My Forbidden Royal Fling Read online

  “Come to Spain with me.”

  The invitation is husky, his voice deep and accented. I blink, not understanding. His finger inches lower, toward my lips. I have to swallow back a groan. “I can’t.”

  “Come to see my casino there. You cannot truly form an opinion on the merits of my proposal until you have witnessed one for yourself.”

  “I know enough.”

  He’s surprised by my rapid shift, but surprise quickly morphs into determination. “Are you afraid to be proved wrong?”

  “There’s no chance of that. I’ll never approve of gambling.”

  “Casinos are so much more than gambling,” he says dismissively. He closes the distance between us. “Come to Spain and see for yourself.”

  My heart twists, my ability to think clearly impeded once more.

  “Or are you afraid of what will happen once you leave this gilded cage?”

  Clare Connelly was raised in small-town Australia among a family of avid readers. She spent much of her childhood up a tree, Harlequin book in hand. Clare is married to her own real-life hero, and they live in a bungalow near the sea with their two children. She is frequently found staring into space—a surefire sign she is in the world of her characters. She has a penchant for French food and ice-cold champagne, and Harlequin novels continue to be her favorite-ever books. Writing for Harlequin Presents is a long-held dream. Clare can be contacted via clareconnelly.com or on her Facebook page.

  Books by Clare Connelly

  Harlequin Presents

  Redemption of the Untamed Italian

  The Secret Kept from the King

  Hired by the Impossible Greek

  Their Impossible Desert Match

  Secret Heirs of Billionaires

  Shock Heir for the King

  A Billion-Dollar Singapore Christmas

  An Heir Claimed by Christmas

  No Strings Christmas

  (Available from Harlequin DARE)

  Signed, Sealed...Seduced

  Cinderella’s Night in Venice

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  Clare Connelly

  My Forbidden Royal Fling

  For Dan, whom I’ve known and loved more than half my life.

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EXCERPT FROM INVITATION FROM THE VENETIAN BILLIONAIRE BY LUCY KING

  PROLOGUE

  Ménage à Billionaire!

  THE HEADLINE SCREAMS at me, right above the way-too-handsome face of Santiago del Almodovár, his eyes looking directly at the camera lens, so it feels as though he’s staring right through me. And, even though we’re separated by several countries, a shiver runs the length of my spine, a rush of apprehension. He’s flanked on either side by beautiful women, one blonde, one with cherry-red hair, different in looks but no doubt interchangeable to a man like Santiago. Derision curls my lips.

  ‘This is seriously the man you wish to get involved with?’ I can’t help but sniff as I address my country’s Prime Minister, a man I’ve always thought had good judgement.

  ‘I understand his reputation isn’t particularly savoury, Your Highness...’ An embarrassed laugh comes through the phone line. ‘But he’s well-funded and his investment has the support of the entire parliament.’

  ‘His reputation isn’t just unsavoury, Prime Minister, it’s disgraceful. From my admittedly brief research, there’s nothing to recommend this man except the fact he’s “well-funded”,’ I say quietly, buying time. His investment has the support of the entire parliament is a sentence that speaks volumes.

  I take it as the gentle warning the minister intends. This is a fait accompli. While technically my approval is required to sign off on the deal, I’d be going against my parliament and decades of legal precedent if I refuse. But how the hell can I let this happen? What would my parents think? That’s easy. They might have died many years ago—too many—but I hear my father’s voice loud and clear, his disapproval, his sadness. This is the exact opposite of what he’d want, and I swore I’d always follow in his footsteps.

  I drop my head forward, catching it in the palm of my free hand, the other hand tightening my grip on the phone.

  ‘He’s offering a king’s ransom for the land.’

  Bleakness washes through me. There is no King now, no Queen either. There’s just me, a princess, desperately trying to stave off financial ruin for the kingdom without sacrificing the culture of my people, doing everything I can to do justice to my title as my parents would have expected.

  ‘At what price, though?’ I murmur, sitting straighter, staring straight ahead. A tapestry hangs on the wall across from me, an ancient piece that I loved even as a little girl.

  Out of nowhere, I hear my father’s voice. You must remember, we are Marlsdovens and, while the world knocks at our door, we must answer without being trampled. What makes us unique has to be protected at all costs.

  ‘My assistant will send through the contracts, Your Highness. If you could sign them—’

  ‘I shall look at them and get back to you,’ I interrupt. I hate the idea of a man like that owning such a prime piece of the city’s real estate, and I loathe his plans for the site—a glitzy, gaudy casino that will turn our ancient, cultural principality into the exact opposite of my father’s vision.

  I’m a caretaker for this country—the throne is mine temporarily—and my duty is to look after the people as best I can. What would my father say if he knew I was allowing this to happen? Make it worth it. I hear his advice as surely as if he’d breathed the words into the room. Sitting straighter, I grip the phone in my hands.

  ‘Prime Minister?’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness?’

  ‘I’d like to meet with him.’ Make it worth it. What if I can get him to agree to terms that will truly make this idea worthwhile? And, if he doesn’t like my suggestion, then he can simply walk away. After all, he obviously wants the land badly, so why not barter with him, ensure the deal is as advantageous as it can possibly be?

