Last night, he wanted to kiss me, and I was so very close to letting it happen. It would have been so easy simply to surrender to the moment, to give in to my ever-growing feelings for him. To fall into his arms and show him exactly how much he’s worked his way into my heart this past week.
If I were just Fabiana Fontaine, journalist, I would have let it happen. No doubt. I find him utterly intriguing. The program he's running, the way he is with the teens, the way his friends show obvious loyalty and love for him, even the way he is with Toffee.
But I’m not. I’m Valentina Romano, daughter of the disgraced Lord Romano, a woman who has been forced to hide her true identity from the world for her entire adult life.
Valentina cannot fall for the son of the king responsible for that.
It’s unthinkable.
Impossible.
No matter how much I want it.
I push myself out of bed and pull back the curtains. The blue of the sky is rapidly being taken over by dark, skittering clouds, and there’s a distinct smell of rain in the air.
I collect my wash bag and towel and make my way down the hallway. I knock lightly on Pippa’s door and then push it open. She’s lying in bed in the dim light. I watch her rhythmic breathing for a moment, and not wanting to wake her, I turn and creep out of the room.
“Is that you, Fab?” a croaky voice asks.
“I’m sorry I woke you.”
“It’s fine.”
“How are you?”
“Better thanyesterday. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Do you think you could eat anything? Maybe some dry crackers?”
“I do.”
“I’ll get you some once I’ve had a shower.”
“I might sleep some more until then.”
I close the door quietly and head to the bathroom. When I get there, the door is closed, so I knock tentatively. When no one answers, I push it open only to become swamped in steam. Through the mist, my eyes land on a lone figure, wearing nothing but a towel, his back to me.
Max.
“I'm so sorry,” I mutter, stumbling back.
As Max turns, the steam begins to evaporate, and I can see his hair is damp, and droplets of water cling to his broad shoulders and shapely pecs. He’s holding a toothbrush in his mouth, and without giving permission, my eyes roll over him, taking in the sprinkling of hair across his chest, his taut belly, the way his towel is slung low on his hips.
I suck in a breath, rooted to the spot.
He removes the toothbrush. “Good morning.”
I should look away. I shouldrunaway.
But all I do is gawk at this Adonis of a man, wondering what it would be like to be held in his arms, to run my fingers over his muscular chest, the touch of his lips against mine.
Stop it!
“Err…hi,” I mutter as I back away further.
The corners of his mouth quirk. “You’re staring, Fabiana.”
Of course I’m staring. Have youseenyourself?
