A Royal Affair Book One: A paranormal, time travel, royal romance

by Christina George

  He shook his head, “It’s a long story, but I can’t, and yes, it does. Though my parents have an arranged marriage, and they are happy. Sometimes,” he added quickly.

  His gaze drifted from Emma to the fire while he thought about his life and how it would change once he was engaged to his arranged bride. The thought made his heart ache. But the choice was not his to make.

  “I haven’t dated, not in a long while, because this is not the sort of thing a girl wants to hear. Besides, I’ve never been attracted to anyone, I mean really attracted to anyone, for so many years, until I met you.” His eyes were on her again, hot and wanting.

  “Why tell me, Peter? Why not simply sleep with me and have fun and then disappear into your life?”

  “I respect your grandfather. He’s a good friend, and I could never do that—not to you or to anyone else. But…” he licked his lips and said softly, “I want to keep seeing you, and I want to keep kissing you.”

  He touched her hand, and this time Emma didn’t pull away. “The thing is,” his voice was low, “I have nothing to offer you. Nothing at all, beyond the summer and,” he looked around, “this.”

  “I’m not looking for anything, either.” Emma surprised herself by admitting it.

  Peter leaned in and kissed her softly on the lips, “I want you to know I can’t offer you the life you deserve, and once I’m engaged this has to end. I won’t cheat, under any circumstances.” His eyes held her, “But there is something so magical about you. Although I am not prone to mystical fantasy, it’s as though my heart already knows you.”

  Emma nodded. She knew exactly what he meant. “Fall?” Emma tilted her head and he nodded.

  “Why don’t you think about it, Emma? Think about it until tomorrow, and maybe we can have dinner and see where it goes. I need you to know I have never before considered having an affair when the ending is known before we begin, so if you decide it’s too much for you, I will understand.” He paused and took a deep breath, drinking in her sweet, warm scent. “I want this, and you, more than I have wanted anything or anyone in a very long time.”

  Yes, Emma knew exactly how he felt, because she felt the same way.

  chapter 11

  Peyton gasped, “He’s what?”

  “Almost engaged to be married, to someone he’s never met.” Emma nestled her cell phone between her chin and her shoulder while she reorganized the books on the literary fiction shelf. Customers loved taking books out and putting them back in the wrong place. If her grandfather saw this mess, he’d have a fit.

  “I don’t get it. Who does that anymore?” her cousin demanded.

  Emma finished replacing the book and took the phone in her hand, “I don’t know. I guess it’s a family thing. His brother has to do it, too.”

  “Who is she, I mean the girl?”

  Emma shrugged, “A woman from Romania.”

  “Sounds hairy,” Peyton said, and she and Emma both snickered.

  “Did you Google him? Maybe there’s an article that will explain it. Maybe his family is broke, and they need the money.”

  Emma thought back to the beach, and his sprawling beachside property. Though she hadn’t seen his house, she imagined it was as impressive as any in the area.

  “No, I don’t think he’s broke, and no, I won’t Google him. I think I want to let this unfold without my interference.”

  “You should at least check in on him. Have you gotten any kind of a sense of what he’s about?” Peyton was starting to sound impatient.

  Emma knew her cousin cared—a great deal, in fact—and Emma loved her for it.

  But she wanted to be normal. She didn’t want to try and conjure up images from a past life. She wanted to simply be, and moreover, she wanted to be with Peter. It had come to her in a flash around three a.m., long after Peter dropped her off at the store.

  He kissed her goodnight, and then he was gone. Emma remembered watching him drive away while feeling an ache of regret. That’s when she saw it again, a blip of the palace and then, fear. But fear of what? She’d have to dig deeper if she wanted to find out, and she had no intention of digging at all.

  “I don’t want to. I simply want…” Emma trailed off. What did she want?

  “He’s the one, Em. He’s the guy. I can feel it.”

  Emma walked to the register and started clearing off the counter before the first customers arrived. “He can’t be. He’s getting married.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “The thing is, Peyton, I can’t not see him again. It’s odd, it’s like…”

  “…You’ve always known him,” Peyton finished.

  Indeed it was. “Yeah, exactly like that.”

  “It’s past life stuff,” Peyton offered, her voice soft.

  “I know. I get it. I only…I don’t want to look, not yet. Looking into the past has never helped.”

  “Maybe it will this time,” her cousin said.

  “Promise me you won’t Google him. Let me see him tonight, and let’s see what happens.”

  Emma could hear Peyton’s surprise when she said, “You’re seeing him again so soon?”

  “I need to, and we agreed we would.” Emma’s neck prickled as she remembered his kiss from the night before, lying on a blanket at the beach, his warm, soft mouth on hers. She wanted to feel it again.

  She touched her mouth, as if the memory of his kiss still lingered there. Her heart kicked up at the thought of being with him again.

  chapter 12

  Peter sat in his office at his house, gazing out a long window overlooking the beach. He wasn’t going into the city today, since working from home was easier and faster. Also, he had company coming later.

  Emma.

