A Queen for the Taking?. Кейт Хьюит
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eyes sparkling, her cheeks pink from the wind.
He’d felt a leap of hope then that she might not be the cold, ambitious queen-in-waiting she’d seemed just hours ago, but then he’d seen that icy self-possession enter her eyes, she’d jerked back when he had, unthinkingly, touched her, and disappointment had settled in him once more, a leaden weight.
It was too late to wish for something else for his marriage, Sandro knew. For his life. When he’d received the phone call from his father—after fifteen years of stony silence on both sides—he’d given up his right to strive or even wish for anything different. He’d been living for himself, freely, selfishly, for too long already. He’d always known, even if he’d acted as if he hadn’t, that it couldn’t last. Shouldn’t.
And so he’d returned and taken up his kingship and all it required...such as a wife. An ambitious, appropriate, perfect wife.
His expression hardening, he turned from his reflection and went in search of the woman who fitted all those soulless requirements.
He found her already waiting in the private dining room he’d requested be prepared for their meal. She stood by the window, straight and proud, dressed in an evening gown of champagne-coloured silk.
Her face went blank as she caught sight of him, and after a second’s pause she nodded regally as he closed the door behind him.
Sandro let his gaze sweep over her; the dress was by no means immodest and yet it still clung to her slight curves. It had a vaguely Grecian style, with pearl-and-diamond clips at each shoulder and a matching pearl-and-diamond pendant nestled in the V between her breasts.
The dress clung to those small yet shapely breasts, nipping in at her waist before swirling out around her legs and ending in a silken puddle at her feet. She looked both innocent and made of ivory, everything about her so cold and perfect, making Sandro want to add a streak of colour to her cheeks or her lips—would her cheeks turn pink as they’d been before if he touched her again?
What if he kissed her?
Was she aware of his thoughts? Did she feel that sudden tension inside her as well? He couldn’t tell anything from her blank face, her veiled eyes.
She’d pulled her hair back in a tight coil, emphasising her high cheekbones and delicate bone structure, and he had a mad impulse to jerk the diamond-tipped pins from her hair and see it spill over her shoulders in all of its moon-coloured glory. What would she do, he wondered, if he acted on that urge? How would this ice princess in all her white, silken haughtiness respond if he pulled her into his arms and kissed her quite senseless?
Almost as if she could sense the nature of his thoughts she lifted her chin, her eyes sparking violet challenge. Good. Sandro wanted to see emotion crack that icy demeanour; he wanted to sense something real from her, whether it was uncertainty or nervousness, humour or passion.
Passion.
It had been a while since he’d been with a woman, a lot longer since he’d been in a relationship. He felt a kick of lust and was glad for it. Perhaps he would act on it tonight. Perhaps that would melt the ice, and he would find the real woman underneath all that haughtiness...if she existed at all. He hoped, for both of their sakes, that she did.
‘Did you have a pleasant afternoon?’ he asked politely. He moved to the table that was set for two in front of the huge fireplace and took the bottle of wine that had been left open to breathe on the side.
‘Yes, thank you.’ She remained by the window, utterly still, watching him.
Sandro lifted the bottle. ‘May I pour you a glass?’
A hesitation, and then she nodded. ‘Yes, thank you.’
Yes, thank you. He wondered if he could get her to say it a third time. The woman had perfect manners, perfect everything, but he didn’t want perfection. He wanted something real and raw and passionate—something he’d never had with any woman, any person, even though he’d long been looking for it. Searching and striving for it. He suspected Lady Liana was the last person who could satisfy him in that regard.
He poured them both glasses of red wine, the ruby liquid glinting in the dancing light thrown from the flames of the fire. He crossed the room to where she still stood by the window and handed her the glass, letting his fingers brush hers.
He felt her awareness of that little act, her eyes widening slightly before she took the glass with a murmured thanks. So far they’d been alone for five minutes and she’d said thank you three times, and nothing else.
He walked back to the fire, taking a long swallow of his wine, enjoying the way the velvety liquid coated his throat and fired his belly. Needing that warmth. ‘What did you think of the gardens? Were they to your liking?’ he asked, turning around to face her. She held the wine glass in front of her, both hands clasped around it, although she had yet to take a sip.
‘Yes, thank you—’
‘Yes, thank you,’ he mimicked, a sneering, almost cruel tone to his voice. He was reacting out of a deep-seated revulsion to this kind of shallow conversation, this fakery. It reminded him of too much disappointment, too much pain. Too many lies. ‘Do you say anything else?’
She blinked, but otherwise showed no discomfiture. ‘Are you irritated by my manners, Your Highness?’
‘You are meant to call me Sandro, but you have yet to do so.’
‘I apologise. Your first name does not come easily to me.’
He arched an eyebrow, curious yet also still filled with that edgy restlessness that he knew would lead him to say—or do—things they both might regret.
‘And why is that?’ he asked, and she lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug.
‘You are the king of Maldinia.’
‘It’s nothing more than a title.’
Her mouth tightened, eyes flashing before she carefully ironed out her expression, her face smoothing like a blank piece of paper. ‘Is that what you truly think?’
No, it wasn’t. The crown upon his head—the title before his name—was a leaden weight inside him, dragging him down. It always had been, rife with expectations and disappointment. He’d seen how his father had treated that title, and he had no desire to emulate him. No desire to spiral down that destructive path, and yet he did not know if he possessed the strength to do otherwise. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘I think it is an honour and a privilege.’
‘And one you are eager to share.’ He heard the sardonic edge to his words and he knew she did too, even though her expression didn’t change, didn’t even flicker. Funny, how he knew. How he’d somehow become attuned to this ice princess without even trying.
Or maybe he just knew her type, the kind of woman who would do anything to be queen, who didn’t care about love or friendship or any softer emotion. Hadn’t he encountered such women before, starting with his own mother? And Teresa had been the same, interested only in his wealth and status. He’d yet to find a woman who didn’t care about such things, and he no longer had the freedom to search.
‘Of course,’ she answered calmly.
‘Even though you don’t know me.’
She hesitated, and he took another sip of wine, watching her over the rim of his glass. He wondered how far he would have to push her to evoke some response—any response. Further than that, clearly, for she didn’t answer, merely sipped her own wine, her expression coolly serene.
‘It doesn’t bother you,’ he pressed, ‘that we barely know each other? That you are going to pledge your life to a stranger? Your body?’
Awareness flared in her eyes at his provocative remark, and he took a step towards her. He wanted her to admit it did, longed for her to say something real, something about how strange or uncertain or fearful this arrangement was. Something. Anything.