can dispense with the titles. Since we are considering marriage, you may call me Alessandro, or Sandro, whichever you prefer.’
‘And which do you prefer?’
‘You may call me Sandro.’ Her composed compliance annoyed him, although he knew such a reaction was unreasonable, even unjust. Yet he still felt it, felt the deep-seated desire to wipe that cool little smile off her face and replace it with something real. To feel something real himself.
But he’d left real emotions—honesty, understanding, all of it—behind in California. There was no place for them here, even when discussing his marriage.
‘Very well,’ she answered evenly, yet she didn’t call him anything; she simply waited. Annoyance warred with reluctant amusement and even admiration. Did she have more personality than he’d initially assumed, or was she simply that assured of their possible nuptials?
Their marriage was virtually a sealed deal. He’d invited her to Maldinia to begin negotiations, and she’d agreed with an alacrity he’d found far too telling. So the duke’s daughter wanted to be a queen. What a surprise. Another woman on a cold-hearted quest for money, power, and fame.
Love, of course, wouldn’t enter into it. It never did; he’d learned that lesson too many times already.
Sandro strode farther into the room, his hands shoved into the pockets of his suit trousers. He walked to the window that looked out on the palace’s front courtyard, the gold-tipped spikes of the twelve-foot-high fence that surrounded the entire grounds making his throat tighten. Such a prison. And one he’d reentered willingly. One he’d returned to with a faint, frail hope in his heart that had blown to so much cold ash when he’d actually seen his father again, after fifteen years.
I had no choice. If I could have, I’d have left you to rot in California, or, better yet, in hell.
Sandro swallowed and turned away.
‘Tell me why you’re here, Lady Liana.’ He wanted to hear it from her own mouth, those tightly pursed lips.
A slight pause, and then she answered, her voice low and steady. ‘To discuss the possibility of a marriage between us.’
‘Such a possibility does not distress or concern you, considering we have never even met before?’
Another pause, even slighter, but Sandro still felt it. ‘We have met before, Your Highness. When I was twelve.’
‘Twelve.’ He turned around to inspect her once again, but her cold blonde beauty didn’t trigger any memories. Had she possessed such icy composure, as well as a resolute determination to be queen, at twelve years old? It seemed likely. ‘You are to call me Sandro, remember.’
‘Of course.’
He almost smiled at that. Was she provoking him on purpose? He’d rather that than the icy, emotionless composure. Any emotion was better than none.
‘Where did we meet?’
‘At a birthday party for my father in Milan.’
He didn’t remember the event, but that didn’t really surprise him. If she’d been twelve, he would have been twenty, and about to walk away from his inheritance, his very self, only to return six months ago, when duty demanded he reclaim his soul—or sell it. He still wasn’t sure which he’d done. ‘And you remembered me?’
For a second, no more, she looked...not disconcerted, but something close to it. Something distressing. Shadows flickered in her eyes, which, now that he’d taken a step closer to her, he saw were a rather startling shade of lavender. She wasn’t so colourless, after all. Then she blinked it back and nodded. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘I’m sorry to say I don’t remember you.’
She shrugged, her shoulders barely twitching. ‘I wouldn’t have expected you to. I was little more than a child.’
He nodded, his gaze still sweeping over her, wondering what thoughts and feelings lurked behind that careful, blank mask of a face. What emotion had shadowed her eyes for just a moment?
Or was he being fanciful, sentimental? He had been before. He’d thought he’d learned the lessons, but perhaps he hadn’t.
Liana Aterno had been one of the first names to come up in diplomatic discussions after his father had died, and he’d accepted that he must marry and provide an heir—and soon.
She was related to royalty, had devoted her life to charity work, and her father was prominent in finance and had held various important positions in the European Union—all of which Sandro had to consider, for the sake of his country. She was eminently and irritatingly suitable in every way. The perfect queen consort—and she looked as if she knew it.
‘You have not considered other alliances in the meantime?’ he asked. ‘Other...relationships?’ He watched her pale, heart-shaped face, no emotion visible in her eyes, no tightening of her mouth, no tension apparent in her lithe body. The woman reminded him of a statue, something made of cold, lifeless marble.
No, he realised, what she really reminded him of was his mother. An icy, beautiful bitch: emotionless, soulless, caring only about wealth and status and fame. About being queen.
Was that who this woman really was? Or was he being stupidly judgmental and entirely unfair, based on his own sorry experience? It was impossible to tell what she felt from her carefully blank expression, yet he felt a gut-deep revulsion to the fact that she was here at all, that she’d accepted his summons and was prepared to marry a stranger.
Just as he was.
‘No,’ she said after a moment. ‘I have not...’ She gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. ‘I have devoted myself to charity work.’
Queen or nun. It was a choice women in her elevated position had had to make centuries before, but it seemed archaic now. Absurd.
And yet it was her reality, and very close to his. King or CEO of his own company. Slave or free.
‘No one else?’ he pressed. ‘I have to admit, I am surprised. You’re— What? Twenty-eight years old?’ She gave a slight nod. ‘Surely you’ve had other offers. Other relationships.’
Her mouth tightened, eyes narrowing slightly. ‘As I said, I have devoted myself to charity work.’
‘You can devote yourself to charity work and still be in a relationship,’ he pointed out. ‘Still marry.’
‘Indeed, I hope so, Your Highness.’
A noble sentiment, he supposed, but one he didn’t trust. Clearly only queen would do for this icy, ambitious woman.
Sandro shook his head slowly. Once he’d dreamed of a marriage, a relationship built on love, filled with passion and humour and joy. Once.
Gazing at her now, he knew she would make an able queen, a wonderful queen—clearly she’d been grooming herself for such a role. And the decision of his marriage was not about desire or choice. It was about duty, a duty he’d wilfully and shamefully ignored for far too long already.
He gave a brisk nod. ‘I have obligations in the palace for the rest of this afternoon, but I would like us to have dinner together tonight, if you are amenable.’
She nodded, accepting, unsmiling. ‘Of course, Your Highness.’
‘We can get to know each other a bit better, perhaps, as well as discuss the practical aspects of this union.’
Another nod, just as swift and emotionless. ‘Of course.’
He stared at her hard, wanting her to show some kind of emotion, whether it was uncertainty or hope or simple human interest. He saw nothing in her clear violet gaze, nothing but cool purpose, hard-hearted determination. Suppressing a stab of disappointment, he turned from the room. ‘I’ll send one of my staff in to see to your needs. Enjoy your stay in the palace of Averne,