FELIPE HADN’T INTENDED to confess all of that to Briar earlier. There was something about her. Something that got beneath his skin, got beneath his defenses. Well, he imagined it was the same thing that got beneath his pants. And frequently. Nothing to be too concerned about.
Neither were the headlines currently calling into question whether or not he was a sociopath. Considering he had broken with tradition and declined to give his father a funeral.
He didn’t know why he would make a show of burying a dictator, and he had said as much to the media. Implications had been made—more than implications—that he was no different than the old man. That his lack of compassion—whether or not his father had deserved it—was indicative of a flaw in him, as well.
He could not be certain that wasn’t the case. Nobody could be.
He strode out of the media room, tearing at the lapel mic he had been wearing. He was done giving interviews for the time being.
Another error, and he was damned if he could figure out what the hell was driving him. He’d spent years married to a facade, and he couldn’t seem to find it now. He was damaging that which he sought to build with his inability to simply play the part he ought to.
Though he didn’t know why he was surprised.
He destroyed. It was what he did. No matter whether he wanted to or not.
He was surprised to see Briar walking toward him, dressed as though she was prepared for an evening out. She was wearing a green silk dress that conformed to her curves, with a hemline that fell well above the knee, showing off those endless legs he was so fond of. Of course, he preferred it when they were wrapped around him.
He had half a mind to grab her and drag her to his room now. Whatever plans she had. She was his, after all. His queen. To do with as he pleased. If he wanted her, then she would have to cancel her plans and see to him. He paused, frowning. He wondered if that was the sort of thing his father thought about his mother. About anyone in his life. They were his. His to use as he pleased.
“I was looking for you,” she said, her bright smile at odds with the thoughts currently chasing around his head.
“Were you?”
“Yes. I thought we might go out for dinner.”
“If you haven’t seen the headlines today I have created something of a scandal. Perhaps it would be best if we stayed in.”
She looked stubborn. Mutinous. She was quite difficult to argue within that state, he had learned. “I have seen the headlines. People are calling your character into question, and it isn’t fair. Of course you shouldn’t have thrown a large public funeral for your father. It would have been a farce. I understand that. And that’s the entire point of the two of us going out. You want me because you needed my help in softening your image. Well, let me do that.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“We will ostentatiously make an appearance together going for dinner. The entire nation will see that whatever the press says I’m on your side. Whatever anyone says, I stand with you.”
Her words rang with the kind of conviction he didn’t deserve.
“I’m not certain it will accomplish anything.”
Her dark brows lowered. “I am,” she said, her tone every inch that of a queen.
“You’ve grown very comfortable with your new role.”
She tossed her head back, her curls bouncing with the movement. “Would you prefer that I remain uncomfortable with it? I think it would be much more effective for both of us if I were comfortable. And I think it would be best for you if you complied with my plan.”
“Answer me this, my queen. Are you kidnapping me?”
A smile curved her lips. “Yes.”
“Then I suppose I have no option but to comply.”
* * *
The press was waiting outside the gates to the palace, and when the limousine he and Briar were riding in exited the gates they were nearly mobbed. Briar held on tightly to his arm, glaring out the window. “I would have us present a united front,” she said, her tone stiff. “Because I believe that what you did was right. You did it for you, and for your mother. And whether or not anyone else ever understands the full circumstances... I do.”
Those simple words caused a strange shift in his chest, and he didn’t pause to examine them. Her soft fingertips were drifting down past his arm, over his thigh.
“Careful,” he said, his tone full of warning. “The flash photography may make it so they can get shots through the window.”
He didn’t know how effective the tinted glass would be against those high-powered bulbs.
“I don’t care,” she said. “Like I said. Let them see that I stand with you. That you’re mine.
“I’m going to have the car drop us off a little way from our destination.” She tapped on the glass, and the driver lowered the divider. “Leave us just near the university,” she commanded.
He quite liked seeing her like this. So at ease with her position. So perfectly at ease in his life. It made him feel much less like questioning himself. Much less like he might be the villain, as he was worried he might have been a few moments earlier.
“There are no restaurants over by the university,” he said, reaching out and brushing some of her hair from her face. “Unless you intend to have us eat fast food.”
“I’m not opposed to a French fry, Felipe. But that isn’t what I have in mind for us tonight. I have a plan. But we need to make sure we’re seen a little bit more before we get down to it.”
He wrapped his arm around her, burying his face in her hair, his lips touching the shell of her ear. “I’m more than happy to get down to it. We don’t even need to have dinner.”
“Later,” she said, her dark eyes burning with promise. “I promise later.”
For some reason, those words caught hold of something in his chest. Sparked a memory. A feeling. One of loss. The kind of loss he hadn’t truly allowed himself to feel since he was seven years old.
He caught hold of her chin, held her face steady. “Is that a promise? A real promise? One you won’t break.”
“Have I ever denied you my body?”
She had not. And still, he couldn’t quite credit why that was. “No.”
“Then trust me.”
