Going Deep Boxed Set (Books 1-4)

by DePaul, Virna

  Arabella frowned, which her mother scolded her for—frowning caused wrinkles, and no one wanted a wrinkled woman, did they?

  Her mother had continued, “Count Frederic has been asking about you, and I think it’s time to consider him as a possible suitor. You will go to dinner with him this Saturday.”

  Arabella froze in her armchair. Count Frederic, a suitor? “I don’t want to marry Count Frederic,” she said in a horrified whisper. “I don’t want to marry anyone that you choose for me, Mother.”

  “Well, that’s too bad, isn’t it? You’re the one who decided to destroy your reputation and our family’s, especially when your brother Louis has scandalized us enough already…” She shuddered and stood by the window, as if a better future for her children awaited them across the immaculate lawns and gardens.

  Arabella’s brother, Prince Louis, was not new to scandals, having had several of his own—some bigger than others. His most recent one had involved him getting caught up with a married woman. When the photos had surfaced, the entire country had been scandalized, and the royal family could barely contain the flood of bad press. Louis had been forced to give up the woman, and he was now in Switzerland, mostly to avoid paparazzi and to allow the Salasian people time to forget the scandal.

  Mother had not taken it well, having lain in bed for days with the curtains closed, weeping into a pillow. Prince Louis had been groomed to be the bright future of the crown, the great, new generation of rule, but he’d destroyed that in one fell swoop.

  As a result of her eldest’s behavior, Elisabetta had begun focusing more ruthlessly on Arabella, determined to keep the entire family’s reputation and legacy intact, even if it killed her.

  “No, Arabella, you will do the right thing,” her mother had said. “Do not try to beg off—otherwise you will face worse consequences. You will do this for me, for this family.”

  Elisabetta—Mother—had swept out of the room, leaving Arabella silent and horrified. Though she’d known Count Frederic all her life, she knew very little about his likes and dislikes, and to marry him? She shuddered. She couldn’t imagine it. It’s not that he was a bad man; in fact, quite the opposite. But she didn’t love him in the slightest.

  How could she marry a man she didn’t love?

  Tears slipped from her eyes. She hadn’t realized it until that very moment, but she missed Kyle. So badly, it physically hurt. She never would’ve imagined she could fall in love with a man so quickly but that’s exactly what happened. And now, Mother was forcing her to entertain the attention of another man and act as if she were interested in marriage? Goodness, no. That wasn’t fair to anyone—to Frederic, to Kyle, but mostly herself.

  Now, two weeks later, Arabella stared morosely at her dinner plate as her parents were announced. The event was to honor the Children’s Foundation, of which the royal family was a big part—specifically the one to find a cure for childhood cancer. The funds received from tonight’s silent auction would be donated to research.

  Frederic wore a suit with a Salasian sash and various pins. Arabella wore a similar sash, although the royal family’s crest was emblazoned on a brooch fastened to her shoulder. Tiara perched on her head, she was the perfect picture of royalty, though the accessory had never felt as heavy as it did right now.

  Her parents descended the opulent staircase into the ballroom to welcome the crowd. It all seemed so archaic to Arabella suddenly, like they were playacting a Jane Austen novel. And wasn’t she, in a sense? Being persuaded to marry a man for position and wealth and status? But as she looked up at Frederic and saw her mother beam at her from just behind him, she knew there was no way out. Traditions were strong in her family, and it was Arabella’s duty to uphold the Salasian royal family’s honor.

  Twenty minutes later, dinner over and band music playing, Frederic stood and bowed. “May I claim the first dance?” Frederic asked with a handsome smile.

  She tensed, because no—she didn’t want to dance. She didn’t want anything to do with this event, with Frederic, or with her life in general, but what other choice did she have? Besides, how could one dance hurt? “Of course,” she murmured. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  As the dance began moments later, Arabella twirled along with Frederic guiding her, her ball gown swishing along the parquet floors. She tried to concentrate on the steps and music instead of Frederic’s intense bid for eye contact, tried to float away and forget everything that was troubling her. She spun and whirled and felt Frederic’s large hand on her lower back. She tried to visualize his hand on her back in other ways, touching her intimately the same way Kyle had, and the very idea felt so oppressive, she could barely breathe.

