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That was the absolute truth, even if she hadn’t actually meant to say anything at all. Amadeo had drawn out the woman in her and taught her not only of the joy in uninhibited, mutually fulfilling sex but that there was nothing shameful in embracing pleasure.
It wasn’t possible she had meant more than that. It had been the heat of the moment, all those feelings fizzing through her—stillfizzing through her—that had made her tongue run away with itself.
A beat passed; a tiny moment in time that seemed to stretch to the moon and back before Amadeo laughed too and kissed her. ‘Sexy woman,’ he growled, then kissed her again.
Relief that she’d covered her unwitting faux pas and hadn’t caused any damage blew out the cold shock.
Uncoupling themselves, they straightened their clothing and held hands until they arrived back at the castle.
I love you.
Amadeo closed his eyes to the accounts printed off in preparation for his quarterly meeting with the team who ran the Berrutis’ vast art collection, and kneaded his temples.
I love you.
His heart had come to an abrupt halt at those dreamily delivered words three nights ago. His lungs had closed. Time had hung suspended.
And then Elsbeth had laughed and made her quip about loving sex with him, and then he’d laughed and the moment had passed as if it had never been said.
The more time that had passed since then though, the louder those three words echoed in his ears. He’d spent their engagements the day before surreptitiously observing her, looking for any changes in behaviour or demeanour, but she was the same as she always was, gently wry, softly cool, calmly collected.
He wished he could say the same for himself. It felt like he had something acrid living in his guts, churning and coiling.
Shecouldn’thave meant it. That was what he kept telling himself. It was a misfiring of words as she’d so quickly explained. She’d been as shocked at them as he had. No, she definitely hadn’t meant it. Elsbeth was no fool. She knew their marriage would never be like the marriages of his siblings and had never even hinted at deviating from the rules laid out before they’d exchanged their vows.
James, his private secretary, who’d he’d poached from the British royal family with the lure of Ceres’ fantastic climate, entered his office. What he said pulled Amadeo sharply out of his thoughts.
‘Dominic wants me to dowhat?’ he asked, astounded.
‘Have an informal race once the Grand Prix’s finished,’ James repeated. ‘It’s his understanding that one of the racing teams has agreed to lend their cars to you for the event.’
As tempting a proposition as it was to get behind the wheel of a racing car and publicly thrash the monster, there was no way he could accept. James knew that perfectly well.
‘I assume you’ve already declined for me?’
‘Yes, Your Highness, but as the request came from a monarch, I thought it best to inform you of it in case it came up in conversation between you.’
The thought of even talking to Dominic Fernandez made his already roiling guts churn harder.
He knew why King Pig—it was astounding how quickly Clara’s nickname for him had stuck in his head; he’d have to be careful not to utter it publicly—wanted to race him. King Pig, for all his ego, was an insecure monster. Thick-skinned enough to try and force a woman who viscerally hated him into marriage, he was also thick-skinned enough to think he could cultivate a close relationship with his cousin’s husband. And that was because King Pig, for all his thick skin, was also an insecure toad who craved acceptance by his peers. Turning Monte Cleure into a billionaires’ tax haven and basking in the caviar-stuffed fools’ so-called friendship wasn’t enough for him. He wanted to bask in the approval and acceptance of his fellow royals. It must drive him insane that Europe’s royal families disdained him, only inviting him to the events that protocol dictated they should.
King Pig had assumed Amadeo’s marriage to his cousin would mean closer ties between the two men. King Pig was likely smarting that Amadeo and the rest of the Berrutis had maintained the distance they’d always kept between them. King Pig likely knew of Amadeo’s financial involvement in Sébastien’s team and his great interest in the sport. King Pig likely assumed a race between the two men would forge a bond between them. King Pig also likely assumed that the experience he had behind a racing wheel—his crash notwithstanding—meant he would easily beat the heir to the Ceres throne and thus earn himself the kudos money and status just could not buy.
King Pig was too thick-skinned to get it into his thick head that Amadeo would sooner spit on the man than play his games, even if he wasn’t in a position to accept the offer of a race.
‘Anything else?’ he asked, noticing that James was still hovering.
‘Princess Elsbeth came to your offices.’
Just the mention of her name made his heart judder and a coldness seep through his veins, and in that instant it came to him why those three little unwittingly delivered words were plaguing him: Elsbethneverspoke without thinking. She never made a slip of the tongue, and that she’d made this one straight after the height of passion...
He forced himself to concentrate on the rest of what James had to say.
‘She asked you to call her if you have free time before your meeting, but said that it’s not important.’
Amadeo inhaled sharply and nodded. ‘Thank you.’
Once alone again, he rubbed his pounding forehead.
