He had things to say, and he wouldn’t be able to say them if he let himself get any closer to her. His arms ached from not having her in them, and his semi perfect, preplanned speech was already in danger of crumbling.
But he had to. Phillipe was no longer in control of his future—not anymore.
“Us. I want to talk about us. You and me.” His heart thumped loudly in his chest at the slow curve of her lips into a smile. God, he missed those lips.
“Yes, I think I got that. But after everything you said, I don’t understand why you are here.” She sniffed, her eyes sparkling and bright.
She wasn’t going to make this easy. Well, he would happily beg if he had to, and more. “I am sorry—for everything. Sorry I jumped to the wrong conclusions about you and sorry I took out my hatred of Phillipe on you. You, your family are nothing like him. I see that now. Hell, even his own family, I have learned recently, are nothing like him. You were right. I was being prejudiced, and I let that grow in me till it took away the best thing I have ever found.”
He hooked his finger around the bow tie and pulled it down. There. Now he could breathe.
God, why hadn’t she said anything? He had said what he had planned to say—with some additional things—and now he should go. So why weren’t his feet moving? Awareness hummed through him as her eyes watched him. They wove a spell around his heart, and the words he promised himself he wouldn’t say until he found out how she really felt tumbled from his lips. “Tia, despite all the crazy odds, I have fallen in love with you. I don’t have anything to give you other than my heart, and if you will give me another chance, I promise to make up for the past and make all your fantasies, aspirations, hopes, dreams—everything—come true.”
“Oh, Damon!” Her breathy cry filled his heart like a hot air balloon about to take flight, and his body jerked forward instinctively only to freeze as if an arctic blast had frozen him to the spot at the wave of her hand. “I am to blame as well. I should have told you, but I was so frightened because—oh, I don’t know why. I had something to prove, and I was afraid that after what you said, you wouldn’t help me. And I was so caught up with wanting to change your mind about us and my ideas!”
Her snuffled laugh at that last statement made him smile, but he swallowed it back quickly as she swiped a gloved hand under her eyes.
“The fact is, I have fallen in love with you, too. Crazy, isn’t it? And I want you to know that I changed the plans. The Skipios plant will not be closed but invested in, and I have spoken to the lead minister about other ways we can invest in the opportunities already here. I was trying to fill shoes that were not mine; I see that now, but only because of you. Goodness, I even tried riding the other day. And I would not have done it if it were not for you and what you said about . . . ” Her voice broke as silent tears spilled delicately down her face, dislodging the eye makeup that had highlighted those eyes that were burned into his memory and were now creating dark streams across her cheeks.
Thought and reason flew like birds released from their cages, and his feet ate up the ground between them as he pulled her to him, crushing the dress and revelling in the feel of her arms around his neck and her soft breath on his skin. Damn, how he had missed her! Her skin felt as smooth as silk against his hands, and her tears tasted salty as he brushed his lips over them.
“Zoi mou. My life. You are so strong. You are my queen.” He lowered his head to hers, and his nerves danced at the softness of her lips under his. Her body fitted against his like a lock and key, as if he had been made only for her. His body hummed to life, and he groaned against her mouth. This was not the place. When they made love, he wanted it to be as man and wife, not that he trusted himself to wait that long, but it was definitely not now. He was not the kind of man his father was.
He drew back and pressed his lips against her forehead, inhaling deeply, filling his senses with her. “If I don’t stop now, I hate to think what sight your guards will see when they discover us.”
Her soft chuckle spread through him, and she tilted her head up, her eyes finding his.
“I don’t think it will be the guards we have to worry about, not with this crowd to keep them busy.” Her voice trailed off as a new light dawned in her eyes. “But maybe you already know that, and that’s why you’re here tonight. Am I right?”
His cheeks pushed up into a high smile, and he winked lazily. “Guilty as charged, princess. But I can’t take all the credit. Tonight was your brother’s idea. If I had my way, I would have come two weeks ago. Being without you has been making me crazy.” He lowered his head and skimmed his lips across her nose before forcing himself to raise his head and not continue his attentions lower.