  When the music ended, everyone in the ballroom applauded, and Arabella had to restrain herself from running away. How could she feel so alone amongst so many people? How could she smile and applaud and pretend she loved her life?

  And at that very moment, she heard it—a laugh she’d never forget.

  Not in a thousand lifetimes.

  She turned slowly and could barely stop her mouth from dropping open like a fish’s. There he was—tall, strong, and incredibly handsome in formal wear. Seeing him out of context made her doubt her own vision for a moment. Was it him? Of course, it was him. Who else stood in that precise way and laughed in that jovial, let-it-out tone? Only Kyle Young.

  But here, in Salasia?

  Not only that, but chatting with a beautiful woman, laughing like he hadn’t a care in the world. Arabella took in the woman’s sleek black hair and bright red lips, her body encased in a red sheath dress, and she clenched her fists. Her emotions must’ve registered on her face, because Frederic touched her arm gently.

  “Is something the matter?” he asked.

  She smoothed out her expression, willing calm into her body. She couldn’t let everyone see how she felt about Kyle, especially how she felt about him talking to another woman. Had anyone at this charity ball seen the photos of them together? If they had, they would probably be registering her every look as she discovered his presence.

  “Nothing’s the matter. Simply thinking a little too hard. Sometimes I make the oddest faces. My mother is always scolding me for it!”

  That was true, but not in this case. Luckily, Frederic took it as fact and laughed lightly, escorting her off the dance area. She couldn’t help a glance back over her shoulder at Kyle, who now watched with an intent expression. What on Earth was he doing here?

  As the chamber music began again, she watched Kyle take the hand of the woman in the red dress and lead her onto the floor. Arabella had never seen her before—perhaps she was a journalist covering the event? At any rate, she certainly didn’t dress like a professional woman. She looked like a woman from a house of ill-repute. Yes, the thought was uncharitable and catty, but she didn’t care. She was in love with Kyle and had every right to feel jealous.

  Kyle grinned and laughed and spun around the floor with the woman. His large manly hands pressed against her lower back. The woman batted her eyelashes, and Arabella wanted nothing more than to scream. Before she realized what she was doing, she walked toward the couple, well aware of the sets of eyes following her.

  She appeared by Kyle’s side. “Good evening. May I cut in? My partner over there would be happy to dance with you, miss.” She pointed to Frederic hovering nearby, utterly confused by Arabella’s actions. She signaled to him to come, and he acquiesced like a lovesick puppy.

  Kyle’s eyebrows rose in amusement, and the woman seemed to be struggling with her annoyance at being accosted by a princess of Salasia. “Certainly, Your Highness,” she said with a little bow.

  As Frederic bowed to the woman and began dancing with her, Arabella turned and gazed at Kyle. That crooked smile, that charming twinkle in his mischievous eyes. It was definitely him. Kyle Young—here in Salasia. His gaze seemed to drink her in, and then his face split into a wide smile.

  “That’s one way to get a man’s attention, Duchess.” He
reached out and placed her hand on his shoulder and his hand on her lower back in preparation for a couple’s dance.

  And then, a slow waltz began. 1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3… She had no idea he could be so light on his feet, that he knew how to waltz at all. She supposed that as a quarterback it made sense he had grace, balance, and rhythm in spades.

  But Arabella was less focused on the dancing than she was on his beautiful face. Though he seemed thinner than the last time she saw him, he was just as handsome. The sparkling blue eyes she could fall into, his high cheekbones, the light reddish-blonde stubble on his jaw. His hand felt inordinately warm on her back, and without warning, memories began to flood her. Memories of those same hands stroking her and making her shudder and scream.

  “Why the blush, Duchess?” he asked.

  “I can’t believe you’re here. Why are you in Salasia? Aren’t you in the middle of your season?” The questions spewed from her lips.

