Some princes play nice...

This one plays very, very naughty...

Being the Crown Prince means extravagant luxury for Nikolai. Fast cars and faster women. Matchmaker Kate Winter’s job is to chain him down to one woman. Only, Kate’s way too tempting—igniting his blood and something far deeper. But Nikolai’s a prince...and his heart is the one crown jewel she can’t have!

“DARE is Harlequin’s hottest line yet. Every book should come with a free fan. I dare you to try them!”

—Tiffany Reisz, international bestselling author

RILEY PINE is the combined forces of two contemporary romance writers as you’ve never seen them before. Expect delicious, dirty and scandalous swoons. To stay up to date with all things Riley Pine head on over to rileypine.com, for newsletters, book details and more!

If you liked My Royal Temptation, why not try

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My Royal Temptation

Riley Pine

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07113-0

MY ROYAL TEMPTATION

© 2018 Riley Pine

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

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

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

EPILOGUE

Extract

CHAPTER ONE

Nikolai

IT’S NEVER IDEAL to wake up after a one-night stand to find a European boxing champion glaring at your bare ass. It’s worse if the pissed-off guy in question happens to be a childhood best friend.

Scratch that...former best friend.

“Top of the morning.” I wryly yank the hotel’s satin sheet over my waist. A red thong is bunched on top of the unmade covers, right where I removed it with my teeth around midnight.

If looks could kill, Christian Wurtzer, Baron of Rosegate, would smite me faster than a lightning bolt hurled by an avenging god.

“You really are a first-rate bastard, aren’t you, Nikolai?” He balled his hands into meaty fists, a useless gesture, because here in the Kingdom of Edenvale, it’s illegal to strike a member of the royal family.

And as Prince Nikolai, third of his name, Duke of Westcraven, heir to the throne of Edenvale and our country’s eminent blue-blooded bad boy, I fall square into the “no hitting allowed” category. Rules are often a nuisance in my world, but that particular clause has proved beneficial since reaching my maturity, especially in predicaments regarding the opposite sex.

“Bastard?” I scrub the morning scruff prickling my jaw with a yawn. “But I’m the mirror image of my dear sovereign father, and don’t forget that my poor queen mother was forced to squeeze me out in front of an official court representative to ensure my legitimacy.” There is a sharp localized pain in the vicinity of my heart; the twinge always accompanies a mention of my long-dead mother. She died bringing my youngest brother, Damien, into the world, the first life that banished asshole ever took.

“You’ve gone too far this time.” Christian’s warning growl yanks my attention back to the present moment. “This was my sister. You compromised her virtue.”

Not the optimal moment to observe that he could give the ferocious bear stamped on his family crest a run for its money. Once our people were great hunters, the best swordsmen in Europe, as feared as the Vikings of old. Edenvale might be a small, landlocked kingdom, but we harbored a reputation as ruthless, lethal warriors. These days we’re better known for luxury casinos, discreet banks and glamorous mountain hideaways. Edenvale is a high-altitude playground for the rich, the famous and those aspiring to the same.

“What will I tell my parents?” He rakes a hand through his blond hair, pacing the plush carpet. “Catriona is ruined. Her prospects for a marriage alliance are now nonexistent.”

“Come, come. Ask any trust-fund baby in Ibiza. It’s common knowledge that your precious little sister gave up her virtue well before I sunk my flag.” If his family schemed to marry Cat off as a virgin, they lost that chance years ago. Typical Rosegate sentiment to attach significance to such an inconsequential thing as a hymen. But they are an old-fashioned people. The regional characteristic might be charming if their morals weren’t so fucking medieval.

Catriona Wurtzer stirs, snoring lightly, her pink lips crooked into a satiated half smile. A hot pulse of lust spreads through my sac. That luscious mouth pouts from the cover of three different high-fashion magazines this month alone, and last night it worked over my cock with such deep-throated skill that the interlude nearly distracted me from this morning’s royal duty.

I roll out of bed and slip on my tuxedo pants—commando—and shrug into my dress shirt, not bothering with the twenty-four-karat-gold cuff links on the nightstand. Catriona likes it rough, and the room was trashed during our sleepover. Those expensive baubles will serve as a more-than-adequate housekeeping tip. It’s time for me to return to the castle.

My father, the king, and my hag of a stepmother, the current queen, have summoned me for a private audience this morning at nine thirty sharp. This rare audience doesn’t mean anything good, which is why I guzzled three-thousand-dollar-a-bottle champagne at a gala benefit before burying myself balls deep into the supermodel who happens to be my best friend’s little sister.

“Your family have been loyal subjects for over two centuries. Based on this valued relationship, I shall issue a royal decree. Huzzah, huzzah. All hail Catriona, the realm’s newest countess.” I can’t resist a smirk as I tack on, “A new title for her trouble.” As if bedding me was a hardship. Which it wasn’t. But what the hell? Let her add a castle to her four orgasms. I’m in a generous mood.

“Too kind, Highness.” Christian nearly chokes on his words. He wants to beat my ass into Luxembourg, but the microstate of Rosegate has long been a disputed territory with Nightgardin, the country to the north and our ancient foe. The powerful Wurtzer family has been allied to mine for generations, and he knows—without reminder—three salient facts:

I’m an asshole, a leopard can’t change his spots, and Edenvale’s small but lethal military is the only thing protecting Rosegate against a Nightgardin power grab.

Revenge is a bitch.

Christian and I attended Swiss boarding school together and shared a dormitory room for five years. I love the guy like family, but he recently racked up too many gambling debts playing high-stakes blackjack. My sources say he decided to pay for them by selling titillating gossip about me to the tabloids. I’m not saying banging his hot sister is payback for his betrayal.

But I’m not saying it isn’t, either.

A muscle twitches deep in his jaw, the same tic that would act up back when he’d pour over his calculus lessons during late-night study sessions. I’m sure he’d love to order me to “do the right thing” and stick a ring on his sister’s finger. But alas, only one of us carries an invitation-only Black Amex card with no preset limits.

Limits are for those who need them. I am no such man.

People can think I’m an arrogant ass all they want. They’re right. But at least I’m a consistent asshole. Fuck with me and I fuck back. No hard feelings. It’s how the people on top stay on top. And I can make it good.

Or I can make it hurt.

For those who beg nicely—I can make it both.

Got to say, being a prince is full of perks in all ways but one—I still answer to the king. It’s not my throne...yet.

