Since I had to run every single visitor and appointment by him, we spent a lot of time talking on the phone and in person. Beneath his dour exterior lurked a quick wit and dry sense of humor I found refreshing after spending a day with my unsmiling boss.

  “I need you to set up appointments with these women over the next few days.” As always, he cut straight to the chase. “Their contact information is inside.”

  “Sure. Who are they?” I gathered the folder and started to open it, but he placed his hand on the top, pinning it to the desk. The midnight encounter with Roman had put me on edge. I’d tossed and turned the rest of night, bothered by the shadows beneath his eyes, and the pain in his voice.

  “Mr. Menshikov doesn’t have the time or opportunity to meet women, so whenever his…needs…become a priority, I find suitable companionship for him.” His dark eyes met mine, unreadable. Embarrassment heated my face and neck as I processed the meaning of his words.

  “They’re prostitutes?” The idea of such a successful, handsome man paying for sex hit me like a fist in the gut. Then again, he worked nonstop, late i
nto the night, and rarely left his apartment. In a warped way, it made sense, but I didn’t like it.

  “That’s a harsh perspective.” His blunt fingers smoothed down the length of his tie. “They’re young women looking for financial assistance. Women who are willing to spend time with a handsome billionaire for a contracted amount of time in exchange for certain advancements in their careers.”

  “Sounds like prostitution to me,” I said, unable to erase the irritation in my tone.

  He snorted, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Nothing quite so sordid. Relationships are carefully negotiated. Mr. Menshikov doesn’t like romantic entanglements. This way, everyone knows what to expect from start to finish, and everyone gets what they want.” He studied my face, but I kept my expression neutral, afraid I’d give away my secrets.

  “It’s weird,” I said with a shiver and nudged the folders to the far corner of my desk.

  “Remember our conversation about discretion.” It wasn’t a question, but I nodded anyway.

  Our discussion ended when Menshikov summoned me via the intercom. Ivan lifted a warning eyebrow. I shrugged. It wasn’t my job to question my employer’s life, no matter how repulsive it seemed to me. As long as he wasn’t breaking the law, I didn’t care. Which was a lie. Because I did care. Deep down, the thought of him with another woman gnawed at my insides. I didn’t like him, but I didn’t want anyone else to have him either. He belonged to me. Short-tempered, spoiled, and arrogant. I wanted all of him, flaws included.