by Romy Sommer
“We?” he asks.
“I still live with my mother.” His eyebrows lift in surprise, sparking my defences. “Rent is expensive. I could either go to college or I could get my own apartment, but not both.”
Trust me, if I wasn’t so determined to graduate and make a better life for myself, I would have moved out long ago, but I didn’t have the benefit of a football scholarship the way Calvin did. It’s not that I don’t love my mother, but we’re such different people it’s hard to believe we’re related. She’s a hopeless romantic, always believing that the next job is going to be The One, that the next man she dates is going to be her knight in shining armor. By now you’d think she’d realize there’s no such thing. You want a job to be The One, you have to stick with it. If you find a good man, you don’t let him go, hoping something better will come along. Instead of being satisfied with the good things she had, she’s still chasing dreams, and she’s still alone.
“Where’s your father?” Adam asks, as if sensing the direction of my thoughts.
I shrug nonchalantly. “I have no idea. He took off before I was born.”
He bolted the moment my mother told him she was pregnant. I’m not hurt that he abandoned us. Many men leave when the going gets tough, and that’s just the way life is. What hurts is the mean voices of the playground bullies telling me I’m not worth sticking around for. I’m a grown-up, I know that’s not really true, but sometimes I still hear those voices.
Adam looks at me thoughtfully, and I feel stripped bare again. “You know, with a little less Goth Girl eye make-up and a little more polish, it won’t be hard for you to find yourself some rich man so you never have to work another day in your life.”
My anger is swift and blinding. Pretend he’s just another drunk gambler who needs to be humored or handled. It doesn’t work. “Are you suggesting I sell myself for money?” My voice is deadly calm. Anyone who knows me would start running at that tone.
“It’s not as if I’m suggesting prostitution. People marry for money all the time.”
What is this – the eighteenth century?
With shaking hands, I set down my half empty coffee cup and rise. “I am no gold-digger, and not in a million years will I rely on anyone to support me.” I turn and, with as much dignity as I can muster in these heels, stride from the room. As soon as I’m out of Adam’s sight I pause to strip off the offending shoes and hurry down the main staircase to the front door. I hand them to the footman on duty, ignoring his bewildered expression, and head out into the gardens.
Chapter 10
Khara
Adam was right about one thing: it is a lovely day. Though the temperature is cooler than I’m used to, the sunshine is warm on my face and I breathe in the rich scents of wet soil and flowers. The palace gardens are beautiful – all manicured lawns and fountains, an oasis in the heart of the city. Even though it’s late summer, the flowerbeds are full of color, as if it’s still spring.
With the exception of the royal family’s private garden, the grounds are open to the public, so there are people everywhere. Gardeners, people in suits who seem to be hurrying either toward the palace or away from it, city workers on their lunch breaks, mothers pushing prams on the paths between the fragrant flowerbeds, and the ubiquitous tourists. No one pays me the slightest notice, though one of the gardeners does pause to stare at my bare feet as I dash past. I find a quiet bench under a massive oak tree and gulp down deep breaths.
How can Adam not realize how insulting his suggestion is? I am so sick of rich men assuming that just because I work a service job that means I’ll be willing to sell myself. I’m proud of what I’ve achieved, even though it might not look like much to this man with a black credit card, fancy shoes and an air of entitlement.
I can pay. I still remember every word of that conversation a year ago as if it was yesterday. My hands bunch into fists. I want nothing more than to behave like a stereotypical trailer park tart and wipe that smirk off his face.
Then I hear my stepdad’s calm voice in my head. Violence is only a temporary solution; the evil it does is permanent. Just thinking of Isaiah soothes the edges of my temper.