I glance in the gilded mirror on my way out the door. Yep, still me. Bed-rumpled jet-black hair, a roguish mouth and gunmetal gray eyes. I clock in at six foot four and possess stamina for days. Last year I came in number one on a list of the world’s sexiest royals. The only thing surprising was that it was the first year it happened. Way I see it, Prince Harry over in jolly old England can eat his ginger heart out.

“For Christ’s sake. Wake up, Catriona,” Christian orders his sister as I exit the room. I outpace the unfolding drama and stride down the hotel hallway, hitting the button on the penthouse’s private elevator. My bodyguard, X, waits in the Rolls. He’s been idling there all night. He’s used to it.

I slide into the back seat without a word.

A language lesson plays on the sound system—Mandarin Chinese. X collects languages like he does medieval knives. Not my first choice for fun, but to each his own.

“To the castle, Sire?” he asks over the intercom, turning off the stereo. I remove my sunglasses from my pocket. Daylight reflects from the snow on the high mountain peaks. My growing headache isn’t in the mood for good weather.

“Home sweet home.” I slather sarcasm on my affirmative and slide on the shades to avoid the summer sun.

As X starts the engine, I reach into the minibar and pluck out a handful of miniature cognac bottles. By the time we cross the moat, I toss the fifth empty on the pile by my feet. But the liquor does jack shit to dull the sharp pain in my gut.

Fine. It was an unforgivable move to fuck my best friend’s little sister—revenge or no—but I’m sure as shit no Prince Charming.

Kate

I spread my hands across my pleated skirt, then think better of it and rest them atop the leather folder that sits on the table. If I wanted to, I could relax, even luxuriate in the high-backed, cushioned chair, no doubt made of the same buttery leather as the folder in front of me. But it’s not exactly easy when you’re sitting at a twenty-foot-long mahogany table in one of many rooms at the Palace Edenvale.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t been here before, but I don’t think a prep-school tour counts the same as an invitation that came hand-delivered by a royal herald. The envelope was even closed with one of those fancy wax seals.

Dear Miss Katherine Winter,

Your presence is requested at Palace Edenvale at 9:30 a.m. tomorrow morning. Please come unattended and plan on clearing your schedule for the remainder of the day. Your audience with the king and queen must be kept private. Tell no one where you are going, and after you’ve been, tell no one what transpires within the palace walls until—should they request your services further—the king, queen and yourself enter into contract.

The royal family appreciates you honoring your duty and complying with the above requests.

I huff out a laugh, which echoes in the empty room. Requests. As if I had any choice once I broke the royal seal. Sure, Your Highnesses, I’ll clear my day. Of course, my illustrious rulers, I’ll keep my visit to the palace a secret. Not because of any damned duty, though. If there is one thing I value, it’s my business and my independence. I am determined to keep the former and as much of the latter as possible, and if that means zipping my lips about my royal audience, fine by me.

There better at least be some sort of monetary compensation for this—this—request. God knows my sister and I need it. Our savings account has dipped into the red with Gran’s mounting medical bills, which has sent my internal stress thermometer in the exact opposite direction.

I glance at the thin gold bracelet on my wrist, an eighteenth-birthday gift from my beloved grandmother, back in happier times. Back when she still remembered my name.

I swallow the threat of tears. This is hardly the time or the place to wallow in my personal woes.

“We won’t lose the apartment.” The words are a mantra. “And we’ll still be able to take care of Gran.”

I figure if I say the words enough, they’ll be true. So I open my mouth once more to repeat the statements, but the conference-room doors part with a whoosh, and my worry fades into the distance as the same formal-looking man who delivered my invitation steps over the threshold and announces my small country’s rulers in a booming voice.

“All rise for His Highness, King Nikolai of Edenvale, and Her Eminence, Queen Adele.”

The herald proclaims the royal couple as if they are entering an arena, and I, of course, shoot to my feet. My first instinct is to bow or curtsy, but neither one of them spares me so much as a passing glance. Yet I’m the only one in the room. I’ve been requested for a private audience with the monarchy, and they don’t even deign to look at me.

Still, I wait for the attendants who trail behind the pair to pull out two chairs at the head of the table. I wait some more as they lower themselves into the plush leather seats. And as I’m about to do the same, a man wearing half a tuxedo bursts through the doors still tucking in his wrinkled dress shirt.

He winks in my direction, flashing a knavish grin before turning his attention to the king and queen.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, checking a nonexistent watch on his wrist. Then he kisses the queen on the cheek while the king, a salt-and-pepper version of the young man, simply gives his son—Prince Nikolai—a pointed look.

While his parents—make that father and stepmother—take residence at the far head of the table, the prince sits across from me and flips open the embossed folder in front of him.

“So,” he says, sprawling in his chair and thumbing through the folder’s contents, “what fire are we putting out this morning?”

He runs a hand through his black hair, and I squirm involuntarily in my seat. Sure, I’ve seen photos of him before. Prince Nikolai’s image has graced the front page of the tabloids almost weekly since he came of age. But that sort of sensationalism has never been my thing. I wasn’t the preteen with pictures of the teen heartthrob prince on my wall. I didn’t wallpaper my computer’s desktop with his devil-may-care smile, no matter how gorgeous he was.

And he was. Even then.

But he was also a grade-A asshole. Even then.

And from the looks of things—from the colorful headlines that always seem to feature Prince Nikolai’s name—it doesn’t seem like anything is changing soon.

Still, when those slate-colored eyes look up from the folder and meet mine, I squirm again. He was handsome in photos and the few times I’ve seen him on television. Not that I watch much of that celebrity crap that’s thrown in the public’s face on a daily basis. But I’m not prepared for my reaction to the prince in the flesh.

He is nothing short of dazzling.

My lungs revolt, unable to take a deep breath even though I need air badly.

And as if it isn’t enough that he has some sort of superpower effect between my legs, I feel my nipples stand at attention against the lace of my bra. Thank God I’d had the forethought to keep my suit jacket buttoned.

“Nikolai—” the queen begins, but the prince holds up a finger as he returns to scanning the contents of the folder—the one I have been waiting for permission to examine myself. Apparently, the rumors are true—stepmother and stepson do not get on as they should. That explains the blatant disrespect.

His shuttered gaze roams the first page, then the second, and several more after that. I watch as his father crosses his arms and humors his son with a look that says no matter what antics the prince displays, the king will have the final word.

