The Exiled Prince Trilogy

by Jeana E. Mann

  The faces of the people around us receded into the background. The buzz of conversation and piano music faded to silence. It was just him, me, and the lies between us. What lurked behind the navy depths of those hooded eyes?

  “Okay,” I said. I agreed because I wanted to prove that I didn’t care about the girl on his arm—to him and to myself.

  21

  Rourke

  Nicky walked outside with us. When the limo pulled to the curb, he tugged me aside, brushed the hair from my face, and kissed me. I let him do it, knowing my boss was watching, caught in the crossfire between the two men. He tasted like wine and oregano, his lips soft and plush. I dug my fingers into his shoulders to keep my balance. One of his hands found my bottom and squeezed until Menshikov cleared his throat.

  “See you later,” he murmured against my mouth.

  Roman glared at us. Car horns and traffic sounds filled the night. He stepped aside to let me enter the car. I slid into the far seat across from his date. Her pink-tipped fingernails tapped incessantly on her phone. Roman climbed into the car and sat next to the girl. The door shut behind him, trapping us in a chamber of misconceptions and silence.

  “Hi, I’m Rourke.” I extended a hand to the girl as the car pulled into the street. “The personal assistant.”

  “Brandy,” she said without looking up. The ring of her phone interrupted our introductions. She pressed it to her ear with a semi-apologetic smile. While she spoke to her friend, she twirled a strand of hair around her index finger and snapped her chewing gum.

  “You never said anything about a trip to Miami,” I said to the smoldering man across from me. The way he sat in the seat, all easy grace and unapologetic maleness, grated on my nerves. If only he was less attractive, less intriguing, less everything. I clenched my fingers, the nails cutting half-moons into my palms.

  “I don’t report to you, Ms. Donahue. You work for me. Or have you forgotten?” The nonchalance of his tone stuck under my skin, but the challenge in his eyes rallied my obstinacy.

  “How could I forget? You made me leave my date at the restaurant. In case you weren’t aware, you don’t own me. In my opinion, you’re the one who has forgotten his place.”

  “You looked like you were in distress. I was doing you a favor.”

  “I don’t need your favors.”

  Although our voices remained calm and even, the air between us thickened until I couldn’t breathe. His nostrils flared. The muscles in my jaw tensed. Soothing classical music floated from the car speakers, making the situation more absurd. With a smirk, he placed a hand on Brandy’s thigh. His index finger traced circles on her smooth, tanned skin. I slammed my knees together against the relentless throb of need. Those hands should be on me, in me, not on her. Not on a girl who seemed more interested in her phone than the man beside her. Jealousy was a double-edged sword. It sliced on the way in and on the way out.

  “You’re insubordinate, Ms. Donahue.” Heat flashed through his eyes. He was enjoying this.

  “So fire me.” The glib comment slipped out before I could stop it. His hand inched further up Brandy’s thigh, easing beneath the hem of her short skirt. I meant every word of my threat. Fire me and end this torture.

  “You have no idea how much I wish I could.” With a sigh, his head tipped back against the headrest, but his eyes remained locked with mine. I had a quick flash of remembrance, his hands on my hips, his impatient grunts as he rammed into me over and over and over. “Maybe you should quit.”

  “What? And miss out on all this fun?” I crossed my arms over my chest and turned my attention to the window. Raindrops spotted the glass. In the reflection, I could see him staring at me.

  The silence in the car extended to the elevator ride upstairs. Brandy ended the call with her friend and started another one with someone else. I followed them into the living room, intending to head upstairs and begin the packing process. At the foot of the stairs, Menshikov took the phone out of Britney’s hands, ended her call, and pulled her in for a long kiss. She gave a little moan as his mouth opened hers, and her fingers dug into his hair.

  A flush of mortification crept into my cheeks. I’d never hated anyone before, but I hated this girl. Then, I hated myself for hating her. She was an innocent bystander in this bizarre situation and had done nothing to deserve my animosity. The longer I watched their kiss, the more conflicting my feelings became. Part of me enjoyed watching them. The rest of me seethed. Jealousy and frustration mingled together. With huge effort, I peeled my eyes away from their entwined bodies and headed toward his room.

