My Forbidden Royal Fling Read online

  ‘What is it?’

  His dark eyes probe mine for several seconds.

  ‘Frankly, I don’t like the idea of having slept with another man’s fiancée.’

  I laugh, because it’s so completely unexpected. ‘I just told you, we’re not engaged. It’s not like that. Besides, I’m sure he’s not letting our arrangement stop him from seeing other women.’

  ‘And it’s okay for him to date, but not you?’

  I sigh dramatically. ‘That almost sounds like there might be a double standard for men and women,’ I observe with a fine peppering of sarcasm. ‘Men are expected to have girlfriends. It’s old-fashioned and it sucks, but he doesn’t have the same expectations to be morally beyond reproach that I do.’

  ‘How can you accept such restrictions so calmly? I’d want to burn the house down.’

  ‘It’s my life,’ I say with a shrug.

  ‘But it doesn’t have to be.’

  ‘A second ago you looked half-terrified I was going to latch onto you and beg you to spend the rest of your life with me, and now you’re trying to talk me out of going through with my wedding?’

  ‘I can feel both those things,’ he assures me. ‘This is an academic discussion; it has no bearing on what just happened between us.’

  I wonder at the slight pain in my chest, as if a blade’s pressing against my heart.

  ‘So why did you sleep with me?’

  The question barrels towards me like a freight train. The answer is right there, glaringly obvious, but I feel that to admit the truth to Santiago would lay me bare. I angle my head a little, pretending fascination with a painting across the room. The art work in this suite is a blend of classic and contemporary—there are pieces from the Renaissance juxtaposed with paintings featuring bold, bright colours, abstract and happy-making.

  His fingers touch my shoulder lightly, sending goose bumps across my skin.

  ‘Freja?’

  My name, again. My heart slows.

  ‘Why did you sleep with me?’ I push the question back on him, angling my head to his so I can see his expression.

  His eyes scan my face with indolent ease, studying me, before his lips flicker in a quick grin. ‘You’re sexy.’ He moves his finger lower. ‘And beautiful.’ He draws his finger towards my belly button, then makes a circle, running his finger around it again and again. ‘And I wanted you.’

  I wanted you.

  The words bounce around inside me, the certainty behind them filling me with surprise. ‘And that’s how it works, is it?’

  He waits for me to continue.

  ‘You see someone you want and what––they fall into your bed?’

  ‘Most of the time,’ he drawls jokingly, but something a lot like jealousy flashes in my gut. It’s not jealousy of him, it’s jealousy of his freedom and lifestyle. ‘You didn’t answer my question, Princesa.’

  I nod slowly. ‘I wanted you too.’

  ‘But you must have wanted men before. Why me, now?’

  I prop up onto my elbow, mirroring his body language, my fingers lifting to the bird tattooed above his heart. It’s an eagle, bold and confident, watching me as though with a warning in its eyes. ‘You’re sexy and beautiful?’ I tease.

  His lips flicker in another slow smile. My heart twists.

  With uncertainty slowing my words, I say, ‘Actually, I haven’t.’ I clear my throat. ‘Met anyone I wanted before, I mean.’

  At the look of triumph in the depths of his eyes, I roll mine. ‘Don’t let your head get too big, Santiago. I didn’t exactly have much of an opportunity to meet anyone.’

  ‘You’ve met men before,’ he points out. ‘Lots of men, I’m sure. And yet I am the only one you’ve ever been tempted to sleep with.’

  It’s one hundred per cent true, but I suspect his ego doesn’t need the stroking.

  ‘Whatever.’ I flick his tattoo.

  He laughs, a hoarse sound that sends little arrows of desire across my spine. Silence falls between us, warm and pricked with awareness.

  ‘I guess,’ I say thoughtfully, surprised at how honest I’m prepared to be with Santiago. ‘I didn’t want to miss this opportunity.’

  He waits for me to continue and I order my words with care.

