Sweet Thing Page 17

  My throat ached with emotion and I touched his arm, trying to convey my sympathy, knowing it would be inadequate.

  ‘Rather than comforting me after Mum died, you know what the bastard did? He blamed me. Me. For making him resentful and bitter, for making Mum have to defend me that day and ultimately being mad enough to have that accident that killed her. Blamed me for trapping him even more, since he’d be saddled with two kids he didn’t want. I was ten fucking years old and he lumped all that on me. And it just got worse from there. For the next five years until he died, he treated me like shit. Never in front of Remy, who wasn’t around much, but he made me feel worthless and useless, drumming it into me ’til I started to believe it... I cried with joy the day he died. Remy put up with my teenage tantrums for the next few years and I bided my time ’til I hit eighteen and had access to my trust fund to start my life. These?’ He brandished his tattoo-covered arms at me. ‘Getting inked ensured I was reborn. I was never comfortable in my old skin, so I took on a new one. One guaranteed to keep people at bay, which suited me fine. In a screwed-up way, I identified with my dad, not wanting to ever be trapped in a relationship. So I never let anyone get close. Until you...’

  His tortured gaze met mine and I held my breath, silently praying we’d had a breakthrough and that he wouldn’t send me packing once and for all.

  ‘You saw beneath my tats.’ My chest ached with the effort of holding back a torrent of emotion. When he cupped my face, the breath I’d been holding seeped out in an embarrassing squeak. ‘You really see me, the real me...and I don’t know whether to hold onto you for ever or run as fast as I possibly can without looking back.’

  Hope flared to life but I forced myself to stand still as he released my face, to lower his hands to my hips. He hadn’t pushed me away. He hadn’t bolted. Yet.

  So I tried to convey my sorrow at his atrocious upbringing, knowing I’d come up short but having to try regardless.

  ‘Sorry is so trite now but, Tanner, I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am for what you went through. You shouldered a burden you shouldn’t have and were raised by a sadist. Just know that I do see you. And I always will.’

  I couldn’t hold back the tears, not any more, so I let them fall, wrapping my arms so tight around him he yelped.

  The good thing was, he held me too, burying his nose in my hair like he used to do.

  The bad thing was, once I started crying, I couldn’t stop. It was like all the feelings I’d bottled up for so long came tumbling out in a torrent. He held me until the sobs subsided, strong and stoic, the man I wanted, the man I needed.

  When I finally eased away, I glimpsed the first flicker of a smile and my heart soared.

  ‘And you had the audacity to call me a marshmallow?’ He kissed the tip of my nose and I knew we’d marched out of the front lines, together. ‘You’re just a big cry-baby.’

  I punched him in the chest. ‘But I’m your cry-baby.’

  ‘I guess you are.’ He didn’t hesitate and joy fizzed in my veins. ‘For some inexplicable reason, you see the best in me. You bring out the best in me. And I want to see how far this can go.’

  I let out a whoop and he laughed, picking me up and swinging me around.

  ‘But you need to promise me something,’ he said, sounding serious.

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘If you’re going to walk away at any stage, do me the courtesy of telling me.’ He tightened his hold around my waist. ‘I don’t think I could handle being left hanging.’

  ‘Like you did to me the last three days?’

  He grimaced. ‘Touché.’

  I held up my right hand. ‘I promise. Anything else?’

  ‘I...I think I love you too,’ he said, gruff and bashful.

  ‘I said I like you.’ Grinning, I slid my palms up his chest to rest on his beautifully broad shoulders. ‘Maybe I’m only halfway to loving you.’

  Cockiness curled his upper lip. ‘You love me. You’re just too stubborn to admit it.’

  Joy made me cling to him, like I’d float away if I blinked and realised this was a dream. ‘Maybe you’ll have to kiss a confession out of me?’

  ‘Too easy,’ he murmured, a second before his mouth claimed mine.

  His lips coaxed and tempted, demanding a response I was only too willing to give. A long, slow, soul-searing kiss that would be the first of many. A kiss filled with hope. A kiss to build a future on.

  Reluctant to come up for air, I gently pushed him away.

  ‘Okay, I’ll admit it.’ I pretend pouted. ‘I love you. Happy?’

  ‘Sweetheart, you have no idea how much.’

  As he hugged me tight, the pounding of his heart matching mine, I had a fair idea.

  Unconditional love.

  There was no feeling in the world like it.