Not that he’s actually my stepfather. Isaiah’s just the man who knocked up my mother the first time round; he’s Calvin’s father. Unlike my own father, Isaiah has always stuck around. He’s the closest thing I had to a dad, and he’s also the most decent, hard-working, honorable man I ever met. I have no clue why my mother never married him. She says it’s because they didn’t have any chemistry, but she had a shit ton of chemistry with my biological father, and look where that got her: a single mom working for minimum wage, growing old alone. If a man like Isaiah asked me to marry him, I’d say “I do” quicker even than Max and Phoenix said the words.
I really hoped Raúl would be the one. I was so sure he was going to propose. Instead, he broke up with me because he said we had no ‘spark’. Who wants sparks? Sparks start fires.
I’ve just calmed to the point where I no longer want to smack Adam, when I see him. I stay where I am, my feet curled up under me on the bench. He approaches like a bomb disposal expert approaching a bomb and comes to a stop just outside my reach. He’s carrying the shoes I left with the footman.
“I’m sorry I offended you.” He looks genuinely contrite. “So you’re not interested in a rich husband. Good to know.”
“Do you really think that’s all a woman like me is good for?” I bite out.
“No, of course not! I guess I’m just so used to women weighing every man they meet by what he can give her that I assume every woman is like that.”
I arch an eyebrow at him. “You know the wrong kind of women, then.”
A glimmer of a smile crosses his face. “Clearly.” He moves to sit next to me on the bench, still cautiously keeping distance between us. “Well, at least we have one thing in common.”
“What’s that?”
“You have a chip on your shoulder about men with money, and I have a chip on my shoulder about women who want money.”
I can’t help myself. I laugh.
He settles back, looking relieved. “You’re practical about your studies and your career, so don’t you agree that marriage should be practical too? Aren’t all good marriages convenient in some way?”
This time my laugh is more like a snort. “You think Phoenix and Max’s marriage is convenient? Trust me, she’s not marrying him so she can be a princess and live here.” I wave my hand at the palace, which is more of a gilded prison than a home, and I think of her schedule and all the duties she now has, how she traded her privacy and freedom to be with Max, when all she ever wanted was a life of travel and adventure. “For Phoenix, this marriage is extremely inconvenient. But it’s going to be the best damn marriage ever, because they love each other.”
He still looks skeptical. “Please tell me you don’t believe in all that soppy hearts and flowers stuff?”
“No, I’m not talking about fairy tales. And it’s most certainly not lust or chemistry either. Love is mutual respect, shared interests, a similar sense of humor. Marriage should be a partnership, not a financial arrangement.”
I smile as I think back to that morning when Max and Phoenix met. Lust? Sure. But that wasn’t what made them walk down the aisle together less than twenty-four hours after meeting. “Within an hour of them laying eyes on each other, I knew they belonged together because they had all those other things in spades.”
Adam sits straighter. “You were there when they met? But I thought you’d never been to Europe before?”
Oops. “I haven’t.” And I’m not saying another word.
“I know how to keep a secret,” he wheedles.
“Do you have any other lessons planned for me? Because I’m done with talking for the day.”
He frowns, unimpressed by my change of subject. “No more talking today. Next, we’re going for a walk before lunch. Have you seen the famous water gardens?” He holds out the shoes to me.
“You are not going to make me walk in those!” I can’t hide my horror.
His laugh is pure evil. “Yes, I am.”
He gets down on his knees in front of me to strap them on, then helps me to my feet. His touch sends that same breathless shiver through me, but I’m better prepared for it now.
Then he offers me his arm in that way I’ve learned is an invitation for me to hook my arm through his, and we start off along one of the paths. I have to take small steps to prevent myself tottering, and I’m grateful for the support of his arm. Until he lets me go, that is. Even though the paths are made of densely packed gravel, my heels keep sinking into the ground.
“Is there a purpose to this, or are you punishing me for losing my temper?”
“If you can walk in those shoes here, you can walk anywhere. There are ten steps up from the street to the cathedral doors and, once you’re inside, the nave is about two hundred feet long. You’re going to be walking that with Phoenix on the big day, with a whole lot of cameras watching your every move.”
