My Forbidden Royal Fling by Clare Connelly
CHAPTER ONE
THESUNLIGHTBATHES the palace courtyard in a pale glow. It’s dappled by the surrounding birch trees so it forms a lattice effect on the ground, and across the man striding towards me.
I’ve been braced for this—him—for days. The security report on the Spanish tycoon was extensive and detailed—at my request. It confirmed much of what my own searching had done. He lives fast, loose, reckless, with little care for his reputation, his health or, so far as I can tell, for anyone in his orbit. Santiago del Almodovár is the kind of man I loathe.
His stride is long, courtesy of his height—easily six and a half feet—so he comes towards me too quickly. He stares at me with eyes that are a rich, pale brown, almost golden like a wolf’s, enigmatic and intense, as though he can see right through me.
I paste an ice-cold smile on my face, tight and distinctly warning. He’s wearing a suit—sort of. Navy trousers, a white shirt and a blazer, the shirt unbuttoned at the neck and no tie. It’s a strikingly casual look for a guest here at Sölla Palace, but the security council included a note to say that Santiago has very little regard for established conventions. Privately I wonder if it’s not a tool he uses to wrong-foot people from the first meeting and thus gain a hint of advantage in negotiations.
As he draws close, I wait for the trademark bow my rank generally commands. He stops two feet short of me, his own smile mocking in a way that stirs butterflies inside me to a fever pitch. His eyes probe mine and a shiver comes out of nowhere. I suppress it, ignoring his lack of protocol, extending my hand in a universal gesture.
‘Mr del Almodovár, thank you for coming.’
‘Princess...’
He fills my title with a husky accent, warm and spiced, like the Barcelona sun that fed his soul as a child. Another shiver threatens my equilibrium, but it’s quickly overtaken by lightning as he curves his far larger hand around mine, confident and firm, his touch sending a thousand volts of electricity from my fingertips to my arm and then through my entire body. It takes every ounce of self-possession to conceal my reaction, but I pull my hand away as quickly as I can, flexing my fingers at my side.
‘Please.’ I gesture to the steps, swallowing to cover the hoarseness in my voice. My breath is strained and inwardly I groan. Why, of all people, at all times, do I need to develop a sudden awareness of Santiago del Almodovár’s sex appeal? I’m twenty-four and I’ve never so much as kissed a man—it’s not easy to date when you’re the only surviving member of the Marlsdoven royal family. I’ve never met anyone that’s tempted me before, either.
Perhaps it’s also the knowledge that my parents have chosen my husband for me, my eventual marriage arranged before I was born. Their dearest wish had been for their daughter to wed the youngest son of their closest friends. I found out shortly after they died; perhaps that’s what prevented me from getting involved with anyone. I’ve literally never had my head turned. I mean, I can tell when someone is objectively handsome or charming, and I enjoy spending time with nice, interesting people, but I’ve never met a guy and felt anything like a spark.
Why this man?
Why now?
I clamp my teeth together, reminding myself of all the reasons I need to focus. His desire to buy valuable crown land and place a casino on the riverbanks of this ancient, proud city is a threat to everything I hold dear. I have to control this.
‘Nice palace,’ he murmurs as we step inside the enormous golden doors, each flanked by a guard dressed in full ceremonial uniform. He pays the compliment without it sounding remotely genuine. It’s a joke, if anything. I draw my brows together, surprised, because most guests to Sölla are so overwhelmed by the thousand-year-old rooms and the grandiose fittings that I have to work overtime to put them at ease before we can achieve any sensible conversation. But this man has vast personal wealth, earning more in a year than my country’s GDP; I gather he’s not easily impressed.
That sharpens something inside me, a curl of derision. Because wealth and luxury are one thing, but history quite another. Anyone who can stand inside this grand hall––with its ornate stone carvings made by the hands of men who lived eleven hundred years ago, its vaulted ceilings breathtakingly high, its stained-glass windows perfectly capturing the afternoon sunlight––and be immune to its beauty must surely be a philistine of the highest order.
And? What more can I expect from a man who’s made his fortune by building casinos where people go to lose their livelihoods and all hope? People like my uncle, whose addiction cost him so much, ultimately his life. The thought cuts through me, and for a second I’m almost swallowed by nauseating panic. My parents hated gambling. The idea of a casino here in Marlsdoven was absolutely forbidden. What would my dad have said?
Since my parents died, all I’ve wanted is to make them proud, to make the decisions they’d expect me to make. Dad would have known how to get out of this; he’d have known how to dissuade the Prime Minister. I have never wished for my parents to be here more than I do now.
I squeeze my eyes shut as we walk, sucking in a shaking breath that doesn’t quite reach my lungs. Stars dance against my eyelids. I see my parents and their disappointment and feel a horrible sense of failure wash over me.
