My Forbidden Royal Fling by Clare Connelly

CHAPTER EIGHT

THESUNIS low in the sky, a golden orb blazing across the horizon spreading purple and peach colours into the heavens.

I know that we need to go back soon, that my security will be wondering where I am, worrying about me, and yet my limbs are heavy, filled with a reluctance to leave this sanctuary. If embassies are slices outside of a country’s borders then this yacht is like a fragment of life existing beyond my reality. Here time has stopped and, even though I know that’s not possible, I’m almost incapable of caring about the outside world right now.

‘I have a question for you.’

In the kitchen, Santiago pauses, looking at me through shuttered eyes before returning to the platter he’s arranging.

‘Go on.’ There’s hesitation in his voice and I dip my head to hide a smile. He can read me like a book yet he pushes me away at every opportunity. It’s frustrating and hurtful––yes, hurtful.

‘You’re...how old?’

Relief lightens his eyes. ‘Your question is to ask my age?’

‘I’m going somewhere with this,’ I warn.

‘I see.’ He sips his beer. ‘I turned thirty-one a few months back.’

I nod thoughtfully.

‘And?’ he prompts, lifting a wooden board off the kitchen bench and bringing it to the coffee table in front of me. The décor in the yacht is striking. Instead of the white leather and chrome I might have imagined, the interior is stylish and minimalistic, with light timber and cream fabrics. He takes a seat beside me on the lounge, so close our knees brush and, although we’ve spent the afternoon in bed, my pulse goes haywire at the innocent touch.

‘Well, the first time we slept together...’ my cheeks spread with warmth ‘...you said something about always taking precautions. That you don’t want children.’

He dips his head once in silent agreement but there’s an inherent tension to him. He’s instantly wary, as though my line of questioning is the last thing he wishes to discuss.

‘Why not?’ I reach for an olive. It’s plump, salty and juicy, and I have to bite back a moan of pleasure as I swallow the flesh.

‘You think it’s strange?’

‘Why are you answering my questions with a question?’

‘You ask a lot of questions.’

‘No, I think I’ve just asked one you don’t want to answer.’

He weighs that up, his lips compressed in a tight line, and I wonder if he’s just going to ignore me. Time drags. Tension grows inside me. Finally, he responds, the words curt. ‘I have never wanted children.’

His tone leaves me in little doubt that this matter is closed, at least so far as his willingness to answer my questions. I consider pushing him, but know it would be futile. I’ve hit a brick wall.

‘I’ve always known I would have to have children,’ I explain. The full force of his attention is on my face, his eyes studying me intently. ‘And more than one. I’m an only child and it’s put a lot of pressure on me—I’m the sole surviving heir to the throne.’

‘So, when you are married this will be high on your agenda?’

I nod, but the idea suddenly fills me with a drowning sensation of panic. I will need to conceive almost immediately, and that will mean having sex with my husband, a man who leaves me cold. My eyes widen as I look at Santiago and what I see on his face stills my pulse. There is a coldness in his face, a look that sends a shiver down my spine.

‘And your fiancé agrees with this?’

‘He’s not my fiancé. I’ve told you.’ My voice shakes a little. I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. ‘And we’ve never discussed any of this.’

‘Then what if he doesn’t want children?’

‘That’s not an option.’

‘How well do you know this man?’

‘We’ve met a handful of times.’

‘Then you know nothing about him.’

‘I know that his parents—’

‘And your parents were friends. But beyond this?’ His disapproval is obvious, and it frustrates me now just as much as ever.

I shrug. ‘I don’t know if it matters.’

‘That is insane.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re talking about marrying the guy. Shouldn’t you at least see if you’re compatible?’

‘Sexually?’

‘Sí, of course, but I actually meant in any way. What if his politics differ completely to yours? What if he has a twisted sense of humour? Or wears his underpants on the outside of his clothes?’

‘Like a superhero? I’ve always had a bit of a Lois Lane fantasy, you know.’

His eyes hold a contemplative glimmer. ‘I am sure there are other ways to indulge that.’

‘Oh? Such as flying off a building?’

His lips flicker in a half-smile, but he’s not easily put off the conversation. ‘What if you hate him?’

Anxiety trickles down my spine. ‘I...won’t.’

His scepticism is obvious, and makes me feel about an inch tall. ‘Because your parents knew his parents?’

I swallow past a suddenly constricted throat. ‘Because I can’t hate him. I have to make it work.’

His silence speaks volumes.

‘You think I’m crazy.’

‘I think you obviously loved your parents very much.’

The observation is so unexpected it takes my breath away. I nod, looking away quickly.

‘Losing them must have been very difficult.’

