by Kate Hewitt
‘I know.’ She fiddled with the seat buckle, her gaze lowered so her ponytail fell forward onto her shoulder, like a curling ribbon of chocolate-brown silk. For some reason he couldn’t quite understand, Mateo reached forward and flicked it back. Rachel glanced at him, startled. He smiled blandly.
‘Tell me about your mother,’ she blurted.
‘My mother? Her name is Agathe and she is a very strong and gracious woman. I admire her very much.’
‘She sounds completely intimidating.’
Mateo frowned. ‘She isn’t.’
‘I don’t believe you. You’re intimidating.’ Rachel gave him a teasing smile, but Mateo knew she was serious—and scared. He could see it in her eyes, in the way she blinked rapidly, her lush lashes fanning downwards again and again as she moistened her lips with the tip of a delectably pink tongue.
‘You’ve known me for ten years, Rachel,’ he pointed out reasonably. ‘How can I be intimidating?’
‘You’re different now,’ she answered with a shrug. ‘Until yesterday, I never saw you snap your fingers at someone before.’
Mateo acknowledged the point with a rueful nod. ‘I don’t think I had, at least not while at Cambridge.’
‘You seem so used to all this luxury and wealth. I mean, I suppose you grew up with it, and I knew you had a fancy house in Cambridge because of some investments or something...’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that courtesy of the university gossips?’
Rachel smiled, unabashed. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, it wasn’t investments. It was a company I founded. Lyric Tech.’
‘What, you just founded a company in your spare time?’
He shrugged. ‘I had an idea for a music app and it went from there.’
‘As it does.’ Rachel pursed her lips, looking troubled. ‘See, when you say stuff like that, I feel as if I really don’t know you at all.’
‘You know me, Rachel.’ He hadn’t meant his voice to sound so low and meaningful, or to caress the syllables of her name quite so much, but they did. Her eyes widened and a faint blush touched her cheeks as she stared at him for a second before looking away.
‘Maybe we should talk about molecular electrocatalysis or something?’ she suggested shakily. ‘Just to feel like our old selves again.’
‘If you like.’ Mateo relaxed back into his seat. He was always happy to talk shop. ‘What are your thoughts on the metal-to-metal hydrogen atom transfer?’
Rachel looked surprised that he was playing along, but then a little smile curved her mouth and she considered the question properly. ‘I suppose you’re talking about iron and chromium?’
‘Indeed.’
‘There are some limitations, of course.’ They spent the next fifteen minutes discussing the potential benefits of the new research on various forms of renewable energy, and she became so engrossed in the discussion that Rachel didn’t even notice the plane landing, or taxiing along the private airstrip. It was only when she glanced out of the window and saw several blacked-out sedans with a small army of people in front of them that her face paled and she gulped audibly.
‘Mateo, I don’t know if I can do this.’
‘Of course you can,’ he answered calmly. He meant it; he’d seen her handle a dozen more demanding situations back at Cambridge. All she had to do now was walk out of the plane and into a waiting car. ‘You are going to be my queen, Rachel. The only one who doubts whether you are up for the role is you.’
She gave him a wry look. ‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Positive.’ If anyone else doubted it, he would make sure they stopped immediately. He would not allow for anyone to doubt or deride his chosen queen.
Rachel glanced back out at the sedans, and the flank of waiting security, all looking suitably blank-faced, and Mateo watched with pride as the iron entered her soul. She nodded slowly as she straightened her shoulders, her chin tilting upward as her eyes blazed briefly with gold.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Let’s do this.’
Moments later the security team were opening the door to the plane, and Mateo reached for Rachel’s hand. Hers was icy-cold and he twined his fingers through hers and gently drew her closer to his side. Her smile trembled on her lips as she shot him a questioning look. This closeness was new to both of them, but Mateo didn’t mind it.
‘Ready?’ he asked softly, and, setting her jaw, she nodded.
