My Forbidden Royal Fling by Clare Connelly

CHAPTER NINE

I’m in trouble.

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

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

?

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

Let’s just say my disappearance elicited some concern.

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

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

I should hope so.

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

Are you free tonight?

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

What have you got in mind?

A surprise. Meet me on the roof at eight.

The roof?

I’ll send a key to your room.

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

And I’m definitely no Superman.

At least, you wear your jocks inside your trousers.

Most of the time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Around the time I bought my first jet.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Not really.’

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

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

His brows lift and then he smiles, that rare, beautiful, soul-splitting smile.

‘Don’t be. This is just one night out of our lives, Freja. Nothing more.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘And you come here often?’

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

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

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

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

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

He leads us to a table at the back of the restaurant. A large indoor fig with glossy green leaves partially conceals the table from view, and for added protection I take the seat against the wall, because it obscures me completely from other diners.

‘Would you like to see a menu?’ Santiago asks as we take our seats.

‘I’m no expert at eating in restaurants, but isn’t that customary?’

‘I generally rely on Enrique to bring me what’s best.’

It speaks volumes, given what a control freak he is. ‘Then I’m sure that will be fine.’

‘Is there anything you don’t eat?’

His attention to detail makes me feel like the most special person in the world. Danger signs flash. That’s not what this is. It’s not what he wants and it’s impossible for me to want it. Impossible for me to have it. I can’t look beyond this slice of time.

‘Lois?’

I realise he’s waiting for my answer so I shake my head softly and he conveys this to Enrique in Spanish; then, we are alone.

‘How did you find this place?’

‘I first came here many years ago. I was looking at developing a hotel on the foreshore, just over there.’ He points to a window and I lean forward, following the direction of his finger. It’s dark outside, just the faint glow of pale streetlights showing the edge of the road. A beach lies beyond—we walked beside it as we arrived. The moon is shining brightly tonight, casting a silver skein across the ancient, rumbling sea.

‘But you didn’t?’

A waiter arrives with a bottle of champagne. He stands at the table as he removes the foil and pops the top, then tilts the glasses individually to fill them.

Both of us alone again, I run my finger over the stem of my wine glass, watching Santiago. He lifts his glass, silently gesturing to mine. I mimic the gesture, then sip. The drink is ice-cold with the slightest fizz. It tickles my tongue and dances all the way down. I close my eyes to enjoy the flavour and, when I open them again, Santiago is staring at me. My mouth goes dry despite the dousing of champagne. I blink, self-conscious and bursting with sensation.

‘No.’ The word is gruff and it takes me a moment to remember that we were talking about his hotel development.

‘Why not?’

‘In the end, it wasn’t suitable.’

Now, that’s interesting. ‘No?’ I sip my champagne, attempting to appear casual.

‘Part of the charm of this town is that it’s largely inaccessible. This means the number of tourists is limited. I realised that, in building a hotel to capitalise on the area’s appeal, I’d be destroying it.’

My jaw drops. ‘So you pulled out of a financially lucrative deal because it was the right thing to do?’

‘It is entirely different to the Marlsdoven casino.’

I shudder to hear it described this way. ‘Why?’

He leans forward and places his hand over mine. ‘For one thing, the casino will be in a major European city. For another, the hotel here would not have remained lucrative once it had taken away the quaint appeal of a tiny coastal village. I feared making the coastline into a theme park—there is long-term damage in that.’

‘Not a good bet?’ I prompt.

His eyes glitter darkly when they meet mine. ‘Exactly. The odds were not in my favour. Whereas market research shows that the scope for a casino in Marlsdoven is enormous. Believe it or not, your population responded very favourably to the prospect, in the surveys I commissioned. Additionally, thirty-five per cent of travellers returning to Marlsdoven reported wanting a visit to a casino at some point during their trip.’

I close my eyes, a wave of nausea passing through me as I force myself to accept this reality. I already knew it was all but a done deal, but hearing these facts just show me how futile it is to keep fighting him on this.

‘Why do you hate the concept so much?’

I swallow, bitterness making my throat thicken. ‘I’ve told you—’

‘Yes, you’ve told me,’ he interrupts, but pauses as another waiter appears with a plate of food. The fragrance is unmistakably saffron. When he goes, Santiago continues. ‘You’ve told me that you despise gambling, but you haven’t told me why. And I can tell there is more to it. This is personal for you. Deeply personal.’

I stare at my hands. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because your skin grows pale whenever I bring up the casino. You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. This is not just business, nor is it a maternal desire to protect your citizens from the big, bad wolf of gambling. So what is it, Princesa?’