  ‘I don’t know much about Heydar. He seems nice, and he has a good record on all the things that matter. But, the handful of times we’ve been in the same room, I’ve felt nothing. Not even curiosity. We don’t have any spark whatsoever. I’ll marry him because he’ll be good for my country, and because it was important to my parents, but I already know that our marriage won’t have chemistry.’

  I shift my hand to the snake inked on his toned forearm, tracing its length.

  ‘And then I met you, and you were so infuriating and rude and direct, and unlike anyone I’ve ever known,’ I say with a weak smile. ‘And when you kissed me I felt like part of me I didn’t know existed was being brought to life: and not piece by piece, but all at once, in a huge, fiery rush. It terrified me,’ I murmur. ‘I didn’t come to Spain expecting we’d sleep together. In fact, I came determined that we wouldn’t. After all, I can’t be involved with someone like you,’ I point out matter-of-factly. ‘The way you make me feel is both exhilarating and terrifying. But I’m going to marry a guy I feel nothing for, so don’t I deserve this?’

  It’s a rhetorical question. I’m telling him to absolve me of a sin that I haven’t really committed. I’m telling him to understand.

  He mulls it over for a moment before leaning forward, brushing our lips together. ‘Everyone deserves great sex in their life, Freja. I’m just sorry you’re willing to walk into a lifetime without it.’

  It had never really bothered me before. If anything, I’d come to the conclusion I was asexual, not remotely interested in men. But now? Having been awoken by Santiago, what will it be like to push this part of myself back into the box?

  Necessary, I remind myself. My country needs this, and it was the wish of my parents.

  ‘How long are you in Spain for?’

  ‘Four nights. Including tonight.’

  ‘It’s not long.’

  ‘It’s long enough to appraise the casino,’ I point out, reminding us both of the main reason I came to Barcelona.

  His smirk pulls me apart from the inside out. ‘Sure.’ His accent rolls over the word, softening it. ‘But perhaps not enough to make up for lost time.’

  I frown. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘That we have four nights to give you a lifetime’s worth of sexual satisfaction. It’s a challenge, but I think I’m up for it.’

  ‘That’s big of you.’

  ‘If you say so.’ He winks at my unintended double entendre.

  ‘You seriously have an ego the size of a house.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  We’re quiet. Our eyes clash. ‘The thing is...’ I move my hand back to his eagle tattoo, then press my palm to his chest. ‘I meant what I said before. I can’t date. And I especially can’t date you.’

  ‘Because if people discovered we were sleeping together, a scandal would follow?’ he says speculatively.

  ‘Well, yes.’ I bite down on my lip, worried about offending him before I remember this is Santiago del Almodovár. ‘With everything that’s printed about you in the press, my people would be horrified.’

  ‘I have no interest in ruining your pristine reputation, Your Highness.’ For a moment, I’m reminded of his antipathy on that first afternoon we met, the silent undercurrent of disapproval that was obvious in his every remark. But then he stands, extending a hand to me, so I place my own in his and he pulls me to standing. Our bodies are so close, my hips brush his.

  ‘Four nights in my bed, and no one will ever know.’

  Something like adrenalin courses through my veins. A secret affair with Santiag
o del Almodovár explodes through me; wonderment fills my body. It’s not what I expected when I came to Spain, but it’s absolutely perfect. Why shouldn’t I enjoy a fling with a bad-boy sex god before I go back to Marlsdoven and continue to act like the perfect Princess the country expects me to be?

  ‘Isn’t it technically my bed?’ I ask with fluttering lashes.

  ‘Your bed, my bed. Let’s not argue over semantics.’ He scoops down and lifts me easily, cradling me to his chest. ‘So long as there’s a bed and you’re in it, I don’t particularly care about anything else.’

  * * *

  He runs the loofah over my body, sponging me until I’m covered in soap, the warm water of the shower rinsing it off. I watch him unashamedly, fascinated by this intimacy, by his closeness, by the fact he’s not intimidated by me and by the way he reveres my body, worshipping me as though there is some all-powerful energy source layered beneath my skin. When I’m clean all over, he looks up, his dark eyes hooded, his expression causing my lungs to burst with air pressure.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  Better than I’ve ever felt before. ‘Good.’ I smile shyly.