  “Jacques York, Salasian Jacques York, invited me and the other guys to represent our franchise at this charity event. It would give the NFL a nice bit of PR. Plus, it gave me the chance to see you.” He pulled her closer, and she inhaled his spicy, masculine scent. God, she’d missed him. God, her body yearned for him.

  “How long will you be here?” she asked, wondering if there would be enough time to spend with him, or if once again, they’d have less than a couple of days.

  “’Til Friday. Four days.”

  Four days, she thought. A lot could happen in four days. She might fall in love with him all over again. She might convince him to take her away. From across the floor, she spotted Frederic watching her carefully as he danced, and just beyond, her mother watching with a disapproving scowl.

  “Who was that woman you were dancing with?”

  “Jealous?”

  She sniffed. “Certainly not. But you two certainly seemed cozy.”

  “Her name’s Denise. She’s a journalist. She has a boyfriend named Steve. So put away the claws, Duchess, and focus on me. I came all this way for your charity. Impressed?”

  “Quite, and my claws are sheathed, thank you.”

  Kyle chuckled. “If you say so. I gotta say, your mother does not look happy right now.”

  “She’s never happy. Don’t take it personally.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Throughout the dance, he was confident while guiding her across the floor, never faltering or stepping on her toes. Her raw stress and sadness of the early evening dissipated as they danced. Hope trembled on the edges of her consciousness, and she had the fleeting thought that maybe he’d come solely to see her. Maybe he could save her from a life she no longer wanted.

  But has he said anything about loving you? her mind nagged. No, he hasn’t. He said he came here for the charity, not for you. You just happened to be here.

  She wanted to believe otherwise. She wanted to believe the looks he was giving her weren’t just filled with lust, but something deeper. She wanted to believe she could stay in his arms for all eternity, that they could work something out, go against the rules and just be together. In a perfect world, her family would allow her to go against tradition and everything they believed in just so she could be with an everyday American, a man with some fame but no lineage and not a single drop of blue blood.

  When the music ended, Arabella stared up at Kyle, soaking in the moment. She pleaded with him without saying a word. Love me, want me, take me away, she wanted to beg. Instead, he took back his hands and let her go, clapping along with the rest of the charity guests. “Thank you for the dance, Your Majesty.”

  Ugh. Why did he have to call her that? Technically, her mother was Her Majesty, but he’d made his point. Why couldn’t he have said Bella? It was like he was reminding her that they couldn’t possibly have a future. “The pleasure was all mine, Mr. Young.” She turned and retreated to her family and Frederic.

  “Who was that you were dancing with?” her mother asked, fanning herself gently as she sat in a chair. “Is that the infamous American? What is he doing here?”

  “Yes, Mother. Kyle Young from the Savannah Bootleggers, and he’s here because Jacques York invited him, so you can put your tongue back in your mouth now. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” she said with a little sneer. “I’m surprised he dances so skillfully. Americans are not known for their refined qualities.” She laughed, a grating sound against Arabella’s ears. Although the Salasian royal family had entertained plenty of American celebrities and dignitaries, her parents still viewed them as vulgar and tasteless. Truth be told, Arabella had thought the same when she’d been younger, but after learning more about the country and its people—not to mention meeting Kyle—she found her mother’s remarks and judgment more vulgar than anything.

  “Yes, he certainly did well for himself on the dance floor,” Frederic remarked, always a kind word from his lips. It was hard to hate him when he was always so full of kindness.

  Arabella smiled at him, grateful for his presence to buffer her mother’s attitude. “I imagine all of the football players here could surprise us with what they know.” And what they can do, she thought slyly.

  Mother sniffed, but said nothing. Arabella’s father, King Philippe, joined them after speaking to several European diplomats. In his early sixties, Philippe wore a commanding presence, despite his expanding waistline and minimal hair. Arabella had always adored her father’s mustache, a bright white slash on his tanned face. Boisterous and fond of a good joke, Father tended to drive her mother to distraction, especially when he hadn’t been at all concerned with his son’s scandalous tendencies. Philippe enjoyed good food, good wine, and looking at pretty women—in that order.

