Honeymoon With a Prince (Royal Scandals)

by Burnham, Nicole

  “How’s that going?” He should’ve asked her days ago, but never found the right opening. When he’d been alone in bed at night, in those last moments before falling asleep, he’d wondered if the strain was keeping her awake or if the problem was being settled.

  “It’s progressing. She found all the documents I need to prove the money in the account came directly from the sale of my business, and I hired a lawyer to contact Ted and explain ever-so-firmly that the money is rightfully mine, that we had an understanding to that effect, and that he needs to return it or face legal action. Now I’m just waiting for Ted’s response. I’m hopeful he’ll return the money and leave it at that.”

  “Good for you, especially on hiring a lawyer to rattle his cage.”

  “You’re the one who gave me the idea.” Her upper body tilted toward his, then she bumped his shoulder and grinned. “It helped me to talk through the issue with you. Even if it was embarrassing. So maybe you were my therapist.”

  “A prince and a therapist? I don’t think so.”

  He slid a sideways glance at her only to discover she was doing the same. Their eyes held and an understanding passed between them. They’d each been hurt. They each prized their independence. They each found their ways to cope and move forward.

  “The injury to my back and shoulder occurred when I was in a small space,” he admitted, keeping his voice low and even. “I assume that’s why the closet makes me uncomfortable. It’ll fade in time.”

  “That explains a bit.” When he didn’t elaborate, she asked, “It’s new, isn’t it? The discomfort. You felt it in Giulia’s wine cellar and it surprised you.”

  “Yes.” The woman was astute. “But now I know what to expect. I think that’s half the battle.”

  “What’s the other half?”

  He shrugged. “Like I said, time. I’m expected to be around crowds and that often involves tight spaces. But the more I do it, the faster I’ll adapt.” He hadn’t thought of it in those terms until he said it aloud to Kelly, but as the words left his mouth, he knew them to be true.

  “Somewhat like a kid eating broccoli,” she said. “On the first bite, it’s bitter. They reject it. But the more they’re exposed to it, the sooner their taste buds adapt.”

  If broccoli burned and choked, he supposed. But the comparison was apt. The experience at the airport caught him off guard, when he’d had the overwhelming urge to burst through security. At Giulia’s, he’d again been caught off guard, but he’d managed to rationalize his way through it, get out of the cellar, and beat his overactive senses into submission.

  He’d been fine at the parade. He’d even been fine at the banquet until faced with an unexpected fire inches from his face, and that a short time after discussing the very warlord responsible for his injuries.

  “Please tell me that’s a look of amusement on your face, and not offense at the broccoli analogy. What you’re experiencing is much more…that is, I didn’t intend to minimize—”

  He cut off Kelly’s apology a shake of his head. “Definitely amusement. I meant ‘adapt’ in the sense of gaining the experience necessary to fight the sensation, but I’ll keep the broccoli analogy in mind if there’s a next time.” Who knew…it might work. It was certainly a more pacifist approach.

  He reached for Kelly’s hand and held it. The contact brought a sexual charge that reverberated to his core. Oddly, it also brought him a deep sense of contentment. Despite the way it affected him, he expected her to pull away and claim the need to maintain a sense of professionalism.

  She didn’t.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Kelly’s fingers flexed in Massimo’s. “Tell me what happened.”

  The small muscles of his jaw jumped as he considered her request. She’d stated it as calmly as possible, giving Massimo the ability to beg off if he wanted, but she knew he wouldn’t. He’d likely needed to talk from the moment he’d suffered the horrible injury, yet was too proud, too strong, and too stubborn a man to admit it. Even so, she sensed he had other reasons he’d kept the details to himself, reasons that went beyond his own needs. It would help him to let another human being share his burden.

  Yet she wasn’t certain she had the inner strength to hear it. Discussing an event so personal while in the confines of the man’s walk-in closet would draw her deeper into his life than she wanted to go. Given that her confidence was still healing from the slicing and dicing she’d endured with Ted, the last thing she needed was another reason to care for Massimo and another opportunity for her emotional wounds to bleed anew.