Tears threaten. I swallow quickly, then reach for a piece of cheese. ‘That’s an understatement.’ And, even though I’m sure he knows what happened, even though I know Santiago will have done his research before coming to Marlsdoven, I say quietly, ‘Their car rolled while travelling in Africa. It was a freak accident—the first of its kind to happen to the tour company. My father died instantly, my mother two days later—just long enough for me to fly to her side and be there when she took her last breath. I’ll never forget what she looked like at the end. So pale and weak. It was awful.’

He says nothing, and I’m glad.

‘I always find it hard to hear from people like you, people who have their parents but choose not to be close to them. I would give everything I have for one more day with my mum and dad.’

His eyes hold mine and, even though I think he reads me easily, I have no idea what he’s thinking or feeling. ‘It is natural you would feel this way. You view parenthood through the veil of your own experiences.’

‘What are your parents like?’

There is tension in the harsh angles of his face. He’s quiet again, and I wonder if he’s going to ignore me, but then he offers me one curt word.

‘Different.’

‘To you?’

‘Yes, thank Christ.’ His short laugh lacks humour.

‘How so?’

He expels a sharp breath, his nostrils flaring. ‘Does it matter? They’re not in my life. I prefer not to think of them unless I really can’t avoid it.’

I reach for another piece of cheese simply to hide my face. I’m hurt. It’s such a cold rejection.

But he understands, because he sighs heavily. ‘Does it matter?’ he repeats, but I hear the plea in his words. He doesn’t want to talk about this, but he will, if I push him.

I flick a glance at him; his face gives little away. If I didn’t know him as well as I do, I would say that he’s the same ruthless billionaire I first met. But deep in his eyes I see sadness, and I ache for him then.

‘How about just the bullet points?’ I suggest as a compromise.

He stands abruptly, moving into the kitchen and bracing his palms on the counter, looking out to sea. Guilt washes over me. I’m being selfish by asking this of him.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, without moving. ‘I was just trying to learn more about you. But if you really don’t want to tell me...’

‘My parents can tell you nothing about me,’ he responds with a cool voice. ‘I haven’t seen them in years.’

I nod thoughtfully, looking for a way to change the subject.

To my surprise, Santiago continues, almost as if the words are being dragged from him. ‘My mother is a drug addict. Most of my childhood she was high, wasted or jonesing for her next fix. My father has been in and out of prison all his life. When he was home, he was aggressive and drunk. They fought constantly. He was abusive until I got big enough to fight back. Is this what you want to know?’ His eyes lance mine. I’m incapable of responding. ‘I left home when I was eighteen years old.’

I shiver at the brevity of his response—he’s compressed eighteen years’ worth of pain into a few spasmodic sentences but I feel the undercurrent of emotions beneath his words. ‘You haven’t seen them since?’

He turns to face me but looks right through me, the curl of derision on his lips reserved for his absent parents. ‘If only that were true,’ he drawls. ‘Stories of my success landed in the national papers. They came knocking then.’

I frown, not understanding.

‘For money,’ he clarifies cynically. ‘My mother figured I owed her after all the money she spent raising me.’

I draw in an indignant breath. It doesn’t sound like his mother had much of a hand in raising him at all.

‘I hope you said no,’ I mutter.

‘No, querida. I gave them money. I hoped they’d use it to help themselves, but they spent it on drugs, parties. I only hear from them now when they want something.’

It is a throwaway comment but it clarifies something important for me. I reach for my drink, my mind analysing this tiny piece of his puzzle. Santiago was a boy who saw his parents constantly intoxicated, ignoring him, refusing to give him the love that all children crave. They let him walk away as a teenager, and only tried to see him once he had money. Their interest in him was purely mercenary.

No one has ever loved him—not in a meaningful way—and he’s spent a lifetime pushing people away. He has surface-level relationships that revolve around sex because...because why? Because he’s afraid? I turn to look at him and see the beautiful strength of Santiago shimmering, showing me the boy he used to be, a boy who was rejected over and over again, who lived the kind of life I can only imagine. A mother who was always wasted or looking to score drugs. A father who was either abusive or in prison. No wonder he’s so messed up when it came to relationships. No wonder he doesn’t want children!

I’m moving to him before I can stop myself, anguish in my heart and sorrow on my face. He stiffens, his body language reserved and laced with rejection, but I push past that because I finally understand why he’s so determined to push me away.

I put my hand over his heart and stare into his eyes.

‘Santiago, I...’ But whatever I’d been about to say is constricted in my throat. My own doubts run through me, along with the reality of my life and my situation—the duties awaiting me once I leave Spain. I flash him a smile, but it feels strained. ‘I really should get back to the hotel, don’t you think?’

The stars twinkle overhead like diamonds in the sky and the yacht rocks from side to side, gently, beautifully, placating me into a sense of blissful relaxation.

I didn’t go back to the hotel after our conversation earlier. Instead, we swam off the back of the boat. The water was warm, the sun high overhead and afterwards I was starving. We finished the platter then shared a bowl of strawberries in the hot tub, before making love right here on the deck of the yacht, the sky our only witness, heaven above me and all around me.

