Royal Chase (The Royals of Monterra)

by Sariah Wilson

  The limo pulled up in front of an adorable restaurant that overlooked the ocean. Dante helped me out of the car and then escorted me inside.

  Where there was only one table for two, set up with candles and more lemon lilies. Very beautiful. Very romantic. Very intimate.

  Very terrifying.

  I’m engaged, I’m engaged, I’m engaged.

  He helped me to sit, and after I had scooted in, he handed me a menu that had been left on the table for us. “Do you like sushi?”

  “Where I’m from we call that bait.”

  He laughed as he picked up his own menu, and we fell into a comfortable silence. I figured this probably made for boring television. Two people choosing what they wanted to eat.

  Especially because there was no way we would actually eat.

  A waiter came out, and I ordered lobster risotto and the salmon entrée. Dante said that it sounded delicious and that he’d have the same. When the waiter left, we were alone.

  With six people watching us.

  He reached over and put his hand on top of mine. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

  A million different things ran through my mind. What had he been meaning to ask me? Would it be inappropriate? Would I be embarrassed and unable to ever hold my head up in public again after the shame?

  Would I be tempted to say yes?

  “How did you get your name?”

  That was so not where I thought that was going. I pulled my hand away and put both of them in my lap. I couldn’t be trusted while he was holding my hand and giving me all the feels. “My great-grandparents met at a barn raising, and started dating or courting or whatever they called it back then. They shared their first kiss under a lemon tree on the family ranch. They named their first daughter Lemon, and my parents named me after her. My grandparents and parents all shared their first kisses under that tree.”

  “It’s still there?”

  “It is.”

  He looked thoughtful. “You’ll have to show it to me sometime.”

  The skin on the back of my neck felt hot. I prayed that my cheeks weren’t blushing, too. Because the idea of showing him the lemon tree made me think things that I shouldn’t be thinking.

  I hoped he couldn’t tell.

  Chapter 9

  Quick, lemon tarts or lemon meringue?

  I need something sweet to tide me over until I see you again.

  “Favorite color?” he asked.

  “Red. You know that.”

  “I certainly do.” He winked at me, and I was glad he didn’t elaborate. America did not need to know about the time I’d given him a pair of my red underwear.

  “What about you? What’s your favorite color?”

  “It used to be green, but I’m more partial to red now.”

  I turned my head slightly away from the camera because I was sure by now that I was definitely blushing.

  He saved me from further embarrassment by asking another question. “Favorite way to spend your free time?”

  “Watching old movies. You?”

  He leaned back in his chair with one of his playful smiles. “Being with you.”

  “Be serious.”

  “You always think I’m not being serious. I am serious. I love being with you, and you are you, so it works out well for us to spend time together.”

  For the nine billionth time, I reminded myself that he was just a flirt and a flatterer and it meant nothing.

  My heart, unfortunately, was not on the bandwagon.

  “Your turn to ask me a question.”

  I shouldn’t have said it, and it was probably a clear indication of where my mind was. “Who was your first kiss?”

  “Frederica Antonelli.” He pronounced it in that Italian way, rolling his Rs. “I was at boarding school and I was twelve. She kissed me, I’d like to state for the record. I was a helpless victim.”

  “Oh please, I bet you were a charming heartbreaker even back then.”

  “I don’t break hearts. I am very fond of hearts.”

  Okay, now that definitely wasn’t true. It still made me smile, though.

  He didn’t ask me about my first kiss. Probably because I’d already told him, and he didn’t seem keen on bringing the ghost of Sterling into this conversation.

  Our waiter reemerged with a man who introduced himself as the restaurant’s sommelier, who said he wanted to recommend a wine based on our menu choices. Dante held up his hand. “We won’t be drinking tonight, thank you.”

  From the expression on the poor sommelier’s face, it was like Dante had said, “We just murdered your entire family, thank you.” The waiter put his arm around the sommelier when they left. Like he was trying to cheer him up.

  A few minutes and a few questions later, our food arrived. It smelled divine. “Should we?” Dante asked.

  “We can’t. Nobody ever does.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You constantly see dates on this show that involve food, but no one ever eats it.” I glanced over at the crew. “It looks like the couple are so busy talking that they just don’t have the time to eat, but I suspect it’s more that people don’t want to be caught on TV with a mouthful of food, or to end up with spinach stuck between their teeth. I know I don’t want to be filmed eating.”

  He sat for a minute, looking at me. “That’s ridiculous. Life is to be enjoyed, and food is an essential part of that. It should be savored and eaten. Not just looked at. Quest two, begun.”

  “Quest two?”

  “Where you get to eat this delicious food before it gets cold without having it being filmed. Just follow my lead.”

  He started mouthing words and paused. I caught on to what he was doing, so I mimicked him and it looked like we were having a conversation with no sound.

  “Cut! Cut!” the director called frantically behind us. “Somebody go out to the van and get a fresh pair of mike packs! The batteries on those have died!”

  “Eat fast,” Dante whispered before he shoveled a huge portion of salmon into his mouth.

  “Doesn’t eating fast negate that whole ‘food should be savored’ thing?”

