“I suppose you’re right. I wasn’t playing fair.”
“Damn straight you weren’t.”
The corners of his mouth twitch. “What will you do with me now you’ve caught me?”
Is his tone…flirty? Because it sure sounds like that to me.
It’s so wrongon so many levels.
It’s also a little thrilling, in a totally messed up, inappropriate way.
Man.Talk about mind games.
My heart is drumming from both anger and something else I’m not going to label. “Is that an apology, sir?”
He shrugs as though what he’s put me through today is no big deal. “It’s as much as an apology as I’m likely to give you.”
I twist my mouth.
“All right. I’m sorry I did that to you. It was wrong and I should know better. Shall we start again?”
“Why? Do you have a schedule in your papers dating back to 1992?”
“I wasn’t even alive in 1992. And no, I’m all out of old schedules.” His lips curve into a smile, and in an instant, I know exactly why all those women swoon over this man. Why his poster has been plastered across teenage girls’ bedroom walls for years. Why he gets away with his crazy party boy antics.
He’s not only handsome, but he has a way about him that can only be described as charming—when he’s not scowling at me and treating me like the enemy, that is.
Or maybe especially then, in an Elizabeth Bennet bantering with Mr. Darcy kind of way. But then I am dealing with the playboy prince here, the heir to his brother’s Prince McHottie badge.
Max has flirted his way across the globe virtually since he hit puberty, winning people over with his good looks, boyish charm, and easy-going nature. The nation has always been enthralled with the youngest royal sibling, a chubby toddler causing havoc at garden parities; cute as a button as a little boy in a straw hat and tie on his first day at an elite private school; growing into a handsome teenager who began tounderstand his attractiveness to the opposite sex; a scruffy but nevertheless undeniably hot student during his Cambridge days, all messy hair and thick sweaters; and more recently, a dashing young man in his formal military uniform.
Of course, as a royal correspondent, I needed to reflect the country’s fondness of him, remarking on how well he’d grown up, how he’d deservedly become Ledonia’s new “McHottie”. Just as I had with his older brother, Alex, I acted as though I’d swooned along with the rest of the nation. I talked the two brothers up as though they were something special, when in reality, they were simply born lucky—both to be Ledonian royalty and to win the gene lottery for good looks.
I’ve always known better. Alex and Max and their sisters may not have been the members of the royal family to destroy my family, to take away everything I’d ever known. They might not have been the ones to prosecute my father, to force him to flee Ledonia. But their parents have blood on their hands, and that’s something I can never forgive them for, no matter how charming they may be.
“Can we agree that we’re both going to act like adults and put your game-playing aside to work together?” I stretch my hand out toward him.
He looks down at it, and I wonder if he’s going to keep me hanging. But then he takes my hand in his, and the touch of his skin sends a strong but nevertheless unwanted bolt of electricity right up my arm and across my chest.
“No more game playing, Ms. Fontaine. You have my word,” he says, his eyes dark and intense.
I swallow. Something just shifted between us, and suddenly this coming month has become so much more complicated, and I have a sinking feeling our handshake just changedeverything.
Chapter 8
Max
As I slide another arrow from my quiver and pull the taut string of the bow back, I try to push thoughts of Fabiana from my mind. I acted like an immature idiot yesterday, sending her off all over the palace. It had felt like a fun thing to do at the time, but I'm not proud of myself. I was acting out. It was my pathetic protest at having to work with her for the next month.
The truth of the matter is I find her presence here at the palace…unsettling. Yes, that’sthe word. And it's not just because she said all those things about me over the years, although that’s bad enough.
It's the effect she has on me.
Yup, the journalist I’ve grown to hate over the years has gotten into my head.
She should be everything I can’t stand. Snarky and smug and totally judgmental, calling me names and looking down her nose at me. But then she walks into the room and,bam!my pulse leaps at the sight of her.
Maybe there really is a fine line between hate and love?
