Royal Marriage Market (15 page)

“My
too
-ness?”

He’s shocked. Scratch that—he is amused. And I am officially over this conversation, since the opportunity for me to continue to make a complete and utter arse out of myself is nearly guaranteed. So, I refuse to clarify. “Take the apology as it stands, Christian.”

“Is that a first, Els?”

My inhale is sharper than I would like.

“Because I have a feeling that you don’t apologize very often. Or that you ever lose control enough to be required to do so.” The corners of his lips twitch. “Maybe that’s another first. Losing control, especially in a situation like the RMM, when one must be in control every single second.”

I cannot even manage to properly gasp, my heart is hammering so hard in my chest. I tell him, hating how husky my voice is, “It’s not three a.m. Does this first count?”

All of my efforts to keep my hands off him go to naught when he reaches out and gently tucks stray strands of hair behind one of my ears. “I’ll allow it. But just because you’re a fellow founding member of the RFC.”

My legs are shaking. They are physically shaking.

“Also, just to let you know: apology accepted.”

Why did I choose this little nook for us to stand in again? There is not enough airflow in here. It’s way too hot, even though it’s a cool day.

I force myself to ask, “What’s your first?”

“I want you to call me Chris. As boring as that name may be.”

I hate the rush that surges through me when he says this. “Other people call you Chris. That is not a first.”

“It is a first, when it’s less than twenty-four hours after meeting someone. It took Parker years before he broke down and called me anything other than Christian. There aren’t a lot of people who use Chris, by the way. Less than a handful.”

I swallow hard. “But what if I want you to be Christian to me?”

“Then,” he says quietly, “I will be Christian to you.”

My eyes drift to his mouth. My pulse increases significantly. The air around us completely disappears. “Why Chris?”

“Chris is familiar,” he says, voice low and warm and crisp all at once. “And…I think I want to be familiar to you, Els.”

It is impossibly foolish to even consider such a thing, but it’s exactly what I want too.

chapter 17

Christian

“How was the meeting?”

The question comes from my brother, who miraculously managed to pull himself out of bed (his or someone else’s, I’m not sure) to join us out on the patio surrounding the pool.

“Torturous.”

I’m being kind with my description. The two-hour meeting, which in reality was the world’s oldest crown heir spewing his bitterness over how his mother still lives and rules while he continues to age on the sidelines, was nothing short of a trip to the abyss. There were no discussions concerning key political issues in our respective countries, no hints of alliances to be fostered within the Summit. Hell, we didn’t even have a chance to mingle with fellow royals we may have never had the pleasure of meeting in person yet. Nobody else spoke during those two hours. Not a single person. I cannot personally vouch for the others present, but I worried the bastard was hellbent on embezzling any and all joy we might have in our lives until we were nothing but dried husks desperate to escape.

“There was nothing redeemable about the meeting?” Parker asks.

Elsa.

Granted, her eyes were just as glazed over as the rest of the groups, and we didn’t speak (because God forbid anyone get a word in), but there was a shared sense of solidarity in our misery.

I focused more on her than the so-called speaker. Every move, every shift, every time she crossed her legs, I noticed, even if just out of the corner of my eye. If I’m being honest, I kept hoping she’d tear the arsehole lecturing us a new one if only to break the tension.

When that never happened, I wondered . . . was it me? Was there something about me that encouraged her to ignore the decorum beat into all of us at a young age? Because what kind of princess goes off the rails like that?

A maddeningly intriguing one, that’s for sure. And I’ve gone straight to bedlam, because I’m thrilled she’s showing me these true colors. I’ll happily take her brand of feistiness in this sea of boredom.

But I tell my brother and best friend, “Not a damn thing.”

Lukas slips his flask out of his coat pocket. “The She-Wolf gave me more specific marching orders while you were at your lame meeting.”

I don’t know what’s worse—acknowledging I pinpointed that Elsa smells like Tahitian vanilla or anything to do with the She-Wolf. “Who is she targeting?”

He takes a long swig before recapping the flask. “Can you believe the Hereditary Princess of Vattenguldia is on her list? The one from this morning’s breakfast? I swear, she’s fucking obsessed with those girls.”

Poor bast—
what the hell?

“I was under the impression that Her Highness was keen on your brother making headway with the younger sister,” Parker is saying.

Elsa? And
Lukas?
Jesus. No. No fucking way. Talk about oil and water.

“She says that if my bro here can’t bag the sister, I’m to go hardcore after the heir. Says . . .” He runs a hand through his dark hair and glances around the patio we’re sitting on. There are a few people about twenty meters away, but they’re easily out of earshot. “Says we will obtain an in into their shipping registries, no matter what it takes. Romantic as all shite, right?” A grimace spreads across his face. “But that’s the She-Wolf for you. Doesn’t care if she fucks over her kids, just as long as the ink on a trade agreement is legit.”

Parker gives me a meaningful look. Arsehole. I ask my brother, “Elsa’s her top pick?”

“Secondary. But she wants me working,”—he flashes air quotation marks—“
both angles
, just in case.” His tone informs me that it’ll be a cold day in hell when he follows through with such an order.

Even still, I say flatly, “You better start looking at others on that list the She-Wolf made for you.”

“You doubting my prowess?”

I tug his flask away and unscrew it. “Prowess?” I shake my head as I take a sip. It’s whiskey; he came through on his promise to find us the good stuff. “Do you even hear the words coming out of your mouth?”

