Just as I do—and always have done!
In this day and age, after all, even a princess was allowed to believe in marrying for love...
Her face clouded. It was all very well believing that, and all very well trying to protect her sister from an unwanted suitor—but this unknown billionaire was all that stood between her father and penury. It was a sobering and unwelcome thought...
The house lights were already dimming as she was shown into the box reserved for them, and as they dimmed she made out the regal figures of her father and stepmother, already seated, another masculine figure silhouetted beside them, and beside him the slight figure of her sister.
Marika turned a grateful glance on Ellie as she hurriedly sketched a cursory curtsy to the Grand Duchess, who had thrown her an admonitory stare at her late arrival, before sitting down on the nearest chair, just behind her sister.
Busying herself with easing her skirts as she sat down, she dipped her head to smooth the fabric, missing the turning of the head of the masculine figure beside her sister until she raised her eyes, just as the conductor lifted his baton and the curtain rose on the opening scene of Turandot. But as she did so Ellie froze. The breath stilled in her lungs and her lips parted in shock.
The man who’d turned his head to see who was arriving so late was the same man who’d been crossing the penthouse suite lobby that afternoon. The man she had not been able to tear her eyes from.
She gave an audible gasp—she was sure of it—and for the slightest second it seemed she met that dark gaze again, head-on. Then, still in shock, she twisted her head so that her eyes were doggedly on the stage below. But she was sure that colour had run up into her cheeks and her heartbeat had grown ragged—and not just from the rush of getting here!
This was the unknown Greek—the nouveau riche billionaire bankrolling her father and setting his sights on her sister?
Her own words to Marika that morning replayed in her head now, as the opening scene of the opera got underway below her.
Old, fat and piggy-eyed...
She wanted to give a semi-hysterical choke—dear Lord, she couldn’t have been further from the truth!
What had Marika said? She racked her brain to recall her sister’s reply to her dismayed exclamation.
‘Not exactly...’
The hysterical flutter came again—no, definitely ‘not exactly’!
In fact, he was whatever was the total and absolute opposite of her scathing description.
She felt a rush go through her that was nothing to do with her hurried arrival and everything to do with the man sitting just in front of her. Her heart thumping in her chest, she thanked heaven she had the duration of the first act of the opera to recover her composure. Time, more importantly, to dwell on what Marika had told her.
It doesn’t matter that he’s like every woman’s fantasy male—he can’t seriously think he can marry Marika just like that! She must be imagining it—she must!
But then why was Leon Dukaris bothering to pick up the sky-high tab for her father’s hotel bill? What did he think was in it for him by doing so?
Cold chilled through her veins. Her eyes rested on him now—on the broad back, the well-shaped head silhouetted against the bright lights of the stage, where the main characters were singing their hearts out, completely ignored by her right now, for there was a drama going on right here in this box that outweighed anything going on down there on the stage...
She could see he’d crossed one long leg over the other, in a kind of negligent pose, and from her angle behind him she could make out half his profile. Apparently he was focused on the stage, but she fancied he was not particularly riveted by the scene or the singing.
She could see a square-palmed hand resting on one powerful thigh, the other laxly holding a programme. There was something about the way he was sitting that made her realise his body was very slightly inclined towards her sister, as if to indicate a nascent intimacy with her, making himself at ease in her body space.
An ease that was being entirely repudiated by her sister.
Marika was, Ellie could see, sitting ramrod-straight, tension in every line of her slight body. With a tightening of her mouth, she dragged her eyes away from her sister and the man beside her, back down on to the stage—where, she realised with a belated start of realisation, a princess was vowing never to marry and her unwanted suitor was determined she should do just that...
It mustn’t happen—it just mustn’t!
The words formed in Ellie’s head and it was not the drama on the stage that she meant.
Leon let his gaze rest on the stage below, but all he was aware of was the woman sitting behind him. He still could not believe it. She was the breathtaking female who’d stopped him in his tracks that afternoon.
Who is she?
The question burned for an answer, but the best he could come up with, having taken her in at a single brief glance, was that she was some kind of lady-in-waiting. She’d dropped a curtsy to the Grand Duchess, who’d frowned at her, and the gown she was wearing was no couture number, like the duchess’s and the princess’s. So, yes...lady-in-waiting would be the most likely role, wouldn’t it?
He could feel emotions conflicting within him—his overpowering visceral reaction to her clashing totally with his purpose to make Princess Marika his bride. This blonde might be a fatal distraction. He was feeling that distraction even now, fighting the urge to turn and look at her.
It seemed to take for ever before the curtain finally fell on the first act, to tumultuous applause, but suddenly the Grand Duchess was addressing him as the house lights came up.
‘Torelli is in perfect voice!’ she exclaimed approvingly.
‘Outstanding!’ Leon heard himself agree politely.
Then, forcing himself, he smiled at the princess beside him, who was still looking as stiff as she had all through the first act. Leon wished she would relax a little more.
‘What did you think?’ he asked in a kindly tone that he hoped was encouraging.
‘She was very good,’ Princess Marika said faintly.
Grand Duke Mikal was getting to his feet. ‘It was a damned long first act!’ he exclaimed.
Leon, who privately agreed, only gave a light laugh, getting to his feet as well. No sitting when royalty stood, he made himself remember. The Duchess was remaining seated, as was her daughter, but behind him Leon could hear the blonde lady-in-waiting standing up, with a slight rustle of her skirts.
Taking it as a signal, Leon finally allowed himself to turn, feeling it like the release of a bowstring drawn too tight to bear the tension much longer.
And there she was.
He felt his blood surge again as his eyes latched on to her. She was not looking at him, but he did not care. Was content just to drink her in.
She was as breathtakingly, stunningly beautiful as she’d been that first moment—even more so. She was wearing make-up now, enough to accentuate her eyes and mouth, to sculpt her cheekbones, and her hair was in a simple but elegant pleat. Her only jewellery was a single row of pearls, which added to the translucence of her fair skin. The style of the pale blue gown, albeit non-couture, complemented her slender beauty with its plissé bodice, cap sleeves and narrow skirt.
He felt desire, raw and insistent, spike through him. He tried to fight it back, knowing he should not indulge it—not if he was seriously considering marriage to Princess Marika.