Prince Nikolai slams the folder closed and lets out a raucous laugh.

“Please, Nikolai,” the king says, steepling his fingers in front of him. “Do tell us what you find so amusing.”

The queen rests a hand on her husband’s forearm, but the man’s icy gaze remains directed at his son. All I do is stare, my head bobbing like I’m watching a tennis match in slow motion.

The prince narrows his eyes, pinning them on me, and my core tightens in disobedient response.

He takes his sweet time scrutinizing me, the corner of his mouth quirked in a crooked grin. Then he splays his hands on the table, leaning forward so that he’s close enough for me to smell the tang of alcohol on his breath.

“I find it hilarious,” the prince says with an edge to his words, “that you not only expect me to marry but that you think Little Miss Matchmaker-Dot-Com is the one to take care of the job. I mean, why not open me a royal Tinder account and be done with it?”

He has the nerve to sneer at me and my career? Oh, hell no.

Red-hot anger replaces that sensual tightening in my core.

The prince pushes from the table and smooths out his wrinkled shirt. “Father. Stepmother. As always, it’s a pleasure to see you both.” He doesn’t hide his sarcasm.

On instinct, I stand as he rounds the table, my cheeks blazing with repressed fury.

“I—I am not some dot-com organization. My matches are personal, well thought out...” I sputter as it sinks in not only what I’ve been called here to do but that my client is anything but willing.

“Save it, sweetheart,” he says. “I’d sooner fuck you than let you arrange my nuptials.”

The queen gasps, and King Nikolai slams his fist on the table.

“Enough,” the older man says, the finality of his authority dripping from the word. “Benedict is entering the priesthood. Damien is banished. If you do not marry with the intent to produce an heir, the throne falls out of the immediate family and to your cousin Ingrid. You will not fault on your duty.”

The muscle in the prince’s jaw pulses. “That’s right, Father. I’ve had enough.” His penetrating stare, though, stays on me the whole time. That’s when he leans in, hot breath on my cheek. “And you’d enjoy every goddamn second of it,” he whispers. “The word enough won’t even exist in your vocabulary.”

He bows toward his visibly shaken parents before making his dramatic exit.

I give myself a mental pat on the back for at least believing the stories.

The prince is a grade-A asshole.

My soaked panties, on the other hand, apparently did not receive the memo.

Perhaps they’re waiting for one with the royal seal.

CHAPTER TWO

Nikolai

“MARRIAGE? THAT’S IT, Father has lost his goddamn mind,” I mutter, ducking into the unobtrusive staircase, the quickest escape route out of the palace. Two floors down a young servant in a black dress and white apron takes one look at me and nearly drops the silver tray she carries, one laden with teapots, fine china and six different cakes. My mood is so foul that I ignore her alarmed squeal and don’t even smooth the situation over with a flirtatious wink.

She must have been assigned catering duty for the ambush upstairs, the one where my father invoked the ancient laws of our realm.

Sweat breaks out on my hairline. A sour taste fills my mouth.

My twenty-ninth birthday is just around the corner.

I am the heir to the crown.

The Royal Marriage Decree of 1674 declared that the Edenvale heir must wed before sundown on his or her twenty-ninth birthday or their claim is null and void. Plus, an Edenvale heir had to marry someone of aristocratic blood. My future bride doesn’t have to be a citizen of my country, but she does need to be nobility. Other than that, the requirements are simple: free consent.

Sounds easy enough. Except for the part where I’m not the marrying kind.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and draw a lung-searing breath before pushing through the exit that leads to the castle grounds.

Of course I know about the marriage decree. I memorized Edenvale proclamations and laws alongside my ABCs. But this is the twenty-first century. I never dared believe that Father would enforce that arcane law any more than he would the one about how no high ministers could enter the palace wearing purple, or how hunting on royal lands was a hangable offense.

Don’t even get me started on the decree prohibiting anal sex.

Hell, I tapped the back door of a hotel heiress in the castle’s highest tower last week. Not something I normally do, but she offered, and I sure as shit wasn’t going to turn it down. Not my favorite position, but sex is like pizza in Naples. Even if it’s not great, it’s still damn good.

The castle grounds are perfectly manicured with hedges cut into topiaries of rabbits and swans. Father enjoys indulging his whimsical side.

The morning sun scalds my neck.

“Sire, Sire, please, wait!” a woman cries behind me. Then she mutters under her breath how hard it is to run in heels.

My molars grind with enough force that it’s a miracle they don’t shatter. I’ve heard that lilting voice before—the auburn-haired woman from the matchmaking service that my father hired.

Marriage decree aside, this situation—them hiring a matchmaking service—is the biggest insult of all. As if I need any goddamn help finding a willing woman.

“Sire!”

I should wait. Chivalry and all that. But remember the part about how I’m no Prince Charming?

I veer into the maze, kicking at stones in the gravel path. Fuck being a gentleman. I turn left, then right, then left again. The walls surrounding me are twelve feet high and covered in leaves. This maze might be the largest in Europe, but it was my childhood playground. I always know the way out. Time to ditch this tenacious matchmaker and figure out a plan to avoid getting tied in unholy matrimony.

That’s when I hear it.

A snap, quickly followed by a sound like someone trying not to cry out.

Shit.

She’s fallen over.

Not a surprise. I caught a glimpse of her precarious five-inch stilettos when she crossed her legs upstairs in the castle hall and this path is rocky and uneven.

I also caught an eyeful of a toned calf that connected to a perfectly curving thigh. That was the best part of the meeting. Before I glanced at the folder on the table and read the gold-embossed title: Happy Endings Matchmaking Services: Making Dreams a Reality.

A cool mountain breeze brushes my face. I pause. Debating. I want to keep going. I even take a step. It’s not like I asked her to give chase. She saw that I didn’t need her advice. That I didn’t want her professional services. Yet she insisted on pursuing me of her own free will. This is her own fault. I owe the woman—a total stranger—nothing.

The image of that exquisite creamy thigh flashes behind my eyes, this time draped over my shoulder.

Okay. Correction. I don’t want her in a professional capacity.

My shoulders slump. No matter what my instincts demand, I can’t abandon an injured woman alone in the maze.

Before I know it, I’m backtracking. It takes less than thirty seconds to find her.

She’s kicked off that lethal-looking shoe and sits rubbing a swelling ankle. Her toes are painted a glossy classic red.

Okay, damn. I like that.

Her lips are flawless, painted in exactly the same shade.

