My Forbidden Royal Fling

by Clare Connelly

  He says nothing, and I’m glad.

  ‘I always find it hard to hear from people like you, people who have their parents but choose not to be close to them. I would give everything I have for one more day with my mum and dad.’

  His eyes hold mine and, even though I think he reads me easily, I have no idea what he’s thinking or feeling. ‘It is natural you would feel this way. You view parenthood through the veil of your own experiences.’

  ‘What are your parents like?’

  There is tension in the harsh angles of his face. He’s quiet again, and I wonder if he’s going to ignore me, but then he offers me one curt word.

  ‘Different.’

  ‘To you?’

  ‘Yes, thank Christ.’ His short laugh lacks humour.

  ‘How so?’

  He expels a sharp breath, his nostrils flaring. ‘Does it matter? They’re not in my life. I prefer not to think of them unless I really can’t avoid it.’

  I reach for another piece of cheese simply to hide my face. I’m hurt. It’s such a cold rejection.

  But he understands, because he sighs heavily. ‘Does it matter?’ he repeats, but I hear the plea in his words. He doesn’t want to talk about this, but he will, if I push him.

  I flick a glance at him; his face gives little away. If I didn’t know him as well as I do, I would say that he’s the same ruthless billionaire I first met. But deep in his eyes I see sadness, and I ache for him then.

  ‘How about just the bullet points?’ I suggest as a compromise.

  He stands abruptly, moving into the kitchen and bracing his palms on the counter, looking out to sea. Guilt washes over me. I’m being selfish by asking this of him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, without moving. ‘I was just trying to learn more about you. But if you really don’t want to tell me...’

  ‘My parents can tell you nothing about me,’ he responds with a cool voice. ‘I haven’t seen them in years.’

  I nod thoughtfully, looking for a way to change the subject.

  To my surprise, Santiago continues, almost as if the words are being dragged from him. ‘My mother is a drug addict. Most of my childhood she was high, wasted or jonesing for her next fix. My father has been in and out of prison all his life. When he was home, he was aggressive and drunk. They fought constantly. He was abusive until I got big enough to fight back. Is this what you want to know?’ His eyes lance mine. I’m incapable of responding. ‘I left home when I was eighteen years old.’

  I shiver at the brevity of his response—he’s compressed eighteen years’ worth of pain into a few spasmodic sentences but I feel the undercurrent of emotions beneath his words. ‘You haven’t seen them since?’

  He turns to face me but looks right through me, the curl of derision on his lips reserved for his absent parents. ‘If only that were true,’ he drawls. ‘Stories of my success landed in the national papers. They came knocking then.’

  I frown, not understanding.

  ‘For money,’ he clarifies cynically. ‘My mother figured I owed her after all the money she spent raising me.’

  I draw in an indignant breath. It doesn’t sound like his mother had much of a hand in raising him at all.

  ‘I hope you said no,’ I mutter.

  ‘No, querida. I gave them money. I hoped they’d use it to help themselves, but they spent it on drugs, parties. I only hear from them now when they want something.’

  It is a throwaway comment but it clarifies something important for me. I reach for my drink, my mind analysing this tiny piece of his puzzle. Santiago was a boy who saw his parents constantly intoxicated, ignoring him, refusing to give him the love that all children crave. They let him walk away as a teenager, and only tried to see him once he had money. Their interest in him was purely mercenary.

  No one has ever loved him—not in a meaningful way—and he’s spent a lifetime pushing people away. He has surface-level relationships that revolve around sex because...because why? Because he’s afraid? I turn to look at him and see the beautiful strength of Santiago shimmering, showing me the boy he used to be, a boy who was rejected over and over again, who lived the kind of life I can only imagine. A mother who was always wasted or looking to score drugs. A father who was either abusive or in prison. No wonder he’s so messed up when it came to relationships. No wonder he doesn’t want children!

  I’m moving to him before I can stop myself, anguish in my heart and sorrow on my face. He stiffens, his body language reserved and laced with rejection, but I push past that because I finally understand why he’s so determined to push me away.

