was still there, sitting in the same spot on the bed, her little hands folded in her lap. “I do hope your shower has refreshed you—and possibly even improved your attitude.” She gave a shrug and a sigh. “Well. One can hope.”
He said nothing to her, only exited back into the sitting room, where he proceeded directly to the liquor cabinet. He grabbed a crystal glass and a decanter of very old scotch and poured himself a stiff one. He was sipping it slowly when she spoke from behind him.
“We have more than my country and your country to think of, Alex.”
He turned and faced her. She looked way too determined. And way too beautiful, with those amazing eyes of hers, those full pink lips and all that thick, silky, pale yellow hair. Raising his glass to her, he took another slow sip.
She laid her hand against her still-flat belly. “There’s the baby. The baby is what matters most of all.”
“Good. Then don’t allow him to be born a bastard.”
“Being born illegitimate is not the worst thing that can happen to a child.”
“Of course it’s not. But I wouldn’t call it a good thing. Would you call it a good thing, Lili?”
“I didn’t say it was a good thing.”
He topped off his drink. “Because it’s not a good thing. Not for a child who should have the right to a crown and could be denied that right because his mother refuses to marry his father.”
“My baby will have a father who loves him—or her,” she announced. “If you can’t love this baby, the baby is better off without you.”
“All right. I will love the baby.” He set down the decanter. “Happy now?”
“Not especially. Alex, if you can’t at least try to make a real marriage with me, I won’t marry you.” She spoke more softly then, and her eyes seemed suddenly far away. “All my life, I’ve wanted one thing above all—to have true love like my parents had. Like your mother and father have. Like Max had with Sophia.” Maximilian was the heir to his mother’s throne. Max’s wife, Sophia, had died while he was in Afghanistan. “Love like Rule and Sydney have found.”
He studied her for a long time. He pondered the goal: to get her to let him give their child his name. To achieve the goal, he should tell her whatever she needed to hear, which apparently was that he loved her. Deeply and completely. Somehow, he couldn’t wrap his mouth around a lie that large. “I can’t give you what you want, Lili. It’s simply not in me.” He steeled himself for her tears, for one of her big, emotional displays.
Her eyes remained dry. And when she spoke, it was calmly. Reasonably. “I realize that. I can accept that.”
Did he believe her? Hardly. She might be the most annoying woman he’d ever known, the most overwrought and emotional, the biggest chatterbox. But within her there lurked a will of iron. If she wanted something strongly enough, she would never rest until she had it.
Or until she drove anyone who stood in the way of her having it stark, raving mad.
Plus, beneath all the sweetness and meaningless chatter, she was quite intelligent. Sometimes she behaved stupidly, but there was a perfectly good brain inside that gorgeous head of hers. She was using it now. He could see the cogs turning. She was about to lay down terms.
He already knew what kind of terms. Terms that would have him agreeing to give her more than he could afford to give, more than he even knew how to give anymore. Five years ago, maybe. But not anymore. Whatever that place was inside a man, that place a woman filled and made warm and good and hopeful. That place was dead in him now. Uninhabitable.
She went on. “What I want from you is for you to try.”
He purposely did not make the scoffing sound that rose in his throat. “Try.”
“Yes. I want you make an effort to be a real husband to me. I want you to spend time with me. I want you to have breakfast with me every day and dinner as well. I want you to give me—to give us—the evenings, that time after dinner. I want us to spend our evenings together, just the two of us. I want you to tell me about your day and I will tell you about mine. I want us to share, Alex.”
Share. Did it get any worse? She wanted him to share.
She was still talking. “I want you to read the books I choose for you.”
“Books. Hold on just a minute. You’re choosing what books I read?”
“Not all the books you read, of course not.”
“I suppose you’ll have me studying those romance novels you so enjoy.”
“Don’t judge romance novels until you’ve read a few of them. One can learn a lot about love and life and relationships from a good romance.”
He had no words to reply to that one. So he said nothing. He didn’t really need to say much around Lili anyway. She had the talking covered, and then some.
She said, “No. Actually, I didn’t plan to have you reading romances, though I’m sure it would be good for you if you did.”
He made a grunting sound and left it at that.
“But I do think if you would just spend a little time with a few books on how to develop a meaningful and loving relationship with your spouse, it would really help you. Help us. And then once you’ve read the books I choose for you, we can discuss them—and tell me, have you been seeing a counselor or a priest?”
“For what?”
“For … help, with all you’ve been through. Surely you’ve noticed that you’ve changed, Alex.”
“Yes, Lili, I’ve noticed. And no, I haven’t seen a counselor or a priest and I don’t intend to.”
“Oh, Alex …”
“And as to those books on love and marriage that you mentioned …”
“Yes?”
He knocked back more scotch. “No.”
Gingerly, she inquired, “No as to …”
All of it, he thought. He said, “Not the books, Lili. Or the priest. Or the counselor.”
“Ahem. Well. What about the rest?”
He saw no other way. He was going to have to pretend to go along, to bargain and then reluctantly come to an agreement. He needed to convince her that he would do what she wanted, that he would try. “Yes to the meals—the breakfasts, the dinners.”
“And the evenings? What about the evenings?”
He let the silence draw out before grunting, “All right, damn it. The evenings, too.”
She actually clapped her hands and the most radiant smile bloomed on those plump, way-too-kissable lips. “Oh, I’m so glad.”
“But not every evening,” he said. “Two evenings a week.”
“Six.”
“Three.”
“Four.”
He repeated his previous offer. “Three.”
She considered, then stipulated, “Friday, Saturday and Sunday.”
“When possible.”
“Three at any rate. And you have to try to make them the evenings I just asked for.”
There was that word again. Try. Such a flexible word. And such a simple thing, to say one was trying when one actually wasn’t. “All right,” he grudgingly agreed.
“Wonderful. And we will share an apartment—this apartment will be fine.” She was too damn quick by half. He’d been counting