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Both of them offer me small bows. “Your Majesty,” the woman says, the festive lights glimmering in her dark hair when she straightens. “I’m Lennix Moon Hunter, and I wanted to tell you how powerful I found your testimonies this week. Your people are lucky to have a leader like you.”
“That’s so kind of you,” I respond easily. Both my English and my manners are flawless—a testament to the rigorous education I received as the promised bride of Manaroa’s future king. “I’m not sure the council members found the testimony as powerful.”
“In my experience,” Lennix says, “most leaders are stubbornly oblivious when it comes to how these issues affect indigenous people and our land.”
“Our?” I question with lifted brows.
“Lennix is Yavapai-Apache nation,” Maxim answers smoothly.
“Ah, I see.” I consider Lennix with new eyes knowing she’s American Indian. No wonder she’s sympathetic to how our issues go overlooked and our voices unheard.
“Between my work on climate change reform,” Maxim says, “and Nix’s advocacy for indigenous autonomy, you won’t find two people more committed to your cause than we are, Your Majesty. I’d love to hear how I can help, so I look forward to tomorrow’s meeting.”
“I appreciate that,” I say. “Aside from the sorely needed updates to our energy infrastructure, we need opportunities for graduates. Too many of our brightest people leave for Auckland or Sydney or Singapore, because there aren’t enough STEM jobs in Manaroa. I hope to change that during my regency.”
“If this one has taught me anything,” Maxim says, squeezing Lennix’s shoulder. “It’s that determined women can change the world.”
“Even determined women need allies,” I say wryly.
“So true,” Lennix agrees. She glows when she smiles at Maxim. Their love is an open secret, telegraphed in discreet brushes of their fingers and the caress of every glance they share. Envy pricks me, not for the unlimited resources or the influence Maxim Cade yields that could be useful to my cause. I envy that; the “foundness” so evident between them. Even in my marriage, I always felt a little lost.
“I love your dress, by the way,” Lennix says, casting an admiring gaze over my evening gown.
A Manaroan dressmaker literally sewed the gold silk onto my body, and it, like everything else in my life, is fitted to me. Fitted to me, but not for me. Nothing is for me. I’m draped in crown jewels, but each diamond is set in responsibility. I can barely stand under the weight of them.
“Thank you,” I murmur. “I was admiring yours, too.”
“D.C. has some great shops,” Lennix says. “I don’t make the best use of them, but if you get the chance . . .”
“I doubt I will.” I smile ruefully. “I need to get back in time for Christmas. My son is at home.”
A shadow passes over Lennix’s lovely face. “Oh, yes. Of course, and I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Yes, my condolences, too. King Rua was a great man,” Maxim says, his tone sober. “He and I spoke more than once about how urgent things were becoming there, how quickly the waters are rising. I’m sorry we didn’t get to work together before he passed away.”
“Thank you.” I swallow the heat rising in my throat. “Well, the waters are still getting higher and Manaroa still needs your help.”
“Well you’ve got it.” Maxim aims a wry grin over my shoulder. “Oh, I’d like you to meet someone, Your Majesty. I would warn you that his bark is worse than his bite—”
“But we’re not entirely sure that’s true,” Lennix cuts in with a smile, looking in the same direction. “Just try not to get bitten.”
When I glance over my shoulder to see whom they’re referring to, I realize, with some surprise, that I’d quite enjoy a bite from the man striding toward us.
He’s built like the ageless mountains dotting my island kingdom. Simultaneously hulking and elegant. Like one of our dormant volcanoes—still but with roiling, hot liquid beneath.
My dress fits me perfectly because it was sewn onto my body, but his tuxedo seems tailored to his because it has no other choice. Like it and everything in his path will suit his needs, or else. A little taller than Maxim and a lot wider, he must be six foot six. I surreptitiously observe the precisely tailored pants molding long, muscled thighs and the slight bulge behind his zipper. This man’s body is a sin, and I should cross myself just for looking at him. Maybe pray a rosary or two.
Ave Maria.
If his body is a sin, his face . . . a transgression. His is not the conventional handsomeness of someone like Maxim, whose green eyes and even features were made for the stage, for the spotlight. This man was crafted from shadows. God sculpted those cheekbones in secret and chiseled that jaw at night. The piercing eyes of a devil and the beautiful mouth of an angel. Dichotomously, dark and divine convene in him.
I glance at Maxim and Lennix, wondering if the uncharacteristic bolt of lust coursing through my body is broadcast on my face. It’s been so long since I felt this kind of attraction. Actually, I’ve never felt anything like this; so deep and instant I ache in long-neglected places. If I’m honest, in places never touched.
He approaches with utter purpose and complete awareness. There’s a potent competency suffusing his movements, like he’s never been in a situation he hasn’t mastered. And while his ink-dark eyes and lushly formed mouth should be expressive beyond belief, his face is impassive. He scans the room as he approaches us, surveying it with the stoic efficiency of a soldier. He has a night-ray vision stare, penetrating the surface of things, peering beneath the layers.
I wonder what he sees when those dark eyes fall on me?
Does he detect the loneliness woven into this expensive dress? Sense that each gilded thread pulls just a little too tight, making me feel caged instead of covered? Where everyone else sees wealth and royal privilege, I wonder if a man with those eyes could see what’s really here? C
