Hidden Love

by Carole Mortimer

  The fortress in front of her, on the other hand, was almost far too expected. It was medieval, and nothing but the lights flickering in the window gave any indication that it might be part of the modern era. Of course, she could expect nothing less from a man who had gone to such great lengths to seek revenge on a photographer.

  A man who had captured her father in the act of taking pictures and imprisoned him to get revenge for something as innocuous as photographs that were set to be published without his permission.

  Belle supposed that she should be afraid. After all, Prince Adam Katsaros had proven to be unreasonable. He had proven to be inhumane. But she was bolstered by the same rage that had infused her veins from the moment she had first heard of her father’s fate, even now.

  It seemed that she was insulated from fear, which was strange considering she’d spent a lot of her life feeling afraid of almost everything. Of losing her father and the haven she’d found with him after her mother had abandoned her when she was four years old. Of the potential inside herself to become a tempestuous, selfish creature driven by passions of the flesh, as her mother had been and probably still was.

  All that fear was gone now. Had been from the moment she had first boarded her plane in LA, all the way through her layover in Greece, and through the flight that carried her here to Olympios.

  She could only hope that her bravado lasted.

  Tony was going to be so mad when he found out she’d done this. Her boyfriend of nearly eight months had always wanted to be more involved in her life. But she resisted. Just like she’d been resisting serious physical intimacy. That was part of all her fear stuff.

  She’d never had a boyfriend before, and she was accustomed to her space and her independence. Surrendering any of it just didn’t sit well with her.

  Which was an ironic thought, considering what she was prepared to do here today.

  She was surprised to find that the palace was more or less unguarded. There was no one about as she walked up the steps that led to a rough-hewn double door. She was tempted—not for the first time since her arrival on the island—to check and see if her phone calendar had been set back into the last century. Or, perhaps, a few centuries ago.

  She lifted her hand, unsure as to whether or not one knocked on doors like this. In the end, she decided to grasp hold of the iron ring and pull it open. It creaked and groaned with the effort, as though no one had dared enter the large, imposing building in quite some time. However, she knew that they had. Because only a few days ago her father had been brought here. And—if rumor was to be believed—he was being imprisoned on the property.

  She took a cautious step inside, surprised by the warmth that greeted her. It was dark, except for some wall sconces that were lit across the room. The great stone antechamber possessed nothing like the sort of comforts she would have expected from a palace. Not that she was in the habit of being admitted into palaces.

  No, the little seaside home she and her father lived in in Southern California was as far from a palace as it was possible to get. It wasn’t even Rodeo Drive.

  But this wasn’t exactly what she had expected from royalty. In spite of her lack of experience, she did have expectations. She might never have been admitted into the lavish homes and parties that celebrities threw in Beverly Hills, but her father’s business was photographing those events. So she had a visual familiarity with them, even if it wasn’t based in experience.

  “Hello?” she called out into the dim chamber, vaguely aware that that might not have been the best idea the moment the word left her mouth and ricocheted off the stone walls. But, that adrenaline that had wrapped itself around her like an impenetrable suit of armor remained. She had a mission, and she was not going to be frightened out of carrying it out.

  Once the prince understood, he would be more than happy to return her father to her custody. She was certain. Once he understood about her father’s health.

  “Hello?” she called again. Still nothing.

  She heard a soft sound, footsteps on the flagstone floor, and she turned toward a corridor that was at the far left of the room, just in time to see a tall, slender man walking toward her. “Are you lost, kyria?”

  His tone was soft and kind, faintly accented and nothing like the harsh, brutal surroundings that she found herself in. Nothing at all like she had imagined finding here in this medieval keep.

  “No,” she said, “I’m not lost. My name is Belle Chamberlain and I looking for my father. Mark Chamberlain. He’s being held here by the Prince…and I…I don’t think he understands.”

  The servant—at least, that’s what she assumed he was—took a step closer to her, his expression becoming clearer as he moved nearer. He looked…concerned. “Yes. I know about that. It is, perhaps, best if you go, Kyria Chamberlain.”

  “No. You don’t understand. My father is ill, and he was supposed to start treatment back home in the States. He can’t be here. He can’t be…imprisoned, just because he took some photographs that the Prince doesn’t like.”

  “There is a lot here that protects the Prince’s privacy,” the man said, as though she hadn’t spoken. As though he were simply reciting from a well-memorized book. “And whatever the Prince says is…well, it is law.”

  “I’m not leaving without my father. I’m not leaving until I speak to the Prince. Also, your security is shockingly lax.” She looked around. “Nobody stopped me from entering. I imagine it was far too easy for my father to gain access to him. If he wants to keep his life private, then he should work harder at it.” The celebrities her father photographed went to great lengths to avoid his telephoto lens. She was not impressed with the setup the Prince had here.

  Perhaps it was a little bit callous of her to look at things that way. But, she had been raised the daughter of a paparazzo, and that was just the way things were. Celebrities capitalized on their images, and relied on the fact that they were public commodities. Her father was simply a part of that economy.