  “Why are you not dancing, Arabella?” Philippe asked, a gray eyebrow raised. “Do you think anyone wants to see me and your mother dance? No, they came to see the young people.” He made shooing motions at herself and the count.

  Frederic bowed over her hand. “May I have this dance, Your Highness?”

  She nodded, happy to dance with him. At the very least, it would give her a moment to catch her breath after being face-to-face with Kyle again. “You may.”

  As they danced, she couldn’t help but feel hyper aware of the situation. Here she was, dancing with the man she was supposed to love, while a mere twenty feet away, on the other side of the floor, the man she did love kept a close watch on her. Admiring her. Smiling at her. And she couldn’t help but smile back.

  Chapter 10

  Standing beside the dance floor, sipping champagne but wishing for a beer, Kyle could hardly keep himself from cursing as he watched Arabella dance with that frou-frou guy, “the count.” Why couldn’t he be old and hideous? Why did he have to be not-bad looking for an older dude? He probably knew everything there was to know about high society, whereas Kyle felt like trailer trash in a tux.

  Yeah, but…she chose to dance with you, practically commanded it, his mind reminded him. That says a lot.

  It did say a lot, and suddenly, he felt in a better mood, grinning as he thought about her jealousy over Denise. Though gorgeous, with curves for days, Denise meant nothing to him. Besides, she had a boyfriend who she gushed about every chance she got. Seeing Arabella get all huffy over her, though? That had been worth the entire trip.

  She did care about him.

  “Why are you smiling at your drink?” Heath sidled up to Kyle. Heath, Alec, and Kyle had arrived in Salasia the night before after a ten-hour flight. They’d arrived at the airport and had been driven in a limo to a fancy hotel within the Salasian capital. Kyle had been disappointed that they didn’t get to stay in the palace—enabling him to find Arabella’s room for his own purposes—but he would make do.

  “Just enjoying watching people dance,” he replied.

  Heath gave him a knowing look. “Sure. Since when do you care about charity balls? And since when do you dance? Never thought of you as a guy who waltzes, Young.
”

  Kyle hadn’t either, but once, a long time ago, he’d taken lessons to impress a girl and the steps had just stuck. “I’m surprised Camille didn’t come with you,” Kyle said, wanting to change the subject.

  “I offered and she wanted to, but there’s Emma to think of, you know.” Emma was Camille’s young daughter. Spunky and opinionated, the little girl loved football as much as any red-blooded American. Heath smiled, obviously thinking about Camille and Emma, and Kyle rolled his eyes at his friend’s lovestruck expression.

  “You guys make me want to barf.” He said it half-heartedly, but part of him wished for the same thing Heath had: a woman he loved, a family. Stability. Love.

  Heath shrugged. “Don’t knock it till you try it.”

  “What about Colleen? I asked Alec why she didn’t come, if it was because of the pregnancy, but he didn’t seem to want to talk about it.”

  Heath winced. “Yeah, tread lightly there. I think there’s trouble. More than usual, I mean.”

  Kyle frowned. “Too bad. I was hoping things would work out. In spite of…”

  “In spite of the fact we all know she got pregnant to trap him?” Heath shrugged. “Alec’s doing what he thinks is right but we all know she’s not the one for him. I just hope he can figure out how to do right by his kid and still not chain himself to Colleen for the rest of his life. But love’s complicated, right?”

  “Right,” Kyle echoed. Despite his concerns for Alec, he automatically turned his attention back to Arabella dancing with the count. He couldn’t compete with a guy like that, probably raised with a silver spoon in his mouth. Kyle had never even seen a silver spoon until he’d been old enough to move out of Villa West Trailer Park.

  He sighed. Arabella deserved the best, and Kyle knew deep down inside that he wasn’t. Sure, he was rich now, a famous football player, but he didn’t come with a pedigree. He didn’t wear stuffy suits or sit on thrones. He could never be that guy, while Arabella could never not be that kind of woman.