  “Shh. Hurry.”

  So I started eating as quickly as I could, but I kept laughing and practically choking. He even reached over to help finish off what I couldn’t.

  By the time the crew returned their attention to us, dinner was gone and we were both laughing with food in our mouths.

  “What happened to the food?” the director asked.

  Dante cleared his mouth first. “It was delicious. Thank you. Oh, look at that. It would appear my mike pack is working fine.”

  I swallowed the last bit. “Mine seems to be working now, too.”

  The director sighed and said to clear away the plates and to have the kitchen send out more. “Why?” I asked.

  “The audience will want to know what happened to the food.”

  “Tell them we ate it and it was fantastic,” Dante offered.

  “It doesn’t work that way. They have to see you eat it.”

  “Maybe they won’t notice.”

  “Oh, they’ll notice. They’ll make memes and YouTube videos in slow motion where they circle the table. Don’t talk until the food comes back. We don’t want to miss anything.”

  “Have I proven myself, my lady?” Dante whispered. He had that dangerous twinkle in his eye. The one that made me forget myself.

  “Most definitely.” He reached over to hold my hand again, and this time I let him.

  The newly delivered food sat while we talked more. It was always so easy with Dante. I could carry a conversation easily by myself (Kat was never much for talking), but I never had to with him. Even the silences didn’t seem awkward.

  “Should we ask to see the dessert menu?”

  “Really? Sterling never lets . . .” I stopped. I shouldn’t compare. It wasn’t fair.

  Dante’s eyes narrowed. “Any man who denies you dessert should be horsewhipped
.”

  I felt like I should defend the mutual decision to stay away from sugar and all related carbs. “I don’t want to get fat.” He still looked skeptical. “Please. You wouldn’t want me to get fat, either.”

  “Then there’d just be more of you to love,” he said conspiratorially, that devilish gleam in his eye making me very glad I was already sitting down.

  “Said no man ever,” I retorted, trying to ignore the sound of blood rushing in my ears. “You know, in fairy tales, every time somebody’s trying to fatten you up it’s because they want to cook you and eat you.”

  “I bet you taste delicious.”

  Serious heart palpitations. “I’m probably all gamey. Or maybe, true to my name, I really am sour.”

  “Sweet and tart. I already told you what you taste like, as I recall.”

  I recalled. I recalled very, very well.

  “The limo is here,” one of the PAs came over to tell us. Dante stood up and went over to help me out of my chair. He offered me his arm again, and I was very grateful that I had sworn off drinking for the time being. Because impaired judgment would make everything worse.

  Even without it, was I was fixing to do something stupid before my brain caught up.

  He told me that we were going to a charity ball. He didn’t know who was running it or what it was for, but the show wanted footage of us dancing surrounded by other people in formal gear.

  “Haven’t we already done the ball thing to death back in Monterra?” He was sitting closer to me in the car than he probably should have been. I should have moved. I shouldn’t have been playing with fire. I liked him being close. I liked the warmth that he radiated. I liked the way it made me feel.

  “I know. This is out of my hands. I would have taken you somewhere else, if it were up to me.”

  “Like where?”

  The passing streetlights occasionally lit up his striking profile, and I quickly turned away when he looked at me to say, “You’ll see.”

  I both liked and didn’t like that.

  The event was like every other charity ball my parents had ever dragged me to. Too-rich people spending too much money on mediocre dinners, and then drinking and dancing the rest of the night away.

  “I have to tell you, it’s nice to be here and not have anybody know who I am.”

  It was one of those things where you wanted to say, “Poor little rich boy,” but I really did feel bad for him. It couldn’t have been easy to always be noticed and always be photographed everywhere he went in Europe.

  And once this show premiered, it would start happening in America, too. My heart went out to him. I wanted to be there for him. To protect him. To make his life easier. To make him happy.

  The realization shocked my system like a lightning bolt hitting a rod. The physical attraction was one thing, but this was emotional. Obviously, I cared about him. He was my friend. But this was something more.

  It made me feel like I was about to have a panic attack.

  “Let’s dance.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I had just had a major life epiphany, and he wanted to dance and hold me close, his strong arms wrapped around me, my hand in his, and it would be more than I could take.

  “Sometimes I think you’re afraid to touch me, Limone.”

  “Afraid?” My voice hitched when I said it. I hoped he didn’t notice.

  The self-satisfied smirk on his face let me know he had.

  “Yes, afraid. Like you think you’ll lose all control if we touch.”

  That irked me. I wasn’t some kind of deranged wild woman who would ravish him on the dance floor.

  At least, I thought I wasn’t.

  “I promise to be a gentleman as long as you promise to be a lady,” he said. I hated him teasing me, but I hated knowing he was right even more. Because when he touched me, held me, it was like dropping a blazing torch on a field of dry grass.

  We moved into position, and Dante stepped back as I stepped forward. I knew all the waltz steps perfectly, having had them drilled into my head at a very young age, but he was unlike any other partner I’d ever been with. No other man had danced with me and made my heart want to beat out of my chest, or made my stomach flip and flop, or made my whole body tighten up with anticipation.

