Page 1 of Crowned For The King's Secret

PROLOGUE

ONENIGHT.THATWASall Sandro wanted.

One night to be a man and not His Majesty Alessandro Nicolai Baldoni, Ruler in Exile of Santa Fiorina. A country he hadn’t seen since the night of his uncle’s midnight coup twenty-five years earlier, when life as he knew it had ended. Dragged from his parents’ arms, as a weeping nine-year-old. Their last words to him had been,‘Be good, Sandro...’and to his godparents and other faceless minders,‘Keep him safe...’

He’d been good ever since, his conduct impeccable, making himself a small target for his enemies. Every moment trying to live up to his parents’ memory, to the role he would now play in his country’s future.

Tonight was for him. To be selfish and throw caution to the four winds.

Sandro sank back into the plush chair in an opulent room of a private club, the clink of glasses and the soft, ambient music washing over him. From the outside, on this dreary autumn evening, there was no hint of what lay behind the walls of the Georgian terrace located on a quiet London street. Inside was a rarefied place where people could only enter if vetted and checked till their lives were laid bare. Where money talked, but it wasn’t the only language spoken here. Paupers with power and influence or in need of a safe haven could open doors in this place just as well.

For a long time he’d understood poverty, of resources and spirit.

But tonight shouldn’t be for thinking about his homeland, which after so many years spent in England felt distant, unfamiliar. Even though by the end of the week it would be distant no longer. The weight of that realisation was almost too much to contemplate. He’d have returned triumphant, the rightful monarch on a throne stolen from his father, and, by extension, from him, negotiations complete to remove his pretender of a cousin from the throne he’d had no right to, other than by an illegitimate uncle’s midnight coup.

Alessandro took a sip of the rich, dark red wine in a fine crystal glass. It soured on his tongue. His return was no triumph. Others had fought for the country’s freedom. For his return. His name and face a figurehead for their struggles, whilst he’d been protected at all costs in a foreign land. He’d never led an uprising, or an army, against his bastard relatives. Only partly blood. Instead, the name of his family drove his people to free themselves. He may have worked in the background with relentless diplomatic and legal efforts. But others had risked their lives in his name whilst he remained protected. Safe. The realisation that he’d been complicit in this enforced cowardice sat bitter on his tongue.

No more. Those bleak thoughts had no place here.

He wanted a thrill. A chase. The risk of rejection, rather than one of the women he’d kept company with over the years who understood he could never offer them anything but his body, and who were happy with the exchange of their own. Mutual pleasure free of obligation, for a few breathless hours. Tonight, Sandro craved a flirtation where there was no certainty of an outcome. Only hope. And, living in hope, because for many years hope was all that had been left to him, he’d booked a suite here. He had a few condoms in the bedside drawer, champagne on ice and a sliver of excitement so sharp and shocking he could almost taste the coppery tang of blood as it sliced through him.

Sandro lifted his glass to take another sip of his wine, to find the glass empty. It didn’t matter. Tonight he could have another. Tonight wasn’t about denying himself, or maintaining control. It was about living. Yet he didn’t seek intoxication in a bottle, but in the form of soft, perfumed skin and heady sighs in the arms of a woman.

One night. Glorious. Anonymous.

There were several women gracing the club tonight with bare legs, ruby lips and miraculous curves, all beautiful. Perhaps available. His gaze slid over them, snagging on a lone figure at the bar. Perched on a stool with legs crossed, black skirt riding up her thighs. The sliver of lace peeking out from under the hem hinting at stockings rather than tights. His heart thumped like a kick in the chest.

She lifted herself from the seat a touch, and shuffled the skirt back down, tugging at the hem to cover the stocking tops. He almost moaned in regret as she smoothed slender hands over the sleek fabric of her skirt. Sandro couldn’t see her face, only the tumble of blonde hair down her back, looking tousled as if she’d walked through a whipping breeze to get here. She had barely any skin on display. Her white blouse was fitted but with billowing, sheer sleeves adorned with tiny black polka dots. She lifted a hand and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He was transfixed as she toyed with the glass in front of her, raising it to her mouth in a long, slow sip.

His own empty glass was an opening. He rose, walking over to either have the night of his life or be shot down in flames, even though when he played it was always to win. A decent put-down would be interesting in its own way. He’d never had one before, and tonight was all about new experiences. He moved in beside her and caught the briefest whisper of vanilla scent, like some delectable dessert. He desperately wanted a taste.

Alessandro looked over at her. Would have tugged at his tie if he’d been wearing one and felt strange not to be, but tonight he wasn’t a monarch in waiting, he was simply a man and had attempted casual, as much as a bespoke Savile Row shirt and trousers would allow. Her face was hidden by the curtain of her hair. She hadn’t acknowledged him, not yet. He’d speak first and see how the game played.

‘You look like you’re running dry.’

For a heart-stopping moment it was as if she ignored him and then she turned, raising one perfect eyebrow. Golden hair fell about her shoulders in soft, whimsical layers he wanted to stroke from her face, run his hands through, grip. She was arresting, rather than classically beautiful. A strong nose dominated her face but with an upturned end which gave her a cuteness. Then her eyes fixed on him, the beautiful grey-green of old stone. There was something about them, as if they’d seen too much. Eyes you could dip into, the emotion ran so deep...sad eyes. It was as if a fist reached in and clenched the heart of him.

He brushed the sensation aside.

‘Perish the thought I should shrivel into a husk,’ she said, her voice all glorious, rounded vowels of the aristocracy here, but hers with a raw tone as if flavoured with whiskey and smoke. A voice that spoke of sultry nights and one he wanted whispered breathless in his ear. Every part of him tightened with desire. She pulled the toothpick from her glass and toyed with it, poking at the perfectly curled lemon rind in her drink. Then she raised the rim of the glass to her shell-pink lips and drained the remains in one swallow.

Now was the time to introduce himself. He should use the name agreed upon with his security, who sat at their own table, keeping their distance. A false name, to protect him. Sandro didn’t want fakery, he wanted truth. For his real name to spill from her lips at least once before tonight was over. Even better, screamed loud. He held out his hand.

‘Alessandro Baldoni.’

What did it matter? In a few days he’d be gone from here, a distant memory. He’d been in England long enough for everyone to lose interest, anyway. Keeping a low profile, not filling the tabloids with his exploits. Not like his cousin, who’d seen fit to run Santa Fiorina into ruin with his excesses. Continuing what his father had begun. Sandro gritted his teeth. Later, he’d think about that task ahead of him to rebuild his country. Not tonight.

The woman placed her cool, slender hand in his. He marvelled at the touch, how it sparked through him.

‘That’s quite a mouthful.’

His heart stuttered for a beat, and his eyes dropped to her lips. Oh, the things he wanted her to do with that full and generous-looking mouth. Those rampant thoughts were the stuff of dreams. He cleared his throat.

‘Then call me Sandro.’ He hadn’t been called that name since childhood. His advisors and staff used Your Majesty or Sir. The last people who’d called him by his diminutive were his parents, and for some reason he needed to hear her say it.Hisname. A man’s name. Not a king’s.

The corners of her lips curled into an enigmatic smile. She squeezed his fingers then slipped her hand away from his. He felt the loss as if it were something physical.

‘Sandro it is.’ She didn’t disappoint, saying his name as if she were tasting it. By the look on her face, the shimmering spark of silver in her cool gaze, she enjoyed the sound. ‘I’m Victoria... Astill.’

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