  ‘And here?’ He presses a finger to my sex so I jump, the touch unexpected and perfect.

  ‘Good.’ I thought I was shy before!

  ‘You’re sure?’

  I nod but, when he presses his lips to my most intimate core, I almost jump out of my skin.

  ‘Santiago...’ It’s a plea, but for what?

  He flashes his eyes at me, a smile playing about his lips before he moves his tongue, flicking my sensitive cluster of nerves until stars dance behind my eyes. I lift my hands up and press them flat against the tiled wall behind me, desperate for the support. The warm water douses my naked body, cascading down my breasts as he lashes me with his tongue... Then I’m falling apart at the seams all over again, pleasure a tidal wave drowning me in desire and, though we are taught to fear drowning, I can’t say I feel anything right now but ecstasy.

  * * *

  ‘Did you grow up here?’ I reach for another of the Cambados oysters, their ocean-salt flavour delicious, particularly when paired with Santiago’s wine.

  He watches me eat then runs his hands over his jaw, as if lost in thought...or weighing something up, perhaps. ‘I grew up in the Ciutat Vella.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Old City.’

  ‘Ah. It sounds beautiful.’

  His smile is sardonic. ‘Does it?’

  ‘Wasn’t it?’

  ‘There are parts,’ he concedes.

  ‘But not where you grew up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He reaches for an oyster, lifting it expertly to his lips and sliding it into his mouth, swallowing it whole. I’m transfixed, watching as his Adam’s apple shifts in his stubbly throat.

  ‘We lived in a crowded apartment building—one bedroom for the three of us. It was loud and untidy.’

  My frown is reflexive. It twitches on my lips before I can stop it.

  ‘Your parents didn’t have a lot of money?’ I prompt quietly.

  ‘That is one way to say it.’ He reaches for his wine and takes a sip, his eyes holding mine over the rim of the glass so bubbles of warmth spread in my veins.

  ‘I hadn’t realised. I knew that your fortune was self-made, but I presumed your parents gave you a start.’

  ‘No.’

  I nod slowly. His reluctance to expand is something I should probably respect, but curiosity fires through my belly. ‘So what did?’

  He waits for me to clarify.

  ‘How did you get to have all this?’ I gesture to the view of the city beneath us, the lights twinkling in the evening light. On the balcony of the presidential suite in his central casino, I feel as though the world is at his—and my—feet.

  ‘Hard work.’

  I laugh. ‘That tells me nothing.’

  ‘Doesn’t it?’

  Our eyes meet and I nod slowly. I can tell that he’s a hard worker. Despite his party-boy reputation, I see beneath it—there is a streak of ruthless determination that convinces me Santiago will stop at nothing to achieve his ends. Even now, with hundreds of billions in the bank, he will do whatever it takes to ensure his next venture is a success.

  Including sleeping with you? I push the horrible, insidious thought away before I can give it any credit. How ridiculous. Sex isn’t why I’ll agree to his casino proposal. It has nothing to do with it.

  ‘I was on the brink of dropping out of school.’ He surprises me by continuing, his voice raspy, as though the past is grabbing hold of him. ‘I barely went anyway, not more than a few hours a week.’ He casts his eyes towards the black void in the distance, at the ocean beyond the city.

  ‘Why not? What did you do instead?’

  His eyes pierce me with their intensity. ‘I worked, querida.’

  ‘You were just a child.’

  ‘A teenager, and we needed the money.’

  He reaches for another oyster. I shift to a horizontal position on the comfortable outdoor sofa, lying on my side so I can see him, propping my head on my palm.

  ‘Besides, I hated school.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘Oh, I loved it. Not school, but learning. In another life, I should have been an academic. Give me a pile of textbooks and a long test at the end of it, and I’m set.’

  His laugh is throaty.

  ‘No skipping classes for you?’

  ‘No such luck. I had a tutor.’

