Prince of Secrets. Lucy Monroe
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shares as a way to get their hands on a part of Volyarus.”
“Why not?”
Why not, indeed. King Fedir would and, come to it, Demyan wouldn’t hesitate to exploit such a politically expedient turn of events himself.
“So I marry her, gain control of the shares and dump her?” he asked, more to clarify what his uncle was thinking than to enumerate his own plans.
He would marry one day. Why not the heir to Bartholomew Tanner? If she was as much a friend to Volyarus as her grandfather had been, they might well make an acceptable life together.
“If she turns out to be anything like her grasping stepfather, yes,” Fedir answered. “On the other hand, she may well be someone you could comfortably live with.”
The king didn’t look like he believed his own words.
Frankly, Demyan wasn’t sure he did, either, but his future was clear. His duty to his country and the well-being of his family left only one course of action open to him.
Seduce and marry the unpolished scientist.
CHAPTER ONE
DEMYAN SLID THE black-rimmed nonprescription glasses on before pushing open the door to the lab building. The glasses had been his uncle’s idea, along with the gray Armani cardigan Demyan wore over his untucked dress shirt—no tie. The jeans he wore to complete the “geeky corporate guy” attire were his own idea and surprisingly comfortable.
He’d never owned a pair. He’d had the need to set the right example for his younger cousin, Crown Prince to Volyarus, drummed into Demyan from his earliest memory.
He’d done his best, but they were two very different men.
Maksim was a corporate shark, but he was also an adept politician. Demyan left politics to the diplomats.
For now, though, he would tone down his fierce personality with clothes and a demeanor that would not send his prey running.
He knocked perfunctorily on the door before entering the lab where Chanel Tanner worked. The room was empty but for the single woman working through her lunch hour as usual, according to his investigator’s report.
Sitting at a computer in the far corner, she typed in quick bursts between reading one of the many volumes spread open on the cluttered desktop.
“Hello.” He pitched his voice low, not wanting to startle her.
No need to worry on that score. She simply waved her hand toward him, not even bothering to turn around. “Leave it on the bench by the door.”
“Leave what, precisely?” he asked, amused in spite of himself by her demeanor.
“The package. Do you really need to know what’s in it? No one else ever asks,” she grumbled as she scribbled something down.
“I do not have a package. What I do have is an appointment.”
Her head snapped up, red curly hair flying as she spun her chair to face him. “What? Who? You’re Mr. Zaretsky?”
He nodded, impressed by the perfect pronunciation of his name.
“You aren’t expected for another half an hour.” She jumped to her feet, the pocket of her lab coat catching the edge of a book and knocking it to the floor. “And you’re going to be late. Corporate types interested in funding our research always are.”
“And yet I am early.” He crossed the room and picked up the book to hand to her.
Taking it, she frowned, her small nose scrunching rather charmingly. “I noticed.”
“Eventually, yes.”
Pink stained her cheeks, almost washing out the light dusting of freckles. “I thought you were the delivery guy. He flirts. I don’t like it, so I ignore him if at all possible.”
The woman was twenty-nine years old and could count the number of dates she’d had in the past year on less than the fingers of one hand. Demyan would think she might welcome flirting.
He did not say that, of course. He gave her the smile he used on women he wanted to bed. “You have no filter, do you?”
“Are you flirting with me?” she demanded, her gray eyes widening in shock.
“I might be.” Awkward and this woman were on very friendly speaking terms.
Her brows furrowed and she looked at him with evident confusion. “But why?”
“Why not?”
“I’m hospitably inept, not desperate.”
“You believe you are inept?”
“Everyone believes I’m socially awkward, particularly my family. Since not one of them has trouble making friends and maintaining a busy social life, I bow to their superior knowledge in the area.”
“I think you are charming.” Demyan shocked himself with the knowledge that he spoke the truth.
An even bigger but not unwelcome surprise was that he found the geeky scientist unexpectedly attractive. She wasn’t his usual cover model companion, but he would like very much if she would take off her lab coat and give him the opportunity to see her full figure.
“Some people do at first, but it wears off.” She sighed, looked dejected for a few short seconds before squaring her shoulders and setting her features into an expression no doubt meant to hide her thoughts. “It’s all right. I’m used to it. I have my work and that’s what is really important.”
He’d learned that about her, along with a great deal else from the investigation he’d had performed on top of the dossier his uncle had provided. “You’re passionate about your research.”
“It’s important.”
“Yes, it is. That is why I am here.”
The smile she bestowed on him was brilliant, her gray eyes lighting to silver. “It is. You’re going to make it possible for us to extend the parameters of our current study.”
“That is the plan.” He’d determined that approaching her in the guise of a corporate investor was the quickest way to gain Chanel’s favor.
He’d obviously been right.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“I thought we’d been over that.”
“Most corporations donate without sending someone to check our facility over.”
“Are you offended Yurkovich Tanner did not opt to do so?”
“No, just confused.”
“Oh?”
“How will you know if this is a good setup or not? I mean, even the most fly-by-night operation can make their lab look impressive to a layman.”
“The University of Washington is hardly a fly-by-night operation.”
“No, I know, but you know what I mean.”
“You really have no filter, do you?”
“Um, no?”
“You as good as called me stupid.”
“No.” She shook her head for emphasis.
“The implication is there.”
“No, it’s not. No more than I consider myself stupid because I could stare at my car’s engine from dawn to dusk and still not be able to tell you where the catalytic converter is.”
“It’s under the engine.”
“Is it?”
“Point taken, but you knew your car exhaust system has one. Just as I know the rudimentary facts about lab