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“But not you,” Orion pointed out, perhaps not as kindly as he could have. “Or did I misinterpret the fact that your father just fired you?”
He saw something wash over her, some strong emotion that wasn’t as simple as her temper. “He’s overwrought. He’ll come around.”
“As it happens, I don’t want him to come around.” He inclined his head as if he was inviting comment, when he wasn’t. “I would prefer it if you didn’t work.”
She blinked, then scowled at him. “What is that supposed to mean? Did you plan this with him?”
“I do not ‘make plans’ with a man like your father, Calista. His plans hijacked my own. But as it happens, my staff has been agitating—”
“All your staff does is agitate,” she snapped at him. Interrupting him, which made his bodyguards bristle, but at this point he rather thought that was an endearment on her part. Or as close as he would get. “They’ve been harassing me for weeks.”
“It’s their job to prepare you for your new role. A job they cannot do if you are here, doing your old one.”
Now that his temper was cooling a little, and he was no longer tempted to take a swing at Aristotle, he was able to take in everything else. The way she looked, cool and blonde and untouchable, there in the stark-white hallway. He did not spend a great deal of time surrounded by corporate fashions, but it was instantly clear to him that Calista was dressed to send a specific message.
A message he quite liked.
The high, dangerously sharp heels. The miles of her legs exposed beneath the tailored skirt she wore. Her blouse that managed to hint at her figure while showing none of it, and the soft wrap at her shoulders he shied away from calling a cardigan when it looked far more like an elegant piece of feminine armor. Her hair, as usual, was caught back in something sleek—and his enduring trial was that he liked it. He liked all of it. He liked the way Calista vibrated with tension and intelligence. He liked how tough she looked, if a man knew where to look.
He did.
Corporate life clearly suited her. He felt a pang of regret that she was going to have to step away from it—and then reminded himself that she was the one who had crowed over the fact that he was supposedly in her pocket.
She was still a blackmailer’s daughter, sent to do his nefarious bidding.
Why did he struggle to remember that?
“I agreed to marry you,” she said, looking as dangerous as her shoes. She folded her arms over her chest and glared at him. “I didn’t agree to be hounded by your staff. Or to be fired from my job. Or to have packs of reporters hounding me day and night, while we’re on the topic.”
“What did you imagine marrying a king would entail?” he asked quietly. Not exactly roughly. “Did you truly believe that the Queen of Idylla would have a day job, Calista? Punch a time card and live for Fridays?”
Her mouth fell open. Orion had the distinct impression that he’d shocked her, and he was reminded, somehow, of her panic the night of their first ball.
“Explain to me how that would work,” he suggested, mildly enough. “Your colleagues would be going home as usual while you head to the palace.”
“But...”
“It is obvious that it cannot be,” he said, when she only gaped at him. “I must tell you, Calista, I don’t think you really thought this through. That is a pity, and I do feel for your predicament, but I’m afraid it will not help you any.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“Only if you wish it to be.”
He wanted to touch her. He didn’t know how he didn’t. How he kept from running his fingers over her overbright, faintly swollen cheek. How he had managed to convince himself that he was coming here to help when the truth was, he’d only wanted the excuse to be near her again. Who was he fooling?
“I wish my father had never...”
She was wise enough not to finish that sentence. And Orion’s smile felt strange on his face. Misshapen, perhaps.
“I wish the same thing,” he told her, aware as he said it that it was no longer quite as true as it had been. No longer as true as itshould havebeen. He would have to deal with that at some point, too. But her eyes were the color of the sea in summer, and it turned out he was far weaker than he’d ever imagined. “Still, we are here despite our wishes. And I will be moving you into the palace where you belong. Today.”
CHAPTER SIX
“IDON’TKNOWwhat you’re going on about,” Calista’s younger sister, Melody, said in her usually practical, matter-of-fact way. “Not only would I very much like to live in a palace, I would consider it a lovely holiday away from our father.”
Most of Calista’s things were packed. Her mother had overseen that personally—mostly so she could veto anything she didn’t feel was appropriate for the next Queen of Idylla—and Calista had left her to it. There was no arguing with Appollonia when she was in what Melody called herroyalist fugue.
All that was left was the library. Calista had to content herself with sneaking a few of her favorite books into a satchel, muttering angrily about her fate all the while.
