by Kendrick, Sharon; Lawrence, Kim; Crews, Caitlin; Milburne, Melanie
Valentina had found the entire experience humbling, if she was honest, and it had been only a few hours since she’d switched places with Natalie in London. Who knew what else awaited her?
But Achilles was still sprawled there beside her, that unnerving look of his making her skin feel too small for her bones.
“Natalie, Natalie,” he murmured, and Valentina told herself it was a good thing he’d used that name. It wasn’t her name, and she needed the reminder. This wasn’t about her. It wasn’t her job to advocate for Natalie when the other woman might not wish for her to do anything like that. She was on a fast track to losing Natalie her job, and then what? Valentina didn’t have to worry about her employment prospects, but she had no idea what the market was like for billionaire’s assistants.
But maybe there was a part of her that already knew that there was no way Natalie Monette was a stranger to her. Certainly not on the genetic level. And that had implications she wasn’t prepared to examine just yet, but she did know that the woman who was in all likelihood her long-lost identical twin did not have to work for Achilles Casilieris unless she wanted to.
How arrogant of you, a voice inside her said quietly. Her Royal Highness, making unilateral decisions for others’ lives without their input.
The voice sounded a little too much like her father’s.
“That is my name,” Valentina said to Achilles, in case there had been any doubt. Perhaps with a little too much force.
But she had the strangest notion that he was…tasting the name as he said it. As if he’d never said it before. Did he call Natalie by her first name? Valentina rather thought not, given that he’d called her Miss Monette when she’d met him—but that was neither here nor there, she told herself. And no matter that she was a woman who happened to know the power of titles. She had many of her own. And her life was marked by those who used the different versions of her titles, not to mention the few who actually called her by her first name.
“I cannot tolerate this behavior,” he said, but it wasn’t in that same infuriated tone he’d used earlier. If anything, he sounded almost…indulgent. But surely that was impossible. “It borders on open rebellion, and I cannot have that. This is not a democracy, I’m afraid. This is a dictatorship. If I want your opinion, I’ll tell you what it is.”
There was no reason her heart should have been kicking at her like that, her pulse so loud in her ears she was sure he must be able to hear it himself.
“What an interesting way to foster employee loyalty,” she murmured. “Really more of a scorch-the-earth approach. Do you find it gets you the results you want?”
“I do not need to breed employee loyalty,” Achilles told her, sounding even lazier than before, those dark eyes of his on hers. “People are loyal to me or they are fired. You seem to have forgotten reality today, Natalie. Allow me to remind you that I pay you so much money that I own your loyalty, just as I own everything else.”
“Perhaps,” and her voice was a little too rough then. A little too shaky, when what could this possibly have to do with her? She was a visitor. Natalie’s loyalty was no concern of hers. “I have no wish to be owned. Does anyone? I think you’ll find that they do not.”
Achilles shrugged. “Whether you wish it or do not, that is how it is.”
“That is why I was considering quitting,” she heard herself say. And she was no longer looking at him. That was still far too dangerous, too disconcerting. She found herself staring down at her hands, folded in her lap. She could feel that she was frowning, when she learned a long, long time ago never to show her feelings in public. “It’s all very well and good for you, of course. I imagine it’s quite pleasant to have minions. But for me, there’s more to life than blind loyalty. There’s more to life than work.” She blinked back a strange heat. “I may not have experienced it myself, but I know there must be.”
“And what do you think is out there?” He shifted in the seat beside her, but Valentina still refused to look back at him, no matter how she seemed almost physically compelled to do just that. “What do you think you’re missing? Is it worth what you are throwing away here today, with this aggressive attitude and the childish pretense that you don’t know your own job?”
“It’s only those who are bored of the world, or jaded, who are so certain no one else could possibly wish to see it.”
“No one is keeping you from roaming about the planet at will,” he told her in a low voice. Too low. So low it danced along her skin and seemed to insinuate itself beneath her flesh. “But you seem to wish to burn down the world you know in order to see the one you don’t. That is not what I would call wise. Would you?”
Valentina didn’t understand why his words seemed to beat beneath her own skin. But she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. And her eyes seemed entirely too full, almost scratchy, with an emotion she couldn’t begin to name.
She was aware of too many things. Of the car as it slid through the Manhattan streets. Of Achilles himself, too big and too masculine in the seat beside her, and much too close besides. And most of all, that oddly weighted thing within her, rolling around and around until she couldn’t tell the difference between sensation and reaction.
And him right there in the middle of it, confusing her all the more.
CHAPTER THREE
ACHILLES DIDN’T SAY another word, and that was worse. It left Valentina to sit there with her own thoughts in a whirl and nothing to temper them. It left no barrier between that compelling, intent look in his curiously dark eyes and her.
