He helped Alice into her black wool coat and, despite her resistance, insisted that she use his as a blanket.
They travelled back to Mayfair, passing by the Natural History Museum and Hyde Park, both decked in festive lights, in silence. He clenched his fists to stop himself from reaching for Alice, who despite the coats was still shivering fiercely. He wanted to make all of this better for her.
Outside a department store, people were standing on the pavements looking at the Christmas scenes in the window fronts. He had hoped for a night where he could forget about the life, the friends and team he was leaving behind and the unwanted future that stood in front of him. But instead he had half frightened his house guest to death. Yet another example of him getting things wrong.
‘I’m ashamed to be your father.’
His father’s words to him as a fourteen-year-old boy. Words only uttered once, but conveyed ever since in every look and criticism of his life choices. In his father’s eyes he brought shame on the family and Luis did nothing to combat his father’s opinion, wanting to antagonise him, wanting to hurt him as much as his father’s behaviour in the aftermath of his mother’s death had scarred him. They had once been close, had shared a passion for sport. Intuitively they had understood one another, mirroring each other’s personality. They were both outspoken, impetuous, extrovert. But after his mother’s death his father had withdrawn into himself, had become ever more defensive and irritable. Their once close relationship had crumbled and Luis had learnt the fickleness of love. He had learnt to never fully engage with or trust another person. He had learnt that you never truly know what others were truly thinking and wanting and feeling, beyond the smoke and mirrors that collapsed in a moment of crisis. He had learnt that a life lightly led, a transitory life, was far more preferable to one where you overly relied on others. He was never going to overly rely on another person again and he certainly wasn’t going to allow a relationship to destroy him as had happened to his father following his mother’s death.
Sure, he had a reputation for dating countless women, but that reputation was media-driven and one he didn’t go out of his way to dispel, given how much it maddened his father. He enjoyed socialising. Had a large circle of friends. He adored the buzz, the distraction of other people; it suited his personality...and the need to forget the hole inside himself.
A hole that Alice O’Connor’s reserved and watchful presence made a whole lot bigger as though she were holding a magnifying glass up to it.
He offered her a smile. And his heart tugged when she attempted a smile in return, heat flaming in her cheeks. She looked away towards the lights of Green Park and the groups of people heading to the nightlife in Piccadilly, but not before he saw tears glisten in her eyes.
The cab swung down a side street, the passing street lights flickering over the soft, full shape of her lips, the long, straight line of her nose, the sweep of her eyelashes, the darkness of her brows, that perfectly framed her once again closed and reserved expression.
He reached out his hand, resting it next to where her hand lay on his coat. She startled when his finger touched hers, an inch of skin on skin.
Her gaze swept back to meet his; it was wary, as though she was trying to gauge whether she could trust him. He tried to shrug off the disappointment that came when her hand shifted away.
* * *
Alice walked to her bedroom door. Stopped. Spun around. Paced the soft, dove-grey carpet, circling the blush-pink two-seater sofa at the centre of the room. She owed Luis a proper apology and explanation. But should she wait until the morning, when she’d be less emotional?
The past hour had been nothing short of a nightmare. Luis must think that she was completely unstable. The first time they met she had ensnared him in a kiss and tonight she had bolted out of the party with no explanation.
How was she going to explain her behaviour to him, without having to unearth memories and feelings she wanted to keep buried? It wouldn’t be so hard if he had just been disbelieving and impatient with her like her ex, Rory, had used to be when her dad would call her phone number. It was over a decade ago but Rory’s irritation with her fears, how he’d used to ask her if she was sure that her dad was as bad as she claimed he was, had made her question her own sanity and her memories and reading of her own life. No wonder their relationship hadn’t lasted more than a year. And since then her romance history had consisted of a litany of disastrous first dates, that she had half-heartedly gone on in the first place, giving into her best friend Toni’s insistence that she couldn’t remain single for ever. Her dates had included guys she had thought were lovely and kind at first, who made her feel hopeful but then would let slip towards the end of the night that they were already in a relationship. Others had thought it was okay to lie about most things—their age, their job and their interests—in order to secure a date. The guy who had given Toni the best laugh was the one who had turned up to the restaurant carrying a bag of ‘leather items’ he thought they might use later that night. Alice had walked straight out, swearing never to look at a dating app again.
She approached the bedroom door again, placed her hand on the doorknob and took a deep breath. She was his guest. The least she could do was apologise again for dragging him away from the party early. She closed her eyes, remembering the image of him standing on the pavement, the irritation in his eyes, in the tight scowl on his mouth, softening to concern. The street light had flashed on the beads of water dripping down the sharp edges of his face, his soaked shirt stuck to his torso like a second skin. For a moment she had wanted to weep with relief that he was there for her. But thankfully she had pulled herself up on that particularly delusional hope—her judgement on men had been disastrous in the past and she could see zero reason why that would have changed now. Especially with a thrill-seeking, restless prince with a reputation for playing the field.