I huff out a breath. I guess walking through the palace gardens in stilettos is a small price to pay so I don’t fall flat on my face on live television.
The water gardens are almost as big as the one at the casino where I work. Long, narrow channels of still water reflect the flowers and the sky, forming neat patterns that eventually merge together into one big pond where an enormous sculpture of a dragon stands, framed by splashing mermaids. From the fountain, the water flows down a stepped terrace into a larger fish pond. There’s also a long walkway lined with hundreds of smaller fountains, “modeled on the Avenue of a Thousand Fountains at Tivoli in Italy,” Adam says.
At the end of the walkway, the path opens up into a unexpected surprise, a circular garden hidden from view by a wall of cypress trees, and currently deserted. The most breathtaking feature of this secluded garden is the sheer wall of water that falls from a high aqueduct into a wide, shallow pond. The water casts a fine mist up into the air.
“There’s a secret grotto hidden behind the waterfall,” Adam says. “Want to explore?”
There’s a glint in his eyes, as if he’s daring me. I glance at the high wrought iron railings that surround the pond, clearly marked with large ‘Keep Out’ signs in four different languages.
“Sure.” I strip off the shoes, because I absolutely do not plan to climb over any railings on the wedding day. “Lead the way.”
I glance around, but we’re still alone. We clamber over, Adam first, then me, trying very hard not to let the skirt of this fancy dress ride too high.
“Will you please stop objectifying me?” I grumble as I swing myself over.
“Huh?” He sounds distracted.
I enunciate clearly so he can’t miss it this time. “You were checking out my ass!”
He smirks. “Of course I was. And not for the first time, I might add. You have a particularly fine arse.”
I glower, and he laughs. “I’m a man. It’s what we do.”
“That is the most entitled thing I have heard you say yet.”
He catches me as I jump down on the other side, holding me against him for an earth-shifting moment.
The spray from the wall of water rains down on us, plastering his shirt to his torso and soaking through my dress. I shiver, but not from the chill of the water. I don’t think I’ve appreciated just how fine Adam’s torso is until now. My skin feels as if it’s burning up. I’m surprised there isn’t steam rising off us.
I realize my hand is splayed out on his chest, and it doesn’t seem to want to move. Yeah, I’m very aware that right now I’m not only objectifying him too, I’m also enjoying a bit of a grope. That’s only fair play, though, right?
He steps away, grabs my hand and pulls me after him. We splash through the pond, ducking under the plunging waterfall into a dimly lit grotto. The walls are made of rough stone, surprisingly dry considering the deluge we passed through to get here.
My hair has started to escape from its fancy French twist and plasters against my face. I wipe it away. “How do you know about this place?”
“Max and I used to sneak down here to drink during his parents’ parties.”
“What about his brother Rik?” I sit on the rough stone ledge that circles the cave like a bench to place some distance between me and Adam so I can get my breath back.
He pulls a face. “Rik was always the well behaved one. As crown prince, he had to be the responsible son, so he could never sneak off.”
It seems a cruel twist of fate that Rik, the dutiful heir apparent, was disinherited, and Max, who was happier making wine at his grandfather’s vineyard in California, had to drop everything to take over as archduke. All because of a blood test. Rik was kicked out when it was discovered that he wasn’t in fact the previous archduke’s son but his mother’s bastard from a liaison before she met the archduke.
Adam circles the grotto, running his hand along the face of the rock. As he draws nearer, my pulse picks up in this damned inconvenient dance it does whenever he’s close. Why couldn’t I have felt this stomach-fluttering attraction to Raúl, who was kind and sweet and steady? Why do my traitorous hormones have to go into over-drive for a man who won’t even stick around until morning, as Elena pointed out?
As Adam moves closer, I jump to my feet. Though my intention was to place distance between us, I misjudge and the movement brings us chest to chest. My body stills, like prey awaiting the predator’s pounce. The moment hangs suspended between us, then he slowly reaches up and pulls my hair loose, sending at least a half dozen bobby pins clattering to the floor. His hand stays in my hair a heartbeat longer than necessary.