My heart stammers. I shake my head, the demurral meaningless in the face of his question. Why not tell him the truth? It is a secret I’ve protected all my life, which my parents valued, but I don’t doubt I can trust Santiago with it.

‘My uncle was a gambling addict,’ I say softly, toying with the champagne flute. ‘He hid it for many years. He travelled abroad, starting with poker before progressing to the casinos of Europe, where his bets grew increasingly enormous—I think in an effort to recoup some of his losses. He had a generous trust fund but he burned through it in eighteen months. His annual income from our family estates was also exceptional, but he borrowed against his share, mortgaging himself over and over until he was tied up in knots and in debt to less than savoury money lenders.’

I take a gulp of champagne, needing the liquid but also the artificial relaxation. Santiago is quiet, waiting for me to continue, and to my surprise I do. After not discussing Richard for many, many years, it feels important to speak about him. Or maybe it’s just that Santiago has a unique power over me...that with him I want to be completely honest about everything.

‘I think he always struggled with being the second-born son. Nothing was expected of him. He was never spoken of, never valued as more than a contingency plan if something happened to dad. He had a lot of money and fame, but no purpose. No value. And so many limitations.’

‘And so he started gambling,’ Santiago murmurs sympathetically.

I nod. ‘My father blamed himself. He was busy with his obligations and family. They grew apart but dad always thought my uncle was happy—just living life with the kind of freedom my father would never know. If anything, I think he envied Richard a little.’ I sigh.

‘How did he find out the truth?’

‘My uncle committed suicide.’ I say the words robotically.

Santiago’s brows knit closer together, his surprise evident.

I grimace. ‘Nobody knew,’ I explain. ‘At the time, it was reported that he died after a long battle with an illness. And that’s not a lie,’ I hasten to add. ‘Gambling addiction is exactly that.’

He dips his head in acknowledgement.

‘He left a note. It revealed the extent of his losses. He felt helpless. He was in a cycle of forever trying to dig himself out of trouble. He would hope for one more win, that that would be enough to start making repayments.’ I shake my head sadly. ‘My father felt incredibly guilty. He had money; he could have helped. But my uncle was too ashamed to ask.’

Silence falls between us.

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ Santiago’s voice is carefully mute of emotion, so I don’t know if the story has had any impact on him.

‘Thank you.’ I sip my champagne. The noise of the restaurant swirls around us, but I barely hear it.

‘Your family must have been devastated.’

‘Yes. He hid his addiction so well, none of us had any idea until it was too late. Per Richard’s wishes, the truth surrounding his death was never revealed.’

More silence, softened by reflectiveness.

‘How old were you?’

‘Eleven.’ I close my eyes against a wave of memory. ‘It killed a part of my father, you know? He loved his brother, had always felt protective of him, and losing him like that... I know he blamed himself.’

‘That’s futile.’

‘Perhaps. But it’s also unavoidable.’ I offer a tight smile. ‘He was different after that. My father became obsessed with duty and responsibility, with making sure I understood the importance of our role to the kingdom. I used to think when he was lecturing me that he was imagining his brother in my place, saying the things he wished he could have said to Richard.’

Santiago’s expression is analytical, his eyes scanning my face. ‘And you wanted to please your father,’ he murmurs eventually.

I lift one shoulder in defiant acceptance of that.

‘You want to please him still,’ Santiago presses and, even though it’s true, I feel as though it’s a criticism.

‘I want to make him proud,’ I say eventually.

‘And how do you do that, Freja? What do you need to do?’

‘That’s easy,’ I respond tightly. ‘I do exactly what I’m meant to do. What I was born to do.’

‘And never deviate from what’s expected of you?’

I press my teeth into my lower lip. ‘No,’ I agree after a moment. ‘Never.’ I don’t know why, but admitting that aloud feels a little like cutting off something important. I turn away, but he draws my attention back.

‘Freja...’ he says gently, lacing our fingers together. I stare at the contrast in our skin, his dark, mine fair, the juxtaposition enchanting. ‘You say your uncle grew up second best, knowing he was second best. And you are right. Gambling is an addiction. For some people it fills a void. I just wonder that, if it weren’t gambling, your uncle might have relied on another crutch. Alcohol, drugs. Both of which are equally harmful.’

I lift my gaze to his, thinking of his own experience with substance abuse, parents who’d been either high or drunk his entire childhood.

‘He gambled,’ Santiago continues. ‘But I do not know if it necessarily follows that gambling is inherently bad.’

I drop my eyes back to our hands, staring at them. ‘It killed him.’