  Massimo may have kissed her tonight—and oh, how it nearly brought her to her knees—and he may be holding her hand now in the quiet of the night, but those actions were born from primal need, not love or affection. He’d made that crystal clear when he’d hired her.

  “Have you heard of Matambe?”

  She thought for a moment. “That sounds familiar, but I don’t know why. Is it a place you were stationed?”

  “Matambe is a man…if one can call him that. There were a lot of other names my unit and I used for him. None of them suitable for use outside of combat.”

  “I can imagine.” Her uncle, a former Marine, was constantly chastised by his parents for using salty language when he’d returned home.

  “Actually, I hope you can’t.” His wry expression indicated her imagination wasn’t nearly depraved enough. “Matambe is an African warlord. There are some who believe he’s a god. Others believe he’s a demon, come from the mouth of hell to visit devastation on those who are less than honorable. He plays up both those local beliefs to his own advantage.”

  Massimo glanced at the ceiling, but didn’t seem to see it as he spoke. “To most of the world, Matambe is a power-hungry monster with no conscience when it comes to getting what he wants. Theft, torture, rape, blackmail, murder. It’s all in his repertoire.”

  “I saw a documentary about warlords who prey upon isolated or poor villages a few years ago. Probably why Matambe sounds familiar to me. They’re definitely not the good guys.”

  “No. And Matambe is one of the most powerful and violent.”

  His hand tightened fractionally over hers. She sensed he was building toward the difficult part of his story and choosing his words with care.

  “On my last assignment, I was part of a multinational force charged with hunting down Matambe. It was a challenging task. He knows the territory like the back of his hand and can move quickly, day or night. He and his army travel across borders and through rough terrain as if it’s nothing. His deputies act as lookouts to keep pursuers off their track. He raids the villages for supplies and forces the inhabitants to reveal the whereabouts of any forces who are hunting for him. He’s out before an alarm can be raised.”

  Massimo released her hand with a quick pat and stood. The necklace slid from his knee, landing with a dull thud on the floor, but he didn’t appear to notice.

  “At times, my unit provided security for food and medical supplies being sent to villages in Matambe’s known territory. One afternoon, twelve of us helped a village hide a shipment of donated food and medical supplies in an underground bunker they’d built to conceal their necessities from warlords or other vagrants. Some of the supplies we left out in the village so anyone who might’ve seen the supply trucks and conducted a raid would think they’d gotten it. Unfortunately, Matambe’s men learned about the shipment and alerted him. At sunset, he came.”

  “You were still there?”

  Massimo paced the closet. It wasn’t a panicked or nervous walk. Rather, he seemed to think better while in motion. “Nine of my men had already left. I was there with two others finishing up. We never expected an attack so soon. Frankly, we were hoping there wouldn’t be an attack at all, since we’d been careful to keep the supply truck on as discreet a route as possible. We were vastly outmanned and outgunned. We had no choice but to retreat. If we were seen helping out in the village—particularly helping hide supplies—it would
’ve been devastating for the residents. Matambe’s men would have tortured and killed them to the last man, woman, and child make a statement about what happens to those who consort with their enemies. The villagers were expected to get supplies from whatever charitable organizations they could and immediately turn them over to Matambe. Of course, if they’d done that, they’d have eventually starved to death. Keeping them fed and safe was what made them loyal to us.”

  The image he painted of the villagers’ dilemma horrified her. “Were you captured?”

  “No, or I wouldn’t be here now.” Massimo stilled, as if having decided exactly what to tell her. “When Matambe arrived, my two men were in the bunker. They happened to be with a group of teenage boys sorting the last of the supplies when we heard the attackers coming from the jungle. They secured the door and hid inside. It was lucky they were positioned where they were. The boys were fit and at an age where Matambe would want to conscript them. Forcing children into his army helps him control the villages. No one wants to risk firing on their own children or those of relatives.”