I like that even better.

I’d like it best streaking my shaft.

My cock twitches in agreement.

Fuck. This matchmaker—and maddeningly sexy woman—is the enemy. But try telling that to my asshole dick. Sometimes an overactive libido comes with serious drawbacks.

Then her gaze fixes on my face, and with one look at those tear-filled baby blues, my brain fucking flatlines.

Kate

It takes everything for me to hold my prince’s fixed stare, not to wince at the white-hot pain in my ankle. But there is no way I’m letting this guy—prince or otherwise—get the best of me.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Of course not.” I glance at my ivory skirt, the side slit ripped even higher. I’m also sure my ass is one big grass stain. And let’s not even discuss the hair. I’d gone for professional with the French twist, but now my auburn waves hang in my face, which is probably for the best. His steely gaze is too close.

“Just—show me the way out,” I say, attempting to push myself up, but as soon as I put pressure on my bare foot, my knees buckle and I almost hit the ground again.

Almost. Because Nikolai Lorentz, Prince of Edenvale and heir to the throne, catches me.

“Shit,” he hisses. “You are hurt.”

“And you smell like you hit a limousine minibar,” I say, trying to cover my reaction to his hands on me with disdain.

But my breath still quickens. He carries me with a concern I can feel in every nerve of my body.

“It was a Rolls, but you’re very perceptive, Miss—”

“Winter,” I say, having no choice but to throw my arms around his neck for purchase, my broken shoe still dangling from my fingers.

“Aha,” he says, that devilish grin taking over his features. “Have you read Romeo and Juliet? Doesn’t Juliet ask what’s in a name?” He begins to walk.

My cheeks grow hot, and the tips of his fingers—his palm where it touches the bare skin of my thigh—sends sparks right through me.

I clear my throat. “You read Shakespeare?” I ask, though it’s obvious.

“You’re as icy as your name implies.”

I huff out a breath and push as far from him as I can while the rogue still has me in his arms.

“I’m no such thing! You—you’re the one who likened my services to a dating website. My work is nuanced and relies on personal metrics and psychology, thank you very much. You’re also the one who just cost me a day’s work. So pardon me if I’m not exactly warming to your famous charm.”

He stops dead in his tracks. We’re still in the maze, and I can’t tell if we’re any closer to making it out of here or if he’s taken us deeper.

His eyes dart in every direction, as if he’s checking for intruders, before they land on mine. Stone gray and burning with intent, I can’t look away if I try.

“I will not marry,” he says, his voice cool and even. “Is that understood?”

I nod. “And I will not walk away from this job.”

“Then I guess we’re at an impasse.”

The air between us is warm, charged with the mingling of our breaths. His skin against mine sizzles. My head tells me that everything I’m feeling is wrong, but the physical need brewing inside me throbs at my core.

I haven’t been with a man since my fiancé, Jean-Luc, died BASE jumping in Alaska. He was the love of my life, but he loved the thrill of adrenaline more than me. Afterward, I joined my big sister Madeline’s business to devote my life to what I was denied: a happy ending.

It had been two long, careful years of self-denial and occasionally my own hand. Before that it had only ever been Jean-Luc.

But the hand against me now is big, strong and unfamiliar. All it would take is his fingers sliding an inch more, and he’d feel that need, wet and pulsing.

He swallows, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob. That’s all it takes to let me know that whatever this is, it’s not only me.

Maybe this is what it feels like to live in the moment, take a risk, something I never let myself do because I had to be careful for both of us. I had to move in with Madeline to save on rent. Never have I let myself simply want.

But this stranger’s hands on me are warm. Strong. And for a second I imagine what they could do. It’s intoxicating, this growing need and the possibility of satisfying it right here and now. I feel drunk and squirm in his grasp, hoping he’ll simply think I’m readjusting myself in his arms, but I miscalculate and my lips brush against his.

He sucks in a breath, and this makes me grin.

“I don’t like you,” I say. Truer words have never been spoken.

“Likewise,” he answers, his voice low and rough.

All my life I’ve played it safe, and where did it get me? Lost and alone. But this man exudes raw power, a power that draws me into his orbit, a pull stronger than gravity. I feel myself inching toward some sort of internal cliff, and the woman I thought I was relinquishes control.

“You said you’d sooner fuck me than let me arrange your nuptials.”

He nods. “I certainly did.”

I lean close to his ear, nip at his lobe, and step across the line of comfort I’ve hidden behind for far too long and whisper, “It’s sooner.”

I expect a savage response, but instead I feel him adjust his hands, and then I gasp as his thumb hits the crease of my panties.

That’s all it takes. I leap off the cliff with a whimper of need and straight into pure pleasure.

He growls.

“You’re fucking soaked.” He drops to his knees, still holding me like I’m precious cargo, and lays me gently on the grass. “And I want to drink every last sweet drop.”

Without another word, he hikes my skirt up and slides my panties down my thighs, over my knees and then off. I feel them snag on the heel of my remaining shoe but don’t care. He shoves them in the pocket of his pants, and I know I’m not getting them back. The thought makes me giddy, and I writhe under his gaze.

“Now, Nikolai,” I say, and he levels me with his grin.

The next thing I know, my hands are tangled in that jet-black hair as he licks the length of my folds from bottom to top until his tongue swirls around my swollen clit.

I moan and buck against him as he sucks me between his lips. I relish the feel of his stubble against my thighs, the slight pain only heightening my pleasure.

“Use fingers,” I command, and he obeys immediately.

One finger plunges deep while he continues to take his fill with his mouth. Then a second joins the first, and my vision clouds with stars. My body bucks with shivers of reaction.

“God, I wish you could fuck me,” I say, daring to voice what I long for—what I’ve gone without for what seems like an eternity. I try and fail not to whimper as he reaches a spot inside me that almost makes me black out.

Two years. It’s been two freaking years since a man has touched me. The thought—coupled with his hands on me, in me—threatens to unleash something more than just the adrenaline rush, but I swallow the impending wave of emotion. Because that’s not what this is about. These feelings aren’t for the prince.

He peeks from between my legs and slides his fingers from my aching pussy. He takes care in licking each one clean.

“You said it was sooner, sweetheart, and I’m always prepared for sooner.” From the pocket that does not hold my ruined panties, he pulls a foil packet and holds it up for me to see. “Your wish is my command.”