  ‘There’s no need for that.’ He’s scandalised by the very idea, and I can understand why. Santiago’s reputation precedes him by about three thousand football fields. He’s a lothario through and through, a man as famous for his hard-core partying lifestyle as for the multiple women he wines, dines, beds then moves on from.

  ‘Are you worried I won’t be able to handle him, sir?’

  The Prime Minister sighs. ‘He is a fierce negotiator.’

  ‘I’ll cope,’ I murmur crisply, my eyes straying to the screen. ‘Please arrange it as soon as possible. Thank you.’

  It’s only a still photo, but his eyes seem to be mocking, taunting... I shut the lid and scrape back my chair. If Santiago wants to buy this land, he can jump through a few hoops first—and, if he’s not willing to do that, he can go to hell.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE SUNLIGHT BATHES the palace courtyard in a pale glow. It’s dappled by the surrounding birch trees so it forms a lattice effect on the ground, and across the man striding towards me.

  I’ve been braced for this—him—for days. The secu
rity report on the Spanish tycoon was extensive and detailed—at my request. It confirmed much of what my own searching had done. He lives fast, loose, reckless, with little care for his reputation, his health or, so far as I can tell, for anyone in his orbit. Santiago del Almodovár is the kind of man I loathe.

  His stride is long, courtesy of his height—easily six and a half feet—so he comes towards me too quickly. He stares at me with eyes that are a rich, pale brown, almost golden like a wolf’s, enigmatic and intense, as though he can see right through me.

  I paste an ice-cold smile on my face, tight and distinctly warning. He’s wearing a suit—sort of. Navy trousers, a white shirt and a blazer, the shirt unbuttoned at the neck and no tie. It’s a strikingly casual look for a guest here at Sölla Palace, but the security council included a note to say that Santiago has very little regard for established conventions. Privately I wonder if it’s not a tool he uses to wrong-foot people from the first meeting and thus gain a hint of advantage in negotiations.

  As he draws close, I wait for the trademark bow my rank generally commands. He stops two feet short of me, his own smile mocking in a way that stirs butterflies inside me to a fever pitch. His eyes probe mine and a shiver comes out of nowhere. I suppress it, ignoring his lack of protocol, extending my hand in a universal gesture.

  ‘Mr del Almodovár, thank you for coming.’

  ‘Princess...’

  He fills my title with a husky accent, warm and spiced, like the Barcelona sun that fed his soul as a child. Another shiver threatens my equilibrium, but it’s quickly overtaken by lightning as he curves his far larger hand around mine, confident and firm, his touch sending a thousand volts of electricity from my fingertips to my arm and then through my entire body. It takes every ounce of self-possession to conceal my reaction, but I pull my hand away as quickly as I can, flexing my fingers at my side.

  ‘Please.’ I gesture to the steps, swallowing to cover the hoarseness in my voice. My breath is strained and inwardly I groan. Why, of all people, at all times, do I need to develop a sudden awareness of Santiago del Almodovár’s sex appeal? I’m twenty-four and I’ve never so much as kissed a man—it’s not easy to date when you’re the only surviving member of the Marlsdoven royal family. I’ve never met anyone that’s tempted me before, either.

  Perhaps it’s also the knowledge that my parents have chosen my husband for me, my eventual marriage arranged before I was born. Their dearest wish had been for their daughter to wed the youngest son of their closest friends. I found out shortly after they died; perhaps that’s what prevented me from getting involved with anyone. I’ve literally never had my head turned. I mean, I can tell when someone is objectively handsome or charming, and I enjoy spending time with nice, interesting people, but I’ve never met a guy and felt anything like a spark.

  Why this man?

  Why now?

  I clamp my teeth together, reminding myself of all the reasons I need to focus. His desire to buy valuable crown land and place a casino on the riverbanks of this ancient, proud city is a threat to everything I hold dear. I have to control this.

  ‘Nice palace,’ he murmurs as we step inside the enormous golden doors, each flanked by a guard dressed in full ceremonial uniform. He pays the compliment without it sounding remotely genuine. It’s a joke, if anything. I draw my brows together, surprised, because most guests to Sölla are so overwhelmed by the thousand-year-old rooms and the grandiose fittings that I have to work overtime to put them at ease before we can achieve any sensible conversation. But this man has vast personal wealth, earning more in a year than my country’s GDP; I gather he’s not easily impressed.

  That sharpens something inside me, a curl of derision. Because wealth and luxury are one thing, but history quite another. Anyone who can stand inside this grand hall––with its ornate stone carvings made by the hands of men who lived eleven hundred years ago, its vaulted ceilings breathtakingly high, its stained-glass windows perfectly capturing the afternoon sunlight––and be immune to its beauty must surely be a philistine of the highest order.

  And? What more can I expect from a man who’s made his fortune by building casinos where people go to lose their livelihoods and all hope? People like my uncle, whose addiction cost him so much, ultimately his life. The thought cuts through me, and for a second I’m almost swallowed by nauseating panic. My parents hated gambling. The idea of a casino here in Marlsdoven was absolutely forbidden. What would my dad have said?