She found him in the basement kitchen. He had showered too and was now dressed in grey cotton lounge pants and a navy long-sleeved top. Leaning against the kitchen counter, he was eating trifle from a crystal serving bowl, not pausing when she appeared.
‘Would you like some?’ he asked, nodding to the bowl.
‘I don’t like custard.’
‘All year or just in protest at Christmas?’
Despite her nerves, or perhaps because of them, she laughed. He raised an eyebrow. No wonder. Her laugh was bordering on hysterical.
Using her sopping dress as an excuse to escape, she took refuge in the adjacent laundry room and tried to gather herself as she placed it in the washing machine.
Back in the kitchen once again, she found Luis now tucking into a fist-sized piece of Christmas pudding covered in a small mountain of cream.
Shaking her head when he offered her some, she cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry about earlier... I really thought it was someone else following me.’ A drop of water from her hair oozed down onto her pyjama top. She shivered in memory of how cold she had felt as she had hidden in the shop doorway.
He nodded to the counter behind her. ‘I made you a pot of tea. There’s milk in the fridge if you take it—I’m assuming you don’t take sugar.’
Tea was exactly what she wanted. But why was he making the assumption that she didn’t want sugar? ‘Why would you think that?’
Amusement shone in his eyes. ‘Because I reckon you like to do everything by the book, including having a clean diet...’ his eyes trailed over to the chocolate tin on the counter ‘...although perhaps at times, despite yourself, you are human like us all and give in to temptation.’
She tried to pretend she had no idea what he was talking about and poured some tea. God, was she that obvious? Well, they said sugar was good for shock. Opening the kitchen cupboard where she knew the sugar was kept, she took down the silver canister and put a teaspoon into her cup.
Approaching the fridge, which Luis was standing in front
of as though guarding its contents, she said, ‘I need the milk.’
Opening the fridge, he took out a milk carton and was about to pour it into her cup when he stopped and said gently, ‘Why don’t you put it down on the counter?’
Damn. She hadn’t realised that her hands were trembling so badly. It was as if the cold from earlier had seeped into her bones. And as he poured the milk into her cup she realised just how tired she was. Not just because of what’d happened tonight, but she was tired to her bones trying to work full-time in the café, sometimes working double shifts to pay her rent and trying to complete her PhD. And she realised just how nice it was to have someone to do something as simple as make her a cup of tea. Living alone gave her the independence she craved...but a solo life had little softness. There was no one to cheer you up on a bad day, to help pick up the pieces when things went wrong.
With a smile that undid her with its soft kindness, Luis pushed the teacup in her direction.
Shifting back to the other side of the kitchen island, she sipped the tea, trying to keep her expression neutral when the overly sweet liquid made her want to grimace.
She took another sip, preferring the sickly taste to explaining why she had fled from him earlier. But Luis deserved some honesty. ‘I...’ She paused, a heat spreading from her stomach out onto her skin. ‘I saw my father tonight, at the club. We don’t speak.’
‘You’re scared of him?’
She inhaled at his question. ‘Scared, no...’ She wanted to turn away, say goodnight. Forget about her father.
‘Do you want me to call the police?’
‘No. No, nothing like that. I just got a shock. I didn’t expect to see him. My aunt had told me that he had moved to France a few years ago to be a rugby coach at a club there. I didn’t want to speak to him—it never turns out well when we do. I needed to get away, and when you followed me out of the club I thought you were him.’
‘I’m sorry that I scared you.’
She smiled at that. ‘You’re not the one who should be apologising. I ruined your night.’
‘There’ll be plenty more of them—don’t worry.’
Was there a hint of boredom in his voice? But she shook off that thought. Why would there be? Luis was a party animal.
‘Has he hurt you, Alice?’
The gentleness of his voice grabbed her by the heart. Crazy tears filled her eyes. The stress of her PhD was getting to her. She swallowed hard. ‘No...not really.’ And then she made the mistake of looking up to see Luis move across the kitchen to stand opposite her. Not too close, but near enough for her to see the lines of tension at the sides of his mouth.
‘He’s an alcoholic, not that he’d admit to that. He used to be a professional rugby player. He had to retire early due to injury and found a friend in alcohol. He never hurt me...’
She stopped, her heart pounding. Remembering the arguments, the thuds and the silence downstairs that would follow. How her mother would try to cover up her bruises the following day.
‘But he did hurt others...your mum?’
She nodded at that. Her heart pulling apart to remember how her mum had used to try to pretend it never happened. Her shame of it transferring to Alice. It was something not to be spoken about. How could the town’s famous son, Freddie O’Connor, possibly be a domestic abuser? He was the genius rugby player who charmed everyone in his wake. Even his wife and daughter found it hard to comprehend the dichotomy in his personality.
‘We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, Alice.’
She nodded, grateful that he wasn’t going to push her, and touched her hair, glad to have an excuse to get away. ‘I need to dry my hair.’ She went to move away but stopped. ‘Thank you for being so...so kind tonight.’
He made an amused sound. ‘You sound surprised.’
‘I guess.’
‘Maybe we have misjudged one another.’