CHAPTER THREE

Nikolai

HER TASTE IS ADDICTIVE—honey, salt and rainwater. I hate the idea of matchmaking. But matchmakers? I take my time drinking in the woman panting on the grass, her conservative blouse opened a button too far, exposing delicate white lace, creamy skin and lush, womanly curves.

Yes. I believe I could learn to like matchmakers.

“Sire. Hurry.” She stares through a fringe of dark, thick lashes. Her red lipstick is smudging off her plump lower lip. I’m responsible for that, and the fact draws my balls tight against my engorged cock, clearly outlined through the panel of my tux pants. My muscles ripple with suppressed need.

I fold my arms, making an elaborate show of regarding the condom foil, and set my face into my trademark arrogant sneer. It’s my mask. The one the public expects a prince to wear, especially a prince with the world at his feet. It comes easy as instinct, which is good because I am not used to being unsettled. And this woman is—unsettling.

“Interesting business you run.” I lower my voice to a sensual drawl.

“No, not mine. I mean... I am not... It’s not mine...um... It’s my sister’s...her business,” she babbles, skimming one hand over the ragged tear in her prim skirt, the one currently offering me an eyeful of the thighs I’d feasted on. Her eyes darken, pupils dilating at my blatant appraisal.

“And do you provide these services—” I clear my throat and raise an insinuating eyebrow “—to every client?”

A dusky rose color flushes the skin of her throat as she catches my insinuation. She’s pissed. Angry and turned on, my favorite combination in a woman. Hate fucking has all of the fun and none of the responsibility.

“Of course not,” she snaps.

I dip a finger between my lips and give it a long lazy suck. The muscles in my neck cord. It still tastes like her. My mouth waters. “Mmm-hmm. Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“Damn it.” A tear spills from the corner of one gorgeous eye, trickles along her high cheekbone. “I don’t know what came over me.”

My hands twitch to comfort her. Christ. I did not see that response coming. I should regroup, charm her thighs open and plunge into her from behind, working her fancy hairdo and composure loose in brutal doggy-style strokes. Bet it would make her bum ankle feel a lot better than two ibuprofens and an ice pack.

So why am I pocketing the condom? Or brushing a wayward lock of hair on her forehead.

“Look. It’s been...” She flinches from my touch with a bitter laugh. “A while. And you...well, you’re royal sex on a stick. It’s a lot for a normal person to take in.” She closes the gaping button on her shirt. “An error in judgment that won’t happen again.”

Looks like I’m not the only one who slaps on a mask when the going gets tough. In a blink of an eye my feisty sex kitten has retracted her claws and is now back to Miss Prim and Proper.

“Pity,” I rumble, trying not to appear disconcerted. “Errors in judgment happen to be my specialty.” I take my time adjusting my cock, the proud, hard length straining inside my pants.

The point of her pink tongue makes a quick appearance, dabs her lower lip. The kitten reemerges for a second. “You do seem quite...specialized.”

“And you have once again proven my long-tested theory correct.”

“Which is?”

I tap the tip of her nose with my index finger. “Inside every good girl is a bad girl waiting to get out.”

She fingers her pearl choker. “I’m not going to argue with you there.” Her laugh is high-pitched—nervous. “I’ve always been the good girl. Oral in a royal maze is a first and so, so not me.”

I believe her. She looks like an angel. I might have sucked her sweet clit, but those doe-like eyes speak to nothing but innocence. That’s when I’m slammed by a vision of a woman naked in my bed, long legs spread wide, hiding nothing, each pink honeyed fold exposed for my pleasure. Her delicate wrists and ankles bound by thick ropes of pearl.

I blink. My shoulders go rigid. I’ve never invited a woman into my royal bed. The west wing of the palace is my personal sanctuary. No one is welcome there save for my brother Benedict. Not my dalliances. And not my father or stepmother. It’s the only place that is just for me. Where I can be—me.

The world gets my dick. No one has a right to my soul.

“This was obviously a mistake,” she murmurs to herself before rising unsteadily. “We got off on the wrong foot.”

“You got off on the wrong foot.” I nod at her bare right foot, the one on which she can barely place any weight, and I offer her my arm. She takes it, but not before rolling her eyes. “We got off on more than that,” I add. My cock jumps like a dog hungry for a treat. “At least you did.”

She sniffs. Who’d imagine this ice queen could melt into such a passionate, bright, fiery lover?

Interesting.

She limps but is able to hold her own now. I like to think it has something to do with my talent between her legs, that my skillful tongue has a healing effect. I guide her out of the maze. Grass stains mar her perfectly tailored ivory skirt, a visible reminder of what we just did, and just like that, I’m hard as a rock again.

“From the tabloids,” she says, “it sounds like you won’t suffer for long. Tell me, how long has it been since you were inside a woman?”

I shrug with studied nonchalance. “Mouth or pussy?”

She gasps as my words sink in.

I pretend to count my fingers. “Six hours for pussy. Seven for her mouth. Give or take fifteen minutes. And if her brother hadn’t barged in on us this morning, I’m guessing those numbers would be significantly smaller.”

“You’re a pig.” Her brows slam together. “A rutting, depraved boar.”

“No. I’m a prince.” I draw myself to full height. “Your prince.”

“And I’m here in service to my king.” She juts out her jaw, gaze unbowed, refusing to cave at my power play. “Sire, you are my client. It’s been royally commanded by your father and my liege lord, which means we need to get to work. I will return tomorrow to do your personality profile.”

“My what?”

“It’s protocol for all our clients.” There is a note of finality in her clipped tone. She means business.

I click my tongue, half annoyed and half impressed. “You’ll never marry me off, sweetheart.”

“Tell that to my matchmaking success rate of 100%.” She offers a smug smile. “See you tomorrow, Highness.”

Once out of the maze, she releases my arm and continues alone. But she’s still injured, so her haughty exit falls flat, even as she takes off her other shoe. I bite back a laugh before realizing the joke is on me. Because guess who still has a hard-on the size of the Matterhorn?

Still, I should follow her to the castle lest she goes to the tabloids with some trumped-up story about how poorly she was treated on palace property.

“I am fine to proceed alone,” she says, reading my thoughts. An unsettling experience.

“I’m afraid I must insist,” I say, taking the few steps needed to catch up to her.

“Please.” Her composure slips a notch. The mask not fully secure. “I—I need a moment alone.” A sign this unexpected dalliance affected her, as well.