Then together they stepped out of the plane, onto the stairs. They walked side by side down the rather rickety stairs to the waiting car, and Mateo nodded at the security team, who all bowed in response, their faces remaining impressively impassive. Mateo did not explain who Rachel was; they would find out soon enough. They could almost certainly guess.
Pride blossomed in his soul as she kept her chin tilted and her back ramrod straight as she walked from the bottom of the stairs to the waiting car. She was, Mateo acknowledged with a deep tremor of satisfaction, fit to be his queen.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE WORLD BLURRED by as Rachel sat in the sedan and it sped along wide boulevards, the sea glittering blue on the other side of the road, palm trees proudly pointing to an azure sky.
Since exiting the plane, Rachel had felt as if she were disembodied, watching everything unfold as if from far above. She couldn’t possibly be sitting in a luxury sedan with blacked-out windows, an armed guard travelling before and behind and a man set to be king brooding next to her, on her way to an actual palace?
It had been utterly surreal to walk down those steps and see the guards bowing to Mateo—and her. She’d seen their impassive faces and recognised the look of people well trained to keep their expressions to themselves. Had they guessed she was Mateo’s bride, their next queen? Or did they assume she was some dowdy secretary brought along to take dictation? That was what she would have assumed, if she’d been in their place.
As much as she was trying to keep from getting down on herself, Rachel had to acknowledge the struggle was real. Her trouser suit was five years old and bought on the bargain rack, because she’d never cared about clothes. She had no make-up on because when she tried to use it, she looked like a clown. Her hair hadn’t been cut in six months at least. Yes, she was definitely feeling like the dowdy secretary rather than the defiant queen.
‘If I’d known I was going to become a queen this week,’ she quipped to Mateo, ‘I would have had my hair cut and lost a stone.’
He turned to her, his expression strangely fierce, his face drawn into stark lines of determination. ‘Neither is necessary, I assure you.’
She eyed him sceptically. ‘Didn’t you mention a team of stylists and beauticians waiting at the palace to turn me into some kind of post-godmother Cinderella?’
‘It doesn’t mean you need to change.’
Rachel glanced down at her trouser suit. ‘I think I might,’ she said. ‘At least this outfit.’ She didn’t want to dwell on all the other ways she might need to change, and so she chose to change the subject. ‘So what is the royal palace like? Besides being palatial, naturally.’
A small smile twitched the corner of Mateo’s mouth. ‘And royal.’
‘Obvs.’
‘It’s five hundred years old, built on the sea, looking east. It has magnificent gardens leading down to the beach, and many beautiful terraces and balconies. You will occupy the Queen’s suite of rooms after our marriage.’
‘You need to stop saying stuff like that, because I feel like I’m living in a fairy tale.’
His smile deepened as he glanced down at her, aquamarine eyes sparkling. ‘But it’s true.’
‘And where will I be before our marriage?’ Which was now in six days, something she couldn’t let herself think about without panicking.
‘A guest suite. But first, remember, my mother wishes to meet you.’
‘Right away
?’ Rachel swallowed hard. ‘Before anything else?’
‘It is important.’
And terrifying. Rachel tried to moderate her breathing as the car sped on, past whitewashed buildings with terracotta roofs, flowers blooming everywhere, spilling out of pots and window boxes. She gazed at a woman with a basket of oranges on her head, and a man with a white turban riding a rusty bicycle. Kallyria was a place where the east and west met, full of history and colour and life. And it was now her home.
The reality of it all, the enormity of the choice she had made, slammed into her again and again, leaving her breathless.
After about ten minutes, the motorcade drove through high, ornate gates of wrought iron, and then down a sweeping drive, a palace of sparkling white stone visible in the distance. It was a combination of fairy-tale castle and luxury Greek villa—complete with terraces and turrets, latticed shutters and trailing bougainvillea at every window, and Rachel thought there had to be at least a hundred.