“You know, Damon, when you called me princess that first time, I thought you had recognised who I was. You have no idea how scared I was.”
“No, agape mou, you have no idea how scared I was when I first took you home. No woman had ever made me feel that way. You were the first to make me want things that I thought were not for me and—”
“Tia! What in God’s name is going on here?”
• • •
Tia looked up quickly at her father’s angry hiss and tightened her arms around Damon. He had said it was not about their families, and she agreed with him. It was about them, and if her father didn’t like it, well . . . she would cross that bridge when she came to it. And judging by his narrowed-eyed stare, she was no longer just at the bridge but standing on it as it swayed back and forth.
“Christiana, would you like to explain who this man is and what he is doing here?” The ice in her father’s tone chilled her as Damon turned to the older man.
She would explain, she had to, she . . . Her thoughts froze at her father’s hissed intake of breath. “Thee mou. You look just like . . . But that is preposterous . . . ” her father whispered.
Well here went nothing. “Father, this is Damon and he—”
“Can answer for himself. Hello, your majesty.”
Her legs wobbled, and she tightened her grip around Damon’s hand as he stepped forward and bowed low to her father, a polite smile at his lips. “Your highness, I am Damon Anastos. It is a pleasure to meet you. You look like you have seen a ghost, and I can help clarify that. I have recently discovered that I am the illegitimate son of Phillipe of Montcroix, whom I believe you are friends with. And while I know that creates all kinds of things I am sure you are not pleased with, I want you to know I am wholeheartedly, can’t-think-straight in love with your daughter, and I know she loves me. Tia has a duty to her nation; I am aware of that, but I promise to make Tia smile as long as we are together. And if there are tears, they will only ever be ones of joy.”
Her heartbeat sung in her ears, and Tia swallowed back the tears threatening to run down her cheeks yet again as she eyed her father’s deep-set frown as it flicked between her and Damon before settling on her.
“Tia, is this true?” Her father’s eyebrows shot up as his words tripped over themselves.
Forcing the words out of her tear-filled throat, Tia dropped her head into a nod. “I do love him, Father. I am sorry because I know you had plans for us, but I never loved Antoine that way. I can see now, despite the wishes of everyone around us, it would not have worked. I did not love him like I love Damon.”
Her heart beat wildly against her chest, like a bird that knows it is about to be freed, as Damon’s arm tightened around her waist.
“Mr. Anastos. Damon. You have found a way around my guards to get to her. This proves to me that you must love her very much. From what I have heard just now, I see you are a good and worthy man. And I know my daughter. You see, I am a stubborn as she is, and I can tell that she has made her mind up. So even though, knowing my headstrong daughter, this is only a formality, I am prepared to give you my blessing for this quite remarkable relationship. Now if you will excuse me, I have a ball to get to. And if you would care to, then please join us.”
Tears trickled down her cheeks. S
he shuffled to her father, wrapping her arms around him, before he left them alone once again. And she found herself where she belonged—next to Damon.
His breath caressed her forehead, and she nuzzled into him.
“Tia, I fell in love with you without even knowing what love was, but every time I think about you, I cannot imagine my life without you.”
Her breath caught in her throat, and she peered up at him from under her lashes. “And I can’t imagine mine without you.”
“In that case, there is only one thing to be done. Make our own life—together, forever, as husband and wife, man and woman, queen and consort, and every other package in between. Deal?”
Her heart soared at the love in his eyes. “Deal.”
Turn the page for an excerpt from
The Tycoon’s Wager
Chapter 1
“That was the late, great Freddie Mercury, folks. If you’re just tuning in then welcome to ‘The Midnight Hour’ with me, your host, CJ Stratt. With a 99.1 percent relationship advice success rate, they don’t say I sit at Venus’s right hand for nothing. So get dialing on the usual digits or you can tweet me @cjstratt, hashtag midnighthourshow. No relationship problem is too big or too small, and you can be sure I will tell it to you straight. Till then, sit back and relax to one of my all-time Motown faves.”