She turns and makes her way toward the palace gates, clutching her heels, only the slightest limp still evident. Miss Winter has spunk. I’ll give her that.

A woman like this could bring a less controlled man to his knees. Good thing that I’m no such man. This angel is more dangerous than any devil.

Kate

I don’t care if it hurts to walk. Nothing is more important than distance. And by distance I mean space between me and Nikolai Lorentz.

The only problem? When I slip through the gates onto the main grounds, I can’t get to the front of the castle without swimming the moat.

Good Lord. He lives in a palace. With a moat. And I almost slept with him in a freaking maze. I begged the prince of our realm to fuck me as I lay in the grass with my skirt hiked up over my hips. What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t fuck anybody. I have lovely, meaningful sex with men who love and care for me—and who put a ring on it. At least, I did have that once.

As I contemplate my next move, an older man—probably in his late thirties—approaches me from a nearby garden.

“Pardon me, Miss Winter, but I have been instructed to take you home.”

I shake my head. “No, thank you. That won’t be necessary. If you could point me toward the most direct route to the main road, I’m sure I can get a taxi.”

I look behind me, expecting to see Nikolai approaching, but he’s nowhere to be found.

“Miss, there is no direct route to the main road other than through the palace.” He looks me up and down. “And I am assuming you’d like to make a discreet exit?”

I sigh and cling to the last shred of my dignity, holding my head high even as my just-been-finger-fucked hair falls into my face.

“I’m quite content walking through the palace...” But I trail off as I note myself gesturing with my shoes in my hands—as threads from my torn skirt tickle my thigh—and I immediately deflate.

“So...you were instructed to take me home?”

The man nods, the hints of silver in his dark hair glinting in the sun, and it’s only now that I realize his impeccably tailored suit, his straightened spine and hands clasped in front of his hips. His jaw is chiseled and his brown eyes are dark and knowing. He is not royalty. I can tell that much. But he exudes an undisputable authority nonetheless.

“Yes, Miss. His Royal Highness the Prince texted me with the order to see you home safely. I can lead you through the kitchen and out the servants’ exit to avoid any unpleasant encounters upon your departure.”

I hold out my arms, shoes dangling from my index fingers. “I guess I’m not in any shape to run into the king and queen again, especially if I want to keep this job.”

The man doesn’t even crack a smile but instead offers me a single nod.

“This way, Miss.” He motions toward the garden from which he came.

I limp in his direction, trying not to read into the prince’s gesture of making sure I get home safely. There is no way Nikolai Lorentz cares what happens between us from here on out other than him opposing my very being here.

“You can call me Kate,” I say, once I reach his side and he holds out an arm. I grab both of my shoes with my right hand and take his arm with my left—not because I need to but because it would seem rude to decline.

I breathe in sharply as my hand grips muscle so tight and corded that I can feel it through his suit.

“As you wish, Miss Kate,” he says, and I roll my eyes.

“Maybe you could drop the Miss altogether? Makes me sound like a prim-and-proper governess.” I let out a nervous laugh. What just transpired between me and the heir apparent was not behavior becoming of a governess. Or the me I thought I knew, for that matter.

“As you wish, Kate,” he says, his voice devoid of any hint of emotion.

“You got a name?” I ask as he pushes open a door hidden in the brick of the palace’s side wall.

“His Highness calls me X,” he says, ushering me inside a small corridor. The servants’ quarters, no doubt.

“What do your friends and family call you?” I ask.

He clears his throat. “I have neither, Miss—my apologies—Kate.”

My stomach sinks at the thought as he leads me through a white six-panel door. But I forget the heartbreaking answer just as quickly as we enter an enormous kitchen and my senses are assaulted in the best possible way. The aroma of garlic wafts in our direction, and my mouth immediately waters. I skipped breakfast this morning because—hello—I was ordered to the palace. Who can eat with that kind of pressure? And now that I’d been satiated in a whole other way entirely, I was famished. There’s also something sweet in the air, a richness I can almost taste.

“Would you like one for the road, Miss?” A woman covered in a white apron spins from where she’s plating macarons from a baking pan onto a three-tiered plate.

I swallow before I start to drool. “Please,” I say, and she grabs a small saucer from beneath the island where she works and serves me five of the delicious-looking confections.

“Our secret,” she says with a wink and a smile, handing my bounty to X. The man simply nods and continues piloting me toward the exit.

The next thing I know, I’m sitting in the luxury of a Rolls-Royce, a plate of macarons in my lap, and an ice pack on my ankle—also, according to X, ordered by the prince. But the older man speaks no more as he pulls free of the palace gates, out onto the main thoroughfare and toward the apartment I share with my sister in the heart of town.

As I sit here, the breeze of the car’s open windows hits me right up the bottom of my skirt, and I’m reminded of the fact that not only am I going commando, but also my underwear is bunched in the Prince of Edenvale’s pocket.

Just swallow me up, world, because I am too much of a cliché to exist. I can see the tabloid headline now:

Royal Touch Wakes Celibate Woman’s Libido

It isn’t that I’ve ignored the whole libido thing. I have an active imagination and a pretty stellar showerhead. It’s not like I’ve gone completely without. But the first time I go with is not supposed to be with my future king, and it certainly isn’t supposed to unleash a torrent of pent-up emotion, not when a pint of chocolate gelato is nowhere in sight.

I close my eyes and try to erase the image of him grinning before he went down on me, but it turns out that eyes open, closed, crossed or whatever still draw the same picture—Nikolai Lorentz pleasuring me and taking pleasure in doing so.

And then when I’d called our little maze dalliance a mistake, he’d ordered his driver to take care of me—right down to a ride in his private car and the cool pack soothing the throb in my twisted ankle.

Maybe I am a cliché, something I never thought I’d be. But then again, maybe Prince Nikolai, Duke of Westcraven, isn’t what I’d had in mind, either.

I pop a golden lemon macaron into my mouth and moan with pleasure.

Nope. Not what I had in mind at all.

CHAPTER FOUR

Nikolai

NOTHING LIKE A scalding hot shower after a night of rough sex with your former best friend’s little sister, followed by impromptu cunnilingus in the palace maze with the matchmaker bankrolled by your father to find your future queen.

It’s been a strange twenty-four hours.

I rock my head back. Forget a standard showerhead. I custom designed my own personal waterfall. My groan bounces off the slate tiles as my tense muscles relax in the spray. Shit yeah. This feels good. Almost as good as it did to be on my knees between Miss Winter’s sweet thighs. I chuckle to myself. Me. On my knees before a woman. Can’t remember the last time that happened.