  “Where are you going?” His voice, soft and dangerous, followed me.

  I stopped, one hand on the railing, a foot on the next step, but didn’t turn around. “To pack for you.”

  I made my way to the master suite and tried to ignore the king-size four-poster bed in the middle of the room. A fire crackled in the fireplace, and the sexy purr of R&B began to pour out of the house speakers. Laughter and squeals carried through the empty house. Inside his massive walk-in closet, I dialed down the volume and rolled up my sleeves.

  The closet was more like a shrine. White marble tile ran from wall to wall. I flipped on the switch for the chandelier. Recessed lighting illuminated dozens of shelves. Rows of shoes and suits and dress shirts stared back at me. The haphazard organization grated on my nerves. No one needed this many clothes.

  I closed my eyes and conjured calming thoughts, but all of them involved skewering Roman Menshikov. With no information to go on, I pulled together a comprehensive wardrobe and accessories from the chaos in the closet. Two suits, dress shoes, two casual outfits, and beach wear. From the locked display case, I pulled out two pairs of diamond cuff links and their matching tie clips. After a few moments, the intricacy of the task took my mind off of whatever sexcapade was happening downstairs. Screw Roman. He might be an exiled prince, but I was a rebellious, stubborn American, and I would not be defeated.

  An hour later, from the refuge of my bedroom, I phoned Everly and poured out the whole story—well, all of it except Nicky’s blackmail. “And then he said, ‘I need you to pack for me.’ Can you believe the nerve of this guy?” I shouted in the phone as I stripped out of my pretty little dress. “What is wrong with this man?”

  “He sounds like a jerk.” As always, Everly had my back. “Why don’t you quit? I’ll ask around. Maybe someone has an opening for you.”

  “I can’t quit. The money is amazing, and there’s my aunt and this fantastic apartment.” I flopped onto the bed and stared up into the taffeta-lined canopy. Before the masquerade, my life had been boring and predictable. Every day in Roman’s employ brought a new adventure. The challenges with Roman and Nicky were more intoxicating than the best wines.

  “Money and a nice home aren’t everything,” Everly said.

  Something in her tone brought me to a sitting position. “Is everything okay?” Over the past couple of weeks, our phone calls had been brief. There were plenty of excuses for the shortage of communication. Working for her husband’s company kept her busy. By the time I got off work each night, I was too exhausted for more than a quick text. Phone conversations and Facetime eased the pain of separation, but in moments like these, I needed to be in the same room with her. I missed the subtle cues of body language and facial expressions.

  “Of course.” She laughed, and the tightness in my chest lessened. As long as she retained her sense of humor, things couldn’t be too bad. “I’m just saying there’s more to life than those things.”

  “Who is this? Put Everly back on the phone,” I demanded, only half teasing. As a woman of power, wealth, and privilege, statements like that were uncharacteristic.

  “Stop. You know what I mean.”

  “I know.” I rolled onto my stomach and stared out the window at the darkness. Lightning flashed in the distance. The rumble of thunder followed a few seconds later.

  “I’m coming home next month for my cousin’s wedding. Promise me you
’ll take some time off so we can hang together.”

  “Sure. Text me the dates so I can put in a vacation request.” My cell phone rang with an incoming call. “Hang on. Satan is calling.” I picked up the second phone. “Hello?”

  “Hey. I need you to run to the drug store and pick up condoms.” Roman’s deep voice reverberated through my ear. My jaw slackened. The coil of jealousy in my belly, the one that had started this afternoon, tightened to the point of pain.

  “Excuse me?” I asked. On the other phone, Everly broke into peals of laughter. I lifted it to my ear, muting Roman’s call. “Everly, hush. He can hear you. I’ll call you later.”

  “Okay. Love you,” she said.

  “Love you,” I replied, and unmuted Menshikov’s phone.

  “I had no idea you felt so strongly about me.” His amusement transferred over the air waves. I slapped a hand against my forehead. This day had been a disaster since the moment I’d opened my eyes this morning. Nothing could make it any worse.