He couldn’t remember the last time someone had asked him to trust them. Moreover, he couldn’t remember the last time he had actually trusted someone. He wanted to. He found that he very much wanted to.
“I will hold that in reserve,” he said finally.
The car pulled up to the university, and he and Briar got out, Briar taking hold of his hand as though it was the most natural thing on earth. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had asked him to trust them, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had held a woman’s hand, either. Had he ever? He had lovers from time to time, fairly frequently, in truth. But their interaction was confined to the bedroom. That meant there was no reason for them to ever walk around with their fingers laced together.
This touch was not... Well, it wasn’t sexual. And in his life that meant it was pointless. Except it didn’t feel pointless. It felt very much like something essential. Felt very much like air. He couldn’t explain it even if he wanted to. He found he didn’t. He found he just wanted to enjoy the feeling of her soft skin against his.
It only took him a moment to realize she was taking him to the museum.
“Are you subjecting me to a gala?” He looked at her sideways. “Because I must warn you I am not in the temperament required for a gala.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What temperament is required for a gala?”
“Something much more docile than I’m capable of.”
She made a dismissive sound. “You don’t need to be docile.” She tugged on his hand, drawing him toward the entrance. “Of course, this is our own private gala. And our own private dinner.”
“I thought the point of coming out was to be seen?”
She pushed open the museum door. “It is. Well, it was. But we were seen as much as I intend for us to be tonight.”
She looked at him, her expression slightly mischievous. It made his heart beat faster, made his groin tighten. She grabbed hold of the door and pulled it shut, and impish grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“If I didn’t know any better I would say you had lured me here to seduce me,” he said. He disliked his own tone. It was far too dry, far too insincere, when there was absolutely nothing insincere about Briar. Or this act. He closed some of the distance between them, pressing his hand to her cheek. “That was not a complaint, mind you.”
She lifted her own hand, covered his with it. “I didn’t take it as one.”
“You set dinner out for us?” he asked, doing his best to keep himself from poking at her. From twisting the conversation into something overly light and familiar.
“Well, people who work for you set dinner out for us. I don’t know how to cook.” She cleared her throat. “But I didn’t bring you here to try and impress you with the food.”
She turned the lights on, and the entire antechamber lit up, the antique chandelier that hung in the entry blazing into glory. Everything was clean. A statue placed just at the foot of the staircase well lit, showcasing the marble, and the incredible skill of the artist.
“It’s nearly ready,” she said, nearly bursting with excitement. “I wanted you to see this. I wanted you to see what you have made it possible for your people to have.” She turned a circle, her arms spread wide. “All of this history. All of this beauty. It’s part of the fabric of this country and it’s been hidden from them for so long. But now it won’t be. Now everyone can come and see this. Everyone can experience this.”
He was humbled. Not so much by the art, not even by the work she had put in here. But by her exuberance for it. The happiness that she felt. Why should she be happy? Why should she be happy here with him? And excited for this task he had assigned to her as something she should be grateful for when he had uprooted her from her home? He didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand her.
And he didn’t understand the kind of unfettered joy she seemed to radiate.
Moreover, he didn’t understand the passion that she had for art. For something that seemed to exist for no other reason other than to be beautiful. For no other reason than to be looked at. It was a frivolous beauty, and he had never found much beauty in life at all. But she seemed to relish it. Seemed to worship it almost.
He wondered what it must be like to care like that. To feel like that. To live for something beyond the grim march to a goal.
“Come this way,” she said. “They’ve set a table for us in my favorite wing.”
“What is your favorite wing?” he asked, finding that he was unable to wait for the answer to that question to be revealed naturally.
She paused. “Impressionists.” She smiled, her expression pretty, clearly pleased with the fact that he had asked.
“Why?” he persisted as he followed her down a long corridor, and into a large, open showroom with paintings mounted on each wall. A table was set in the middle with plates covered by trays. There were no candles, and he found that didn’t surprise him.
She wouldn’t expose her beloved art to anything that might burn it.
She was clearly puzzled by his question. “I don’t know. I mean, I do know. But it’s hard to put into words. It speaks to my soul in a way that...resonates beyond language.”
Those words put him in the mind of something that resonated in him. It brought to mind images of his hands on her skin. The contrast of his fingers gliding over her dark beauty, an erotic kick to the gut that shocked him every time. The feel of her...of being over her, in her...there was nothing on earth like it.
He’d had sex more times than he could count, with more women than he cared to count. This reached beyond that. He imagined she would not enjoy him comparing their physical relationship to the art she loved so much. But he had no other frame of reference.
“It’s not as detailed as some styles,” she continued. “It’s not perfect. There’s something almost...messy about it when you look up close. Chaotic. And yet, when you stand back and you look at the whole picture it creates something beautiful.”
“Why does that appeal to you so? You seem like nothing more than perfection to me, Princess.”
She tilted her head to the side, her expression full of speculation. “I suppose it’s because I like to think that...if someday I should ever become...something other than what I have tried to be, then somebody would look at me and try to see the beauty. That somebody would step back and see who I am as a whole. And find me lovely.”