  ‘Of course you did.’ His voice is droll, and again I’m reminded of our first meeting. His cynicism is most apparent when we touch on the trappings of my position. I push up a little and reach for my wine, taking a small sip. The breeze is warm, rustling over my hair, and I relish the sensations—cold wine, satisfied body, warm flesh. ‘And of course you did not need to work to support your family,’ he adds, so I feel almost a hint of guilt in my chest.

  I shake my head before lying back down again. ‘You didn’t drop out, though?’

  ‘No.’ He studies me. ‘A teacher saw me working at mechanics.’

  Great. Now I have to imagine Santiago as a grease monkey, his head beneath the bonnet of a car, dressed in a white singlet and form-fitting jeans. My mouth goes dry.

  ‘He realised I’d been ditching school to work and hauled me into his office. I was surprised he cared, at the time. The school was not known for its academic reputation, and no one had given much of a care about what I did until then.’

  Something about the throwaway comment makes my heart ache for him.

  ‘What about your parents?’

  His smile is tight, cautiously dismissive. ‘That’s another story.’

  ‘I’d like to hear it.’

  He shakes his head once; it’s obvious he doesn’t intend to elaborate. ‘The teacher’s specialty was maths. He set me extra work. Pushed me. I had an aptitude.’ His expression bears the ghosts of the past. I perceive the pain that dogs him and wonder why I didn’t comprehend it at our first meeting. Because he’d come in all guns blazing, and all my instincts had been askew, thanks to the way he’d made me feel.

  ‘About three months after he started working with me, there was a phantom-stock-market game. Do you know what this is?’

  ‘Like playing the stock market with fake money?’

  ‘Si.’

  ‘And you were great at it?’

  ‘I earned over a million euro in the first week,’ he says. ‘So, yes, you could say that.’

  My eyes widen. ‘Seriously?’

  His head shifts in a single nod. ‘I was fifteen and had never had enough money in my life. We were dirt-poor, Princesa, and suddenly I’d been given the keys to a world beyond my comprehension.’

>   ‘But that was just pretend. How did you take that and turn it into all this?’

  ‘I found investors, charged a scaling percentage of what I earned for them. It was their money, their risk—all the up side was mine.’

  I shake my head from side to side, admiration filling me.

  ‘I was able to diversify, invest in properties then major ventures, such as this.’

  ‘You make it sound so easy.’

  ‘Once I was given the keys, it was.’

  Pleasure has seeped through me. I am exhausted and satiated. It occurs to me that I’m happier in this moment than I’ve ever been.

  ‘And now, Your Highness, I must go.’

  It jerks me out of my reverie. ‘What? Why?’

  His smile is arrogant and hot. I don’t care that I’ve shown how much I enjoy his company, or that my disappointment is blatantly obvious. ‘I have a meeting.’

  I reach for my phone, checking the time. ‘It’s almost midnight.’

  ‘And, in a casino, that’s prime time.’

  My face probably shows what I think of that. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’

  His laugh is laced with mocking humour. ‘So prim,’ he teases as he stands and walks towards me, his body brushing mine when he sits on the edge of the sofa, our hips connecting.

  Pride be damned. ‘Do you have to go?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, but I don’t think I’m imagining the regret in his voice now. ‘Besides, it is better if I don’t stay the night. Your guards might do some of that gossiping you are so afraid of.’

  He’s right but I don’t know if I care right now. I lower my eyes, painfully aware of what a hypocrite that makes me.

  ‘Sleep naked,’ he says gruffly. ‘And dream of me.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MY PARENTS WERE close to my uncle Richard. They adored him. My father’s younger brother, he’d had all the advantages of royal life and none of the pressure and expectations that had weighed down my father and which had ensured he was sensible in his life choices.

  My uncle had been free to do as he wished, largely left alone by the media. My father told me, when I was only small that at one time he’d envied his brother that freedom. He’d wished he’d been born second, able to live without the scrutiny and watchfulness of the world. And, while I can understand that sentiment, it was not borne out by history.