  “Oh, I definitely feel strongly,” I said through gritted teeth. “But I don’t think love is the proper name for it.”

  “Who were you talking to? Do you have company?”

  “You know I’m alone. You forced me to leave my date to pack for a trip that you failed to inform me about.” The hasty words hung in the air. During my career as a personal assistant, professionalism had been my number-one priority. Even though Everly was my best friend, we maintained a healthy balance between work and friendship. Menshikov possessed the ability to strip away my defenses. I drew in a deep breath and tried to center myself. “I apologize. That was out of line.”

  “Yes, it was.” Why did I get the feeling he was laughing at me? “We’re wasting time here, Rochelle.”

  “Rourke. My name is Rourke. If I’m going to buy you condoms, the least you can do is get my name right.” The dial tone buzzed in my ear. The bastard had hung up on me.

  Fuming, I called his driver and pulled on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. What kind of jerk sent his assistant to buy condoms in the middle of the night? The thought of him with that girl, his heavy body on hers, her legs wrapped around his waist, topped off my jealousy. Hair askew, I stormed down to the lobby.

  The driver double-parked in front of the store. I ran down the sidewalk, splashing through puddles. From the drug store, I called Menshikov, hoping to disturb his night the way he’d disturbed mine. He answered on the fourth ring.

  “What kind?” I asked.

  “Sorry?” His voice was rough, sleepy.

  “Brand? Size? Lubricated? Ribbed?” My words came out choppy and dripping with animosity, but at this point, I didn’t care. “Glow-in-the-dark? Flavored? Latex?”

  “Um, just bring a variety. Magnum.” He hung up again.

  Thirty minutes later, I trudged up the stairs to his room and pounded on the door. Water dripped from my hair and puddled on the tile floor. I was soaked to my underwear. After a few seconds, he opened the door, wearing a pair of silk boxers, rumpled hair, and a smirk. I’d never seen him without a shirt before. Black hair dusted his chest and blazed a dark trail beneath the waistband of his underwear. Lines of muscle and sinew rippled down his torso.

  “Took you long enough,” he said. The width of his broad shoulders blocked the room. Not that I wanted to see anything. Just knowing the girl was in there, nestled in the twisted sheets of his bed, made my insides glow. His gaze ran up and down my drenched body.

  “You’re welcome.” I shoved the bag of condoms into his outstretched hand.

  “You’re dripping on my floor.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.” I turned and strode in the direction of my apartment. Letting my attitude show in the swing of my hips.

  “Aren’t you going to clean that up?” he called after me.

  “Nope.” Score one, Rourke Donahue.

  “You really shouldn’t wear white in the rain.” His chuckle followed me down the hall.

  I glanced down at my chest. In my haste, I’d thrown on a white T-shirt and skipped the bra. Soaked cotton clung to the swells of my breasts, nipples clearly visible through the sheer fabric.

  “Crap,” I muttered beneath my breath. No wonder the guy at the drug store had ogled me.

  Inside my bathroom, I stripped off the sopping clothes and tossed them into the sink. Never, in all my days, had I been so humiliated, angry, turned on, and confused. Part of me wanted to hate him, and part of me loved the way he challenged me at every turn. Before going to sleep, I vowed to bring this man to his knees one way or another.

  “Game on,” I muttered and turned out the lights.

  22

  Roman

  Five-thirty in the morning rolled around way too quickly. I awoke with a terrible thirst and a vague sense of shame over my behavior. Last night had been a fiasco of epic proportions. For the first time in years, I hit snooze on the alarm clock and went back to sleep, unable to face the consequences of my actions or another day without my daughter.

  When the alarm went off for the second time, I rolled out of bed and into the shower. Soap and hot water failed to wash away the embarrassment. I’d been a total ass to Rourke last night. The sight of her with Nicky had boiled my blood, and I’d lost my common sense. When he’d kissed her on the sidewalk, I’d lost my mind, as well. I’d forced her to pack for a nonexistent trip, but it had been the only excuse I could think of to get her out of his arms. Then I’d sent her out in the rain to buy condoms for a girl I’d had no intention of fucking. All to satisfy my need to protect her from my little brother and to prove that I was in control.