  Now that I’d found it with this incredible, infuriating man, I had no intention of ever letting go.

  * * * * *

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  My Royal Temptation

  by Riley Pine

  CHAPTER ONE

  Nikolai

  IT’S NEVER IDEAL to wake up after a one-night stand to find a European boxing champion glaring at your bare ass. It’s worse if the pissed-off guy in question happens to be a childhood best friend.

  Scratch that...former best friend.

  “Top of the morning.” I wryly yank the hotel’s satin sheet over my waist. A red thong is bunched on top of the unmade covers, right where I removed it with my teeth around midnight.

  If looks could kill, Christian Wurtzer, Baron of Rosegate, would smite me faster than a lightning bolt hurled by an avenging god.

  “You really are a first-rate bastard, aren’t you, Nikolai?” He balled his hands into meaty fists, a useless gesture, because here in the Kingdom of Edenvale, it’s illegal to strike a member of the royal family.

  And as Prince Nikolai, third of his name, Duke of Westcraven, heir to the throne of Edenvale and our country’s eminent blue-blooded bad boy, I fall square into the “no hitting allowed” category. Rules are often a nuisance in my world, but that particular clause has proved beneficial since reaching my maturity, especially in predicaments regarding the opposite sex.

  “Bastard?” I scrub the morning scruff prickling my jaw with a yawn. “But I’m the mirror image of my dear sovereign father, and don’t forget that my poor queen mother was forced to squeeze me out in front of an official court representative to ensure my legitimacy.” There is a sharp localized pain in the vicinity of my heart; the twinge always accompanies a mention of my long-dead mother. She died bringing my youngest brother, Damien, into the world, the first life that banished asshole ever took.

  “You’ve gone too far this time.” Christian’s warning growl yanks my attention back to the present moment. “This was my sister. You compromised her virtue.”

  Not the optimal moment to observe that he could give the ferocious bear stamped on his family crest a run for its money. Once our people were great hunters, the best swordsmen in Europe, as feared as the Vikings of old. Edenvale might be a small, landlocked kingdom, but we harbored a reputation as ruthless, lethal warriors. These days we’re better known for luxury casinos, discreet banks and glamorous mountain hideaways. Edenvale is a high-altitude playground for the rich, the famous and those aspiring to the same.

  “What will I tell my parents?” He rakes a hand through his blond hair, pacing the plush carpet. “Catriona is ruined. Her prospects for a marriage alliance are now nonexistent.”

  “Come, come. Ask any trust-fund baby in Ibiza. It’s common knowledge that your precious little sister gave up her virtue well before I sunk my flag.” If his family schemed to marry Cat off as a virgin, they lost that chance years ago. Typical Rosegate sentiment to attach significance to such an inconsequential thing as a hymen. But they are an old-fashioned people. The regional characteristic might be charming if their morals weren’t so fucking medieval.

  Catriona Wurtzer stirs, snoring lightly, her pink lips crooked into a satiated half smile. A hot pulse of lust spreads through my sac. That luscious mouth pouts from the cover of three different high-fashion magazines this month alone, and last night it worked over my cock with such deep-throated skill that the interlude nearly distracted me from this morning’s royal duty.

  I roll out of bed and slip on my tuxedo pants—commando—and shrug into my dress shirt, not bothering with the twenty-four-karat-gold cuff links on the nightstand. Catriona likes it rough, and the room was trashed during our sleepover. Those expensive baubles will serve as a more-than-adequate housekeeping tip. It’s time for me to return to the castle.

  My father, the king, and my hag of a stepmother, the current queen, have summoned me for a private audience this morning at nine thirty sharp. This rare audience doesn’t mean anything good, which is why I guzzled three-thousand-dollar-a-bottle champagne at a gala benefit before burying myself balls deep into the supermodel who happens to be my best friend’s little sister.

  “Your family have been loyal subjects for over two centuries. Based on this valued relationship, I shall issue a royal decree. Huzzah, huzzah. All hail Catriona, the realm’s newest countess.” I can’t resist a smirk as I tack on, “A new title for her trouble.” As if bedding me was a hardship. Which it wasn’t. But what the hell? Let her add a castle to her four orgasms. I’m in a generous mood.

  “Too kind, Highness.” Christian nearly chokes on his words. He wants to beat my ass into Luxembourg, but the microstate of Rosegate has long been a disputed territory with Nightgardin, the country to the north and our ancient foe. The powerful Wurtzer family has been allied to mine for generations, and he knows—without reminder—three salient facts:

  I’m an asshole, a leopard can’t change his spots, and Edenvale’s small but lethal military is the only thing protecting Rosegate against a Nightgardin power grab.