  I put my hand over his heart and stare into his eyes.

  ‘Santiago, I...’ But whatever I’d been about to say is constricted in my throat. My own doubts run through me, along with the reality of my life and my situation—the duties awaiting me once I leave Spain. I flash him a smile, but it feels strained. ‘I really should get back to the hotel, don’t you think?’

  * * *

  The stars twinkle overhead like diamonds in the sky and the yacht rocks from side to side, gently, beautifully, placating me into a sense of blissful relaxation.

  I didn’t go back to the hotel after our conversation earlier. Instead, we swam off the back of the boat. The water was warm, the sun high overhead and afterwards I was starving. We finished the platter then shared a bowl of strawberries in the hot tub, before making love right here on the deck of the yacht, the sky our only witness, heaven above me and all around me.

  ‘You’re very good at this,’ I murmur, my eyes heavy.

  ‘At what?’

  ‘Seduction. The whole thing. Is this what it’s usually like for you?’

  The moonlight slices like a silver blade across his handsome face. I push up onto my elbow so I can see him better.

  ‘I don’t have a “usual”,’ he says after a moment. I wonder at the erratic beating of my heart. Too fast one moment, too slow the next. ‘But I can say that my experience with you is unlike anything I’ve ever known.’

  My heart speeds up way too fast. ‘Oh?’

  ‘For one thing, you are the only princess I have slept with.’ He moves closer. ‘And, for another, most women do not argue with me the way you do.’

  My heart rolls and tumbles. Something hard is at my side again, painful and urgent. I swallow, dropping onto my back. Superficial relationships—that’s what he has. And even though I now understand why, it doesn’t make it any easier to cast myself—and what we’re doing—in that light.

  ‘I imagine women generally trip over themselves for your attention.’

  ‘Something like that.’ He leans over me, his eyes flicking my face. Does he see the jealousy tearing through me? ‘But not you.’

  ‘No,’ I agree, my admission a whisper in the night. ‘I wanted to hate you.’

  ‘I know.’ He traces my lips with the tip of his finger. ‘Because of the casino?’

  ‘The casino. Your reputation,’ I say honestly. ‘Everything about you is so threatening to me. I think even before I met you I knew that you were someone who could threaten the very safe walls I’ve built around my life.’

  ‘Is that what I’m doing?’

  Yes. Undoubtedly. But, of course, it’s not really. After this, I have to go back to Marlsdoven, to my perfectly planned life, to the man I’ll one day marry, to the expectations I’ve always borne and which have weighed me down since my parents’ deaths. As for Santiago, he doesn’t want to shake the walls of my life. This is just meaningless for him. A fling, nothing more.

  He moves his finger to the tip of my nose, running it over the ski-jump tip.

  ‘At that first meeting, you were full of fire,’ he says, and I blush, remembering the way we’d sparked off each other.

  ‘You were hardly Mr Congeniality yourself.’

  ‘I never am.’ He brushes as
ide my remark. ‘But I had expected you to be calm and agreeable. I expected you to be desperate for me to sign the contract, delighted to have the land disposed of and a project like the casino undertaken. I did not anticipate, for one minute, that you would so strenuously object.’

  There’s something in his eyes that makes me pause, frowning. ‘And that bothers you? You’re disappointed?’

  His features tighten. He’s doing it again—looking for ways to avoid answering me.

  I sigh. ‘Don’t worry. Forget I asked.’

  He presses a finger to my lips. ‘I’m used to winning. I ordinarily take great pleasure in eviscerating anyone who gets in my way.’ His accent is thick, his words raw, and my nerves tingle at the picture he paints. ‘I did not expect your opposition but, once I had it...’

  I wait. For some reason with breath held. ‘Yes?’

  But he shakes his head, not finishing the thought. I don’t know if he needs to. I can join the dots.

  I’m his adversary in business right now, but he doesn’t want to eviscerate me. He’s holding back on the casino because he doesn’t want to see me upset.

