Icy cold rushes through my veins.
“You,” I accuse, my tone as cold as I now feel.
Her smile falters, but only for a fraction of a second before she pulls her lips back into place. “Your Royal Highness,” she says as she curtsies, bowing her head enough that Toffee manages to plant a slobbery kiss right on her nose. She brushes it away with her fingertips, nuzzling my dog.
Mydog.
The enemy is holding Toffee in her arms as though she might run off with her. And considering she’s Fabiana Fontaine, judge and executioner of my character, I would not be surprised if she did.
I narrow my eyes at her. Of all the people to rescue Toffee from imminent death, it had to beher. The bane of my existence, the thorn in my side.
The woman Father has instructed I spend the next month with.
Wow. A month with this woman and her acerbic wit.
Give me strength.
Something flickers at the edge of my memory, but I push it aside. I've met hundreds of journalists over the years. They all blur together.
“Please hand over my dog, Ms. Fontaine” My voice is commanding, but I can’t keep the irritation from my tone.
Instead of simpering and blushing like women often do around me, she looks me square in the eyes, unflinching. “Who? This furry missile? You’re lucky I caught her, sir,” she says with a thoroughly mocking tone. “There are a lot of cars here. The poor little thing might have ended up squished if I hadn’t caught her.”
I’m in no mood to humor this woman, who’s done her best to make me a public laughingstock. I throw my gaze over her. Dressed in a blue skirt suit and pair of shoes that have seen better days, her blonde hair catches the afternoon light, creating a sort of halo effect around her face. But she’s no angel. She is in fact essentially a professional assassin armed with a laptop.
Or in this case, a puppy.
Mypuppy.
And not only that, but Toffee seems more than pleased to be held in the arms of this woman who relishes sharing my every mistake with the country, questioning my very character. She casually throws around terms like “himbo” and “man-child” as though for sport, not caring how deep her words can cut.
And now here she is, standing right in front of me, smiling as though she isn’t the devil incarnate, and me, her favorite victim.
“Hand over the dog, please, Ms. Fontaine,” I repeat through gritted teeth.
She’s looking at me with the greenest set of eyes I’ve ever encountered, her lips twitching in amusement as Toffee licks her cheek like she’s a lollipop.
But darn it all, the way she's looking at me like she’s one half amused and the other half challenging me to a duel, makes something twist in my chest that has nothing to do with irritation and everything to do with the fact that Fabiana Fontaine is absolutely, undeniably, and completely gorgeous.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes that impossibly green, like emeralds. Clichéd, but it’s the best word to describe them. Theonlyword to describe them.
And they’re trained on me as though a gauntlet has been thrown down, the corners of her mouth tipped upwards.
This collaboration’s going to be torture.
And then I note with more satisfaction than I ought that my puppy got some dirt on Fabiana’s lapel.
Good work, Toffee.
And yes, I’m being petty.
I’m fine with it.
“Are you under the impression that I've kidnapped your dog, sir?” she asks, her tone light. “Irescuedher. She came barreling around the cars as though chasing something, but now it would seem she was in fact runningaway. From you.”
“She wasn’t running away,” I snap, utterly wrongfooted.
I’m used to women simpering and flirting. My royal title makes me an instant hit wherever I go.
