‘And what about the danger to me being sent home? My brother doesn’t give a damn about me. He believes I’m his chattel—nothing more than a bargaining chip he can auction off to the highest bidder.’
‘Stop it. I don’t want to hear it. You’re a princess. How did you expect your life to unfold?’
‘I expected to marry for love!’ She furiously paced the length of the living room and then back again. ‘Didn’t I tell you? Weren’t you listening? My father knew that I would never accede to the throne. He knew that. I knew that. So, he promised me that even though I wouldn’t take the crown, I would be able to marry for love. I wanted to marry for love and that was his solemn promise to me. What is so wrong with the concept of marrying for love?
‘What is wrong with saving myself for the man of my dreams. So how do you think I felt, once I discovered that I was going to be deprived of any of that, that I was going to be married off to some revolting crony of my brother’s in order to pay off his gambling debts, and that I didn’t have a say in any of it—why are you surprised that I ran? Why are you so surprised that I don’t want to go back? Don’t you think I had good reason?’
He pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. ‘And wanting to marry for love is the reason why you threw yourself at every surfer and barista going during your little adventure? Because you wanted to save yourself for your one true love?’
Her jaw jutted. The golden lights in her eyes glowed hot. ‘What else was there to save myself for? What was the alternative? My choice, or my brother’s, someone determined to decide for me?’
He ran a hand through his hair. ‘This is getting old, Princess. You have to take this seriously. You need to pack. There’s no point us trying to find somewhere else to stay tonight. The last place we want to be is on the roads when the top speed limit is twenty-five kilometres an hour when there are people actively searching for you. We’ll hunker down here. I promise I won’t sleep. Nobody will get to you.’
‘But you’re here. And you’re just as bad as them.’
‘Princess—’
‘Don’t “princess” me! I’m clearly worth nothing in your eyes. No more than one more so-called success story to attach to your CV. Yet another notch on your gun. You disregard everything I say while you drink up every word my silver-tongued brother feeds you as if it’s the gospel truth. Do you hate me that much that you could deliver me back into the living hell my brother has in store for me? Do you just plan to hand me back, take your thirty pieces of silver and then wash your hands of me, job done?’
She made a sound of desperation. Half gasp, half sob. Her lips pressed tightly together and she put her fingers over her mouth. But it was too late to hide her raw emotions. He could see the tears springing from her eyes even as she squeezed her eyes shut, her shoulders juddering as she gave in to her feelings.
And Theo was torn between his duty and her distress. Torn between admiration that a naive princess had eluded discovery for so long, and frustration that she refused to accept what her discovery meant. Torn between respect for the fight in this pint-sized princess, and desire. Desire that had been building from the moment Theo had captured her in his arms and felt the heat triggered between them and smelled her citrusy scent.
Because she was wrong about one thing. She wasn’t worth nothing in his eyes. She was worth so much more than that. But she was still a princess. He had no right to have feelings for her. He wasn’t entitled to feel anything for her. She was a case. She was a rescue.
But she was also a woman. A woman in pain. And her coming undone broke something inside him.
‘Princess,’ he beseeched, taking a step closer. ‘Please?’
Her eyelids scrunched even tighter. Her mouth screwed and twisted under her fingers. There was the briefest shake of her head before she turned away on another sob and fled towards the stairs.
‘Princess,’ he called, chasing after her. ‘Isabella.’
He caught up with her before the stairs, catching her by one arm, the momentum swinging her around. She crashed into him, and immediately raised her fists, pummelling his chest. ‘I hate you,’ she said, ‘I hate you.’
He got that. He understood why. He understood why she needed to take her frustrations out on him.
For a moment he let her beat his chest with her fists. She was so impassioned. So fiery and fierce. ‘It’s okay, Princess,’ he said, holding her by both shoulders now as her fists continued to rain down on him with no sign of relenting. ‘Let it out. Let it all out.’
The Princess didn’t need encouragement. She continued to take out her rage against him, but her fists were beating slower now, her sobs less frequent, until her head lobbed down against his chest, soaking his shirt with her warm tears as her shoulders continued to shudder under his hands. Now her fingers were curled, clutching the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him.
She wasn’t acting. She was broken, deflated, her spirit shattered. The spirit he’d admired, even grudgingly, ever since he’d taken on this case and found the Princess to be more than just a naive twenty-five-year-old royal.
‘You’re right, Princess. I deserved that. I’m sorry.’ He dipped his head down to hers. It was a mere impulse that his lips brushed her hair, kissing her softly on the head. Nothing more. An act of consolation, that was all it was intended to be. Sympathy. Empathy. The tiniest of kisses as he drank in her so familiar citrus scent. And it occurred to him that he would miss that when he’d returned her home.
Damn. He would miss more than that. He would miss this woman, with all the frustrations that came with her. More than that, with all the temptations that came with her.
Her shoulders stilled as slowly she raised her head, lifting her tear-streaked face to his. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy from her tears, her cheeks hot where they’d rested against his chest, her lips still pressed tightly together. But in spite of that, she was still one of the two most beautiful women he’d ever met.
And this woman was here.
Now.
It wasn’t a conscious decision. It wasn’t any kind of decision at all. It was more an imperative. ‘Princess,’ he said, as his head dipped lower. ‘Isabella.’
Her breath hitched. Her eyes widened. Her pink lips parted on a gasp. And it was all the encouragement he needed, any glimmer of doubt that he was doing the wrong thing disappeared in less than a puff of smoke. His hands moved from her shoulders to skim her back and wrap her in his embrace.
His lips met hers. Softly at first, drinking in the sweetness of her mouth, tasting the salt of her tears, making him want more of her. Making him want all of her. He wanted to experience all her flavours, the sweetness and the salt, the spice and the umami.
