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She was gone.
The Princess’s tote bag had been removed from where he had left it on the floor of the living area and in its place was a wedding dress. He skirted it as if it were a dangerous animal—which, to a man whose idea of hell was holy matrimony, it might as well have been. It looked as if she’d let the froth pool at her feet like champagne and simply stepped out of it. His imagination was suddenly a wild cascade of erotic images of toned limbs in silver heels and a waist he wanted to bracket with his hands.
None of which helped him with the fact that he had a princess on the loose in Paris and he needed to find her. Now. He marched back to his room, discarded the towel and dressed with the same ruthless efficiency he used to marshal his financial empire. The entire time he reassessed everything that he knew about the Princess. Reluctantly, he was forced to admit that he had written her off as nothing more than a spoilt princess with a rebellious streak. But while he accepted that he had been played, the game was not over and by the end she would realise that it was she who had underestimated the lengths he would go to secure his payment for her capture and containment.
He scanned his wardrobe and identified which items were missing: one pair of black superfine wool dress trousers, one white shirt and one thin black leather belt. Presumably the Princess was still wearing silver heels.
He pulled at his cuff sleeves, the snap of cotton familiar and satisfying. He reached for his cufflinks and threaded the fixed bar through the buttonhole, feeling his pulse settle with the familiar act and the air of respectability they lent him. He lifted the suit jacket that held his wallet from the back of the chair and stopped. The weight was off and he flung the jacket back on the seat and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Lykos couldn’t believe it.
He, who had once been the most notorious pickpocket in Athens, had just had his wallet stolen.
By a princess.
CHAPTER THREE
MARITLOOKEDOUTof the back window of the taxi hurtling through Paris towards the Gare du Nord train station. She’d half-expected to see Lykos running out of the entrance of the swanky apartment building in nothing but a towel. But he hadn’t.
Ignoring the strange pang of disappointment, she turned instead to riffle through the dark brown leather wallet she’d taken from Lykos’s jacket pocket. The only reason she hadn’t taken the car was because she didn’t know how to drive, so she’d settled for throwing his car keys off the balcony, her only regret that she wouldn’t be there to see the look on his face when he realised what she’d done.
The eyes of the taxi driver flickered over her through the rear-view mirror and she clenched her jaw. It was not as if she’d been spoilt for choice. She’d hardly have been able to make a quick getaway in the wedding dress. She’d rolled up the hems of the trousers and cinched the belt tightly around her waist beneath a shirt that definitely passed as oversized and had managed to appear almost stylish.
Marit counted eight hundred euros in cash, but no credit cards. Unusual, yet somehow fitting for a man she believed enjoyed being contrary for the sake of it. She looked into each little pocket. No photos, no receipts, nothing tucked away for safety. There was no sense of who he was. She pulled out a driver’s licence and stared at the black and white image of Lykos Livas, frowning in all his brooding glory. How could she dislike someone so intensely, yet still feel acutely...acutely...notlike the way any other man had ever made her feel?
She threw the wallet into the bag by her feet, catching sight of the bright red cover of her passport, which she needed to get into Italy. Unlike her brother and sister, the amount of freedom she’d enjoyed up until recently had meant that she’d been able to keep hold of it, rather than handing it over to close protection officers. Of course that would change when she took her sister’s place in the royal family. Security details, every minute of her day planned to the second, public speaking, public events... Sweat started to gather at the back of her neck.
As the lights turned, allowing the taxi to move closer to the train station, her pulse picked up. The closer she came to her last bit of freedom, the more fearful she became that it would disappear. Images of a strong male hand wrapping around her bicep had her heart thrumming in her chest. Her breaths came quicker as she glanced at the sign for the Gare du Nord and she nearly cried when the taxi was caught in another stream of traffic. She glanced behind her again, in caser Lykos had somehow found her. No. She couldn’t stay here. It was as if she could feel him snapping at her heels.
‘Arrêtez-vous ici, s’il vous plait,’she said, and the driver pulled to the side of the road. She thrust twice the amount needed at the driver and launched herself from the cab. Pulling the tote over her shoulder, she jogged down the street towards the station. She checked the time. She had just over fifteen minutes to buy her tickets and get on the next train to Milan if she hurried.
She wondered whether Lykos would tell Aleksander what had happened, or whether he’d try to find her before he had to.
I need you to keep her.
Just for the week.
I don’t want her.
The words ran on a loop through Marit’s mind. It would serve Lykos right if Aleksander found out and decided not to give him the shares. She had half a mind to let her brother know of her escape, if she didn’t think it would lead directly to her capture.
Drawing a few curious glances, she entered the train station and found the departures board. Checking the train was on time, she rushed over to the ticket stall. She wasn’t running away. Shewouldgo back, just...not yet.
Her heart turned over as she thought of just how much Freya loved what she did, how good she was at it. A better princess hadn’t been born. Marit had argued with her over and over again, insisting that Freya didn’t need to step down, but she wasn’t blind. The press were cruel and a princess with fertility issues...one who was supposed to provide spare heirs for a ruler so new and untested as their brother... Reporters would tear her apart and the fallout would cause deep fissures in the confidence of the Svardian people in their royal family. The international implications didn’t bear thinking about.
So, no. Marit was under no illusions as to where her future lay. It was just that before she did step into Freya’s shoes she wanted some time to herself. To do some of the things she’d thought she’d have the time to do, to feel all that she’d wanted to feel, and to experience all that she possibly could before her life became one of dictates and strangers and public royal duties...and marriage and children she wasn’t ready for.
Her fingers drummed a beat against the cold steel of the ticket office counter as she waited for the clerk to process the cash payment and checked her watch. She had five minutes to get to her train before it left.
Lykos looked up at the train station sign. Why? His only explicable reason was that it was where he would have come. But he felt it deep in his gut—the part of him he’d learned to trust when he was young and on the streets. She was here. The problem now was figuring out where she was going to.
As he took stock, he pulled at the cufflinks, setting the shirt smartly beneath his jacket, and he cursed the Princessagain. The first time he’d cursed was when he’d caught sight of the small key fob he’d wasted precious minutes looking for, fragmented into microchips and black plastic on the road outside the apartment, that would take time and money to replace. And if Lykos hated anything it was unnecessary waste, he thought as he revised his earlier impression of Marit once again. Definitely spoilt and completely ignorant of the value of money or possessions.
As he entered the sprawling international train station, the sound of thousands of voices filled the air and Lykos began to feel the first stirrings of unease. A childhood habit rose from the mists of time to snake around him as he instinctively scanned the sea of people for targets—just like his father had taught him. And he saw them all. The wealthy businessman making a show of checking his expensive watch to the girl at the kiosk counter. The man rolling his eyes as his wife debated which magazine would be best for her trip. The mother in expensive clothes, telling off her teenage son while her daughter made faces at the boy behind her mother’s back.
Lykos rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the discomfort the instinctive act made him feel. As a seven-year-old, he’d have had three fat wallets within fifteen minutes and a hard smack across the cheek for leaving the easiest prey of all. The grey-haired lady with the walking frame, her bag hanging half open from the handle, picking through her open clasp wallet for change as if each penny was precious.
He glanced up at the departures board. London, Brussels, Belgium, Germany, Milan, the Netherlands. Of course, if it were him, he’d have been tempted to disappear into the underground and stay in Paris. But while he was sneaky, Marit was rebellious. And they were two very different things. Surely a young, rebellious woman wouldn’t be able to resist the lure of London. He checked the time and the platform number. Ten minutes. Easy.