  I was in serious trouble.

  “Limone, I want to ask you for a favor.”

  The last time Dante had said those exact same words to me had been the second time he kissed me. We were in Monterra, and he was getting ready to play a game of snow polo (horses running on a frozen lake—I was shocked by it too) and he sent me a text and asked me to meet him in his room.

  I had spent the entire morning in meetings with various press secretaries as I went over my plans to expand the brand and online presence of the royal family.

  Given what had happened the previous night, I was glad for the distraction.

  I had knocked on his bedroom door and he called out, “Come in!”

  “Are you decent?”

  “Depends on who you ask.”

  I rolled my eyes, even though he couldn’t see me. “I meant are you dressed yet?”

  “Come in and find out.” Which caused a fluttery feeling in my stomach I didn’t want to acknowledge.

  He was in his snow polo uniform, which was a long-sleeved red polo shirt, knee-high black boots, and tight white pants that showed off a drool-worthy amount of his muscled legs. He was in the middle of making his bed.

  “Want to lend me a hand?”

  It was probably not a good plan to go over to his bed. “I’d love to help out, but I can’t. I once killed a man in a bed-making accident.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  “I don’t really like to clean.”

  He turned to look at me as he organized his pillows. “I heard you were a bit of a slob.”

  “Who told you that?” He smiled in response, and I wanted to guess he’d heard it from Kat, but seriously, anyone who had ever stepped foot in my room would have been able to tell him. It made me uncomfortable that he was talking with other people about me.

  He pulled his comforter into place. It wasn’t very neat looking, but I had to give him props for making the bed himself and not relying on the palace staff to do it. He sat down on his bed and faced me. I found an armchair across the room and settled into it.

  “So . . . things with Salvatore are . . .”

  I should have known he’d bring it up. I just wanted to forget. “Over.” I don’t know why he asked. He had been with me when I caught Salvatore having sex with a woman behind the nightclub. When, yet again, I had chosen a man who cheated on me the first chance he got.

  “He didn’t deserve you.”

  “Probably not. But you can’t really help who you’re attracted to, can you?”

  “No, you can’t help that.” I knew he was talking about me, and I suddenly found my shoes fascinating. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.” He looked so concerned.

  “I’m fine. Keeping busy. Is that the only reason you asked me to meet you?” I wanted to sound calm, even if my insides were all churned up.

  “No. I wanted to ask you for a favor.”

  “Sure. What?”

  He smiled. “No, a favor. When knights used to joust, ladies would give them their favor. Some kind of token, like a ribbon or scarf, that was usually the colors of the lady’s house. Knights would put it on their lance; I want to put your favor on my mallet.”

  That was a weird thing to ask for. “My house doesn’t have colors.”

  “Maybe your favorite color then?”

  “Okay. Give me a second.” I went back to my room. I never wore ribbons, because I wasn’t six, and I had never been all that into scarves. But I needed something small that could fit around a handle.

  I literally had nothing that would work. My shirt was too big. I didn’t have red socks. My lipstick wouldn’t work
. The only thing I had was . . . I picked up a pair of red lace underwear from my drawer.

  I wasn’t naïve enough to believe that if I took these back with me nothing would happen. I knew if I handed these over to Dante, that he would definitely think it meant something.

  And I couldn’t say it didn’t. I was feeling depressed and bad about myself and the world in general. Not because I’d had any feelings for Salvatore, but because of what he represented. Another cheating man. Who wanted someone other than me.

  I wanted to feel wanted. Dante wanted me. We had already kissed once, and I knew he would kiss me again.

  He was very tempting. Like in an Eve-introducing-Adam-to-apples kind of way. Gorgeous, masculine, charming, smart—all the things I loved in a man. It would be fun.

  Maybe it was wrong to use him that way. It was another bad habit of mine—some loser would cheat on me, and I’d find some random guy to take my mind off of it for a few hours. After which I would feel sick and gross for treating myself so badly, and always promised that I would change. That next time I would do better.

  But this time I wouldn’t let things go very far. I would keep it casual and under control. A few kisses never hurt anybody, right?

  I decided to ignore the fact that it made no sense that I had dated Salvatore to stay away from Dante and now I would use Dante to feel better about myself. I never claimed to be totally logical. Or sensible. As I was about to prove.

  I came back into his room and shut the door behind me. He looked up at me expectantly, and I walked over to where he sat on the bed, pulling the underwear out of my pocket and handing them to him.

  He quickly realized what I had done, and said, “I don’t think I understand.”

  “Don’t you?” I stepped closer to him so that my legs were positioned in between his, and I rested my hands on his shoulders. I liked the way my heart went into a free fall whenever I was this close to him. How my whole body seemed to hum with anticipation.

  He put both of his hands on my waist, and I let out a little gasp. My pulse slowed and thudded loudly.

  Being near him was like that moment before you stepped out on stage, waiting in the wings for your cue, nervous and excited and giddy, adrenaline pumping through your veins, your nerves crackling with excitement. Kissing him before had been like doing the best routine of your life in front of a packed theater, with everyone standing and applauding you.