around? What she had was the feeling that she was sinking in quicksand, and any move would make her sink faster.
And you know what? What the hell.
Stressing wouldn’t reverse the swiftness of the plunge. The sooner she was submerged and done with it, the better.
She got up, crossed the three-thousand-square-foot reception area to the bedroom she’d selected at random. She walked through to the bathroom full of marble and gold fixtures and showered as if her life depended on it, scrubbing till her skin felt raw. She dried off and plopped down on the capitonné dressing stool across the room, staring at the designer collection laid out on the frilly king-size bed.
After battling the need to hop into the most austere outfit she had with her, she decided to bow to Ernesto’s judgment. And when something wild and wanton seethed inside her, demanding that she go all out and wear one of the most outrageous and shameless creations, she restrained it, kicking and hissing, and chose the most understated dress she could find. She was not going to Leandro’s torment session in blaring red or gold, declaring without words that she was indeed sizzling for far more than juvenile, infringing, lascivious allusions.
After dragging on her chosen dress, she inspected the result. Hmm. Probably dressed only to the fours or fives. They’d all have to live with that.
Half an hour later, she was waiting for Ernesto to escort her to his master, trying to ignore the buzz that was escalating inside her at the thought of seeing said master again. To give herself something to do, she reexamined her reflection in the gilded full-length mirror in the suite’s foyer.
With the heels and freshly styled hair, probably sixes or sevens.
Appropriate. She was at them, too. And she had herself to thank for that. Instead of having one confrontation be the end of it, here she was, through her own idiocy forced to see him again, to hopefully get the result she should have gotten the first time. Or not. He might be…hell, he was stringing her along, to fulfill an objective that probably had nothing to do with Castaldini and everything to do with that still overwhelming attraction that had seared away her resolutions and intentions. She could only let him steer her and everything wherever he pleased. She’d deal with it when she found out where that was.
And if that new, reckless entity that had been awakened inside her told her that she couldn’t wait to go wherever he led, she smacked it silent. Been there, done that.
Never wanted to be there, or do that, again.
Leandro glowered at his watch.
Late. Three…four minutes. And he had a feeling those minutes would soon be accompanied by many more.
Was it her doing, or Ernesto’s? Which of them wanted to keep him human by denying the gratification of his every whim?
Both, probably. And both, damn them, pegged him right. Knew they were the only two people alive he’d let cross him.
A huff exploded from him. Cross him? How about walk all over him? Ernesto knew he could get away with anything. And Phoebe…
Oh, yes. She knew, too.
She knew what she’d been doing last night. She’d parried and attacked until he was at critical mass. Then she’d hit him with what he would have never seen coming. One word. One insight. One verdict. Stunned.
She’d known, when he hadn’t known himself. Not until she’d uttered her analysis.
He was still stunned. And it wasn’t because his king, his people, had gone so far as to exile him, but that it had gone so wrong between him and Phoebe.
He’d once been so certain of her, had plans. Goals. To be named the most worthy, the next king. Then to offer it all to her, his name and future and the controlling shares of his heart.
Be my queen had hovered on his tongue from that first night he’d claimed her, been claimed by her, burning for the moment he could utter the demand.
Ernesto, the one man he trusted, the man who’d raised him after his parents’ deaths, had urged him not to let her occupy his focus as he campaigned for the crown. But he hadn’t been capable of listening, had writhed in impatience until he could rush back to her, join with her, melt in her.
And it had cost him. His enemies had capitalized on his distraction, had hit where he hadn’t anticipated, forced him into retaliations that had grown more uncalculated. They hadn’t guessed to what they’d owed their growing advantage, but they’d used his dwindling finesse against him. And he’d been in the throes of all-consuming hunger for the first time, hadn’t even noticed the damage until it was too late.
It had ended in an injury he couldn’t have anticipated, a dishonor and a deprivation that had felt worse than a death sentence. Fury and frustration had almost finished him those first days. Only one thing had made him hang on to his sanity, had stopped the spiral of retaliation he’d embarked on. Phoebe. He wouldn’t care that his country had disgraced and shunned him, or even if the whole world deserted him. He had her.
He’d waited for her to contact him, to pledge that he did have her, but she didn’t. And each day of silence became a tentacle of suspicion spreading through his thoughts and memories.
He’d been eager to make her his princess, to claim her, but he’d done everything to keep their relationship secret. It hadn’t been official, but it had been made clear to him that the crown came with the woman all those in power wanted as queen attached: Clarissa, the king’s daughter. That was why he hadn’t proposed to Phoebe. If he had, worthy or not, the council would have found a way to deny him the crown. He’d intended to take it, then enforce her as his queen. But they’d denied him the crown anyway.
And her continued silence had started to wear another guise. Self-interest. Could she have been so amenable to secrecy not because she realized the risks of exposure, but because she’d been hedging her bets in case their relationship didn’t lead where she’d hoped? Wallowing in their clandestine affair while keeping her virginal image? Did her silence mean she’d thought it time to drop him now that he’d never be king of Castaldini, wasn’t even a prince anymore? She didn’t even think him worth a phone call? Not even one of consolation, for old times’ sake?
Driven over the edge by the malignancy of doubt, he’d succumbed, reached out to her. But he’d been so damaged by her lack of communication, he’d later wondered if he hadn’t steered their reunion to that mutilating end. He’d spent the next five years tortured by the memory of their last time together, dissecting her every word and expression until he almost went mad. He’d found himself constantly dialing half her number before hurling the phone away.
The only thing that had saved his sanity was launching himself into his work as if possessed, catapulting himself from the roster of prosperous businessmen to the top of the food chain of world-shapers.
And every step of the way he felt sundered down the middle, as if he were missing his other half. He told himself over and over she wasn’t that. But he never succeeded in convincing his heart.
He sought news of her like he did sustenance. He found out the results of her every law-school exam, each report of her sister’s improvement before she did. He made a deal with himself. In case she’d rejected him because he’d asked her to give up “responsibilities and aspirations” he had no right to, when she’d fulfilled those things, he would again demand that she join him in exile. She’d have no reason to say no then, if what they’d shared had been real.
When her sister’s health and marriage had stabilized and she’d obtained her law degree and was about to begin a new phase in her life, he’d sent Ernesto to her again, with a note. All he could bring himself to write. I do need you. Still.
The five words felt like an exposure of his soul with no guarantee that he wasn’t jeopardizing what was left of it.
He dreaded her response. He shouldn’t have worried.
There had been none. In lieu of a response, she’d announced