A visceral memory flies in from the outer reaches of my subconscious and slams my gut with the intensity of an earth-ending meteor.

There once had been a woman who brought me to my knees. But I wasn’t much past a boy then. Now I’m all man with a kingdom that’s mine for the taking.

I grab a bottle of my favorite Tom Ford body wash and pour a generous dollop in my palm. There’s one thing that will relax me. Using the wash as lube, I thrust my cock into my hand in slow, lazy strokes before upgrading to my tried-and-true fist-over-fist technique, my length enough that one hand can never do the job. My ass clenches as I give over to the build.

Here’s a fact. No woman, no matter how expert a lover, can touch a guy better than he touches himself. I’m captain of my own fucking ship. Yet here I am, imagining innocent, angel-faced Kate and her beautiful hands—small, delicate, manicured. I picture her grabbing me at the root, and I let out a guttural groan. What is it about this stranger that drives me crazy enough for her to invade my thoughts like this? Every nerve ending in my shaft is ready to burst into flames.

That’s when I remember.

I still have her panties in my pocket. I step out of the shower, not giving two shits about getting the floor wet, and yank them from my tuxedo pants. The delicate ivory is pale in my tanned hand. On instinct, I lift them to my face and inhale the elegant French lace. My eyes roll. Beguiling. I’m a goddam pussy connoisseur, and this is the equivalent to uncorking a bottle of Château Mouton Rothschild 1945. I keep a case in my wine cellar, each bottle valued at twenty-five thousand euros.

I clutch the matchmaker’s panties in one hand and step back in the shower, working over my cock with increased urgency as her scent overpowers my senses. Sweat breaks out across my chest and is washed away in a torrent of steamy water.

There are those who get intimidated by winery tasting rooms, but it’s simple. A good vintage is composed of four things: fruits, acids, tannins and sugars. Young tannins can make the mouth pucker, leave your tongue dry. Left over time it increases in complexity, covering your palate with a signature silkiness. My palate is exceptional, able to identify a vintage by the subtle yet complex notes of coffee, chocolate, blackberry and spice.

Women are much the same. Each with her own nuances. And Kate Winter is in a class all her own. Fruity, with a hint of cherry, but also darker, more intriguing notes, such as to be found in a rich forest floor. She is the fruit of the earth, and I’m starving for the harvest.

A few more strokes and I’m poised on the edge, and then I pitch over, shattering into the most mind-numbing orgasm in a decade. For a moment, I wonder if I’m struck blind. Then the world returns, and I wash my hands, turn off the spray and grab a towel for my waist.

It takes me five minutes to regain my breath. After an intense, almost holy, experience like that, there is only one place to go—my brother, the saint.

* * *

Benedict will enter the priesthood. As a virgin.

Fucking crazy, right? My father bursts with pride at the fact he has a son destined for the priesthood and St. Egbert Abbey. To me, it’s a fate worse than hell, and besides, it’s more pressure. Benedict’s put our bloodline at risk given that I’m the heir and he’s the spare. My youngest brother, Damien, doesn’t factor into the equation as he is banished and thereby removed from the line of succession. If I screw up here, the kingdom could pass from my family to my cousin Ingrid. She is a nice enough girl, and I don’t mean that dismissively. She is ten years old.

I shove on a pair of sweatpants, lace up my running shoes and catch my reflection in the window. I look like a debauched lord of the underworld.

Reflections on my banished brother Damien spiral me into a brooding darkness. The latest rumors claim that he resides half-time in London and the rest over in America. He could build a hermetically sealed tower in Madagascar for all I care, and it would still be too goddamn close. My family is like the setup to a bad joke: a commitment-phobic heir to the throne, a virgin almost-priest, and a black sheep all walk into a bar...

I jog through the quiet palace, past row after row of ancient ancestors appraising me from gilded frames. Do they wonder if I’ll ever measure up? If I’ll fulfill my legacy? Damn these black thoughts to hell. I get outside and run until my lungs are near bursting. On the edge of the grounds, near the Royal River, is the tower where my brother lives. He calls it his sanctuary, and he’s not wrong. Poor bastard might not use his cock, but he has peace. And he deserves it because I don’t say bastard lightly.

There isn’t conclusive proof, but there are many rumors that my mother took a brief liking to the head of her secret-service detail while my father was at a UN summit. The only evidence? My brother’s piercing green eyes—neither my mother’s nor my father’s.

I try the door.

“It’s locked, Sir,” a formal male voice calls out.

I turn to find X there, watching me with his usual impenetrable expression. One would think that after years of him appearing by my side without setting off so much as a floorboard creak, I would be used to his stealth. But it still unnerves me every time.

“I’m afraid Mr. Benedict was called away on urgent business.”

“Where to?” I ask.

“Vatican City.”

I laugh without humor. “Of course.”

Benedict is the only person that I count a true friend, one I can trust without question unlike recent experiences with Christian. And as far as I’m concerned, Benedict is my only brother. If I ever were to cross paths with Damien again, I know Benedict would pass me the knife to gut him.

One happy family.

Looks like I’m not going to be able to get any advice tonight. The only thing I can do is pop an Ambien and hope for a dreamless sleep.

Because tomorrow morning, I’ll be facing Kate Winter again. And this time she won’t be spreading her legs and offering me a sample of her nectar. She’ll be presenting me with a dossier of potential wives.

Kate

It’s déjà vu the next morning when I look out my apartment window to find X and the Rolls-Royce waiting against the curb. Maddie peers over my shoulder.

“I still don’t get it,” she says, and I can hear the disappointment lacing her tone. “Why did they specifically ask for you rather than me? It’s my agency, after all.”

Now that the contract has been signed, I can tell my sister everything. Which is good because that whole secrecy thing won’t fly when I’m getting picked up by a Rolls with a license plate that reads Royal. Besides, I’d accepted the job—after the king and queen agreed to double my fee for working with such a reluctant client. Well, it was the queen’s suggestion. Turns out that despite the business being Maddie’s baby, my recent success at facilitating what I thought had been a few discreet celebrity matches had not flown under the radar of the royal family.

“Come on, Mads,” I say. “It’s a gold star for the business regardless of whether it’s you or me facilitating the matches. Plus, you’re my partner in crime, so it’s not like we can’t work on Nikolai’s profile together.” In fact, the only thing I cannot disclose to anyone other than Maddie is the list of potential candidates.