  “That’s sickening.” A lump formed in her throat at the idea of losing a child that way, never knowing if they were dead or alive, what atrocities they were forced to witness, or what brainwashing they’d endure. “Effective, I’m sure, but sickening.”

  He huffed an acknowledgement. “The village leaders handed over all the supplies that we’d unloaded in the village itself and even some they’d squirreled away in the woods, hoping to convince the raiders of their loyalty to Matambe by giving up what they claimed was their emergency stash. Some of the women prayed, saying they were making the sacrifice of food to Matambe for his divine protection, acting as if the sun rose and set only at his bidding. I heard every word. Those women were very convincing.”

  “But not convincing enough?”

  “No. Matambe’s men refused to leave. They stayed for nearly thirty-six hours, searching the huts and accusing the villagers of withholding information.”

  “If you could hear all this, where were you?” It was the question she most dreaded asking.

  His pacing started again. “The bunker had a smart design. A false front door was installed so that if it was discovered, anyone opening it would see only a five-foot square hole used for storage. The real door was in the floor of the hole, so it’d be covered by anything kept inside. I managed to crawl into the space between the two doors and hide with my weapon drawn. It allowed me to protect the bunker while appearing to be an AWOL soldier foraging for food. At least, that was what I was counting on if Matambe or his men found me. I was good and filthy, and I smelled none too pleasant, so I hoped I could convince them.”

  Her eyes widened. “You were in a hole? The entire time? You couldn’t get down into the bunker itself?”

  “Once I closed the outside door, the space was too tight to maneuver without making noise.”

  “And risking the lives of your two men and the teenagers.”

  “The whole village’s lives. But it worked. In the end, Matambe’s men left without injuring a soul.” He grinned, though the twist of his mouth and crinkles at the corner of his eyes reeked of irony. “At least, not to their knowledge. My injury was nothing more than a run of the mill accident.”

  Kelly made no effort to hide her confusion. “Barricading yourself in a hole for a day and a half and emerging with that kind of injury hardly constitutes ‘a run of the mill accident.’ Your back looks as if someone attacked you with a blowtorch and then hacked away with a machete for good measure.”

  “No, an attack I could’ve fought off.” Massimo crossed the closet to resume his seat beside her, propping his back against the wall and stretching his long legs in front of him on the drop cloth.

  Once settled, he explained, “As they were leaving, one of Matambe’s men flicked a cigarette butt near the bunker. At least, that’s what the villagers told the medic who treated me. The butt apparently caught the dry grass nearby. I couldn’t see out, but I heard the stomping of boots as Matambe’s men passed over my head on their way to the jungle. A moment later there was smoke and a lot of shouting, but I couldn’t risk climbing out before I knew the coast was clear.”

  Packed into a dark, tight space, with the chaos of fire and enemy fighters above his head, he must have been afraid, though he’d be the last man on Earth to admit it. But he’d rather burn to death than endanger others. Her admiration for him jumped a few notches.

  “That’s unbelievably brave. You were a hero to those people, putting their lives before yours.”

  “It was for my own good,” he said, waving off the compliment. “The men in the bunker could only be guaranteed their safety if I stayed put. It was built with a small tunnel leading into the jungle they could use to escape. I knew they’d rescue me if the villagers didn’t or couldn’t. And they did.”

  “Yet you ended up burned,” she pointed out.

  “Well, yes, but that doesn’t make me heroic. I was unconscious from the smoke when my men forced the door and pulled me out. The villagers were busy fighting the fire. This happened” —he jerked a thumb over his left shoulder— “because a burning tree fell on my back and shoulder after they yanked me out. So no, no glamorous heroics. Just a tree I never saw and don’t remember, and a fire I didn’t do a thing to help fight. My men and a few of the teenagers ended up having to drag the tree off of me.”