Valentina had no experience with men. Her father had insisted that she grow up as sheltered as possible from public life, so that she could enjoy what little privacy was afforded to a European princess before she turned eighteen. She’d attended carefully selected boarding schools run strictly and deliberately, but that hadn’t prevented her classmates from involving themselves in all kinds of dramatic situations. Even then, Valentina had kept herself apart.
Your mother’s defection was a stain on the throne, her father always told her. It is upon us to render it clean and whole again.
Valentina had been far too terrified of staining Murin any further to risk a scandal. She’d concentrated on her studies and her friends and left the teenage rebellions to others. And once out of school, she’d been thrust unceremoniously into the spotlight. She’d been an ambassador for her kingdom wherever she went, and more than that, she’d always known that she was promised to the Crown Prince of Tissely. Any scandals she embroiled herself in would haunt two kingdoms.
She’d never seen the point.
And along the way she’d started to take a certain pride in the fact that she was saving herself for her predetermined marriage. It was the one thing that was hers to give on her wedding night that had nothing to do with her father or her kingdom.
Is it pride that’s kept you chaste—or is it control? a little voice inside her asked then, and the way it kicked in her, Valentina suspected she wouldn’t care for the answer. She ignored it.
But the point was, she had no idea how to handle men. Not on any kind of intimate level. These past few hours, in fact, were the longest she’d ever spent alone in the company of a man. It simply didn’t happen when she was herself. There were always attendants and aides swarming around Princess Valentina. Always.
She told herself that was why she was having such trouble catching her breath. It was the novelty—that was all. It certainly wasn’t him.
Still, it was almost a relief when the car pulled up in front of a quietly elegant building on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, perched there with a commanding view of Central Park, and came to a stop.
The late-afternoon breeze washed over her when she stepped from the car, smelling improbably of flowers in the urban sprawl of New York City. But Valentina decided to take it as a blessing.
A
chilles remained silent as he escorted her into the building. He only raised his chin in the barest of responses to the greeting that came his way from the doormen in the shiny, obviously upscale lobby, and then he led her into a private elevator located toward the back and behind another set of security guards. It was a gleaming, shining thing that he operated with a key. And it was blessedly without any mirrors.
Valentina wasn’t entirely sure whom she’d see if she looked at her own reflection just then.
There were too many things she didn’t understand churning inside her, and she hadn’t the slightest idea what she was doing here. What on earth she hoped to gain from this odd little lark across the planet, literally in another woman’s shoes.
A break, she reminded herself sternly. A vacation. A little holiday away from all the duties and responsibilities of Princess Valentina, which was more important now than ever. She would give herself over to her single-greatest responsibility in a matter of weeks. She would marry Prince Rodolfo and make both of their fathers and all of their subjects very, very happy.
And a brief escape had sounded like bliss for that split second back there in London—and it still did, when she thought about what waited for her. The terribly appropriate royal marriage. The endlessly public yet circumspect life of a modern queen. The glare of all that attention that she and any children she bore could expect no matter where they went or what they did, yet she could never comment upon lest she seem ungrateful or entitled.
Hers was to wave and smile—that was all. She was marrying a man she hardly knew who would expect the marital version of the same. This was a little breather before the reality of all that. This was a tiny bit of space between her circumscribed life at her father’s side and more of the same at her husband’s.
She couldn’t allow the brooding, unreadable man beside her to ruin it, no matter how unnerving his dark gold gaze was. No matter what fires it kicked up inside her that she hardly dared name.
The elevator doors slid open, delivering them straight into the sumptuous front hall of an exquisitely decorated penthouse. Valentina followed Achilles as he strode deep inside, not bothering to spare her a glance as he moved. She was glad that he walked ahead of her, which allowed her to look around so she could get her bearings without seeming to do so. Because, of course, Natalie would already know her way around this place.
She took in the high ceilings and abundant windows all around. The sweeping stairs that led up toward at least two more floors. The mix of art deco and a deep coziness that suggested this penthouse was more than just a showcase; Achilles actually lived here.
Valentina told herself—sternly—that there was no earthly reason that notion should make her shiver.
She was absurdly grateful when a housekeeper appeared, clucking at Achilles in what it took Valentina longer than it should have to realize was Greek. A language she could converse in, though she would never consider herself anything like fluent. Still, it took her only a very few moments to understand that whatever the danger Achilles exuded and however ruthless the swath he cut through the entire world with a single glance, this woman thought he was wonderful.
She beamed at him.
It would not do to let that get to her, Valentina warned herself as something warm seemed to roll its way through her, pooling in the strangest places. She should not draw any conclusions about a man who was renowned for his fierceness in all things and yet let a housekeeper treat him like family.
The woman declared she would feed him no matter if he was hungry or not, lest he get skinny and weak, and bustled back in the direction of what Valentina assumed was the kitchen.
“You’re looking around as if you are lost,” Achilles murmured, when Valentina didn’t think she’d been looking around at all. “When you have spent more time in this penthouse over the last five years than I have.”