I fully expect him to pull a typical entitled jerk move, like trying to grab me or kiss me, but he doesn’t. He seems almost as breathless as I am, and his eyes are wild and dark. Does he feel the same desperate need arcing through him? I hate myself for this feeling. Not just for wanting him, but for wanting him so much I’m even contemplating kissing him.
I have to clear my throat to speak. “You said something about lunch?”
He nods, stepping back, and my breath rushes out. He kneels to gather the bobby pins from the floor, then I follow him back out through the curtain of water into the pond. When we climb back over the railings my hem snags on one of the posts, ripping and creating a long slit up my thigh. I’m horrified, wondering if the stylist will kill me for ruining the dress, but cost is clearly the last thing on Adam’s mind. His gaze is on my bare thigh, and his expression is like that of a stoner eyeing a bucket of KFC. I should be insulted by that look, but instead I wonder if fried chicken wings also feel a desire to be eaten when looked at like that.
In silence, we make our way back to the palace. With my body wound so tight, I don’t think I could make conversation now even if I wanted to. It’s just chemistry. It’s nothing. It’s less than nothing.
By the time we reach the side entrance to the palace, the one that leads to the private apartments and the guest wing, we’re still both sopping wet. The footman at the door, the same one who was on duty earlier, does his best not to gape as we step inside.
I’m barefoot, not having bothered to put the strappy sandals back on, and the designer dress seems to have shrunk a size or two on me. “I need a hot shower,” I say, shaking droplets from my hair.
Adam’s gaze scorches as it roams from the fabric clinging to my breasts down to my bare legs. He grins. “Good idea, but I think mine’s going to need to be a cold one.”
I race up the stairs, Adam half a step behind me. On the landing at the top of the stairs, we part ways. “See you in the dining room in half an hour,” he says.
Chapter 11
Adam
I stand beneath the spray of the shower until the water turns to ice, but it doesn’t help. God knows what happened in that moment in the grotto, but it’s as if my body has been set alight and the fire can’t be quenched. Trust me, I’ve tried to quench it.
The water drums on my shoulders as I rest my forehead on the cool tiles. I’ve lusted after enough women to know what desire feels like, and this isn’t it. Because in that moment my need wasn’t just physical. It was primal. I wanted to possess her, to mark her as mine. And I have never felt that way about any woman before.
Could this uncontrolled hunger inside me be nothing more than the thrill of the chase? It’s been so long since I had to do much chasing, I’ve forgotten what it feels like.
With another woman, I’d assume this was all a game, a tease to make me want her more. But with Khara I know this isn’t a game. In the grotto, when I was a hair’s breadth away from leaning forward and kissing her, she looked me in the eye, looked deep inside me, as if she saw the real me. And she didn’t like what she saw.
My head throbs with a dull ache. No matter what Max thinks, I do have a type, and that type isn’t ‘easy’. She’s shallow. The type of women I usually sleep with don’t look at me the way Khara does. They don’t care who I am inside; all they care about is the lifestyle, the status, the proximity to a title. They’re women who won’t tempt me to stick around. Women who won’t make me care.
So why don’t I just walk away from Khara? I could drop this charade of tutoring her, go out to a bar or a nightclub and find myself someone willing, someone who won’t expect anything more of me than a good time and expensive baubles.
I could, but I won’t.
And there it is, a prickling at the edges of my awareness, a deep, dark fear I refuse to acknowledge. A fear I felt on that drunken night in Vegas, a fear I’ve been chasing away ever since. I switch off the taps, wrap myself in a towel and step out of the shower. I know from experience that if I keep moving this fear I don’t want to name will go away.
I dress carefully, as if I were going to lunch with my mother, in khaki chinos, a button-down Oxford shirt and a navy pullover. Maybe if I look respectable on the outside, I’ll feel less uncivilised on the inside.