  Revenge is a bitch.

  Christian and I attended Swiss boarding school together and shared a dormitory room for five years. I love the guy like family, but he recently racked up too many gambling debts playing high-stakes blackjack. My sources say he decided to pay for them by selling titillating gossip about me to the tabloids. I’m not saying banging his hot sister is payback for his betrayal.

  But I’m not saying it isn’t, either.

  A muscle twitches deep in his jaw, the same tic that would act up back when he’d pour over his calculus lessons during late-night study sessions. I’m sure he’d love to order me to “do the right thing” and stick a ring on his sister’s finger. But alas, only one of us carries an invitation-only Black Amex card with no preset limits.

  Limits are for those who need them. I am no such man.

  People can think I’m an arrogant ass all they want. They’re right. But at least I’m a consistent asshole. Fuck with me and I fuck back. No hard feelings. It’s how the people on top stay on top. And I can make it good.

  Or I can make it hurt.

  For those who beg nicely—I can make it both.

  Got to say, being a prince is full of perks in all ways but one—I still answer to the king. It’s not my throne...yet.

  I glance in the gilded mirror on my way out the door. Yep, still me. Bed-rumpled jet-black hair, a roguish mouth and gunmetal gray eyes. I clock in at six foot four and possess stamina for days. Last year I came in number one on a list of the world’s sexiest royals. The only thing surprising was that it was the first year it happened. Way I see it, Prince Harry over in jolly old England can eat his ginger heart out.

  “For Christ’s sake. Wake up, Catriona,” Christian orders his sister as I exit the room. I outpace the unfolding drama and stride down the hotel hallway, hitting the button on the penthouse’s private elevator. My bodyguard, X, waits in the Rolls. He’s been idling there all night. He’s used to it.

  I slide into the back seat without a word.

  A language lesson plays on the sound system—Mandarin Chinese. X collects languages like he does medieval knives. Not my first choice for fun, but to each his own.

  “To the castle, Sire?” he asks over the intercom, turning off the stereo. I remove my sunglasses from my pocket. Daylight reflects from the snow on the high mountain peaks. My growing headache isn’t in the mood for good weather.

  “Home sweet home.” I slather sarcasm on my affirmative and slide on the shades to avoid the summer sun.

  As X starts the engine, I reach into the minibar and pluck out a handful of miniature cognac bott
les. By the time we cross the moat, I toss the fifth empty on the pile by my feet. But the liquor does jack shit to dull the sharp pain in my gut.

  Fine. It was an unforgivable move to fuck my best friend’s little sister—revenge or no—but I’m sure as shit no Prince Charming.

  Kate

  I spread my hands across my pleated skirt, then think better of it and rest them atop the leather folder that sits on the table. If I wanted to, I could relax, even luxuriate in the high-backed, cushioned chair, no doubt made of the same buttery leather as the folder in front of me. But it’s not exactly easy when you’re sitting at a twenty-foot-long mahogany table in one of many rooms at the Palace Edenvale.

  It wasn’t like I hadn’t been here before, but I don’t think a prep-school tour counts the same as an invitation that came hand-delivered by a royal herald. The envelope was even closed with one of those fancy wax seals.

  Dear Miss Katherine Winter,

  Your presence is requested at Palace Edenvale at 9:30 a.m. tomorrow morning. Please come unattended and plan on clearing your schedule for the remainder of the day. Your audience with the king and queen must be kept private. Tell no one where you are going, and after you’ve been, tell no one what transpires within the palace walls until—should they request your services further—the king, queen and yourself enter into contract.

  The royal family appreciates you honoring your duty and complying with the above requests.

  I huff out a laugh, which echoes in the empty room. Requests. As if I had any choice once I broke the royal seal. Sure, Your Highnesses, I’ll clear my day. Of course, my illustrious rulers, I’ll keep my visit to the palace a secret. Not because of any damned duty, though. If there is one thing I value, it’s my business and my independence. I am determined to keep the former and as much of the latter as possible, and if that means zipping my lips about my royal audience, fine by me.

  There better at least be some sort of monetary compensation for this—this—request. God knows my sister and I need it. Our savings account has dipped into the red with Gran’s mounting medical bills, which has sent my internal stress thermometer in the exact opposite direction.