Taken aback, she studied him for a moment, the seriousness in his expression making her wonder who the true Prince Luis of Monrosa was. Had she totally misread him? Perhaps.
‘Sleep well...and be kind to yourself; none of this was of your making.’
She nodded to his quietly spoken words, and climbed the stairs, her heart pounding in her chest at how utterly dangerous and beguiling he was.
CHAPTER THREE
ONE HUNDRED PER cent focus. That was what she needed to give this thesis. Plain and simple. Just get the words down and forget about that voice in her head that was telling her to give up, that she was an imposter and that there was no way she was going to finish it.
For God’s sake, Alice, are you going to crumble now, when finishing it is within your grasp? Where has your fire, your determination disappeared to? Where’s your passion for this career that has consumed you for the past decade? Remember how you used to say you’d prove the father who had told you that you were wasting your time on a subject with zero employment possibilities wrong when you made something of yourself?
She scrolled through the pages and pages of her already written words on her laptop screen, barely remembering writing them—it was as though they belonged to someone else.
She breathed against the panic in her chest. She was scared. Scared of not finishing this. Scared of what her future would look like. What if she didn’t get a lecturing position? How many years would she have wasted chasing that dream? And what if she did get a position and it wasn’t what she wanted after all?
Her passion for history was gone.
As evidenced by today. Here she was, sitting in a near empty reading room in the British Library, with its perfect lighting, silence and soothing architecture for inspiration. But instead of producing a blockbusting word count she was just faffing about. She knew what sections of the thesis she needed to address. There were gaps in her exploration and analysis of Lady Radford’s writing and advocacy on the right to a free education for all. In her head she knew the points she wanted to make, but articulating them, actually typing the words, was proving impossible.
She closed her eyes. Breathed deeply.
Don’t panic. You have this under control. You are strong.
She shrank inside herself, a series of images floating in the darkness behind her lids. Christmas Eve in her childhood home. The year her dad had been away all summer. The laughter. The unspoken disbelief that this year things might be different. They had gone Christmas shopping together and afterwards had eaten in their local Chinese restaurant. But on their way out he had bumped into some fans, complete strangers to him, who had persuaded him to join them for a drink in a local bar. Her mother had pleaded with him. Had cried when she had driven herself and Alice home. Alice had woken in the early hours of Christmas morning to the sound of her mother’s scream for him to get out and then the sound of her body slamming against a wall.
She ground her teeth, anger flaring inside her. He had ruined her childhood. He was not going to ruin her future.
She needed to delve deeper into Lady Radford’s influence on government policy.
But instead an uncomfortable thought and accompanying heat flamed her skin. Luis had come to her rescue last night—a fact she was grateful for, but she hated that he had seen her so weak. It was a side of herself she kept hidden from everyone. Even herself. Why was she so vulnerable these days? Was it tiredness? The uncertainty over her future?
‘Finally! There you are. I’ve been searching for you.’
Alice leapt in her chair and screamed. Opening her eyes, she blinked hard.
What on earth was Luis doing here and why did he look so pleased with himself?
From somewhere across the room, someone made a disapproving tutting sound.
Pulling out the chair next to her, Luis sat, his grin growing wider. He tutted too. And, those hazel eyes of his sparkling with amusement, he leant into her and whispered, ‘Are you a scre
amer, Alice?’
She tried not to redden.
Act blasé. If he knew the truth, would he laugh?
‘What are you doing here?’
He rocked back in his chair. ‘Now, that sounds like you’re unhappy to see me. Do you know just how difficult it was to persuade Security to allow me in here?’ He raised both arms into the air, stretching long and luxuriously, gave a yawn. ‘I found your note saying you were going to work here for the day, so I decided I’d come and take you to lunch.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to be travelling back to Monrosa right now?’ She didn’t mean to sound so peeved, but the sight of Luis stretching like a giant and powerful cat, sending unfair pheromones into the air, made her feel irritable.
Eyes on her blank computer screen, he shrugged. ‘There’s no rush.’
She angled the laptop out of his line of sight. ‘I’m busy.’
He smiled at that, raised a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘It sure seemed like a flurry of activity when I arrived.’
‘What do you want, Luis?’
Placing an elbow on the desk and resting his head in his hand, he studied her for a few moments, his expression now earnest. ‘To make sure you’re okay before I leave.’
‘I told you this morning that I’m fine.’ Earlier, as she had been heading up to the library, Luis had come out of his bedroom, all sleepy eyes and tousled hair, and in a husky voice had asked why on earth she was up so early.
For a fraction of a moment she had wondered what it would be like to follow him back into the darkness of his bedroom, feel his arms wrap around her, have his mouth on hers once again.
And their eyes had met and something raw and elemental had spun between them.
Heart thumping, she had turned away from him, terrified of just how vulnerable she felt around him. And when she had heard him leave the house later in the morning, irritated by just how skittish and distracted she had been all morning at the thought of him sleeping downstairs, she had flung her laptop and notes into her bag and fled for the sanctuary of the British Library.
Christmas Encounter with a Prince Page 3