Flicking on the red button that started the track, CJ pushed down the oversized headphones and slumped back against the threadbare wheelie chair. Who was it who said life didn’t throw at you more than you could handle? It was bad enough that her rent had gone up, but thanks to the dip in ratings shown over the last quarter from just over a million listeners to only 800,000, she was in danger of losing her one true love, her show. That was, unless her ratings regained their former glory. Goodness knew how. She had it written into her contract that she would not do any PR, though maybe . . . she tapped her foot distractedly against the floor. Maybe the lack of PR might in part explain her waning ratings. Yes, the lack of external PR stopped prying journalists from finding out about her own lack of a love life, but she knew from experience people could be fickle.
Kicking the chair further away from the desk, she frowned at the small scuff marks on her patent cherry-red knee-high boots. Bugger! And she’d only had them a few days. Dragging a hand through her bleached, ice-white hair, she pulled the pastel-coloured tips up for closer inspection. She was growing bored of their sugary shades—maybe a darker hue was long overdue. Expelling a low breath, CJ slumped down further in the seat. Usually her 10:00 p.m. till 2:00 a.m. kept her busy, but today she couldn’t shake the tiredness that hung over her. Maybe it was a spring cold. Perfect. Just in time for another lonesome Valentine’s Day. No, that sounded too pitiful. It was out of choice that she worked the one day of the year when the world fell in love. Santa worked on Christmas; CJ worked on Valentine’s Day.
Okay, so maybe her drive to help others had contributed in part to her own relationships falling flat on their faces, and she was the first to admit she was from the school of “Those that can’t . . . teach,” taking pride in successfully helping those whom Cupid had played a bad hand, too.
“Heads up, CJ, last tweet is in. I’m sending it through now.” Her producer’s voice floated through the headphones, and she shook herself out of her musings, adjusting them up over her ears. Pulling the chair forward with her feet, she pushed the microphone button.
“On it.” The last notes of the song reached her ears and she scanned the computer screen in front of her as a green line of text appeared.
Showtime!
“Welcome back to ‘The Midnight Hour’ with CJ Stratt. We have our last tweet of the night from one @msiheartshoes. Funnily enough, so do I, Ms. Shoes. Let’s see what we’ve got here. My ex finds it hard2commit . . . Okay, Ms. Shoes, my first question is if it’s an ex, why are you worrying about his commitment issues? No, wait guys, Ms. Shoes adds, He didn’t think our breakup through.”
Oh good grief! CJ rolled her eyes. She was one of those. “Ms. Shoes, I am assuming he is in control of all his faculties? In which case, I am guessing he did think the breakup through. Ms. Shoes goes on to say FYI, he wasn’t exactly a BF.”
Her fingers instinctively began to twist around the silver skull ring that was a permanent fixture on her finger. This was just getting weirder and weirder.
“Okay Ms. Shoes, so you guys were just casually seeing each other. Let’s read on. Tho I’d have 2B a piece of v. high-end property for Jack@HarperInc to care!”
Pulling back sharply, CJ frowned at the microphone. Why would the woman feel the need to mention him by name or his property preference? Especially the fact that it was “high end.” Unless . . . As far as she was concerned, the only time anyone mentioned those details was to impress, and she’d had enough of that in her old life. A life where patent boots weren’t the same as patent loafers and the only pastel shades allowed had to be in twinsets, not hair. The small cough from her producer bought her back to the present with a jerk—she still hadn’t answered the woman’s question.
“So, guys, that was the end of Ms. Shoes’s tweet. Call me, text me, tweet me. What do you think she should do? Then I’ll tell you what I think, straight up, CJ style . . . ”
• • •
What the hell had they done to his radio? It was bad enough they had kept his precious Jag in for a week too long, but this, too? Surfing through the channels only to be greeted each time with a grating buzz, Jack Harper gritted his teeth. Like hell was he going to pay for this inconvenience.