Santiago makes no attempt at small talk as I lead him through the grand hall and into a narrow but no less impressive corridor—this one flanked by portraits of the royal family going back hundreds of years. My eyes stray to my parents as I pass and my heart lurches with the constant ache I feel for them even now, seven years after their shocking deaths. I can’t meet my dad’s eyes. I know he’d hate this; my resolution to honour their memory is in tatters.
A state room has been prepared for our meeting, but I realise the error of that as we enter, for the room is not large, and in here Santiago’s presence is overwhelming. My pulse goes into overdrive as I turn to face him, so much more aware of him now. Not only is he tall but broad too, like a warrior pretending to be a businessman. I have the sense that he could tame a lion with his bare hands. I don’t know where the idea comes from but it’s deeply disturbing, on many levels, so I push it aside. I’d seen dozens of photos of him by now, so I’d known he was handsome, but I hadn’t been expecting the effects of that in person.
Because he’s not just ‘handsome’. In reality, there are nuances that the cameras hadn’t properly highlighted—a scar at the top of his lip that gives it a slightly angular shape, for example; and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. They’re barely visible because of his dark tan, but they’re there, and there’s something about them that is wild, fascinating and dangerously distracting. His hair is thick and dark, with a slight curl where it’s longer at the nape, and as I stare at him he lifts a hand and runs it through his hair, watching me with those lupine eyes until my stomach is in knots.
‘He will seek to gain the advantage any way he can,’my closest aide, Claudia, had advised, her own preparation equal to my own. ‘Be on guard.’
The memory of her words is timely. A palace staffer appears at the door and I relax, the sight of a familiar uniform and face reminding me who and where I am. This is my turf, my palace, my people, and he wants something from me: my land.
‘Your Highness.’ The staff member curtseys, earning another derisive half-smile from the Spanish billionaire. I grind my teeth, an inexplicable urge to somehow knock that infuriating look from his face making my palms hot. ‘Are you ready for afternoon tea?’
I turn to my guest, a frisson of heat running through me. ‘Mr del Almodovár, would you like something to eat or drink?’
‘A beer,’ he says without skipping a beat.
I pivot to the maid. ‘A beer for our guest and tea for me, thank you.’
I can’t shake the feeling he’s laughing at me, so I experience a sense of pique as I gesture to the two armchairs set opposite one another in front of a floor-to-ceiling window that frames a stunning view of the Laltussen river. Usually, the river gives me calm. It is ancient and courageous, undaunted by time and man’s impulses.’ It is a constant in the lives of my people and I take solace from that when I look out on it. But today I am apparently not able to be calmed.
When he sits, it’s exactly as you might expect––no hint of reserve or respect for the ancient room and its furnishings. He takes the chair with a dominant athleticism that speaks of a desire to run wild, his legs spread wide, elbows braced on each arm as he leans forward.
I instinctively fold myself into my own chair, knees braced, ankles together, hands clasped in my lap. We could not be more different—he is totally at ease in his own body, uncaring of where he is; he’s simply himself. I have spent a lifetime learning who I must be—sometimes I wonder if I have any idea what or who ‘I’ really am. Who might I have been had I not been born a princess? Who might I have become had circumstance not made me the sole surviving member of the royal family at seventeen?
He’s looking at me, those eyes of his overtaking me for a moment, so I forget he’s here at my request, that this is my meeting to shape.
‘I’ve had a chance to review your proposal,’ I say, careful not to give away my true feelings in the tone of my voice. It won’t be helpful if he knows how much I don’t want his casino monstrosity here.
‘So I gather,’ he drawls. ‘And what did you think, Princess?’
‘Please, you don’t have to call me that.’
‘And what should I call you instead?’
I’m not one to stand on ceremony, yet with this man I hesitate to invite him to use my name as I ordinarily would. I need every boundary I can establish between us. ‘Most of my guests refer to me as Your Highness,’ I clip.
‘Is that any different to “Princess”?’ His cynical expression reaches inside my tummy and squeezes it, so I look away, flustered and warm-cheeked. The river is placid, calmly meandering past the window. I watch it for a moment.
‘It’s more...what I am used to,’ I say, forcing myself to turn back and face him, then wishing I hadn’t when I find his eyes lingering on the necklace at my throat. Or are they actually lower, on the brief hint of cleavage exposed by the neckline of my dress? My pulse goes into overdrive. There’s no denying how he makes me feel. It’s like being flooded with electricity. I close my eyes for a moment, needing to regain control. When I open them, he’s looking right at me.
My pulse speeds up.
A knock at the door is a welcome intrusion. I jerk to my feet, uneasy and tense, striding towards it.
Another staff member is there, holding a tray. She curtseys when she sees me, but before she can come in I hold out my hands to take the tray from her. I ignore her surprise, removing the sterling silver object and turning round in one movement. The door clicks shut, leaving me alone with Santiago.
I place the tray on a side table and remove the tall glass of beer, carrying it towards him with knees that are slightly unsteady. His eyes are sardonic as he extends a hand to take it. ‘Thank you, Your Highness.’