  Except I wasn’t in control. If anything, I’d come out a loser in the game. I’d gone to bed alone—again—like I had every night since the masquerade. Brandy had tried her best to persuade me otherwise. Despite her efforts, I couldn’t get past the thought of Nicky’s hands on Rourke’s ass or the way her lips had been red and bee-stung in the limo from his kiss.

  The women of my past had never created anything more than a lust that waned as quickly as it appeared. My curvaceous assistant, however, had managed to do both. I enjoyed her smart mouth and efficiency almost as much as I loved to torment her. The fire in her eyes set spark to feelings I’d thought long dead, emotions killed by Milada’s mother and the women who’d come after her. I was totally and completely obsessed with Rourke. Hell, it seemed, had frozen over.

  “Good morning.” Ivan fell into step with me as I passed through the hall and headed toward the study. “You’re looking like a ray of sunshine today.”

  Rourke stood outside my office door, arms crossed over her chest. The storm cloud over her head mimicked the weather outside.

  “And so does Ms. Donahue,” Ivan continued. “Have you two had a lovers’ spat?”

  Sometimes Ivan’s dry sense of humor prickled under my skin. I shot him a murderous glare and ignored the question. “Any news on Milada?”

  The gleam in his eyes diminished. “One of our contacts spotted them at the airport in Barbados. Apparently, they left by private plane. We’ve been unable to confirm their destination.”

  “Oh.” The news turned my blood to ice. I shoved a hand through my hair, thinking in the back of my mind that I needed a haircut. Three months since Milada had gone missing, and each day had been like a knife blade to my heart. “What’s our next move?”

  By now, we’d reached Rourke. She opened the door for us and followed on our heels. Irritation rolled off her in waves. Ivan gave her a speculative glance. She had her hair piled on top her head, and new, sexy librarian glasses perched on her nose. The angrier she became with me, the more I wanted to throw her over my knee and give that round ass a few smart spanks.

  “It’s okay to talk in front of her,” I told Ivan. Throughout our battles, I’d come to respect her tenacity and work ethic. No matter how much she hated me, she’d never violated my trust. Not once. Trustworthy employees in my world were worth their weight in gold.

  “I think we should put some
pressure on your ex. If you cut off her allowance and credit cards, she’ll come running,” Ivan said.

  “I hate to do that. You know the one who will suffer is Milada.” For the millionth time, I cursed myself for hooking up with a money-sucking vampire. I’d been young and dumb and full of cum when we met, and I’d been paying for my mistake ever since.

  “I don’t think you have any choice,” Ivan replied.

  Rourke poured coffee and brought it to my desk. As always, she’d laid out pertinent news stories from the day, but my schedule was absent.

  I shuffled through the pages. “Where’s my itinerary?”

  “I didn’t print your itinerary, because you’re flying to Miami today.” Her mouth pinched into a tight rosebud. “If you’d informed me about the trip in a timely manner, I’d have been able to make adjustments to your schedule and have one ready.”

  Once Ivan had given me the news about Milada, I’d forgotten about the Miami lie and all the ways I’d shown my ass last night. I stifled a sigh of irritation at myself and stared her in the eyes, daring her to remark. “Right. Trip’s canceled.”

  Those eyes deserved poems and flowers and songs to be written in their honor. Some days they were pale blue. On other days, like today, they were more gray and churned like a turbulent sea. She blinked, anger simmering just below the surface, and exhaled. “Good to know.”

  “Is that a problem?” I asked.

  “No. Of course not.” One blink of those lacy lashes, and her expression changed from one of annoyance to amusement. “It’s what you pay me for. I’ll print out your schedule right away. Is there anything else I can do for you? Lick your stamps?”

  “I’d like you to inventory all my clothes and organize my closet. Someone left it in a mess last night. Think you can get that done today?” It was a bullshit project, but one I’d been thinking about for a while. There was no way she could complete it in a single afternoon. At least, this way, she’d be busy, and I’d know where she was.