  “Believe me,” the man said. “You don’t want to speak to the Prince.”

  She drew up to her full height, which, admittedly at five-three was not terribly impressive. “Believe me,” she countered. “I most certainly do want to speak to the Prince. I want to tell him that his tyrannical tactics, seizing an American citizen, all in the name of his precious vanity, are not the least bit impressive to me. In fact, if he has issues with his presumably weak chin, subtly rounded jawline and hollow chest, perhaps he could take some of the money he has saved by not renovating this palace and invest in a good plastic surgeon, rather than imprisoning a man for taking a few photographs.”

  “Weak chin?” Another voice sounded in the darkness. Much different from the voice of the servant. It was deep; it resonated there in the stone room, resonated inside Belle. And then, for the first time, she knew fear. An intense, trembling kind that skated down her spine and reverberated in her stomach. “That is a new accusation, I have to say. However, suggestions that I go visit a plastic surgeon are not. I find that I have lost patience with going under the knife, though.”

  “Prince Adam,” the servant said, his tone clearly intended to placate.

  “You may leave us, Fos.”

  “But, Your Majesty—”

  “Don’t bow and scrape,” the Prince said, his tone hard as the stone walls all around them. “It is embarrassing. For you.”

  “Yes,” the man said, “of course.”

  And then, the one person who she felt might be her ally shuffled back off into the darkness. And she was left with a disembodied voice that was still shrouded in the inky blackness.

  “So,” he said, “you have come to see about your father.”

  “Yes,” she said, her tone unsteady. She took a deep breath, tried to get a grip on herself. She was not easily intimidated. She never had been. She had spent her childhood going to private schools that she was far too poor to have gained admittance to, if not for a trust fund previously established by he
r long-deceased grandfather.

  Everyone there knew she was there on charity, and she had been forced to grow a spine early. Everyone was always teasing her. For being poor. For always having her head in the clouds—well, she had her nose firmly planted in a book. But, those stories, those fictional worlds, were her armor. They allowed her to insulate herself. Allowed her to ignore the taunting happening around her.

  She had survived a childhood surrounded by the mocking glances and cruel words of the children of Hollywood royalty. Surely she could face down the Prince of a country that was the size of a postage stamp.

  She heard a heavy footfall, an indication that he had moved deeper into the room, but she still couldn’t see him. “I arrested your father,” he said.

  “I know that,” she said, doing her best to keep her tone steady. “And I think it was a mistake.”

  He chuckled, but there was no humor in the sound. It lay flat in the room, making it feel as though the temperature had dropped. “You’re either very brave or very stupid. Coming to my country, my home, and insulting me.”

  “I’m not sure that I’m either. I’m just a girl who’s concerned about her father. Surely you can understand that.”

  “Perhaps,” he returned. “Though, I find it difficult to remember. I have not worried about my father in quite some time. The cemetery keeps him in good comfort.”

  She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say to that. If she was supposed to say that she was sorry that his father was dead. In the end, she imagined that he probably didn’t want her sympathy.

  “That’s what I’m afraid will happen to my father,” she said. “He’s sick. He needs treatment. That was why he got the pictures of you in the first place. He needed money to cover the cost of the treatment that the insurance wouldn’t. This is his job. He’s a photographer. He’s—”

  “I have absolutely no interest in paparazzi scum. That kind of thing is forbidden in my country.”

  “No freedom of the press, then,” she said, crossing her arms and planting her feet more firmly against the stone floor.

  “No freedom to hunt people down as though they are animals simply because you wish to collect photographs.”

  She huffed. “I doubt you were hunted down. I was able to gain admittance to the palace easily enough. My father is an experienced photographer, and I bet it was even easier for him.”

  “He was also caught. Unfortunately, he had also already sent the photographs off to his boss in the United States. And, as his boss is unwilling to negotiate with me—”

  “I know. The photographs are planned to go out in an exclusive later this week. I spoke to the Daily Star.”

  “But they are so invested in the fact my interim leader’s tenure has now come up, they want the monopoly on these photographs for when I make my decision about my rule.”

  “If I had been able to negotiate with them,” Belle continued, “I wouldn’t have come myself. But, I imagined that they didn’t explain to you about my father’s illness.”

  “Am I supposed to care? He does not care about my afflictions.”

  Rage poured through her. “Are your afflictions going to kill you? Because his will. If he doesn’t get back to the US and get himself into treatment, he is going to die. And I won’t let that happen. I can’t. You want him sitting here wasting away in a jail cell? For what? Your pride? He can be of no use to you.”

  She heard him as he began to pace, his footsteps echoing off the walls. She could just make out a dark shape, movement. He was large, but that was all she could gather.

  “Perhaps you have a point. Perhaps he is of no use to me. Beyond the fact that I feel the need to make him an example.”

  “An example to who?”