  It’s hardy a declaration of anything beyond basic courtesy—we are, after all, sleeping together—but it warms me from the inside out, regardless.

  ‘You’re different to what I expected,’ he finishes with a too-casual shrug.

  ‘Do you ever get lonely?’ The question erupts before I can stop it, and only as I speak the words do I realise it’s been humming inside me since we had the conversation about his parents.

  ‘No.’

  I’m glad he doesn’t remind me of how busy is his social life—and by social life I mean sex life. Besides, I’m sure he’s lying.

  ‘Santiago...’ I sigh, pressing a hand to his chest. ‘You keep pushing me away. Is it so hard for you to be honest with me?’

  ‘How am I not being honest?’

  ‘Well, is there anyone in your life? Anyone who you let care about you? Anyone you care about?’

  His eyes show fierce rejection of even the idea. ‘My business is my life. It’s all I need, querida.’

  He sounds so certain, so confident on this score, that for a moment I wonder if I’m wrong. Perhaps my own loneliness is slanting my perception of his life. After all, I’m used to keeping almost everyone at arm’s length. Claudia is probably the closest thing I have to a friend, and she works for me. Maybe I’m projecting my own feelings onto him.

  Maybe I want him to tell me he is lonely, because in admitting that he’d be conceding he wants to make a change. And then what? Even if he were to admit he wants more in his life, it’s not with me—it can’t be. My own obligations prohibit that. He kisses me, and I’m glad, because the power of his kiss makes thinking almost impossible. Almost, but not quite. As he brings his body over mine, I’m acutely aware of an ache somewhere in the region of my heart.

  ‘I love sleeping with you,’ he growls in my ear, and the words send little sparks through my body. I’m flattered but afraid because, while I love sleeping with him too, there’s so much more to it, and I know I can never admit that—I know he’ll never feel it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I’m in trouble.

  I SMILE AS I send the text message, fully aware I shouldn’t be so flippant. It’s quite clear from the looks on my security agents’ faces that they’d been about to mount an armed search for me. My disappearance was highly out of character, so I can understand their concern, but I’m not even a little sorry for it.

  For the first time in my life, I’ve done something selfish just because I wanted to and, God, it felt good.

  ?

  Even his reply makes me smile, because it’s so business-like and to the point. I can imagine the quirk of his brow that would have accompanied it, the look of quizzical enquiry marring his symmetrical face.

  Let’s just say my disappearance elicited some concern.

  Ah. Should I expect to be charged with kidnapping after all?

  Definitely. But don’t worry, I’ll come see you in prison.

  I should hope so.

  My heart turns over in my chest. I stare at the phone, my finger hovering over the screen as I draft and redraft another message in my mind until letters are swarming incoherently through my brain. I left the yacht three hours ago and already I’m wondering when I’m going to see him again. It’s just because I know I only have two more nights in Spain—and I don’t want to waste a minute of them.

  Are you free tonight?

  His message makes my heart leap through my chest and ricochet wildly around.

  What have you got in mind?

  A surprise. Meet me on the roof at eight.

  The roof?

  I’ll send a key to your room.

  I was joking about the whole Lois Lane jumping off a building thing.

  And I’m definitely no Superman.

  At least, you wear your jocks inside your trousers.

  Most of the time.

  I laugh, placing my phone on the table. Half an hour later, one of my security guards knocks on the door, warily handing me an envelope. I rip it open, breaths coming hard and fast, and read it in front of him. It’s clear and concise instructions, written in Santiago’s dark, confident writing, directing me to a private lift and a roof-top helipad, as well as a key card to activate the lift.

  ‘I’ll be going out tonight,’ I say without looking at the guard, my pulse a tsunami. ‘Don’t wait up.’

  * * *

  The lights of Barcelona twinkle way below us. I stare down at the vista with true pleasure and a light heart. Wherever we’re going, I don’t care. In this moment, I am carefree and happy.