Valentina hated the fact that she started a bit when she realized his attention was focused on her again. And that he was speaking in English, which seemed to make him sound that much more knowing.
Or possibly even mocking, unless she was very much mistaken.
“Mr. Casilieris,” she said, lacing her voice with gentle reprove, “I work for you. I don’t understand why you appear to be quite so interested in what you think is happening inside my head today. Especially when you are so mistaken.”
“Am I?”
“Entirely.” She raised her brows at him. “If I could suggest that we concentrate more on matters of business than fictional representations of what might or might not be going on inside my mind, I think we might be more productive.”
“As productive as we were on the flight over?” His voice was a lazy sort of lash, as amused as it was on target.
Valentina only smiled, hoping she looked enigmatic and strategic rather than at a loss.
“Are you lost?” she asked him after a moment, because neither one of them had moved from the great entry that bled into the spacious living room, then soared up two stories, a quiet testament to his wealth and power.
“Careful, Miss Monette,” Achilles said with a certain dark precision. “As delightful as I have found today’s descent into insubordination, I have a limit. It would be in your best interests not to push me there too quickly.”
Valentina had made a study out of humbly accepting all kinds of news she didn’t wish to hear over the years. She bent her head, let her lips curve a bit—but not enough to be called a smile, only enough to show she was feeling…something. Then she simply stood there quietly. It was amazing how many unpleasant moments she’d managed to get through that way.
So she had no earthly idea why there was a part of her that wanted nothing more than to look Achilles straight in his dark eyes and ask him, Or what?
Somehow, thankfully, she refrained.
Servants came in behind them with luggage—some of which Valentina assumed must be Natalie’s and thus hers—but Achilles did not appear to notice them. He kept his attention trained directly on her.
A lesser woman would have been disconcerted, Valentina thought. Someone unused to being the focus of attention, for example. Someone who hadn’t spent a part of every day since she turned eighteen having cameras in her face to record every flutter of her eyelashes and rip apart every facet of whatever she happened to be wearing and how she’d done her hair. Every expression that crossed her face was a headline.
What was a cranky billionaire next to that?
“There’s no need to repair to our chambers after the flight, I think,” he said softly, and Valentina had that odd notion again. That he could see right through her. That he knew things he couldn’t possibly know. “We can get right to it.”
And there was no reason that that should feel almost…dirty. As if he was suggesting—
But, of course, that was absurd, Valentina told herself staunchly. He was Achilles Casilieris. He was renowned almost as much for his prowess in the sheets as he was for his dominance in the boardroom. In some circles, more.
He tended toward the sort of well-heeled women who were mainstays on various charity circuits. Not for him the actresses or models whom so many other men of his stature preferred. That, apparently, was not good enough for Achilles Casilieris. Valentina had found herself with some time on the plane to research it herself, after Achilles had finished the final call she’d failed entirely to set up to his liking and had sat a while, a fulminating stare fixed on her. Then he’d taken himself off to one of the jet’s finely appointed staterooms, and she’d breathed a bit easier.
A bit.
She’d looked around for a good book to read, preferably a paperback romance because who didn’t like hope and happiness with a bit of sex thrown in to make it spicy, but there had been nothing of the sort. Achilles apparently preferred dreary economic magazines that trumpeted out recession and doom from all quarters. Valentina h
ad kicked off her shoes, tucked her legs beneath her on the smooth leather chair she’d claimed for the flight, and indulged herself with a descent into the tabloid and gossip sites she normally avoided. Because she knew how many lies they told about her, so why would she believe anything she read about anyone else?
Still, they were a great way to get a sense of the kind of coverage a man like Achilles suffered, which would surely tell her…something. But the answer was…not much. He was featured in shots from charity events where other celebrities gathered like cows at a trough, but was otherwise not really a tabloid staple. Possibly because he was so sullen and scowling, she thought.
His taste in bedmates, however, was clear even without being splashed across screeching front pages all over the world. Achilles tended toward women who were less celebrated for their faces and more for their actions. Which wasn’t to say they weren’t all beautiful, of course. That seemed to be a requirement. But they couldn’t only be beautiful.
This one was a civil rights attorney of some renown. That one was a journalist who spent most of her time in terrifying war zones. This one had started a charity to benefit a specific cancer that had taken her younger sister. That one was a former Olympic athlete who had dedicated her post-competition life to running a lauded program for at-risk teenagers.
He clearly had a type. Accomplished, beautiful women who did good in the world and who also happened to be wealthy enough all on their own. The uncharitable part of her suspected that last part was because he knew a woman of independent means would not be as interested in his fortune as a woman who had nothing. No gold diggers need apply, clearly.
But the point was, she knew she was mistaken about his potentially suggestive words. Because “assistant to billionaire” was not the kind of profession that would appeal to a man like Achilles. It saved no lives. It bettered nothing.