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“That’s an order, Miss Stephenson.” The haughty jerk didn’t even bother looking over his shoulder as he stalked down the hall. “One you’ll follow if you want to keep your job.”
CHAPTER THREE
ALARIC’SEYESROAMEDthe ballroom. Somewhere among the designer dresses and tailored tuxedos, a pale-haired woman in a blue dress glided through the crowds and elegantly set tables. A stubborn woman with blue eyes that could cut a man down to size one second and make him drop to his knees the next with a seductive need that burned in his veins long after she’d left.
Christ, get a grip.
He was at his sister’s wedding. His little sister’s wedding, for God’s sake.
White lilies and red hydrangeas bloomed from glass vases. Candles flickered on crimson tablecloths, creating an intimate environment in the massive grand ballroom hosting Prince Cassius and Princess Briony Adama’s wedding reception. Chandeliers sparkled overhead, with scarlet roses placed strategically among the glittering strands. White-gloved waiters cleared china, refilled champagne glasses and passed out trays of chocolate-covered eclairs, slices of tarte aux pommes topped with sliced apples and melted apricot jam, and macarons.
Judging by the beaming smile on Briony’s face as Cass swept her onto the dance floor, she was having the time of her life. Everything was perfect. It always was when Clara was involved.
So why, Alaric asked himself for the twentieth time that day, had he come down so hard on Clara that morning?
Because you can’t stop thinking about her. Ever since their tryst in his office last month, he’d been disgusted with himself. Disgust that he had not only abandoned his scruples and had sex with an employee, but that he had done so in such a coarse manner.
Just like your father.
He swallowed a larger amount of gin than he’d intended, focused on the burn of the citrusy liquid. He would have to confront his actions, and his fears, at some point. Especially the intensity of his attraction to his secretary.
Executive assistant.
He frowned into his glass. His engagement to Celestine Osborne may have lasted for almost a decade, but he’d had no emotional connection to his betrothed. How could he when he’d only seen her a handful of times since their engagement officially started? Her telling him at that first meeting that she would be living her life as if she were single up until their wedding had certainly not made him inclined to entertain romantic thoughts, either. He hadn’t blamed her; she had been just shy of twenty when her father had pledged her hand in marriage to Alaric.
When Celestine had told him her intentions, he’d been only too happy to follow her lead. For the next several years, he had conducted a couple of discreet affairs with women who knew marriage was off the table. They’d been pleasant, mutually beneficial and pleasurable relationships that had sustained him as he’d taken a more active role in Linnaea’s government. A necessary move given how little his father, King Daxon Van Ambrose, bothered to involve himself in anything but spending the treasury’s money. A habit that had been the driving force behind the Van Ambrose-Osborne marriage contract.
Except that insidious fear had crept in once more.
Am I like my father?
At first it had just been an adolescent worry. But it had started to rear its head as the people of Linnaea had started to look to him more, as his duties became clearer. He’d terminated his romantic liaisons two years ago not just because the deadline for his marriage to Celestine was drawing nearer, but because his fear had started to overshadow every encounter with another woman who wasn’t his fiancée, no matter how atrocious her behavior or outrageous her antics. He’d made excuses long enough, but in the end, he was enjoying the company and beds of women he wasn’t pledged to.
Just like Daxon.
No matter that Celestine had apparently more than outmatched him in the number of bedmates, and done so as publicly as possible. Unlike his mother, too, who had loved his wastrel of a father until her dying day, Celestine hadn’t felt anything close to love for him. Those facts hadn’t made a dent in the guilt that had dug into his veins.
Alaric loathed any hint of scandal. He could still remember hearing his mother’s sobs through the hotel room door on a trip to London when he’d been all of four years old and his father had left a dinner with the wife of a Foreign Office official. It was the first vivid memory he had of the damage Daxon wrought with his selfishness, although he had plenty of moments to pick from since then. From using the illegitimate daughter he’d never met as a bargaining piece in yet another marriage contract to spending money on vanity projects like an art museum and a high-rise, Daxon seemed determined to outdo himself time and again.
Alaric made himself reach for a glass of water and take a long drink before indulging in another sip of gin. Reminiscing about the past, especially when it involved his father, made the idea of taking the edge off with a drink all too appealing. Daxon, thankfully, had excused himself at the beginning of the reception. Still licking his wounds, no doubt.
Oddly enough, Alaric’s romantic interlude with Clara, coupled with the loss of the Osborne money, had propelled him to do what he should have done a long time ago: strip Daxon of his power. The members of Parliament, who could have best been described as window dressing until a month ago, had been all too happy to unite with Alaric and offer Daxon the choice of retaining his title of king but stepping down from any actual position of power and living out the remainder of his life with a small allowance and the few shreds of his dignity intact, or face a very public inquiry into his spending.
His lips tilted up as he remembered Daxon’s shocked expression when Alaric had given him his two options. He’d granted the old devil the gift of sharing the news in the privacy of his office, even if a vindictive part had longed for a public outing in front of Parliament and the various committees who had worked so hard with Alaric to keep the country running the last few years. Daxon had blustered, argued, yelled and, for one horrifying minute, blubbered.
But the threat of censure, of finally having to face his decades of mistakes, had been enough. He’d stepped down from the public eye, citing his cancer diagnosis, and turned over Linnaea’s government to Alaric and Parliament. The shackles that had kept Alaric’s hands tied, loosened by Celestine breaking their engagement, had fallen away. Though it wouldn’t have been possible without the money brought in by Briony’s marriage to Cass and the new agreement with Switzerland.
Best not to look that gift horse in the mouth. The timing had been perfect. He, and Linnaea, were free to move forward.
Amazing the number of changes that had occurred since his engagement from hell had ended.
A flash of pale gold hair caught his eye among the sea of designer dresses, tailored tuxedos and overpriced jewelry. His eyes narrowed as he watched Clara dart about, checking in with vendors and making notes on her tablet.
The dratted woman had openly defied him that morning. When he’d returned to her apartment with the palace’s physician, she hadn’t answered. When he’d let himself in, worried she might have passed out, it was to find an empty suite of rooms. She’d ignored his calls, responded to his texts with as few words as possible and skillfully avoided him all day.
Why?
The second question that had been bugging him all day. The last five weeks Clara had been nothing but professional. She ran his schedule with the same ruthless efficiency she’d displayed the last seven years. She’d attended all of her meetings, addressed him formally and...
