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All business now, the flirtatious vib
e disappeared replaced with a steely attitude that reminded him of her father.
“While we’re here, you call me Elle.”
“Done.” He nodded. “What else?”
“I need to know the plan,” she said. “The whole thing, not just the parts that involve me. I need to know about security. I need the whole picture.”
Since it went against his training to laugh in the face of royalty, he swallowed his amusement. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“Then I’m not the princess you’re looking for,” she said, hinting at an addiction to American movies that was well documented in her file.
“Nice try, Obi-Wan.” He smirked. “But that doesn’t work with me.”
“Your choice. You can’t force me to take the throne.” Elle was as smug as if she had spent her life sitting on the gold throne and wearing the jewel-encrusted crown.
He snorted; he couldn’t help himself. “Really?”
“Let me rephrase. You won’t force me.”
Her confidence poured metaphorical ice water over his head, because she was right. Forty-eight hours ago he could have done it without even a twinge of conscience, but not now. She’d stopped being a symbol and become a person, one with a smart-ass streak a mile wide and who responded so enthusiastically to his caress that it was like touching someone for the first time.
“Interesting theory,” he said, his voice sounding strained to his own ears.
“You know it’s more than that.” She didn’t move from her spot lounging against the counter. She didn’t need to—her every word was a direct challenge that had him hotter than lava. “I spent the night awake thinking about you, about what you wanted from me, and why. You’re not power hungry. You’re not maniacal. You’re doing the right thing for the right reason, and like a good Elskovian you’ll do whatever it takes to win. Pissing off your future queen only hurts your ultimate goal.”
She was quick, he’d give her that. While he’d stop short of forcing her sweet ass onto the throne, that left room for a lot of other ways to persuade her to his way of thinking. “I like that you were thinking about me.”
Heat flared in her gaze. “The third condition is I want to know what happens to you if this whole thing works out.”
Taking a step closer, he left enough space between them that they weren’t touching, even though he could feel every delectable inch of her. “When, not if, Princess.”
The vein in her throat beat faster as her tongue sneaked out and wet her lips. “All right, what happens to you when this is over?”
He reached out, he couldn’t help it, and toyed with the cashmere belt that kept her sweater tied shut. “I go back to London knowing the Fjende have been defeated and you’re back safe where you belong.”
The uptick in her breath. The way her nipples pebbled under the pink sweater. The need coming off her in waves so strong he knew that if he slipped a hand down her jeans he’d find her soaked and ready for him. All of it combined to almost make him forget why they were here in this mountain compound—which was exactly why, instead of pulling the belt so her sweater fell open, he let it slip through his fingers.
“Why would you do so much for a country you never planned to return to?” she asked in a husky, unsure voice.
The caveman part of him, the part that wanted to strip her naked and spread her legs wide so he could taste her again, yowled at the reminder of the real reason they were both here: the plan, the one that couldn’t fail. The one he wouldn’t let fail. His parents’ memory demanded it.
“I can’t. I’m a son of Elskov, but not a citizen,” he said. “Rich royalist supporters as they were, my parents weren’t citizens. That’s what would have made them the perfect cover and caretakers for you after the coup.”
She picked her mug up from the counter and took a long sip, as if processing his announcement. “After the Kronig, I’ll never see you again?”
“Royalty runs in different circles than I do.” To put it mildly. He’d worked hard to create the perfect cover, that of the rich, entitled, obnoxiously new-monied Dom Rasmussen, who was always surrounded by starlets, social climbers, and people of dubious morals. His misdeeds and excesses were all lovingly Instagrammed and documented on fans’ Tumblrs. He was a social media–savvy Gatsby for the twenty-first century. “If you’ve read any of the gossip sites, you know I’m beyond socially unacceptable.”
“Will the world ever know your part in this?”
“Not if we do this right.” And he prayed like hell that’s exactly how everything would go down.
She removed his mug from the coffeemaker and held it out to him. “You really are Bruce Wayne.”
“You watch too many Hollywood movies.” He took his mug, his fingers brushing hers for a brief moment that seared his skin, and held it up in a toast. “Long live the queen.” He tapped her mug. “Now let’s get to work.”
…