  His gaze drifted to the sand and the fire pit where they kissed and held each other and talked last night. The memory of their kiss rocked him to his bones. He slept very little last night, tossing and turning, his body burning with desire for this woman he’d met a mere twenty-four hours before. But her presence, her beauty and lovely nature, sparked him in a way nothing and no one had ever before.

  He tried to focus on work but found himself remembering her laugh, or the way she seemed guarded when they first arrived at the restaurant, and when she announced she was done with celebrities. Fortunately, he was a lot of things, but a celebrity wasn’t one of them. Although what he actually was might seem even worse, at least as far as Emma was concerned.

  The door to his office opened and a shorter, slightly balding man stood stiffly in the doorway.

  “Sir, I have given the staff the night off as you requested. Will there be anything else?”

  Peter turned to his faithful butler and shook his head. “No, thank you, Frederick. You may have the evening off as well, if you’d like.”

  The man said, “Thank you, Your Highness. I will take my leave shortly. Now all is in readiness for your evening.”

  Your Highness.

  There it was. His truth. At the end of the day, Peter was not merely a corporate lawyer. He was a Prince of Belgium. Second in line to the throne. He’d never be King, of course. His brother Christophe was the heir apparent, which was fine with Peter. He would far prefer to live his life as quietly as he could, and as far removed as possible from the royal world into which he’d been born.

  But he needed to tell Emma. He had wanted to the night before, but he was afraid the arranged marriage and the royal family would have sent her screaming for the hills. It still might, but at least he wouldn’t be dropping both of those bombs in her lap at once. Maybe, just maybe, if she accepted the coming engagement, his royal duties and connections might not the deal-breaker he thought.

  Or maybe they would be.

  He took a deep breath while the thought of losing her, of never seeing her again, stabbed him right through the heart.

 
; chapter 13

  The house was impressive. No, impressive wasn’t the right word. It was overwhelming.

  Peter’s estate was almost completely isolated by rolling, perfectly groomed, grassy hills, and surrounded by a thick forest that acted as a barrier between the estate and the surrounding area.

  The gates at the front of the property swung open slowly while Emma (driving her grandfather’s old Chevy because a typical New Yorker doesn’t own a car), drove through the tall, heavy, wrought iron gate. She felt out of place and completely inappropriate in this twenty-year-old vehicle.

  Maybe there was a side or back entrance for the help she should use, because it’s how she felt. Peter did seem refined and distinguished, but he had not seemed filthy rich, which he clearly was. But then again, she’d only known him for a day, so, you know, maybe she wasn’t the best judge of who he was. Clearly, however, he wasn’t being married off for money. It seemed he had more than enough of his own.

  Emma drove up the tree-lined, curving road leading to the…for lack of a better term…palace. The structure looked right out of the Middle Ages, with a red-tiled roof that peaked in places and three turrets placed randomly along the roof.

  Though it was hard to tell from the outside, Emma was sure there were more than ten bedrooms, plus who knew how many rooms downstairs. It was built entirely out of stone that varied in color only slightly, mostly around the framing of the windows. She drove over the surprisingly smooth cobblestone entry area, trying to find a concealed place to park so her car wouldn’t be too conspicuous. Maybe there was a servants’ entry around the back. A house this size had to have one, and probably a dozen people staffing it.

  She was used to the homes in the Hamptons, but she had never expected this, even in this part of New York. After being unable to locate anything looking like a servants’ entrance along the massive, circular driveway, she parked as far away from the large (very large) gothic-style front door as she could.

  As she stepped out of the car she smoothed her dress, feeling like a faded flower against the massive, resplendent backdrop of this estate. Walking towards the door, she saw it open, and Peter (looking again as though he’d stepped out of the pages of a magazine) smiled at her. As she approached him, her heart sped up, and she could have sworn she saw the glint of humor in his eye.

  “Why did you park so far away?” he asked.

  Emma could see the glint widening to almost a grin.

  “I’ve seen your grandfather’s car before, you know. You shouldn’t be ashamed to drive it.”

  Emma stood in front of him. “I’m not,” she said, slightly defiant. Who the hell is this guy, anyway?

  “New Yorkers don’t own cars,” she said, and Peter took her hand, turned it over, and kissed her wrist, so lightly she almost couldn’t feel his lips, but her body knew. Yep, it sure did. It almost hummed aloud.

  Then he did grin, and it was nothing but pure, unadulterated trouble. At the sight of it, the devil on her left shoulder jumped up and down. Oh, please, can we have him?

  “It’s good to see you again,” he said as he stepped back to let her inside, giving her hand a gentle squeeze before letting it go.

  Then he stood aside, letting Emma explore. The entryway was massive, with stone floors and high-beamed ceilings and a big, sweeping staircase as its centerpiece. She glanced around, noticing several rooms to the left before she focused on the large living room on her right.

  “This place is unreal,” she said as she stepped inside.

  “If it were up to me, I would have never bought something so big,” Peter said quickly.

  Emma walked farther down the hall, peeking into the rooms. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I need to ask. How can a lawyer afford this? Unless you’re on retainer for Bill Gates or someone else in his tax bracket.”

  This was the perfect moment, his opening to tell her everything. But something nudged the confession away. Fear? Fear that she’d run and disappear from his life, perhaps? She was already teetering on the brink, he could tell.