‘You’re very good at this,’ I murmur, my eyes heavy.

‘At what?’

‘Seduction. The whole thing. Is this what it’s usually like for you?’

The moonlight slices like a silver blade across his handsome face. I push up onto my elbow so I can see him better.

‘I don’t have a “usual”,’ he says after a moment. I wonder at the erratic beating of my heart. Too fast one moment, too slow the next. ‘But I can say that my experience with you is unlike anything I’ve ever known.’

My heart speeds up way too fast. ‘Oh?’

‘For one thing, you are the only princess I have slept with.’ He moves closer. ‘And, for another, most women do not argue with me the way you do.’

My heart rolls and tumbles. Something hard is at my side again, painful and urgent. I swallow, dropping onto my back. Superficial relationships—that’s what he has. And even though I now understand why, it doesn’t make it any easier to cast myself—and what we’re doing—in that light.

‘I imagine women generally trip over themselves for your attention.’

‘Something like that.’ He leans over me, his eyes flicking my face. Does he see the jealousy tearing through me? ‘But not you.’

‘No,’ I agree, my admission a whisper in the night. ‘I wanted to hate you.’

‘I know.’ He traces my lips with the tip of his finger. ‘Because of the casino?’

‘The casino. Your reputation,’ I say honestly. ‘Everything about you is so threatening to me. I think even before I met you I knew that you were someone who could threaten the very safe walls I’ve built around my life.’

‘Is that what I’m doing?’

Yes. Undoubtedly. But, of course, it’s not really. After this, I have to go back to Marlsdoven, to my perfectly planned life, to the man I’ll one day marry, to the expectations I’ve always borne and which have weighed me down since my parents’ deaths. As for Santiago, he doesn’t want to shake the walls of my life. This is just meaningless for him. A fling, nothing more.

He moves his finger to the tip of my nose, running it over the ski-jump tip.

‘At that first meeting, you were full of fire,’ he says, and I blush, remembering the way we’d sparked off each other.

‘You were hardly Mr Congeniality yourself.’

‘I never am.’ He brushes aside my remark. ‘But I had expected you to be calm and agreeable. I expected you to be desperate for me to sign the contract, delighted to have the land disposed of and a project like the casino undertaken. I did not anticipate, for one minute, that you would so strenuously object.’

There’s something in his eyes that makes me pause, frowning. ‘And that bothers you? You’re disappointed?’

His features tighten. He’s doing it again—looking for ways to avoid answering me.

I sigh. ‘Don’t worry. Forget I asked.’

He presses a finger to my lips. ‘I’m used to winning. I ordinarily take great pleasure in eviscerating anyone who gets in my way.’ His accent is thick, his words raw, and my nerves tingle at the picture he paints. ‘I did not expect your opposition but, once I had it...’

I wait. For some reason with breath held. ‘Yes?’

But he shakes his head, not finishing the thought. I don’t know if he needs to. I can join the dots.

I’m his adversary in business right now, but he doesn’t want to eviscerate me. He’s holding back on the casino because he doesn’t want to see me upset.

It’s hardy a declaration of anything beyond basic courtesy—we are, after all, sleeping together—but it warms me from the inside out, regardless.

‘You’re different to what I expected,’ he finishes with a too-casual shrug.

‘Do you ever get lonely?’ The question erupts before I can stop it, and only as I speak the words do I realise it’s been humming inside me since we had the conversation about his parents.

‘No.’

I’m glad he doesn’t remind me of how busy is his social life—and by social life I mean sex life. Besides, I’m sure he’s lying.

‘Santiago...’ I sigh, pressing a hand to his chest. ‘You keep pushing me away. Is it so hard for you to be honest with me?’

‘How am I not being honest?’

‘Well, is there anyone in your life? Anyone who you let care about you? Anyone you care about?’

His eyes show fierce rejection of even the idea. ‘My business is my life. It’s all I need, querida.’

He sounds so certain, so confident on this score, that for a moment I wonder if I’m wrong. Perhaps my own loneliness is slanting my perception of his life. After all, I’m used to keeping almost everyone at arm’s length. Claudia is probably the closest thing I have to a friend, and she works for me. Maybe I’m projecting my own feelings onto him.

Maybe I want him to tell me he is lonely, because in admitting that he’d be conceding he wants to make a change. And then what? Even if he were to admit he wants more in his life, it’s not with me—it can’t be. My own obligations prohibit that. He kisses me, and I’m glad, because the power of his kiss makes thinking almost impossible. Almost, but not quite. As he brings his body over mine, I’m acutely aware of an ache somewhere in the region of my heart.

‘I love sleeping with you,’ he growls in my ear, and the words send little sparks through my body. I’m flattered but afraid because, while I love sleeping with him too, there’s so much more to it, and I know I can never admit that—I know he’ll never feel it.