Nope. That’s no better. There’s still something illicit and inflammatory about his tone. He might sound as if he’s being respectful, but he’s not, he’s teasing me.
I double back to the tray, pouring tea from the pot then lifting the saucer and cup, holding them in my hands. I don’t approach my chair. It’s too close to the man, and there’s nowhere to look but at him. Besides, sitting doesn’t match my frame of mind. Instead, I walk towards the window, looking out at the river and the city beyond.
‘The project is...ambitious.’ It is not, by any stretch, the only word I can think of to describe his proposal. I hate everything about what he’s planning.
‘No more so than many others I’ve undertaken.’
‘Yes.’ I sip my tea. ‘Your track record with this sort of thing is impressive.’
‘Thank you, Your Highness.’
Another response that’s lightly mocking. My spine is ramrod-straight and I cast him a look that I think barely contains my own feelings.
‘It would be the first casino in Marlsdoven.’
‘And you don’t approve.’
Alarm bells sound in the back of my mind. Does he know about my uncle? Or is he simply hazarding a guess? ‘Why do you say that?’ There is a noise as he places his glass down. A cursory glance shows he’s half-finished it.
‘The negotiations are complete, your government ready to sign off.’
‘It’s crown land. The government can’t sign off without my agreement.’ It’s a small, unthinking admission and I realise what I’ve said as soon as I finish.
‘And for this reason you have organised a covert meeting at the eleventh hour to forestall the big, bad developer from corrupting your quaint kingdom?’
Fire spills through me. My lips part on an indignant rush of breath; I’m grateful to be holding the tea cup or I’m not sure what I might do with my hands! I cannot think that I have ever been spoken to like this, with such obvious disrespect, and such cynicism and dislike. And how can he downplay the seriousness of this? I’ve seen first-hand what addiction can do! I know the evils that come from places like his casinos. If there is to be one in Marlsdoven, then the benefits had better far outweigh the risks.
‘This is not a covert meeting,’ I respond to the first charge, too emotionally invested in the second to trust myself to speak to it sensibly. ‘Nothing about my life is covert. Your name is in my daily schedule.’
His disbelief is obvious. ‘I note I was directed to come to the back gate of the palace, brought through rear doors with no photographers in attendance.’
Heat prickles beneath my skin because his observation is accurate. While it’s not exactly ‘covert’, I did try to keep the meeting off the press’s radar. Spurred onto the defensive, I respond, ‘Would you have liked to be photographed, Santiago?’
I use his first name and realise I like the taste of it in my mouth. I’d started to think of him as Santiago since seeing so many photos of him during my research. I don’t care. We’re beyond the bounds of etiquette now, anyway.
‘My comment was more about your feelings than mine,’ he says, neatly turning the argument on me, studying me as though I’m a science experiment. I remember belatedly the advice in the security report: he has a savant’s genius when it comes to finding what makes people tick. ‘I have no issue with being ushered into the palace like a shameful secret, but I find it telling that this was your choice.’
I open my mouth to object to this characterisation but change my mind. After all, why should I be ashamed of my feelings? ‘I don’t see the point in advertising your intentions to my people until we’re confident the development is going to proceed.’
He reaches for his beer, takes a drink then replaces the glass on the table, standing in a lithe, graceful movement, walking towards me before I can properly realise what he’s doing. I have no time to brace for his proximity. He’s wearing an aftershave that sends my pulses into overdrive, but not enough of it, so I have to breathe deeply to catch the intoxicating masculine aroma.
Every hormone in my body is doing a dance.
‘Your Prime Minister is desperate for this to happen.’
‘Naturally. You’re looking at spending billions of dollars. Of course he’s keen.’
‘This doesn’t sway you, though?’ he asks, looking around the palace as if to emphasise the wealth at my fingertips. If only he knew! Our small country is far from prosperous. The privatisation of most of our state-owned assets shortly after my parents’ death, when I’d been too young, inexperienced and grief-plagued to understand what was happening behind my back, means much of our revenue is being paid to offshore companies.
‘Selling crown land is a difficult business,’ I murmur, remembering the lessons I learned as a seventeen-year-old. ‘Once sold, it’s gone. Everything needs to be structured so the advantages to the country outweigh the loss of such an asset.’
His eyes narrow. ‘You don’t think the casino will do that?’
No. Casinos are dangerous. I bite back the thought, knowing how counter-productive it would be to rely on this man’s compassion and comprehension. ‘I think it could,’ I say with a small lift of my shoulders, my heart pounding as we draw closer to the crux of my argument. Somehow, he’s brought me here without my realising it. I wanted to take time to charm him, to impress him with the country’s history and cultural importance, to form some kind of rapport. But he’s cut through all that and found the kernel of my reservations so easily, so skilfully.
‘Then let’s talk, Princess. What do you need from me?’