  Since my parents died, all I’ve wanted is to make them proud, to make the decisions they’d expect me to make. Dad would have known how to get out of this; he’d have known how to dissuade the Prime Minister. I have never wished for my parents to be here more than I do now.

  I squeeze my eyes shut as we walk, sucking in a shaking breath that doesn’t quite reach my lungs. Stars dance against my eyelids. I see my parents and their disappointment and feel a horrible sense of failure wash over me.

  Santiago makes no attempt at small talk as I lead him through the grand hall and into a narrow but no less impressive corridor—this one flanked by portraits of the royal family going back hundreds of years. My eyes stray to my parents as I pass and my heart lurches with the constant ache I feel for them even now, seven years after their shocking deaths. I can’t meet my dad’s eyes. I know he’d hate this; my resolution to honour their memory is in tatters.

  A state room has been prepared for our meeting, but I realise the error of that as we enter, for the room is not large, and in here Santiago’s presence is overwhelming. My pulse goes into overdrive as I turn to face him, so much more aware of him now. Not only is he tall but broad too, like a warrior pretending to be a businessman. I have the sense that he could tame a lion with his bare hands. I don’t know where the idea comes from but it’s deeply disturbing, on many levels, so I push it aside. I’d seen dozens of photos of him by now, so I’d known he was handsome, but I hadn’t been expecting the effects of that in person.

  Because he’s not just ‘handsome’. In reality, there are nuances that the cameras hadn’t properly highlighted—a scar at the top of his lip that gives it a slightly angular shape, for example; and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. They’re barely visible because of his dark tan, but they’re there, and there’s something about them that is wild, fascinating and dangerously distracting. His hair is thick and dark, with a slight curl where it’s longer at the nape, and as I stare at him he lifts a hand and runs it through his hair, watching me with those lupine eyes until my stomach is in knots.

  ‘He will seek to gain the advantage any way he can,’ my closest aide, Claudia, had advised, her own preparation equal to my own. ‘Be on guard.’

  The memory of her words is timely. A palace staffer appears at the door and I relax, the sight of a familiar uniform and face reminding me who and where I am. This is my turf, my palace, my people, and he wants something from me: my land.

  ‘Your Highness.’ The staff member curtseys, earning another derisive half-smile from the Spanish billionaire. I grind my teeth, an inexplicable urge to somehow knock that infuriating look from his face making my palms hot. ‘Are you ready for afternoon tea?’

  I turn to my guest, a frisson of heat running through me. ‘Mr del Almodovár, would you like something to eat or drink?’

  ‘A beer,’ he says without skipping a beat.

  I pivot to the maid. ‘A beer for our guest and tea for me, thank you.’

  I can’t shake the feeling he’s laughing at me, so I experience a sense of pique as I gesture to the two armchairs set opposite one another in front of a floor-to-ceiling window that frames a stunning view of the Laltussen river. Usually, the river gives me calm. It is ancient and courageous, undaunted by time and man’s impulses.’ It is a constant in the lives of my people and I take solace from that when I look out on it. But today I am apparently not able to be calmed.

  When
he sits, it’s exactly as you might expect––no hint of reserve or respect for the ancient room and its furnishings. He takes the chair with a dominant athleticism that speaks of a desire to run wild, his legs spread wide, elbows braced on each arm as he leans forward.

  I instinctively fold myself into my own chair, knees braced, ankles together, hands clasped in my lap. We could not be more different—he is totally at ease in his own body, uncaring of where he is; he’s simply himself. I have spent a lifetime learning who I must be—sometimes I wonder if I have any idea what or who ‘I’ really am. Who might I have been had I not been born a princess? Who might I have become had circumstance not made me the sole surviving member of the royal family at seventeen?

  He’s looking at me, those eyes of his overtaking me for a moment, so I forget he’s here at my request, that this is my meeting to shape.

  ‘I’ve had a chance to review your proposal,’ I say, careful not to give away my true feelings in the tone of my voice. It won’t be helpful if he knows how much I don’t want his casino monstrosity here.

  ‘So I gather,’ he drawls. ‘And what did you think, Princess?’

  ‘Please, you don’t have to call me that.’

  ‘And what should I call you instead?’

  I’m not one to stand on ceremony, yet with this man I hesitate to invite him to use my name as I ordinarily would. I need every boundary I can establish between us. ‘Most of my guests refer to me as Your Highness,’ I clip.

  ‘Is that any different to “Princess”?’ His cynical expression reaches inside my tummy and squeezes it, so I look away, flustered and warm-cheeked. The river is placid, calmly meandering past the window. I watch it for a moment.

  ‘It’s more...what I am used to,’ I say, forcing myself to turn back and face him, then wishing I hadn’t when I find his eyes lingering on the necklace at my throat. Or are they actually lower, on the brief hint of cleavage exposed by the neckline of my dress? My pulse goes into overdrive. There’s no denying how he makes me feel. It’s like being flooded with electricity. I close my eyes for a moment, needing to regain control. When I open them, he’s looking right at me.