Prince's Son of Scandal Read online

  He had also known it would be an evening rife with what he had before him: Women in daring gowns, swishing their hips in enticement, sweeping lashes in false shyness while they twisted their hair in invitation.

  As Europe’s most eligible bachelor, he was used to having his pick from such an array. He only needed to drop a claw and let it pick up one of the brightly colored toys before him. It didn’t matter which one fell into his hands. They were all the same, providing brief entertainment and something soft to embrace for a night, before forgetting them in the hotel room when he left the next morning.

  Given the news he had received this morning, tonight’s plaything would be his last before his royal duty took precedence. It was another reason he had agreed to this ridiculousness. At least he had a decent selection for his final visit to the amusement park.

  He was taking his time singling out his companion. They all had their charms. Was he in the mood for voluptuous or fair? Should he be practical and choose the one wearing enough gold not to covet his own? Or go with the one who promised some spark as she set her chin and glared at the rest?

  Then his hostess presented a newcomer like a gift, one who made the rest of the women take sharp little breaths and step back.

  She was taller than most, with divine features that matched her name. Her skin was soft and flushed, too warm to be called cream yet not dark enough to be olive. Golden as a sunrise glancing off a snowy peak.

  A muse, clearly, since he felt poetic stirrings just by gazing at her. How could he not admire her? Her figure was goddess-perfect, her mouth sinful, her eyes fey and mysterious, colored somewhere between gray and green. If he pulled her from the cloud of perfume surrounding them, he bet she would smell like mossy forest and clean cold streams.

  That was what she presented on the surface, at least. In a blink, she had shifted ever so slightly and it was as if she’d hit exactly the right angle to catch and reflect the sun. Something less tangible than external beauty seemed to concentrate and strike out in a sharp white light that pierced his eyes, like a star being born.

  She was the diamond in a bowl of imitations, a woman of facets and contrasts, infinitely fascinating and priceless. If recognizing that caused him a stab of regret because he didn’t have time to fully explore her depths and contradictions, he ignored it. Such was his life. He took what he could, when he could.

  Tonight, he would take her, grazie mille.

  “Good evening.” He bowed over her hand, letting his breath warm her knuckles and feeling the tiny flex of her reaction. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

  “A rare treat indeed.” The tilt of her lips suggested an inside joke. “The honor is mine.”

  “I’ve seated you at the VIP table,” Clair said. “Please find your way when you’re ready. Has everyone seen the silent auction items?” Clair broke up the knot of disgruntled women, most of whom drifted off.

  A few opportunists remained, one being the redhead with the determined chin. He sighed inwardly as the redhead flashed a too sweet smile before asking, “Angelique, how is your sister? Still keeping to herself?”

  Ah yes. That’s why the name had struck him as familiar. The family had a tragic history. One of the twin girls had been kidnapped as a child. She was rumored to be batty, so they kept her out of sight. As someone who had been reported as everything from born of an alien to outright dead, he put little store in such gossip, but did wonder how she would respond to such a blatant intrusion. It was clearly meant to disconcert.

  She swung a scythe-sharp glance at the redhead, revealing the compressed carbon beneath her sparkle.

  “She’s excellent.” Her tone struck him as ironic. “What’s your name? I’ll tell her you were asking about her.”

  “Oh.” The redhead was startled, but flicked him a glance and decided to take a final stab at snaring his interest. “Lady Wanda Graves.”

  “I’ll be sure you’re added to our list.” She smiled distantly and turned to him. “Shall we find our seats?”

  She didn’t see the redhead brighten briefly before a darker thought struck, one that tightened her mouth. The other women who’d been standing by widened their eyes then averted their gazes before they scurried off.

  He offered his arm and dipped his mouth to her ear. “You have a blacklist?”

  “Nosy people do not wear our label.”

  Catty, ruthless, or both? Either way, he was entertained.

  And now he was reminded that the sisters had some kind of design house. Women’s fashion was last on his list of interests, but he took a fresh assessment of her gown, appreciating the peek of thigh exposed by the slit and the gather of strapless satin that left an expanse of upper chest and breast swell to admire.

  “This is one of your creations? It’s pure artistry.”

  “I can tell when I’m being patronized,” she warned.

  “Then you’ll know I’m sincere when I say the dress is lovely, but I see the woman inside it. Which is the point, is it not?”

  “Do you?” She tilted a considering look up at him, something dancing in the elfin green of her eyes. He could have sworn they were gray a minute ago. Her gaze dropped to his chest, where the band of silk slashed across his heart. “I see the crown, not the man. Which is what this is meant to convey, isn’t it?”

  Astute, but a woman who made her living with clothing would understand such nuances.

  The sash in question felt unaccountably restrictive this evening. Duty hovered in his periphery, set there by a brief news item passed along from his PA about Bonnafete, a small principality in the Mediterranean. The reigning prince’s daughter, Patrizia, had called off her marriage to an American real estate mogul.

  Patrizia was a longtime acquaintance. Xavier was not as sorry as he had implied when he had sent his condolences. He was in need of a titled wife. His grandmother wanted him married so she could step down. Patrizia was infinitely suitable.