‘Welcome home,’ Mateo said with a smile, and she nearly choked. She felt as if she were caught up in a riptide of officialdom as she was ushered out of the car and into the soaring marble foyer of the palace, a twisting, double staircase leading to a balcony above, and then onwards. A cupola high above them let in dazzling sunlight, and at least a dozen staff, the royal insignia on their uniform, were lined up waiting to bow or curtsey to Mateo.
‘My mother is waiting upstairs, in her private parlour,’ Mateo murmured, and, taking her by the elbow, he led her upstairs.
‘Mitera?’ he called, knocking on the wood-panelled door once, and when a mellifluous voice bid them to enter, he did.
Rachel followed, her knees practically knocking together. What if Mateo’s mother didn’t like her? What if she looked at her and wondered why on earth he’d chosen her as his bride? His queen?
The woman rising from a loveseat at one end of the elegant and spacious room was exactly what Rachel had expected, even though she had never seen a photograph of Agathe Karavitis.
She was tall and elegant, her dark blonde hair barely streaked with silver drawn back in a loose chignon. She wore a chic silk blouse tucked into wide-leg trousers and as she came forward, a welcoming smile on her face, her arms outstretched, she moved with an unconscious grace. Rachel felt like the dowdiest of dowds in comparison, and she tried not to let it show in her face as Agathe kissed both her cheeks and pressed her hands between her own.
‘Rachel. I am so very delighted to make your acquaintance.’
‘As I am yours,’ Rachel managed to stammer. She felt woefully and wholly inadequate.
‘I must check on a few things before we appear publicly,’ Mateo informed her. Rachel tried not to gape at him in panic. He was leaving?
‘She is in safe hands, I assure you,’ Agathe said.
‘We will appear on the balcony at two...’ Mateo gave his mother a significant look.
‘She will be ready.’ She waved at him with an elegant hand. ‘Go.’
Mateo gave Rachel a quick smile that did not reassure her at all and then strode out of the room.
‘I have called for tea,’ Agathe said once he had left, the door clicking firmly shut behind him. ‘You must be exhausted.’
‘I’m a bit tired, yes,’ Rachel said carefully. She realised she had no idea how to handle this meeting. Despite Agathe’s air of gracious friendliness, she had no idea how the woman really thought of her. According to Mateo, Agathe had drawn up a list of suitable brides, and Rachel had most certainly not been on it.
‘Come sit down,’ Agathe invited, patting the seat next to her. ‘We have little time today to get to know one another, but tomorrow I have arranged for us to have breakfast together.’
‘That’s very kind.’ Rachel perched on the edge of the loveseat while Agathe eyed her far too appraisingly. Rachel knew how she looked—how limp her ponytail, how creased her suit, how pasty her skin. She tried to smile.
‘I suppose you are surprised,’ she said finally, because as always she preferred confronting the truth rather than hiding from it. ‘I am not the expected choice for your son’s bride.’
‘You are not,’ Agathe agreed with a nod. ‘And yet I think you might be exactly right.’
That surprised Rachel, and for the first time in what felt like for ever she actually started to relax. ‘You do?’
‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ Agathe returned with a tinkling laugh. ‘Did you think I would not approve?’
‘I wondered.’
‘More than anything, I wish my son to be happy,’ Agathe said quietly. ‘And the fact that he chose you, that he knows you and calls you his friend...that is important. Far more important than having the right pedigree or something similar.’ She shrugged slim shoulders. ‘It is a modern world. We are no longer in the days of princes and kings needing to marry young women of suitable social standing, thank goodness.’
Rachel wasn’t sure how to reply. Her father had been a well-regarded academic, if a commoner, but she doubted that held much water in the world of royalty. ‘Thank you for your understanding,’ she said at last.
An attendant came in with a tea tray, and Agathe served, her movements as elegant as ever. ‘I am afraid we have only a few moments, if we wish you to be ready for the announcement.’
Rachel’s stomach cramped as she took a soothing sip of the tea. Swallowing, she said, ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.’
‘Nonsense,’ Agathe said briskly. ‘You just need the right tools.’
