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‘Can we talk?’ she shouted over the loud music.
He placed a hand to his ear, and simply shrugged in confusion as if the blasted man hadn’t heard what she’d said.
‘I said—’ she shouted, only to realise that a sudden lull in the music had carried her voice far and wide over the private section of the club.
The two models snickered into their hands and Theo’s smirk made her utterly convinced that he’d known that would happen.
‘I said,’ she tried again, ‘can we talk?’
He waved a hand before her in a way more regal than any gesture she’d ever managed to achieve. He still had yet to say a word to her.
‘In private?’
‘Anything you have to say to me can be said here.’
Sofia wanted to snarl. She felt the deep yearning to be reckless, to act out, to do something so un-princess-like as to throw the remaining contents of the glass on the table all over his proud, defiant face. But ten years of suppressing that wild inner instinct won out. Even though she suspected he knew exactly what she wanted to do, what she would have done in the past. Unconsciously she rubbed at the old ache on her forearm, the other arm wrapping around the long since faded bruise against her ribs, while she chose and discarded what to say next.
‘We have...business to discuss.’
‘Sit,’ he said, knowing full well the only place to sit was beside one of the two women he still had his arms around. And Sofia point-blankly refused to add to the collection of women he’d gathered about himself.
‘I’ll stand.’
He shrugged, once again as if it were her choice.
One of the girls leaned over and whispered in his ear, producing a high-pitched giggle from the other, and an amused grin and a nod of agreement from him as they both returned their attention to her, making it clear she was the subject of the private discussion.
It was becoming increasingly hard to hold on to the thin thread of her control. She locked her eyes on his, ignoring the two women either side of him, and waited. Because the one thing that no one had been able to remove from her in all her years of royal training was her stubbornness. So she watched and waited. She’d have stood there all night too, but he seemed to realise that, and finally dismissed the two women, who pouted and protested but ultimately removed themselves to a table further away. Not before casting her glances that Sofia was sure would have quelled lesser individuals. She had won that battle, but not the war. Not yet.
Theo called over a waitress and requested a chair for her, which was duly produced, and Sofia finally sat down opposite him.
‘I see that you have dressed for the occasion,’ Theo said as his gaze covered her once again from head to toe and back to her head again.
She raised an eyebrow and shrugged. ‘When in the henhouse...’
‘Are you calling me a hen?’ he asked, full of mock-horror. ‘Pecking and scratching around for any little titbit you’d throw my way? Oh, no. I assure you, Sofia, that is not how this is going to play out.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Theo. It’s the cock in the henhouse. You’re the...’ A painful blush rose to her cheeks before she could finish the sentence.
‘Oh, that’s adorable, sweetheart.’
‘Don’t call me that,’ she commanded.
* * *
Theo felt the thrill of satisfaction as he watched her crystal-blue eyes storm like a Mediterranean downpour. He’d never failed to find enjoyment in teasing her. But seeing her feathers ruffled, seeing her annoyed and angry, held a bittersweet taste this evening.
Good. He wanted her angry. He wanted her annoyed. He wanted her to feel every single thread of emotion that had wrapped around his heart the moment he’d realised just how artfully she’d played and betrayed him. Because it wasn’t just him that her machinations had affected. That his mother had been caught up in the fallout was untenable. So when Sofia failed to issue the apology he knew he deserved, she had sealed her fate. The photographer he had hired had done well and been paid well for his services too. Securing front-page headlines throughout the world had been exactly what Theo had wanted, knowing that it would back her into a corner. Knowing that no other royal would want to go near her after being associated with his debauched reputation. He had ignored her for weeks, knowing that it would only infuriate her more. Until yesterday, when he had begun to leave little breadcrumbs on social media of where she might be able to find him. He wanted her on his turf, he wanted her on the back foot, needed her to be. This was only the second step towards his utter and complete revenge. She would know the sting of humiliation, she would know the deep slice of hurt and betrayal—feelings that were so familiar to him it was as if he had been born with them—and she would know, ultimately, that she had brought it on herself.
His gaze ate up the image before him. She was wearing clothes he’d never seen her in, certainly nothing that would ever grace the style magazines she was often lauded in. The tight grey denim riding low on her hips made his mouth water, and the silky white top tucked into them was nowhere near indecent, but as it moulded to her perfect breasts, topped by thin straps, he couldn’t imagine that she was wearing a bra. He would have seen the evidence of it. The low heel of the suede nude-coloured heels gave her overall appearance a conservative contrast to the barely dressed women at the club, teetering on almost death-defying stilettos.
He had imagined her monstrous over the years, every heartache added to the list of crimes she had perpetrated against him and his mother. He had imagined her begging and pleading for forgiveness, but in reality he could not deny the effect she had on him and cursed his body’s weakness for her. Even now, he had to lean forward to hide the evidence of his arousal, his desire for her. The one thing that had never gone away.
Her pupils dilated at his slow perusal, and the realisation that she too was as beholden to their mutual attraction was the only balm to his ego.
‘Theo—’
‘Princess Sofia de Loria of Iondorra...’