  A tree explained the gashes amongst the burned skin. And even if he didn’t believe he’d been a hero, there was no doubt in her mind.

  “It happens a lot in combat situations,” he added. “Soldiers are injured through random accidents as easily as by an enemy. I was one of the lucky ones who managed to stay alive. A few centimeters higher and the tree would’ve hit my head instead of my back and shoulder.”

  “I’m glad you survived.” And glad he’d told her, too, though it wasn’t what she’d expected to hear.

  Frankly, she didn’t know what she’d expected. Maybe that he’d been injured in hand to hand combat. Or that he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, passing by a roadside bomb as it exploded or a weapon that misfired, causing ugly burns. Not that he’d spent a day and two nights inside what could’ve become his own tomb, all in an effort to protect people he didn’t know in a country far from his home.

  “Why haven’t you told anyone about this?” She understood if he didn’t want to be labeled a hero, but if he’d been able to discuss the incident, even with someone like his sister, to whom he claimed to be quite close, his psyche might heal faster.

  “I don’t want pity and I don’t want reporters asking personal questions about my health. But on a larger scale, it would hurt the villagers if it became public knowledge. It wouldn’t take long for Matambe to figure out when and where I sustained my injury. His men saw the fire as they left. On top of that, it’d be a public relations coup for the man.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. “How? I’d think the world would become enraged.”

  “First, the world would be focused on me, not Matambe. It’s the nature of celebrity gossip.” His gaze lit upon the necklace that had fallen to the floor. He stretched to retrieve it, then laid the piece across his knee, where it sparkled with a radiance that contrasted sharply with his dark story. “Second, many in Africa would see Matambe as even more powerful if they learned he’d injured a prince. He’d be feared even more than he is now.”

  She hadn’t considered that. “It makes sense, I suppose. Still, even if you’ve said nothing, it’s amazing it never leaked from the village.”

  “They didn’t know my identity. Only the men in my unit knew, and they’re smart enough to keep quiet to avoid making us targets.”

  A lengthy sigh escaped her. It had been a long day and long night. The world Massimo described filled her mind with images she didn’t have the energy to confront anymore.

  “Now aren’t you glad you asked?”

  His wry tone made her smile. “You know, I am. I understand yo
u a little better now…or at least that part of you.” After a beat, she added, “My guess is that your family or others who love you would like to know, too.”

  “No.” The word was crisp and immediate.

  “What about a professional?”

  This time, he hesitated before answering. “I’ve considered it. But—as with broccoli—I’m adapting.”

  Skepticism clouded her face. “It didn’t seem that way tonight when I saw you on the bench.”

  He acknowledged the point with a nod and lift of his brow. “Believe it or not, tonight was fantastic right up until dinner. I was feeling quite comfortable with the crowd, and even heard positive news about the hunt for Matambe, which put me in a very good mood. But while I had Matambe on my mind, a group of torch dancers began to perform. Next thing I knew, I had a blazing fire two inches in front of my face, then I was caught in a crush of people.” Again, he shrugged as if it were no big deal. “Even so, it took time before the need to escape set in, and when it did, I couldn’t leave for awhile.”

  “Then I surprised you by touching your bad shoulder.”

  “Which shouldn’t have been a problem. Again, I’m very sorry.”

  “Don’t. It’s over.” She put a hand on his knee, but didn’t linger. She suspected that he wanted—needed—to move forward without using physical reassurance from her as a quick fix.

  “In any case, the odds of having fire flung in my face in the midst of a crowd are rather low. Having faced it once, so to speak, I suspect I’ll handle it better if it ever happens again. If not, privately consulting a professional may be the next step.” The set of his jaw made it clear he hoped he’d never have to, but if it was necessary to ensure the safety of those around him, he would.

  It was an admission that took an incredible amount of fortitude.

  She pushed to stand, then offered him her hand. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. You weren’t supposed to see this place until my big reveal, anyway. Just remember when you see the finished room that I want you to be wowed.”