She is obviously still pouting, but as much as I love my big sister and her flair for business, I am the one with the perfect match record—fifteen happy couples in just the past six months alone. It’s all in the interviews. One face-to-face conversation with each potential partner—separately, of course—and I can either feel their chemistry...or not. That, coupled with my limited celebrity experience, I’m sure is why they asked for me, but I don’t rub it in. While I’m proud I’ve taken so well to the business these past two years, what does it say that I can find happy endings for everyone—except myself?

Then I’m reminded that I risked my heart once, and the payoff was total devastation. No, thank you. I’m good with focusing on everything and anything other than that.

I wave to X and hold up a finger, letting him know I’ll be right there. Then I turn to face my sister, staring into icy blue eyes that mirror my own.

“Remember, Maddie, we need this fee. We are almost due for another quarterly payment at Silver Maples.” Gran’s been deteriorating, her Alzheimer’s getting worse almost by the week. We’re her sole financial support. Actually, we’re her sole everything. As much as it kills us not to have her at home, caring for her like she did raising us, her condition has declined too much. Silver Maples is a top-rated facility, one of the best in Europe. And it’s priced accordingly. It’s just out of our financial means at the moment, but I intend to change that.

I don’t mention the part about receiving no fee at all if I don’t get Nikolai down the aisle—if he is my first and only fail. I also may have omitted that despite my vow to find him a suitable queen, I already know what it feels like for his stubble to chafe my thighs, for his tongue to swirl around my swollen clit. Or to know that despite the matches that are perfect for Nikolai Lorentz on paper, the only chemistry I’m sure of at this point is whatever happened in that garden maze between myself and our future king.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath and slip past her. I need to stop thinking myself into climax before I’ve even had my first sip of espresso. “I’m late.” I grab my dossier off our small kitchen table and reach for the small cup that should have three shots of my morning wake-up medicine when I realize the espresso machine is unplugged. I never forget my morning shot. Ugh. I am way off my game, which is not an auspicious beginning to day one with my most important client. “Shit,” I say louder and then groan my acceptance at another morning with an empty belly. I kiss my sister on the cheek. “Love you!” And then I dart out the door before she has a chance to respond.

Not that I’m expecting a repeat performance of what happened yesterday, but I wear my auburn waves loose today—in case of any mishaps. Better to have my hair down and unfettered than to attempt the whole conservative look only to wind up disheveled and unkempt. Because I much prefer kempt.

X holds open the car door, and I enter to find a veritable feast waiting for me on a small table attached to the wall that separates the rear of the vehicle from the front. There’s a bowl of the reddest strawberries I’ve ever seen, a small basket of scones and a stainless-steel travel mug of what I assume is coffee.

My eyes widen as I lower myself into my seat, and I glance at X before he closes the door. He offers me a small bow, and I blush, embarrassed at the royal treatment when my upbringing is probably more common than he can imagine.

“Compliments of His Royal Highness, Prince Nikolai.”

While I’m sure my fresh breakfast probably cost him no more than a few seconds of his time, a quick royal order via text, I can’t fight the warmth spreading through my veins that he thought of me at all.

“Thank you, X,” I say with a smile I’m unable to suppress, and he nods before closing the door.

I settle into the plush leather of my seat, pulling a napkin that’s folded in the shape of a swan from the table before me. A pang of guilt rests in my chest for whoever created this small masterpiece only to have me stain it with berry juice or dripped coffee. Yet I shake it out, a swan no more, and lay it across my lap as X pulls smoothly from the curb.

I opted for pants today—a cropped black pair with a green silk blouse. And flats. I’d pretty much taken every precaution to avoid a repeat performance with the prince, and I smile smugly to myself at how easy it will be to keep my panties on today.

I unlock the lid to the mug and breathe in the rich aroma, biting back a moan as I do. Whatever brand of coffee is in there, it’s miles above the quality of the espresso I buy on sale at the corner market.

I knock on the window that separates me from X, and instead of him lowering it, his voice pipes through a speaker to my left.

“Can I help you, Miss Kate?”

I roll my eyes at his insistence on formality but decide not to give him a hard time.

“It’s kind of lonely here,” I tell him. “Can we talk without the intercom?”

I hear him clear his throat. “As you wish, Miss Kate.”

The window lowers, and I pop a strawberry into my mouth before leaning toward the open space between us. But the expanse is too wide for my torso, and I end up falling to my knees, a dribble of berry juice on my chin. I wipe it clean and scoot the rest of the way to the window frame, leaning through it so X’s strong profile is in view.

“Did you make the swan?” I ask.

His eyes remain on the road as he replies. “No, Miss.”

“Did you make the coffee?”

“No, Miss.”

“Would you like a strawberry?”

At this I see the faintest tug on the corner of his mouth, and I decide that along with making sure I send Nikolai Lorentz down the aisle, I’m going to make X smile.

“No, Miss,” he says, and my shoulders sag.

I follow his eyes to the road ahead and realize we’re not headed in the direction of the palace. For a second my heart stutters in my chest.

“Okay, you’re not going to ply me with strawberries and scones only to dump me in the river with a backpack full of stones, right?”

Again that twitch of his lip, but it doesn’t go beyond that.

“We are heading to the river,” he says. “But His Highness said nothing about a backpack.”

I narrow my eyes even though he won’t look in my direction. Despite heading toward the body of water I’ve avoided most of my living years, I decide to trust my life is not in danger and slide back to my seat, this time bringing a warm blueberry scone with me. Seriously? How is it still warm?

Just as I relax and bring the pastry to my lips, we roll to a stop. X, however, does not leave his seat. Before I can ask him if we’ve reached our destination, my door opens, and I see the prince—not in a rumpled dress shirt and tuxedo pants but in a fitted black T-shirt and dark washed jeans. I know what I said about not being a preteen fangirl, but holy hell. This man in the flesh is a vision to behold.

He extends his arms wide as if he’s brought the world to my doorstep, and based on the breakfast alone, it feels like he has.

“We can’t possibly be expected to work indoors on a day like today,” he says, his gray eyes shimmering silver in the sun.

He offers me a hand, and I take it, grabbing the dossier with my other as he pulls me into the fresh morning air.

“No,” I say, trying to convince myself that the smoldering heat in my core is from the coffee I leave behind in the car. “I guess we can’t.”

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