  The house was too much. He should have asked her to meet him in New York for dinner, maybe later going back to his apartment there, which was far less imposing.

  “Family money,” he began, “This place actually belongs to my parents and—”

  “I bet you have a ton of staff here, too,” Emma said, interrupting him while she walked into the living room, which had a fireplace big enough for a person (or several) to stand in. The floors were wood, with side seating around the big window overlooking the grounds.

  “Yes, but the staff is off tonight.” Peter followed her in and walked up to her, pulling her into his arms. “I made our dinner.” He pressed his lips against her hair. “Afterward we can talk.”

  . . .

  She turned to him, and when she did, he kissed her, deep and hard. Her need for this man shot through her. Emma put her arms around him and pulled him closer.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he said softly.

  Emma could no longer feel her legs. “I am, too.”

  “Let’s go eat out on the patio,” he said, his voice low and sensual. He took her hand, leading her to the kitchen, which was another impressive room with a fireplace (of course), and state-of-the-art everything. The breakfast area was on one end, with a table tucked into a half-moon-shaped corner and floor-to-ceiling windows looking out across the perfectly maintained, colorful garden.

  Emma walked over and peered out the window. She could see a pool off in the distance, and there on the patio was a table set for two.

  “I took the liberty of opening a bottle of white, the same one you had last night at dinner and said you liked.”

  Wow, thoughtful. Emma followed him into the kitchen. “I’d love a glass. But you didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

  Peter raised a brow at her. “What, the wine? No, I had a bottle in the cellar.”

  “You have a wine cellar?”

  He nodded. “We do.” He uncorked the bottle and let it breathe for a few moments while he selected two large-bowl wine glasses and brought them out from the cabinet.

  “Of course. How about a dungeon? Do you have a dungeon or two?”

  Peter suppressed a chuckle. “We used to. I use it for a gym now.”

  Emma leaned on the center island, watching Peter pour the wine. “How many bedrooms? Ten?”

  He handed her a glass. “Twelve upstairs, four downstairs. The master bedroom, which I use when I’m here, has a separate wing.”

  Of course it does. For a moment she felt like running. Get the hell out, her mind kept screaming. No good can come from dating Mr. Perfect, who happens to also live in a palace that used to have a dungeon.

  But the thing was, she wasn’t dating anyone else. They were going to have sex, and, Emma assumed, likely the best sex of her life. Then he was going to marry some chick he’d never met and have great sex with her, and Emma would be history.

  Emma was surprised to discover that knowing how it was going to end was unexpectedly comforting. She didn’t like endings anyway. You try and try, and then the other person tells you they met someone else, or the timing isn’t right, or they can’t bear being around you anymore…and you’re history.

  Yes, much easier this way.

  chapter 14

  Although Peter kept dinner simple—chicken with risotto made from scratch and a summer salad with candied walnuts, goat cheese, and a homemade raspberry vinaigrette—dinner was amazing. Clearly the man could cook.

  “I’m impressed,” Emma said as she set down her fork. “Is there no end to your talents?”

  The devil on her shoulder practically squealed with delight as she cocked her head in a carefree, flirty way—something she rarely did, because flirting wasn’t second nature for Emma like it was for other girls. Most of the time she worried she might look learning impaired
or drunk.

  But now, after a glass (or two) of wine, the setting sun around them, and this almost fairy-tale home, Emma was feeling brave. Brave enough, in fact, to hold his eyes with a gaze that screamed, You should take me now, before I spontaneously combust.

  Peter added a splash more wine to her glass and then to his own. “I have my limitations,” he said, and Emma could swear she saw a shadow cross his face.

  “To that end, Emma, there is something we should discuss, something you need to know about me before this goes any further.”

  Emma’s carefree, flirtatious mood shriveled a little. “There’s more?”

  Peter nodded and stood up. Pacing restlessly to the edge of the patio, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked out across the grounds. Quietly Emma got up and walked over to him, placing a hand on his back.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, and he turned, his troubled eyes meeting hers.

  “I know this is an odd arrangement, but I don’t want it to be a dishonest one, so I think I should tell you about my background and my family.”

  Uh, oh. “Are they gangsters, or into anything illegal?”

  He shook his head, “No, of course not.” He pulled her into an embrace. “They’re honest people, but they’re also—”

  “Then I don’t care,” she said firmly.

  He kissed the top of her head. “I think perhaps you will care. In fact, you might consider it a deal-breaker.”

  Emma stepped back, “Then don’t. Don’t tell me. I don’t care. I’ll never meet them. They’ll never meet me. It doesn’t matter.

  “When I came here tonight, I thought this was the worst idea ever. I mean look at this,” she gestured with her free hand to encompass the property. “My dinky, dingy apartment can fit into your house about twenty times. You have a wine cellar, and I get my wine at Trader Joe’s. We are so mismatched it’s not even funny, but still, I like you. You’re kind, genuine, polite—albeit slightly spoiled— and a great kisser, and I bet you look amazingly good on paper. In the real world, though, we wouldn’t last a day.