Princes of Castaldini: The Once and Future Prince. Olivia Gates
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of precision. Out of sight, in the bowels of the suite occupying nearly the entire eighteenth floor of the hotel, lay five bedrooms, five and a half bathrooms, two living rooms, a dining room, a powder room and a sauna. The attractions included three marble fireplaces, a terrace and a two-thousand-bottle wine cellar. Amenities included the services of a secretary/butler and the hotel’s chefs.
In a nutshell, all the excess that fifteen grand a night could buy.
This was the upgrade Leandro had insisted she stay in, substituting the suite Castaldini had reserved for her for the Presidential Suite, which was evidently at his disposal year-round.
She’d failed to get him to let her stay in an accommodation made for a normal human being. The kind who had one body, necessitating one bed and one bathroom.
But that wasn’t her biggest problem. Not when she, Phoebe Alexander, negotiator extraordinaire, had walked into a situation that had all the potential of diverting the course of a whole kingdom’s history and had handled it with all the finesse of a bull in a china shop full of red dishes.
In another nutshell, she’d messed up. And she hadn’t even realized it. Not during the process of messing up, anyway.
She’d walked away from that disaster of a meeting thinking she’d held up under Leandro’s power, that although it had been a premeditated, mouse-torturing session run by a master feline, she hadn’t let him get away with it without landing a few blows of her own.
She must owe that delusion to overexposure to him. He’d always nullified her insight, neutralized her logic. But with his evolution from one-of-a-kind male into force of nature, he’d metamorphosed her into her mirror image, the reverse of her hard-earned, calm and cool persona. Blunt, rash, reckless. Inflammatory.
Instead of delivering levelheaded arguments, she’d let herself be provoked and antagonized. Her verbal missiles had only turned him into the opposite of the younger man who’d taken life and himself too seriously, who’d been too consumed by the drive to reach greater success to have—or at least to make use of—a sense of humor.
The new Leandro had reveled in being crossed and criticized, had turned everything—starting with himself—into fodder for repartee. He’d also been blatant about the resurrection of his attraction. Everything he’d said and done had loosened her self-restraint even more.
Not that that excused what she’d done. The depth of un-professionalism she’d sunk to was appalling. Not only had she not tried to fulfill her mission, she’d done her best to sabotage it. Even his reminder that she hadn’t done any negotiating hadn’t jogged sense into her malfunctioning brain. One minute later, she’d run out, essentially saying what’s the point and good riddance.
But he’d had the final word.
It’s still up to you to convince me. Why I should give…anyone a second chance.
Two sentences that delivered volumes. She’d botched her shot at appealing to him. She’d walked away without garnering a new crown prince for Castaldini, or at least a regent and savior. In his benevolence, he was offering her a replay. Or was it a retrial?
Whichever it was, his charity, should she play her cards right this time, might even extend to her. Awesome.
The arena for this second and final parley was no neutral ground, of course. She’d never had a say in the timing or venue of their encounters, and he wasn’t letting her start now. An official beggar wasn’t any higher up the ranks than an unofficial paramour.
His decree? Dinner. Tonight. At another trap of his choice.
She got to jump through his hoops one more time. Yay her.
Ernesto had come to her hotel this morning bearing advice. And dresses.
His advice she’d accepted without a murmur. He recommended that she keep on doing what she’d done so far. She had no problem with that. She probably could do nothing else. Seeing Leandro again had damaged something inside her, the equivalent of brakes in a car.
What she had a problem with was the dresses. And his second piece of advice, dress to the nines.
“I’m sure as hell not giving Leandro license to get more personal than he already has, Ernesto,” she’d protested. “And that’s what I’d be giving him if I wear any of these—these…” She’d flung a hand in the direction of the haute couture creations crowding a wheeled clothes rack. “He’d take one look at me and think I’m getting personal, shoving feminine wiles into the equation when I’ve failed to do my job any other way.”
“I am the world’s leading expert on Leandro,” Ernesto had said patiently. “I project a very favorable reaction.”
“Favorable in what way?” she’d groaned. “I want his ‘favor’ in only one way, and that isn’t obtained by dressing up like a Mata Hari. In case he is giving my diplomatic mission a real second chance, I may end up insulting him by implying a dress can sway him in such a matter. And even if it could, you’re barking up the wrong tree. A swanky getup does not make a femme fatale. If you think feminine wiles will come to my rescue under fire, think again. I came off the cosmic assembly line without them.”
“You don’t need wiles,” Ernesto had insisted. “You need only yourself. The dress is to suit the setting where he is holding this next session of…negotiations. Trust me now, cara mia.”
That had silenced her. He’d meant she’d never trusted him before, with the reason she’d ended things with Leandro. To him, it must have looked like she’d walked out on Leandro in his darkest hour. And she’d never been able to defend herself. The only way to do that was attack Leandro, the man Ernesto regarded so highly and loved like a son. She wouldn’t risk tainting that regard, that love. Not when he was a far bigger part of Leandro’s life, and losing Ernesto’s esteem would be a far graver injury to Leandro than to her.
Not that she’d lost it. Even without the truth, Ernesto had remained kind and caring. He’d contacted her regularly, always tried to visit her when her job had taken her back to the States. He’d even come to congratulate her on her engagement to Armando, which had been announced on a day that he’d been in Castaldini.
At her continued silence, Ernesto had sighed. “Va bene, Phoebe. I don’t presume to have an opinion on what went wrong between you and Leandro. And since neither of you chose to confide in me or seek my counsel, I haven’t been able to do more than remain neutral, as his right-hand and as your friend.
“But as a friend, I have to point out a few things. No matter what you think of your initial encounter with Leandro, you got much farther than anyone before you.You obtained something other than outright refusal.You did luck out, and it was because of who you are, and what you and Leandro once shared. No matter what you think of him, or feel toward him, he is powerful beyond your dreams. And Castaldini does need him, one way or another. King Benedetto was right to send you, even if he has no idea how right or why. So whether or not you approve of the situation, or of Leandro’s intentions and methods, you are the only one who has a chance to turn his position around.”
And with that, he’d left her. To her fate, it seemed.
He believed she had a chance to turn Leandro’s position around? What she had was the feeling that she was sinking in quicksand, and any move would make her sink faster.
And you know what? What the hell.
Stressing wouldn’t reverse the swiftness of the plunge. The sooner she was submerged and done with it, the better.
She got up, crossed the three-thousand-square-foot reception area to the bedroom she’d selected at random. She walked through to the bathroom full of marble and gold fixtures and showered as if her life depended on it, scrubbing till her skin felt raw. She dried off and plopped down on the capitonné dressing stool across the room, staring at the designer collection laid out on the frilly king-size bed.
After battling the need to hop into the most austere