His lack of response speaks volumes, and I don’t entirely disagree with him. My uncle wasn’t happy. He was looking to fill a void and he found his way to gambling. The initial high of winning made him feel good, possibly for the first time in his life. Maybe if he’d tried drugs or got into binge drinking it would have been the same.

‘After the funeral, I remember my father saying that gambling is the scourge of the world...that for all that it’s been around since time immemorial it should be banished, and that if he had his way it would be. He had no power over the world, but at least in Marlsdoven he could make sure the country was never touched by such a harmful practice.’ My voice shakes a little. I reach for my fork, pressing it into the rice on my plate. Steam billows towards me. ‘I didn’t think about those words again until you made your offer.’

‘And your first instinct was to reject the proposal.’

My lips tighten into something like the ghost of a smile. ‘I don’t really have that power. Perhaps if I asked the Prime Minister... But without an alternative that is just as beneficial to our economy...?’ I shake my head sadly. ‘I’m aware that I have a bias here. I know what I want is unreasonable.’

‘But, if there is to be casino in Marlsdoven, you need it to be on your terms.’

My eyes widen as they lift to his. I nod. ‘It has to be worth it. I don’t know how I can make peace with what I owe my father, my uncle, if I don’t at least try to fight this.’

He reaches for his glass and has a drink without relinquishing my hand. ‘Two years ago, when I first started looking to put a casino in Marlsdoven, your government provided me with a list of land options. I chose this site because of the historic nature of the land as well as its primacy within the city––on the river bank, with easy access to the CBD. I am as convinced now as I was then that this will be the best place for the project.’

He’s right. The land is ripe for development.

‘Your government offered me the land,’ he repeats. ‘Did you know that?’

I nod. ‘Every year we discuss which areas might be used and for what purpose. There has long been talk of urbanising that section of the city.’

He considers that a moment, taking a bite of his own meal. I follow suit, tasting delicate spices and butter in the rice. ‘You would prefer a different kind of development.’

‘Yes.’

‘Such as?’

My first instinct is to tell him I’ve never really thought about it, but that’s a lie. ‘I always hoped it could be turned into a culture and arts precinct. Museums, galleries, a new theatre for ballet. Even a stadium for sporting events. I hoped we could celebrate the rich history of our arts, but the funding just isn’t there.’ I expel a soft sigh. ‘The previous government badly mismanaged the budget and, as a result, our country’s finances are in need of conservative management. It isn’t the time to be investing billions of euros into a culture precinct, even though I think it would be incredibly beautiful and a great addition to our country.’

‘And it would make your parents proud.’

My eyes ping to his and I nod jerkily. ‘Yes.’

‘Whereas, by allowing this casino to be built, you feel that you’re betraying them.’

I flutter my eyes closed. ‘I am betraying them. But it can’t be helped.’ I try to smile. ‘I’m old enough to know when I’m fighting a losing battle, Santiago. I suppose the best thing to do now is focus on the positives of your development.’

I can see how unsatisfied he is with that, but he lets the conversation drop, squeezing my hand once before releasing it.

‘How is your entrée?’

‘Delicious,’ I murmur, though I barely taste it. The conversation has filled me with emotional ambivalence. I change the subject awkwardly. ‘Casinos are only a part of your business, aren’t they?’

For a moment I feel as though he’s going to return to our earlier discussion but then he begins to explain that, while casinos were how he first built his fortune, he’s since diversified into a wide array of interests—from hedge funds to tech companies to boutique hotels and banks. He has fingers in many pies.

The food is perfect, and as our conversation moves away from the matter of the casino he wishes to build I am blissfully content. By the time we leave, the restaurant is empty.

‘Oh, my goodness, I didn’t realise how late it is. I’m sorry we kept you,’ I apologise to Enrique.

He smiles warmly. ‘It is no problem. We are always here anyway.’

Santiago embraces him once more, in the Spanish style, then loops an arm low around my waist, guiding me into the night air. In the distance I catch the gleam of his helicopter, and by unspoken yet mutual agreement we slow down, neither of us in a rush to reach it too soon.

‘Thank you for bringing me here. I’ve had a wonderful night. I don’t want it to end.’ I laugh shakily.

He stops walking altogether then, turning me to face him. For the briefest moment, he is stricken, as though fighting a war within himself. He stares down at me, through me, inside me, and then expels a soft, slow breath. He lifts a hand, tucking the brown hair of my wig behind my ear.

‘No?’

I shake my head, incapable of speech.

His eyes soften and I have the distinct impression he’s surrendering to something he wishes he could fight. ‘Then it doesn’t have to, Princesa.’