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‘I completely understand your reservations, Your Majesty,’ Rafe said. ‘Because Sophie is your sister and you love her and care about her welfare and, obviously, I’m not the prospective husband you would have chosen—mainly, I suspect, because I am not royal. But I have a vast fortune at my disposal as well as the ways and the means to protect the Princess as she has always been protected. You need have no fears about her future.’
‘That is not the point,’ snapped Myron, uncrossing his legs and sitting up, ramrod-straight. ‘I have had you investigated.’
‘Of course you have,’ put in Rafe calmly. ‘I would have done exactly the same in your position.’
Myron’s face darkened. ‘And your family is...disreputable, to say the least.’
‘We have a somewhat colourful history, that I won’t deny,’ said Rafe wryly. ‘But I won’t do wrong by your sister and nothing you can say or do will change my determination. Because I intend to marry her, with or without your permission—although it would be better if we could do it with your blessing. Obviously.’ His fingers tightened around Sophie’s as he gave her hand a squeeze. ‘Back in New York, I made a vow to the Princess that I would be faithful and true and I am repeating that vow today, in your presence. For I intend on being the best husband I can possibly be.’
Sophie felt quite faint. Nobody ever talked to Myron like that. Nobody. And nobody ever kept interrupting him that way either. She looked into her brother’s face, expecting to see the first hint of the simmering rage which his courtiers knew to beware of, but to her astonishment there was nothing but a flicker of frustration in his eyes, which gradually became a gleam of reluctant acceptance.
‘You are a strong man, Carter,’ observed Myron slowly. ‘And a woman needs a strong man. Very well. You have your permission to marry my sister. She will come to you with a generous dowry.’
‘No.’ Rafe’s voice was firm. ‘Sophie will bring to the marriage only what she wishes to bring. Some sentimental trinkets or the like, but nothing more than that.’
Some sentimental trinkets?
For the first time since she’d accepted his proposal, Sophie felt a shimmer of apprehension as Myron stepped down from his throne and she watched as the two men shook hands, almost as if they were sealing some kind of business deal. And the thought which had taken root in her head was now stubbornly refusing to shift, because wasn’t that exactly what they were doing? The shimmer became a shiver. What she’d just witnessed had been a kind of battle between two very alpha men who were both used to getting their own way.
She realised now that if Rafe had backed down or buckled underneath the weight of her brother’s arrogant royal power—or greedily accepted a reward—then the marriage would never have taken place. Somehow, Myron would have put a stop to it. He might have threatened to destroy Rafe’s company or found an area of his life to target, an area which was ripe for exploitation. She would put nothing past him, for he had been furious when Prince Luciano had announced that he could no longer marry her. He had been angry on behalf of his jilted sister but there was no denying that he had seen the move as a slight to the royal house of Isolaverde.
But Rafe hadn’t buckled. He had shown himself to be powerful and indomitable. He had stood up to Myron in a way she’d never seen anyone do before and he had won her, as a man might win a big prize at a game of cards.
Pressing her fingernails into the palms of her hands, she told herself to stop wishing for the impossible. To get real instead of trying to spoil her enjoyment before it had even started. Because this was what she wanted, wasn’t it? She wanted Rafe—a man who made her feel alive. Who made her senses sing. Who made her think she was capable of anything. Hadn’t he told her that, back in New York, and hadn’t she been almost hugging herself with delight as they’d flown to her island home? And yes, there were limitations to the way he felt about her—he’d been completely upfront about that. He wasn’t promising her love and fairy-tale stuff. He wasn’t spinning lies and pretending to have feelings which were alien to him. And shouldn’t she be grateful to him for that?
But as Myron stood up and prepared to take his leave of them Sophie was aware that gratitude was the very last thing on her mind.
‘Thank you, Myron,’ she said, aware that her voice was lacking the joy she’d expected to feel. All she could feel was a sudden and uncomfortable sensation of flatness.
‘I have put Rafe in the Ambassadorial suite,’ said Myron, his eyes glittering. ‘Even though I understand you’ve been living together in New York, I suggest we don’t bombard the palace staff with too many changes all at once. A commoner husband is going to take some getting used to and I think it’s best you don’t share a room until after your marriage. Let tradition reign supreme. I think we should adopt a softly-softly approach.’
Sophie glanced up at Rafe, expecting him to object to this as well. To a man with his healthy sexual appetite it would seem old-fashioned and hypocritical to be put in separate rooms. But to her astonishment, he simply nodded.
‘That sounds perfectly agreeable,’ he said.
‘Good. And I should be honoured if you would be my guest at the New Year’s Eve ball we hold here in the palace each year. It will be a good time to introduce you to the great and the good of Isolaverde. We can announce your engagement on New Year’s Day.’ Myron looked straight into Rafe’s eyes. ‘If that also meets with your approval?’
‘Absolutely,’ answered Rafe. ‘I should be honoured.’
But as the King swept from the throne room Sophie couldn’t shake off a distinct feeling of disenchantment—remembering the way the two men had talked about her as if she were nothing but an object to barter. Suddenly, it felt as if she had been slotted straight back into her familiar restricted role of princess. As if the stiff mantle of being a royal had settled over her shoulders and was threatening to stifle her. The woman who had shovelled show and beaten eggs while wearing a silly little Santa outfit now seemed as if she belonged to another life.
She accompanied Rafe and a small convoy of servants through the maze of palace corridors to the luxurious Ambassadorial suite and when they were alone at last, and the servants dismissed, he took her in his arms. It should have felt like heaven to be this close to him again, but Sophie couldn’t shake off the notion that it just didn’t feel right.
‘Now,’ he said, his thumb grazing over her breast and the warmth of his breath fanning her lips. ‘What shall we do next? Any ideas?’
She swallowed. ‘We’ll have to get ready for dinner and my rooms are at the opposite end of the palace to yours, so I’d better... I’d better get going.’
‘Dinner can wait,’ he murmured as he ran his other hand down her spine to cup the curve of one buttock.
This was the point when she normally began to dissolve, when her blood would grow heated and her skin sensitive as she anticipated his lovemaking. But all Sophie could feel was an acute self-consciousness, the easy familiarity all but gone. She felt as if people were watching. Listening. Wondered if the servants were hovering in the vicinity, eager to know if the Princess was being intimate with the commoner she had brought into their midst. She froze. Rafe’s fingers felt alien against her skin as he popped the buttons on her shirt and it flapped open. She felt as if this were all happening to someone else as he unclipped the front fastening of her bra and her breasts tumbled free.
‘Dinner can’t wait.’ She swallowed as she stared down at his fingers—olive-dark against her paler skin as he stroked her breast—but for once her knees weren’t growing weak and her nipples weren’t tingling. For once she could feel nothing. ‘That’s something you’d better get used to,’ she added. ‘It is always served on the stroke of eight and to be late will be seen as an insult to the King.’
‘So? That gives us a couple of hours.’ He nuzzled her neck with a lazy kiss. ‘Plenty of time for what I have in mind. I hav
en’t made love to you in hours, Sophie—and I’m beginning to get withdrawal symptoms. But if you’re telling me that we’re on a tight schedule, then maybe we won’t bother with bed. Maybe we’ll do it...right here.’
She couldn’t stop him. She told herself she didn’t want to stop him and that much was true. Because she kept thinking that her familiar passion would return as his lovemaking progressed. So she let him push her up against the wall and slide her panties down over her thighs, and helped him as he carefully tugged the zip down over his straining erection. She even stroked on the condom just as he’d taught her to, but she didn’t get her usual thrill of pleasure as he made that first stifled groan when he entered her.