  ‘I feel like all the world’s a tiny little snow globe.’

  ‘And you are what? An eagle?’ His accented voice crackles over the helicopter earpieces. Any answer dies on my lips when I turn to see the expert ease with which he controls the instruments. My mouth goes dry. His sleeves are pushed up to reveal his tanned forearms, the snake tattoo drawing my gaze. There is something incredibly hot about the way he commands this expensive, powerful piece of equipment.

  ‘Where did you learn to fly?’ I ask instead.

  ‘Around the time I bought my first jet.’

  My eyes are round like saucers. ‘You have more than one aircraft?’

  ‘I have one jet now, but over the years I’ve owned several.’

  My lips form a silent ‘O’ of surprise or admiration.

  ‘It seemed to make sense to me to learn how to fly, seeing as I would be trusting my life to pilots on so many occasions.’

  I twist my mouth to the side, the evidence of his obsessive control obvious in the statement. ‘Do you fly your own jets too?’

  ‘Not often. From time to time, I serve as co-pilot, but it’s much more comfortable in the cabin.’

  I don’t know why but all roads with Santiago lead back to bed, and the innocuous comment makes me think of him in the bedroom of a private plane: luxurious silk sheets, mood lighting, him handsome, naked, powerful... I turn my eyes back to the view. I’m very high yet it feels much safer to look down than to stare at the man beside me.

  The pressure between us builds so that with every moment that passes all I’m aware of is him, his closeness, the proximity overwhelming me. It’s a relief when the helicopter starts to descend over a significantly darker patch of land. There are still lights, but far fewer. His control is expert; I gather he knows the way very well.

  ‘You’re a nervous flyer?’ he asks after touching down, mistaking my tension for something else altogether.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Then you are nervous to be here with me?’

  I shake my head. ‘Just...a little overwhelmed, I think.’

  His brows lift and then he smiles, that rare, beautiful, soul-splitting smile. />
  ‘Don’t be. This is just one night out of our lives, Freja. Nothing more.’

  I love it that he uses my name. My skin lifts and, when he opens the door of the helicopter, the warm breeze rushes past me, cementing his words in my mind. It’s just one night, nothing more.

  ‘I figured you were right about the restaurants in Barcelona—far too likely you would be seen in a city like that. But here in Aliz it is quieter.’

  Nonetheless, I lift a hand to my dark wig, glad I’d thought to wear it.

  ‘Yes, the disguise is still good, if only because I find it impossibly sexy.’ His eyes twitch at the corners and I know he’s teasing me. I punch his arm playfully as we stroll slowly towards a string of restaurants lined up along a cobbled path. The walk is part of the pleasure. It is a weekend and, despite his promise that this town would be quiet, the restaurants are busy, a gentle din reaching us on the street as we go.

  ‘Aliz is famous for its seafood,’ he explains as we walk. ‘People come from all around to enjoy what these places have to offer.’

  ‘And you come here often?’

  ‘Often enough to know which restaurant is best,’ he responds with another heart-stopping smile, before gesturing towards a restaurant at our side.

  The frontage is made of glass, with awnings over the top, so that in the daytime I imagine the restaurant to be filled with al fresco diners, sunlight filtering onto them. Now the restaurant is dressed for the evening, with candles on the table-tops and a jazzy soundtrack playing.

  ‘Santiago!’ He’s greeted by the maître d’ like an old friend returning. ‘It is good to see you again.’

  ‘Enrique.’ He nods, and to my surprise they embrace, before he gestures to me. ‘This is a friend of mine.’ His lips twitch. ‘Lois.’

  I lift a brow, the alias he’s chosen for me causing my heart to jackhammer against my ribs. I miss only two beats before extending my own hand to Enrique. ‘Pleasure.’ He lifts it to his lips but, although he is also handsome, I feel nothing. Just like before. Any time in my life that I’ve met a man, I’ve never felt so much as a flicker of my pulse. But with Santiago it’s as though that’s all I’m capable of feeling—totally overrun by emotions and need.