Page 27 of A Throne for the Taking

‘Duty calls,’ he said curtly, and that was all.

A moment later he was gone, snatching up his phone on his way       out the door. And when that slammed behind him she was left, stark naked and       with only a sheet to cover her, unable to run after him for fear of encountering       the ever-watchful Henri or someone else who had taken over today’s particular       shift.

Not that she had the emotional strength to even try. The war of       words might have been physical blows for the effect they had had on her. She       could only lie back and stare at the ceiling as the words replayed over in her       head, burning tears rolling down her cheeks to soak into the pillow behind her       head.

CHAPTER TWELVE

FINDING THAT SHE was still staring blankly at her reflection in the mirror, not having moved for who knew how long, Ria blinked hard, trying to clear her thoughts and failing completely. The truth was that she was emotionally involved in this relationship and so she would be emotionally committed to the marriage. And that was why it would hurt so badly to be confined to the sidelines of Alexei’s life. She could be his temporary queen of convenience, his bed mate, the mother of his child, but in his heart she would be nothing.

Ria’s hand went to the sparkling diamond necklace that encircled her throat, fingering the brilliant gems as she recalled the way that the ornate jewels and the matching earrings had been delivered to her room earlier that evening.

Wear these for me tonight, the note that accompanied them had said in Alexei’s firm, slashing handwriting.

Ria’s fingers tightened on the necklace so convulsively that the delicate design was in danger of snapping under her grip. Alexei certainly no longer needed help with his position as king. He was issuing orders left, right and centre. She was strongly tempted to take the damn thing off and...

You don’t like presents? Alexei’s words came back to her, stilling the impulsive gesture. Remembering them from this distance, she couldn’t be sure whether she had really heard the trace of—of what? Defensiveness? Uncertainty?—she had thought she had caught behind the mockery the first time. I thought women liked flowers—and jewellery.

Well, not this woman! Ria told him in the privacy of her thoughts. Not when she wanted so much more.

But going down that path was a weakness she couldn’t afford. It came too close to dreams she could never have. It even, damn it, brought tears to burn at the back of her eyes. Fiercely she blinked them away, knowing she didn’t have time to do any repair job on the make-up that a beautician had applied not an hour before. She would have to hope that the ornate silk mask, edged with sparkling crystals and pearls, would conceal the truth of the way she was feeling.

Swinging away from the mirror, Ria paced restlessly about the room, struggling to control her raw and unsettled breathing. She stumbled for a moment awkwardly when her toe caught on something on the floor, almost tripping her up. Glancing down, she saw that what she had trodden on. A man’s wallet. Elderly, its worn brown leather partly hidden under a chair, it looked out of place in the elegant cream and gold room.

It must be Alexei’s, she realised, recalling how he had visited her here the day before, his tie tugged loose, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his jacket off and slung over his shoulder as soon as he had escaped from his formal duties of the day. He had tossed the jacket on to the chair as he had gathered her to him and kissed her hard and, as always happened, his touch had ignited the flames between them so that in the space of a couple of heartbeats they had fallen on to the bed, oblivious to everything else. The wallet must have slipped from his pocket then.

Picking it up, she couldn’t resist the impulse to flick it open, examine the contents. There was nothing unexpected in there—some credit cards, a few banknotes—but then one thing caught her attention, the corner of a photograph tucked into the back section. Curiosity stinging at her, she pulled it out carefully and felt the room swing wildly round her as she took in what it was.

A small print of a photograph. A tiny baby, barely a few weeks old, with dark, dark eyes and a wild fuzz of black hair on her small head. There was only one person it could be. Sweet little Isabelle, Alexei’s baby daughter. The child who had been born as a result of such scandal and disgrace and who had only lived for a few short weeks, dying alone and neglected by her drunken father.

But that was where something caught on a raw exposed corner of Ria’s nerves, making her heart jerk hard and sharp in reaction, and she had to close her eyes against the sensation. But when she opened them again, the photo in her hand was still there. Still clutched between her fingers.

Still telling the same story.

She had seen enough of Alexei’s photographs in the magazines or the press, in his offices and again in his home. She knew the stylised, stark style he favoured, the careful framing, the deliberate focus. And this photograph had none of those. It was a quick, candid snap, snatched in a moment of spontaneity to capture the first flicker of a smile on the tiny girl’s face. He had grabbed for his camera, and as a result he had captured something so truly special.

Not just an image of his little girl’s first smile. But also a picture of his daughter snapped, with love, by her doting daddy.

Memory rushed over her like a thick black wave. The memory of a small boy held in strong male arms, totally secure, totally confident, a wilting bunch of flowers in one rather grubby hand, the fingers of the other tangling and twisting in Alexei’s hair. The image of Alexei’s face that morning when she had accused him of neglecting his baby. Even worse, there was the echo of those terrible, harsh words on that day in London.

Why should I deny the facts when the world and his wife know what happened? And no one would believe a word that’s different.

How differently she heard those words now, catching the burn of bitterness, something close to despair that, focussed only on her own needs and plans, she had failed to notice that first time. And, knowing that, her stomach quailed and tied itself into knots at the thought of having to face Alexei again tonight.

‘Ria...’

As if called up by her thoughts, there was a knock at the door. Alexei? What was he doing here?

He was standing on the landing so tall and elegant in the beautifully tailored evening clothes, the immaculate white shirt, the plain black silk mask across the upper part of his face, polished jet eyes gleaming through the slits in the fine material. This was Alexei the king, no longer her childhood friend but a man grown to full adulthood and ready to accept his destiny. He was the ruler Mecjoria needed, strong, powerful and in control. And he was her lover. Heat pooled low in her body at just the thought. Ria actually felt her legs weaken, her hand going out to his for support.

‘You look wonderful.’

Alexei’s dark gaze slid over her body, taking in every inch of the dress that the designer had created for her. The white silk clung to the curves of her breasts and hips in a way that dried his throat in sexual need, leaving him hot and hard in the space between one heartbeat and the next. He could never get enough of this woman, and the carnal thoughts she inspired had turned his brain molten, had tormented him through the day so that he barely had the strength to focus on what he was doing. The white mask gave her an other-worldly appearance, like a character at a Venetian carnival, with its ornate design, the eye pieces edged with pearls and sparkling crystals, drawing attention to the mossy green of her eyes fringed by impossibly thick and long dark lashes.

‘You don’t scrub up so badly yourself. Madame Herone would be proud of you.’

Was that a trace of uncertain laughter in her voice? The eyes that met his looked unusually, almost suspiciously bright. Her hand, impossibly delicate where it was enclosed in his, held on rather too tight.

The strapless design of her dress exposed the long, beautiful line of her throat, the creamy curve of her shoulders. Only hours ago, in the growing light of dawn, he had kissed his way down that smooth skin, lingering at the point where her pulse now beat at the base of her neck, before moving lower, to the delicious temptation of her breasts. He could almost still taste her rose-tinted nipples against his tongue and his lower body was so hard and tight that it was painful.

This was the way he had felt all week. He had resented the official duties, the diplomatic meetings and governmental debates that had taken so much time away from what he really wanted, from this woman who possessed his body, obsessed his mind. When he was with her he could think of nothing else. And when he was away from her all he could think about was getting back to her and being alone with her, of burying himself in the glorious temptation of her body. He knew she felt that way too—the long hot nights they had spent together had made it plain that she wanted him every bit as much as he lusted after her. She had been as hungry as he had been, taking every kiss, every caress he offered, opening herself to him and welcoming him into her body as often as he could wish—reaching for him in the middle of the night to encourage him into even more sensual possession when he had thought that she was exhausted and could take no more.

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