  He had asked that his grandmother be made aware of the broken engagement. It was an acknowledgement of his responsibility toward her, their bloodline and the crown. Loath as he was to marry, he preferred to spearhead such actions himself, rather than wait for her to issue orders. She might be the one person on this earth with the power to govern his actions, but he didn’t have to encourage it. He was confident she would approve and God knew she would let him know if she didn’t.

  “Is it heavy?” his final sown oat asked of his sash. The levelness in her tone told him she didn’t mean physically, proving she was even more perceptive than he’d imagined.

  Compassion was not something he looked for in anyone, though, least of all his temporary companions. There was no room for any weakness in his life. No one saw him flinch. No one was privy to his bitterness at the hand life had dealt him.

  It was a wasted emotion to feel.

  So he ignored the chance she might understand him in a way no one else ever had and held her chair. “Nothing could weigh me down while I’m in your beguiling company, bella.”

  She froze and looked over her shoulder. “Why did you call me that?”

  “It’s an endearment. Elazar’s official language is an Italian dialect, though French and German are commonly spoken along with English.” He adjusted her chair as she sank into it then leaned down to speak against her hair where it fell in loose waves against her nape. “Why? Don’t you like it?”

  Tiny bumps lifted on her skin in a shiver of reaction. Her nipples tightened into peaks against the silk that draped over them, making him smile. She liked it.

  Awash in more sexual anticipation than he’d felt in a while, perhaps ever, he seated himself, pleased he would end his bachelorhood with such a terrific bang.

  * * *

  Trella was a natural extrovert. The chatter and color around her, the voices and music and attention, was like standing in t
he sunshine after years in an oubliette.

  But to have this man glance at her with that admiring look on his face as he seated himself next to her was a deliciously sweet accompaniment. He was clearly an accomplished seducer, wearing charm and entitlement as comfortably as his sash, but she was excited to be singled out by him all the same. It was the flirtation she had yearned for.

  “What brings you to Paris?” he asked.

  Although, if she was going to do this, she wasn’t settling for plain vanilla.

  “Surely you can do better than asking what a nice girl like me is doing in a place like this?”

  “Let me consult my app.” He glanced at an imaginary phone. “How about... What sign are you?” He affected sincere interest.

  Her mouth twitched. “Gemini. Twins. Obviously. You?”

  “No idea. August sixth.”

  “Leo. The lion. King of the jungle.”

  “Obviously,” he said, with a self-deprecating tilt of the corner of his mouth.

  She bit back a smile, intrigued by his position, but only because she knew what it was to be in the spotlight. He’d glossed over her query about the weight of his crown, but surely he wearied of attention and responsibility.

  “You take horoscopes seriously?” he asked, nodding at a server who offered them champagne.

  “Not as a belief system, but I used it as inspiration for a collection a few years ago. We used it,” she amended quickly, clearing her throat over the white lie and sliding her gaze to ensure the people searching for their seats hadn’t overheard her. It was well known in fashion circles that Trella had designed that particular line.

  “How?” He seemed genuinely curious. “The patterns in the fabric?”

  “Not that literal. More how the nature of each sign is perceived. They fall into different qualities, like fixed or mutable, and elements, like air and fire. There’s a lot to play with. I work better with deadlines so I approached one sign a month. It was an interesting exercise.” She leaned closer, wrinkling her nose. “Also a terrific marketing hook.”

  The corners of his mouth deepened. “Beauty and brains. Always an irresistible combination.”

  This prince, causing her heart to thud-thud under a simple compliment, should have sent her running. She had learned healthy caution from her childhood, but even though most men put her on edge, this one filled her with a giddy lack of fear. It was like breaking out of a shell. Like discovering she had the ability to fly.

  She definitely wanted more time with him before this evening ended.

  On impulse, she motioned for her guard, who was actually one of Gili’s, and quietly gave him an instruction about the silent auction. He melted away.

  Was she being too forward? Reckless?

  Their table filled up, forcing her to wait to find out. Dinner passed in a blur of neutral conversation. Someone asked the Prince about his country’s foray into green energy. She vaguely recalled his mountain kingdom between Italy and Austria had been accused of providing a tax haven during the world wars. Elazar sounded very modern and self-sufficient now. He spoke about exporting hydropower, since rivers and streams were one of their few natural resources. There was also a decade of investing in education, attracting engineering and technology start-ups, solar and wind power.

  Her inner businesswoman should have been taking mental notes, but she was mesmerized by his casual command over his audience and subtly seduced with how close his sleeve came to touching her arm. Beneath the table, she imagined she could feel the heat from his thigh mere inches from her own. All she could think about was dancing with him.

  Dancing. Tears pressed the backs of her eyes. She ached for that simple pleasure.

  This adolescent reaction was ridiculous, but she let it happen. Embraced it. This is what she should have been doing at twenty, not hand-sewing sequins on mini-dresses for other young women to wear to exclusive clubs, killing hours with concentrated work so she could get through one day, one more hour, without a breakdown or the drugs that were supposed to prevent them.

