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His gaze released hers for a moment to track her reaction while his hypnotic caress continued. When her nipples began to pearl, he didn’t miss it. Didn’t miss the acceleration of her heartbeat or the erratic cadence of her breathing.
As if from a distance, she watched his expression change, morph into calculation. It didn’t take a genius to guess he was cataloguing his every effect on her for possible use against her.
He made a sound under his breath, a curious cross between a growl and a visceral sound of satisfaction. Of a hunter having stalked his prey into a tight corner.
It was enough to drag Violet out of her stupor. Enough to stress the urgent need to redouble her efforts to resist her mother’s intentions.
But most of all to prevent Zak from confirming the truth.
At all costs.
CHAPTER TWO
WEAK MOMENTS HAD the power to bring down kingdoms.
Zakary Montegova knew this all too well.
So when Violet scurried away from him towards the limo idling at the kerb as if he’d suddenly contracted a flesh-eating plague, he let her go, following at a slower pace and absolutely rejecting what the sight of her smooth bare back and pert, rounded bottom did to his libido.
Dio mio, hadn’t his father delivered an abject lesson in weakness from beyond the grave? The repercussions of it had been deep and traumatic, and still haunted the royal Montegovan household to this day in the form of his much more reserved and circumspect brother, Remi. In the form of his mother’s quiet anguish, well hidden behind the façade of royal duty and the solemn, defiant refusal to be cowed by any circumstance. It was well documented in the antics of his illegitimate half-brother, Jules, the physical manifestation of their father’s weakness.
Most of all, it was what he’d witnessed within hours of his father’s death and the revelation of the late King’s infidelity. How close the seat of power had come to being usurped by greedy generals and shameless opportunists, eager to capitalise on the kingdom’s instability; that had shown Zak just how precarious temptation could be.
Weak moments had the power to bring him down.
It was why he led a life of hard work, harder diligence and zero trust in his fellow man. Why no woman had even the smallest chance of claiming him. Why he was more than content to leave the production of heirs to his brother, the Crown Prince.
So why had he allowed Violet Barringhall to burrow beneath his skin six years ago?
He’d nearly refused his mother’s request to attend her birthday party. He’d had better things to do than indulge his mother’s misguided friendship with the notorious Margot Barringhall, the infamous gossipmonger, opportunist and tabloid lover.
Everything he stood against. But his mother had insisted.
And from the first moment he’d seen the grown-up version of the girl he’d met very briefly only twice before, Zak had been unable to take his eyes off Violet. The hour he’d intended to spend at her party had turned to two, then four. Despite his distaste at the increasingly drunken behaviour of her so-called friends, he’d lingered. Followed her out into her mother’s garden, enticed by the timid but alluring feminine wiles she’d seemed determined to flex.
At some point he’d believed he was testing himself, seeing how far her enthralment would last. A misguided attempt at immersion therapy, over-exposure to several hours’ worth of temptation after which he’d walk away, triumphant over the pressure in his groin and the bewildering need to touch her. Taste her.
Find a mundane answer to why Lady Violet Barringhall intrigued him.
So he’d followed. He’d touched. He’d tasted. And craved more with an unending hunger that had dogged his waking hours for months. Driven him to investigate the Barringhalls. He’d felt no guilt over it, as it was in fact a practice he’d followed since his father’s death. He’d thoroughly vetted every affiliation to his family, tenuous or otherwise, ensuring the events following his father’s death never occurred again.
But he’d also secretly entertained the possibility of a liaison with Violet down the line.
Only he’d discovered there was nothing remotely honourable about the Barringhalls.
They were in hock up to their eyeballs, the Earl having depleted his substantial family resources through a dizzying series of bad investments and gluttony before his untimely death. After which his wife, Countess Margot Barringhall, had taken up the mantle, frantic to safeguard her way of life by indiscriminate dalliance with the press and, when they had come of age, attempting to marry off her daughters to any half-decent man with a large bank balance who was thirsty for a shoddy little title.
Zak’s disappointment in the discovery had been searing and shocking, his fury at nearly falling into Margot Barringhall’s well-laid trap elevating her and her daughters to the top of his to-be-watched list.
The phone call from his mother three months ago with the secondment request had fortified Zak’s guard.
Since her arrival, he’d thrown every menial task at her to push her into admitting defeat and pleading for her mother to intercede on her behalf.
The crunch point had never arrived. Perversely, he’d detested being proven wrong about her, and had piled more work onto her slim shoulders. She’d raised her game higher, exhibiting a finely tuned talent for understanding the needs of his trust, especially the work he undertook for the less privileged.
But Zak was rarely impressed. Violet Barringhall was a tougher cookie than he’d given her credit for, but the reminder of h
er body straining against his, her shockingly sexy little whimpers and greedy hands, were testament to her hidden skills. And that sometimes shy demeanour that hid a tart tongue? Si, it’d come within a whisker of rousing his jaded humour.
