Arranged Marriage, Bedroom Secrets. Yvonne Lindsay
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Royal Highness or sir.
His aide continued, “Is there anything—?”
“No.” Thierry cut off his aide before he could ask again what he could do.
Since the news had been delivered, his staff had closed around him—all too wary that they were now responsible for not the Crown Prince any longer, but the King of Sylvain. He could feel the walls closing in around him even as he paced. He had to get out. Get some air. Enjoy some space before the news hit worldwide headlines which, no doubt, it would within the next few hours.
Thierry turned to his aide. “I apologize for my rudeness. The news...even though we were expecting it...”
“Yes, sire, it has come as a shock to everyone. We all hoped he would rally again.”
Thierry nodded abruptly. “I’m going out.”
A look of horror passed across the man’s features. “But, sire!”
“Pasquale, I need tonight. Before it all changes,” Thierry said by way of explanation even though no explanation was necessary.
The reality of his new life was already crushing. He’d been trained for this from the cradle and yet it still felt as though he had suddenly become Atlas with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
“You will take your security detail with you.”
Thierry nodded. That much, he knew, was non-negotiable, but he also knew they’d be discreet. Aside from the film crew that had caught him arriving at his hotel yesterday, his visit to the United States had largely gone untrumpeted. He was a comparatively small fry compared to the other heads of state from around the world who had converged on the city for the summit. That would all change by morning, of course, when news of his father’s death made headlines. He hoped, by then, to be airborne and on his way home.
Thierry strode to his bedroom and ripped the tie from his neck before it strangled him. His elderly valet, Nico, scurried forward.
“Nico, a pair of jeans and a fresh shirt, please.”
“Certainly, sire.”
There it was again. That word. That one word that had created a gulf of distance between himself and his staff and, no doubt, the rest of the world with it. For the briefest moment, Thierry wished he could rage and snarl at the life he’d been dealt, but, as always, he capped the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He was nothing if not controlled.
A few moments later, after a brief shower, Thierry was dressed and waiting in his suite’s vestibule for his security detail—all ready to go.
“It’s cool out this evening, sire. You’ll be needing these,” Nico said.
The older man’s hands trembled as he helped Thierry into a finely woven casual jacket and passed him a beanie and dark glasses. At the visible sign of his valet’s distress, Thierry once again felt that sense of being crushed by the change to his life. Now, he was faced not only with his own emotions at the news of his father’s death, but with those of his people. So far, his staff had only expressed their condolences to him. It was time he returned that consideration. He turned and allowed his gaze to encompass both Pasquale and Nico.
“Gentlemen, thank you for all your support. I know you, too, have suffered a great loss with the death of my father. You have been in service to my family for longer than I can remember and I am grateful to you. Should you need time to grieve, please know it is yours once we return home.”
Both men spluttered their protestations as they assured him that they would take no leave. That it was their honor to serve him. It was as he’d expected, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t carry a sense of loss deep inside.
“I mean it,” he affirmed. “Nico, will you see to the packing? I believe our plane will be ready by 8 a.m.”
The head of his security, Armaund, entered the suite with three of his team.
“Sire, when you’re ready.”
With a nod of thanks to Pasquale and Nico, Thierry headed for the door. Three security guards fell in formation around him as one went ahead to the private elevator that serviced this floor.
“We thought the side entrance would be best, sire. We can avoid the lobby that way and hotel security have swept for paparazzi already.”
“Thank you, that’s fine.”
He felt like little more than a sheep with a herd of sheep dogs as they exited the elevator downstairs.
“Some space, please, gentlemen,” Thierry said firmly as he picked up his pace and struck out ahead of his team.
He could sense they didn’t like it, but as long as he didn’t look as if he was surrounded by guards, he was relying on the fact that in a big city such as New York he’d soon become just another person on the crowded sidewalk. It was the team who would likely draw attention to him rather than his own position in the world.
Thierry rounded the corner and headed for the exit. Not far now and maybe he could breathe, really breathe for the first time since he’d heard the news.
* * *
“‘Fun,’ she said,” Mila muttered under her breath as she walked the block outside the hotel for the sixth time that evening.
Once she’d overcome the sheer terror that had gripped her as she’d escaped Sally’s family’s hotel suite, anticipation had buoyed her all the way here. But she’d yet to feel that sense of fun that Sally had mentioned. Leaving the suite had been nerve-racking. She’d been sure that Bernadette or one of the guards would have seen past the blond wig she wore and realized that it wasn’t Sally leaving the suite, but they’d only given her a cursory glance.
The walk to the prince’s hotel hadn’t been too bad, but it had given her too much time to think about what on earth she was doing here. And far too much time to begin to regret it—hence the circuits around the block. Any minute now she’d be arrested, she was sure of it. She’d already started getting sideways glances from more than one person.
She took a sip from the coffee she’d bought to steady her nerves and ducked into a doorway at the side of the hotel just as the skies opened with a sudden spring shower of rain. Great, she thought, as she watched the rain fall, making the streets slick and dark and seeming to emphasize just how alone she was at this exact moment, even with the tens of thousands of people who swirled and swelled around her. One of those people jostled her from behind, making her lurch and sending her coffee cup flying to the pavement. She cried out in dismay as some of the scalding liquid splashed on her hand.
“Watch it!” she growled, shaking the residue from her stinging skin and brushing down the front of her—no, she corrected herself, Sally’s—jacket.
So much for making a good impression, she thought. Wet, bewigged and now coffee-stained—she may as well quit and go home. This had been a ridiculous idea from start to finish and there’d be hell to pay if she got caught out.
“My apologies.”
The man’s voice came from behind her. It was rich and deep and sent a tingle thrilling down her spine. She wheeled around, almost bumping into him again as she realized he was closer to her than she’d anticipated.
“I’m sor—” she began and then she looked up.
The man stood in front of her, an apologetic smile curving sinfully beautiful lips. A dark beanie covered the top of his head, hiding the color of his hair, and he wore sunglasses. Odd, given the late hour but, after all, this was New York. But then he hooked his glasses with one long tanned finger and slid them down his nose, exposing thick black brows and eyes the color of slate. Everything—all thought, all logic, all sense—fled her mind.
All she could focus on was him.
Prince Thierry.
Right there.
In the flesh.