  Then Prince Xavier turned his terrifically handsome face toward her, bathing her in the light of his regard. “You must travel a great deal for your work? What drew you to fashion?”

  He had given each of the others a moment in his attentive sunlight. Now it was her turn. He must engage in small talk with a thousand people a day, at ribbon cuttings and children’s hospitals, but she would have sworn on her life the tension around his eyes eased as he met her gaze. He’d been doing his duty, impatiently waiting to get back to her. She felt delirious even as she prevaricated her way through her reply.

  “Both of us are quite creative.” Gili more so. She was the artist who designed out of love and ran the business out of necessity. Trella was the ambitious one, determined to turn a healthy profit. Practicality, not passion, had driven her into making her own clothes, because she couldn’t bear being judged by trolls for merely buying something, let alone how it looked on her.

  “We had some start-up help from our brothers but surprised them and ourselves with our success.” Another fib. She wouldn’t have rested until they were making buckets of money. She was competitive and driven by an I’ll-show-you desire for revenge against those who had thrown shade.

  “It can’t be an easy field. I’m sure your success is due to hard work as much as anything else.”

  He was trying to get her into bed. She knew that with the brains he’d said he admired, but his flattery worked. She was ridiculously affected by his compliment. She wanted to say “It was a ton of work. Thank you for noticing.” Gili was the face of Maison des Jumeaux, which meant she received the bulk of the credit—not that she didn’t deserve a lot, but Trella worked just as hard and was not a naturally humble person. Hearing his praise went into her like a transfusion, tipping her further under his spell.

  Their hostess moved to the podium to make a short speech, thanked the guests for their donations then announced the winners for the auction items. Trella grew increasingly self-conscious as the moments ticked down, certain she had truly lost her mind this time. Maybe she should leave before—

  “Finally, our most coveted prize, a dance with the Prince of Elazar, has been won by... Angelique Sauveterre!”

  The applause was polite, the knives in her back proverbial, but she felt them. She privately smirked, then blushed as Xavier showed no surprise. Was he so sure of her?

  “I’m flattered.”

  “You should be. I promised to double the next highest bid. You had better dance well enough to be worth it.”

  “I do,” he assured her, rising to help with her chair, doing that erotic thing of speaking against her hair so tingles raced all over her skin. “For that sort of generosity, bella, I’ll give you the whole night.”

  Oh, he was good. Lightheadedness accosted her every time he called her bella, the same nickname her family called her. Her pulse pounded so hard she thought it would bruise her throat, but it fed the thrilling excitement washing over her. He made her feel so alluring. Sexy.

  He made her feel as though he wanted her.

  That was beyond captivating. She had spent a lot of dark nights telling herself how flawed she was, how she didn’t want men anyway, so she didn’t care if they didn’t want her. She did want, though. She wanted to feel normal and alive. Happy and desirable.

  The touch of his hand on the small of her back had a terrific effect on her. The awareness that had been teasing her all evening became a suffusion of deeply sensual lethargy. Dear Lord, was she becoming aroused?

  It was what she’d envied her sister for—which was when it struck her what was happening. She and Gili had a twin connection. They didn’t read each other’s thoughts or anything so intrusive, but they picked up hints of the other’s emotions despite whatever physical distance might separate them. The preternatural sense was
stronger on Gili’s side. Trella had been so messed up for years, taking anti-depressants to quash anxiety attacks, she hadn’t been as receptive to her sister’s moods.

  Lately, however, she’d become more aware, particularly if Gili was restless or having an off day. Tonight, her sister was with a man who truly excited her. She was usually so careful, so rarely selfish, yet she was basking in something that made her incredibly happy.

  Her sister’s buoyant heart lightened Trella’s. She was happy for Gili, happy her sister wasn’t weighed down by all the things Trella had put her through. It added another lift of carefree joy to her own evening.

  “You dance well yourself,” Xavier said as he spun her in a waltz.

  She was too exhilarated to respond. The sparkling ballroom circled around her in a kaleidoscope of colors. His embrace was confident and reassuring, making her feel light as a fairy.

  “I feel like Cinderella.” It was too true. She was the smudged sister who had escaped from the attic, wearing borrowed clothing to dance with a prince.

  “You look like something out of a fairy tale.” The line of his brow twitched and the corner of his mouth deepened, like he both surprised and disparaged himself for saying. “You’re very beautiful,” he added gruffly.

  Gili was the beautiful one. Trella had fought hard to get back to the same weight as her sister, wanting to feel as good as Gili looked. She had let her hair grow out to her sister’s length so she could impersonate her for her dry runs going out in public, but she never thought of herself as beautiful. She too often thought of herself as broken.

  Not tonight. She diverted herself away from any thoughts other than how glorious this was. Around and around they went. His thighs brushed hers, his fingers splayed as though trying to touch more of her. She let her fingers trail closer to his collar so she could rest the side of one finger on the hot skin of his neck. It was electrifying. The magnetic sensations grew as he kept her dancing into the second song, tugging her toward an unknown crescendo. When someone tried to cut in, Xavier shrugged him off.