He rips the flask back out of my hand once I’m done. “Do you doubt I could land that Vattenguldian chick if I tried?”

“Actually,” I tell him, more annoyed than I ought to be, “I do. And don’t be disrespectful. You do not call future monarchs
chicks,
nor do you talk about
landing
them
.
”

He’s wearing sunglasses, but I’m pretty sure he just narrowed his eyes at me. And I realize maybe a little too late that I’ve just offered him some kind of challenge. Well, shite.

Parker gives me yet another meaningful look.

“How convenient,” my brother says. “There’s the girl in question.”

Across the pool, I spy Elsa and her sister talking to some other people on a terrace overlooking the area. And that reminds me, I’m supposed to go have tea with Isabelle in a quarter of an hour. Fantastic.

Lukas stands up, shoving his flask into his pocket. I’ll be damned if he goes over there. So I say quietly, “Sit your arse back down unless you are prepared to give the She-Wolf exactly what she wants.”

He turns, eyebrows rising over dark plastic.

I keep my voice low and pleasant, lest anyone overhear us. “You’ve never been the good soldier, following marching orders. What makes today any different? Are you really ready to just roll over? Bloody hell, Luk. I never thought I’d see the day. Might as well cut your balls off and pickle them for her.”

Now he’s just pissed—and incredulous, because we both know, if anybody follows the She-Wolf’s marching orders, it’s fucking Prince Perfect.

“Your next meeting is in ten minutes, Chris,” Parker says smoothly. “Prince Lukas, I believe you have one at the same time.”

Amazingly, Lukas sits back down. “What the fuck? I’m not the heir. Spares aren’t supposed to go to meetings.”

Mat wanders up to where Elsa and Isabelle are standing. Are they to have tea, too?

“My mistake,” Parker is saying, which is a joke, because Parker doesn’t get shite wrong. Ever. But then, he was merely handling my brother before; he knows just as well as the rest of us that Lukas’ sole purpose this week is to be a stud for sale. “I thought I’d heard during orientation that there was to be a few meetings for . . .”

“Go ahead.” Lukas leans against the cushions of his chaise. “You can call me the spare. Damn, Parker, you seriously need to lighten up. The She-Wolf isn’t present. We’re mates, remember? You don’t need to treat Chris and I like we’re—”

Parker smiles thinly. “Royalty?”

Mat leads the Vattenguldian sisters back up the stairs. “Who else?” I ask.

They both appear confused, so I add, “On the She-Wolf’s list.”

Lukas’ sigh weighs down in the air. “The true target is some royal cousin who has been dragged here from Spain. The She-Wolf thinks Dad will appreciate it or something. Like it’s some kind of warped peace offering.” He scoffs. “Like that will matter to Dad. Like he’ll ever think anything good can come of this fucking farce.”

“Us,” I remind him quietly. “He would argue he got us.”

Lukas merely grunts, nursing his flask.

“Have you met this Spanish girl?” I ask. “And also, let’s not call her
this Spanish girl.
What’s her name?”

“Maria-Elena, but she said she prefers just Maria or Mari.”

I’m impressed he knows this. My brother isn’t always the best at collecting names.

      
“To answer your questions, though, yeah, we’ve run into each other a few times now. She’s hot.” A small smile slips out. “I might have, uh, gotten a little friendly with her before I knew she was my bloody intended. What about the Vattenguldian girl, Chris? The one with an icicle stuck up her arse. Any hope there?”

No. No hope for either girl, unfortunately, even though I think I might wish for it differently otherwise.

Which is a truly irresponsible wish indeed.

chapter 18

Elsa

I fight the urge to yawn, but it is a battle I’m losing. So I attempt a closed-mouth yawn, with my eyes widening alongside an added head nod so it doesn’t appear as if I’m as bored as I truly am. And tired. I’m running on all of about two hours of good, solid sleep.

Mat slides the book he showed me back onto the shelf he found it on. “Not so much a fan of the classics?”

The antique book had been about finance. “Is it truly a classic?”

“To some, perhaps.” His morose yet easy smile attempts to coax one out of me, but all I feel in return is crabbiness. Forced relationships can do that to a lady, even with a man as decent as this one.
Especially
after one’s father has forced her to spend some so-called “quality” time with said man.

“Do your duty,” was His Serene Highness’ response when I pressed why I couldn’t have tea with my sister instead. But no, she’s having tea with Christian, and I am here trying to manufacture small talk with Mathieu.

But small talk we must. “Where exactly is it that you call home nowadays?”

“My family is based in France, but I tend to bounce back and forth between Paris, Rome, and New York.”

Ah. That’s right; he said he’d lived here in the States, hadn’t he? “How do you like New York? I’ve yet to visit, although I hope to someday.”

“It’s a brilliant city, filled with a lot of life.” There’s a dulled twinkle in his eye. “Does it make me a traitor to the EU to say I prefer it to any of the grand cities I grew up in?”

“Oh, it’s a distinct possibility.”

“If I could,” he tells me, words brittle yet light, “I’d happily live the rest of my life there.”

Is that grief reflecting in his eyes?

When he faces the books, I bite back the impulse to press him about this, or to even remind him that Vattenguldia is a far cry from New York City. To do so, though, would to encourage intimacy when such closeness is definitely undesired. Awkward small talk is promptly abandoned for uncomfortable silence.