  “Anyone who might dare to do similar. Is it not enough, what was done to my family already? The press feel the need to come back and add insult to injury near the third anniversary of the accident? I will not allow it.”

  “So, you’ll let a dying man rot away in your palace then. Haven’t you ever heard that two wrongs don’t make a right?”

  “You mistake me,” he said, his tone suddenly fierce. “I am not trying to make anything right. What has been done to me can never be made right. I want a pound of flesh.”

  She heard his footsteps, and, she realized, he had turned away from her. That he was beginning to walk away. “No!”

  “I am finished with you,” he said. “My servant will show you out.”

  “Take me.” The words left her trembling lips before she had a chance to think them through. “Instead of my father. Let me take his place.”

  “Why would you want to do that?” She heard his footsteps drawing nearer to her again. She blinked hard, cursing her inability to see through the thick darkness.

  “Want is a strong word. But, I’m not currently in need of medical treatment. If I stay here in your palace for however long the sentence might be…I’ll be fine.” There was the matter of her scholarship, of the fact that she was supposed to be getting her master’s in literature. But, for her father’s life, she would easily sacrifice a piece of paper.

  “And what good will that do?”

  “Just tell everybody that I’m the one who took the pictures. That I am the one who caused all this trouble. Use me as your example.” He said nothing. It was so still and silent in the room that she thought he might have left. “Please.”

  “If we do this, I am not simply letting you off with such a bland public story. No.”

  “I thought you wanted to make an example of him.”

  “I did,” he said, his tone hard. “However…I think there are more creative uses for you.”

  A shiver ran through her. Fear. “I don’t think you want me for…for that.”

  “You mistake me. If I wanted a whore, I could have one summoned easily enough. You…you’re beautiful. Uncommonly so. And I find myself in an interesting position.”

  “What?”

  “Your father didn’t decide to get my photograph on a whim. In the last three years, an interim ruler has been governing in my stead. But that…that period has ended. His term has ended. And I have a choice to make. Whether or not I abdicate for good, or take control of what is mine.”

  The air rushed from her lungs, a strange metallic taste on her tongue. “And…and you’ve decided?”

  “I will not hide away forever,” he said. “I will reclaim my throne. And in that I will make my example. I and my country will not remain broken. And I will not be kept under siege by the press.”

  “Well I…I don’t know anything about ruling a country. I can’t help you with that.”

  “Silly girl. I don’t need your brain. I need what I myself no longer possess. I need your beauty.”

  She could scarcely understand the words he was saying.

  “So, you have a deal,” he said.

  He’d given her no time to react to his previous statement. The swift proclamation stunned her. She nearly stumbled, nearly fell down to her knees.

  “I…I do?” She still wasn’t sure what she’d agreed to. Helping him somehow with this reclamation of his kingdom. But she had no clue what that actually meant.

  “Of course. I will have Fos go and tell your father that he’s free to go.”

  “I…” She didn’t know what to say. She certainly didn’t feel anything like triumph. Instead, she was terrified, a bitter cold spreading through her midsection. She was a prisoner now. She had agreed to take her father’s place in this madman’s castle. “Can I…can I see him before he goes?”

  “No,” he said, “that would only cause unnecessary tears. And I find myself low on patience this evening.”

  “I don’t…what do you want me to do?”

  “You have heard it said, I imagine, that behind every successful man is a woman? You will be that woman. Something to help soften my…image.”

  He turned away again, his footsteps indicating that he was walking away, and panic gripped her. “Wait!”

&
nbsp; He stopped. “A servant will come and show you to your room.”

  She imagined by “room” he meant “dungeon.” Another shiver wound through her, fear spiking her blood, making her feel like she had been drugged. “At least let me see you.” She refused to think of him as a monster looming around in the darkness. That would only give him more power. He was just a man. As she had been ranting earlier, he was probably a man with a weak chin.

  A man who was afraid to show himself because he was cowardly. Because he was the kind of tyrant who wouldn’t allow anyone to say anything about him that wasn’t expressly approved by him. She had nothing to fear from this man. And when she saw his face, she would know that for sure.

  “If you insist.” Footsteps moved toward her, and his shape became clearer as he drew closer. Then one foot moved into the pool of light at the center of the room. Followed by the rest of him.

  She had been right in her assessment of him as large. He was almost monstrous in stature, broad and impossibly tall. But if his height weren’t enough to make her shiver in fear, his face would have accomplished it.

  She had been wrong. He did not have a weak chin. Neither did he have a rounded jaw. No, there was something utterly perfect about his bone structure, which made the damage done to his features seem like a blasphemy shouted in a church.

  His skin was golden brown, and it was ruined. Deep grooves taken from his face, a deep slash cutting through one eye. Deep enough that she wondered if he had vision on the side. He might have smiled, but it was difficult to say. The scar tissue at his mouth, so heavy on the one side, kept his lips from tipping up fully.

  In that moment, she was certain that she had not been taken captive by a man. No, she had been taken captive by a beast.

  Copyright © 2017 by Maisey Yates

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