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Arissa took another few steps back, nearly tripping over the fabric of her dress. ‘I... I...need...’
She looked panicked. He hated that. And he hated more that he’d done it to her.
He held up one hand. ‘You need some time. You need some space. You’re right. I’m sorry.’ He shook his head. ‘I should never have said anything.’ He gave the slightest dip of his head. ‘I’m sorry.’
Then he turned and headed back into the crowded ballroom, letting his professional Prince face slide back into place. Nodding at the right people, making all the right gestures, while all the time his heart was back out on the patio with Arissa, breaking over and over again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SHE STARED AT the teapot on the table in front of her. So far she’d had green tea, lemon and ginger and some kind of camomile. None of them had helped the knots in her stomach.
She was sitting bunched up on one of the chairs in her pyjamas with a blanket tucked around her shoulders. She’d seen the sun come up and the gardens gradually come to life.
Her rational brain was doing its best to kick into gear.
When Philippe had looked at her last night all the little jumbled pieces of her brain had slotted into place.
He’d asked her to stay. To stay with him.
It didn’t matter it was impossible. It didn’t matter it was crazy. What mattered was the intent. The emotion.
It had taken the feet from under her.
Arissa had always been a planner. That was how she’d got through life—meticulous planning. The fact that she’d just had a job pulled from her grasp because of visa details had completely unseated her. Things like that didn’t happen to her.
But then, things like Prince Philippe didn’t happen to her either.
After a day of being in his company she’d known that she liked him. His easy manner, his flirting, his work with the patients and interest in the people around him hadn’t escaped her notice.
As for the kisses...and the electricity between them? She couldn’t pretend it wasn’t there.
But Corinez was a whole different story. She’d already told him, but he was different here. Not in a bad way, just in a more formal way.
Someone knocked on the door. ‘Come in.’
The palace press secretary put her head around the door. ‘Dr Cotter,’ she said warily.
‘Come in,’ said Arissa again, waving her hand.
The press secretary took a sideways step into the room. She looked as if this was the last place she wanted to be. She was clutching one of the early morning newspapers in her hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said hesitantly.
‘For what?’ asked Arissa.
The secretary swallowed nervously and stepped forward. ‘I think you should maybe go online.’
Arissa blinked as the newspaper unfolded in her hands. Right in the centre of the front page was a picture of her and Philippe. It had been taken last night. She was wearing the gown that was hanging in the corner of the room and the gold choker that was nestled inside the black velvet box on her table. Philippe had his hand on her cheek and was looking down at her, just as she was looking up at him—as if they were the only two people on this planet.
Her breathing stuttered.
While the picture took her breath away, the headline sent a chill over her skin.
Why Is Prince Philippe Hiding His New Bride?
She stumbled to her feet. ‘What?’
The press secretary jumped back. ‘I’m sorry. There’s never been pictures taken at the private ball before. I don’t know who would do such a thing. But—’ she glanced at the clock; it wasn’t even seven o’clock yet ‘—we have a meeting scheduled in five minutes. We’ll release a statement. We’ll get to the bottom of this. I just felt I should alert you in the meantime.’
Panic was sweeping over her. Her picture. Her picture on the front page of a newspaper.
How long before they found out who she was? How long before they started probing into her background? How long before the headline above her was Abandoned Baby? The press secretary glanced at her watch and gave Arissa a sorry nod. ‘I’ll get back to you,’ she said quietly as she left the room.
Arissa started pacing. She couldn’t help it. She pulled up her tablet and dabbed in her own name.
Headline after headline.
The Prince’s Bride Dressed in Old Queen’s Gown.
Arissa Cotter, Who Is She and How Did She Hook the Most Eligible Bachelor in Europe?
She shuddered. It was happening. Her life being picked apart. How far back would they go?
She flicked on the TV. Immediately she saw her name on the ticker tape running along the bottom of the screen.
A woman dressed in a bright pink suit was talking to the news anchor.
‘No one has heard of her,’ the woman said, throwing her hands in the air. ‘Apparently, she’s a doctor. But she can’t be a very good one. Why else would she lose the job in London?’
If it were possible, her blood ran cold.
Another woman, dressed in a similar suit, on the other side of the anchor cut in. ‘But maybe she doesn’t need to be a doctor any more. After all—’ she raised her eyebrows ‘—she’s just hooked a prince.’
Arissa leaned forward and put her head in her hands. No. This couldn’t be happening.
Sure enough, they jumped from one subject to another.
‘We hardly know a thing about her. Do we have a contact in Temur Sapora who could fill in the gaps?’
‘The Queen let her
wear one of the dresses from her collection and a family heirloom. Should we be reading more into this?’
The other woman’s eyes gleamed. ‘Could this be our new princess?’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Oh, we need to find out everything. Who her parents are, where she went to school, what her friends say about her.’ She leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘What her patients say about her.’
Arissa thought she was going to be sick all over the pristine carpet beneath her feet. Every part of her skin prickled. Did the woman even realise what she’d just implied? Not only would they invade Arissa’s privacy, but they might also invade her patients’ privacy.
She grabbed hold of the side of the bed. She actually felt light-headed.
The news anchor cut the conversation with a wide grin. ‘I think we’ll leave it there before these two start planning their wedding outfits.’ He shot a smile to the camera. ‘But why don’t you tell us what you think of this news? You can send us a message on...’
He recited all the ways to contact the news station as Arissa sagged back down onto the edge of the bed.
Philippe opened the door. No knocking. No waiting. He was dressed in a T-shirt and joggers, his face pale and dark circles under his eyes. There was someone else behind him hovering in the corridor outside.
‘Arissa? I’m sorry. I had no idea. No idea that someone would take pictures of us.’ He glanced towards the TV screen and frowned as he recognised the TV channel.
She shook her head. But before she got a chance to speak he’d crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her.
She was angry. She was upset. No, she was furious. But his actions completely and utterly disarmed her. She’d expected him to be defensive. To be apologetic.
Her body was tense. Every cell lit up in indignation. But his voice was low. She could feel the tremor in it. He was angry too. He was furious.