Glancing down at the radio’s blinking sign, his eyes alighted on the glossy cover of the latest Business Now magazine where a serious-looking image of himself stared back. The camera loved his all-American dark-blond hair, navy-blue eyes and chiseled jaw, but much to their consternation, he had deliberately avoided smiling. The deep dimples would only remind the corporate world that he was once viewed as nothing more than an irresponsible playboy who counted nothing off limits, even his father’s young wife. As the bile of the slanderous accusation burned in his throat, he flipped the magazine over.
It had taken time, but at the age of thirty-one, three years after taking over after his brother’s unexpected death, Jack was now able to fly solo as the face in front and the brains behind the operations. After finally working off the playboy label, all he needed now was to complete this latest deal, and then he and Harper Inc. would be global.
Flicking on the car’s headlights, Jack frowned into the misty darkness. Barring the odd orange-tailed fox, at almost two in the morning, the west London streets were deserted. It wasn’t often he couldn’t sleep, but since this deal had begun encountering difficulties, he had found himself sleeping less and less. His ex-stepmother’s upcoming nuptials didn’t help the insomnia. It only revived the scandal creating PR complications he really didn’t need.
He reached into his pocket at the small vibration against his chest, the bright blue of his phone flashing the name of his PR manager alongside the words, “URGENT. Midnight Hour Show. 109.3 FM. @HarperInc. Now!”
What the . . . ? Had the man taken leave of his senses? And why was he using his Twitter handle? Not that Jack, as CEO, used that personally. He had a whole department to manage his social media affairs for him. So what had rattled the cage of the normally stoic Jim beyond the usual day-to-day rubbish the gossip papers could manufacture? Grimacing at the crackle from the broken radio, Jack turned the damn thing off. Pressing his thumb lightly over his phone’s screen, he tapped the globe icon, typed in the name of the show and clicked up the volume as a smooth, husky voice that made the hairs rise on the back of his neck began to speak. An agony aunt! Jim marked it urgent for him to listen to an agony aunt? Weren’t those usually old ladies who made their living butting into everyone else’s business? Though from the sound of her voice, she didn’t seem old. Her voice was beside the point. Tomorrow he’d find out what his man had been thinking to text at 1:30 a.m.
Turning the key in the igniti
on, he paused, his other hand clutching the steering wheel in a death grip as the words @msiheartshoes and Jack@HarperInc filled the air. There was only one Jack@HarperInc and it was him—and more importantly, his company. But how would the DJ know? His hand curled tighter around the steering wheel . . . where had he heard the name @msiheartshoes? That was the same company name as . . . his ex. If ex was a proper term to use. After seeing firsthand the way love turned a sane man into a fool, especially in the case of his father, Jack didn’t want any of it. Long-term relationships couldn’t be trusted. And now this woman, whom he had made no promises to, was tweeting an agony aunt for relationship advice. On him!
“Those are some great suggestions, London. Now what I think Ms. Shoes should do,” the agony aunt continued, “can be summed up in two words. Forget him! From what you are telling me, this man, thanks to his paycheck, is probably used to getting his own way all the time. Selfish, in other words. The only defense he could possibly have was that he made you no promises. Implied promises are not real things. Sometimes it is easier to hold on to something, but let him go, Ms. Shoes. He is a false economy, fool’s gold. And if he did promise you a future in any shape or form, which it seems he didn’t, then clearly you can’t trust him nor his word. You are the victim of his silver tongue and his gold-lined pockets.”
False economy, selfish. Untrustworthy! Turning the key around, Jack felt the engine judder to a stop under him, his anger building with every second. The crazy woman had one thing right at least. He had made his ex no promises.
“So @msiheartshoes and London, you’ve heard what I had to say. Now it’s back to you, the listeners. If you have a love dilemma, you can tweet me @cjstratt, hashtag midnighthourshow or call me on 0208 908 4141.”
The Runaway Queen Page 15