* * *
Mateo felt the weight of responsibility drop heavily onto his shoulders as he took a seat at his father’s desk. His desk now. How long would it take him to think of it like that? To think of himself as King?
Two days away had taken their toll, and now his narrowed gaze scanned the various reports that had come in during his absence. Increased unrest in the north of the country; the important economic talks on a knife edge; domestic policy careening towards a crisis. An emergency on every front, and in just three hours he and Rachel would step in front of the waiting crowds and he would announce his choice of bride.
At least he did not regret taking that decision. Although she clearly had doubts about her suitability, Mateo did not. His only concern was making sure their relationship did not veer into the overly emotional or intimate. As long as they stayed friends, they would be fine. He would make sure of it.
Mateo spent an hour going over reports before he decided to check on Rachel’s progress with the stylists he’d engaged. After a member of staff informed him of their whereabouts, he strode towards the east wing of the palace, where the guest suites were housed. From behind the first door on the corridor he heard the accented trill of the woman who dressed his mother.
‘Of course we will have to do something about those eyebrows...’ Mateo stopped outside the door, frowning. ‘And that chin...’ The despair, bordering on disgust, in the woman’s voice tightened his gut. ‘Fortunately some—how do they say in the English?—contouring will help. As for the clothes...something flowing, to hide the worst.’
The worst?
Furious now, as well as incredulous, Mateo flung open the door. Four women, matchstick-thin and officious, buzzed around Rachel, who sat in a chair in front of a mirror, looking horribly resigned. At his entrance the women turned to him, wide-eyed, mouths open.
‘What is going on here?’ Mateo demanded, his voice a low growl of barely suppressed outrage.
The women all swept panicked curtsies that Mateo ignored.
‘Your Highness...’
‘What is going on?’
‘We were just attending to Kyria Lewis...’
‘In a manner I find most displeasing. You are all dismissed at once.’ A shocked intake of breath was the only response he got, followed by a frozen silence.
‘Mateo,’ Rachel said softly. He turned h
is gaze to her, saw her giving him one of her wonderfully wry smiles. ‘Remember when I was being a drama queen? Don’t be a drama king. They’re just doing their job.’
‘They insulted you,’ he objected, his voice pulsating with fury. ‘I will not have it.’
‘They were just being pragmatic, and in any case they weren’t saying anything I haven’t said myself a thousand times before. I really don’t like my chin.’
‘Your chin is fine.’
Rachel’s mouth quirked. ‘Shall we argue about it?’
‘Their comments and attitude are not acceptable.’ He would not back down, no matter what damage mitigation Rachel felt she needed to do.
‘Your Highness,’ Francesca, the main stylist, said in a hesitant voice. ‘Please accept my deepest apologies for my remarks. I was thinking out loud...but you are right, it was unacceptable.’ She bowed her head. ‘If you will give me this opportunity to style Kyria Lewis, I will do my utmost to help her succeed.’
‘She will succeed with or without you,’ Mateo snapped. ‘You are not here to make her succeed, but simply to provide her with the right clothes and make-up.’
Francesca’s head dipped lower. ‘As you say,’ she murmured.
‘Mateo.’ Rachel’s voice was gentle. ‘Honestly, it’s okay.’
But it wasn’t. He saw so clearly how she accepted being belittled, how she thought because she was curvy and dressed in shapeless clothes she wasn’t worth the same as a woman with a wasp-like waist and a similar attitude. Mateo hated it.
‘You will dress and style Kyria Lewis,’ he instructed the women, his eyes like lasers on the penitent Francesca. ‘I will review the terms of your contract with the palace myself before the day is out.’
The women murmured their thanks and he strode out of the room, still battling an inexplicable fury. Why did he care so much? Rachel didn’t. Why couldn’t he just let it go? Yet he found he couldn’t.
He’d never considered Rachel’s feelings in such a specific way before he’d decided to marry her. He’d never considered anyone’s feelings, he acknowledged with wry grimness, not really.