“You could never be anything less than beautiful,” he said, his voice rough. “It would be impossible.”
“You’re talking about physical appearance. And it isn’t that I don’t appreciate that,” she said, looking down. “It’s just that... That isn’t all there is. And it isn’t really my primary concern. But I always felt that...my parents—the parents I was raised with, not the king and queen—were older when they took me in. And they loved me. They have always behaved as though I was their own. But they never had any children before me. I was the first. And I could tell that though I brought them joy I brought them an equal measure of anxiety. And I did my very best to transcend that. To make up for it. To be worth the sacrifice. Because before I came into their lives they had so much less responsibility. So much less worry. I always felt like I had to do something to offset that. To be the girl that was worth that sacrifice.”
“That is quite the feat. For a young girl to attempt to be perfect. To try and justify your existence. A child should never have to do that.” His existence had always had purpose, for he was his father’s heir. And then in end, his purpose—no matter that it had been a secret one—had been to right the wrongs his father had committed against his people.
But she had wondered. Had wondered what she should do to make herself worthwhile, when she should have known all along she had a kingdom depending on her. When she should have known she had parents in the US and in Verloren who cared for her.
She had not. It had all been hidden from her.
He despised his role in that. The role his family had played in that. His father. But then, that was nothing new. His father ruining lives. Him ruining lives.
“I can’t remember any different,” she said, her tone soft. “It has always been that way for me. For as long as I can remember.”
“Except, you can imagine different. If not, you wouldn’t like these paintings quite so much.”
“Perhaps not.”
She stopped talking then, directing him toward the table that was set for two, any staff who might have placed the settings now conspicuously absent.
“If I didn’t know any better I would think you were trying to seduce me,” he said.
She smiled, her earlier sadness vanishing. “I am,” she said, her tone light, cheerful, as she picked up a glass of wine and lifted it to her lips.
“You should know that you don’t need to go to so much effort. In fact, you don’t need to go to any effort at all. Showing up is about all it takes.”
Her expression changed, and suddenly, she looked slightly wistful. “Is that true of me? Or is it true of all women that you...that you do this with?”
“I have never done this with another woman. Oh, of course I have had lovers, Briar. But I have never... I have never associated with a woman outside the bedroom.”
“Never?”
He shrugged. “You have never had a relationship, either. Why is it so alarming that I haven’t?”
“Well, I had never had a sexual relationship with anyone, either. It seems like one should...lead to the other. So yes, alarming is the word I would use. That you’ve been physically intimate with someone and never...”
“You use the word intimate to describe sex often, but to me seeking physical release with someone was nothing.” He could see by her expression that those words had hurt her. “In the past,” he said, softening his tone, not quite sure why he felt the impulse to do so, only knowing that he did not like that he had been responsible for putting that desolate expression on her beautiful face.
“So I’m different?” She sounded so hopeful, and he wondered why on earth she would waste her hope on him.
“It is so important to you to be different.” Suddenly the words that she had spoken when they had walked in and spoken of the Impressionists clicked together with these. And he understood. More than that, he cared. Whatever that meant.
“It is not so unusual that a woman would want to be special to her lover.” She slid her wineglass back and forth, her focus on the dark liquid.
“Yes, but that is the thing.” He pressed his hand over hers, stopping the nervous movement. “You are more than my lover. You are to be my wife. You have more power, more position, in my life than any woman ever has.”
She smiled, clearly pleased by that. And he was happy that he had made her smile. He couldn’t recall ever taking such pleasure in someone else’s happiness before. Except... Dimly, in the recesses of his mind he could remember trying to make his mother happy when his father had just been being an ogre. Could remember trying to make her smile in spite of the abuses they had both suffered.
As if the antics of a little boy could heal the actions of a madman.
They hadn’t. Clearly. If they could have, his mother would still be here. She wouldn’t have leaped out a window rather than continue to suffer at the hands of his father. Rather than continue to try to deal with a little boy who would always make that situation untenable. Order. His father had wanted order and he hadn’t been able to give her that much. Hadn’t realized that if he’d simply...
He tugged on his cuffs.
No, he had never been enough. Not when it counted.
Much like then, that smile on Briar’s face probably didn’t extend as far down as it needed to go. Much like then, he imagined he would be found wanting. But Briar would be queen. And she would have her art. She would have this place. And they had their passion. He would be faithful to her. He remembered then that he had never told her so.
“I will not repeat the sins of my father,” he said.
“Which sins?”
“I will be faithful to you.”
She blinked. “I didn’t realize that was ever up for debate,” she said.
“I had not promised you fidelity.”
She frowned. “I thought that was a given with marriage. Unless you’re an awful person. Like your father.”
“I kidnapped you,” he said simply. “At what point did you begin thinking I was a decent man?”
“You’ve never hurt me. I understand why you did what you did,” she said, looking down at where his hand was still pressed over the top of hers. “I understand why you need my help. And I’m honestly happy to give it.”
Suddenly, he didn’t like that. Didn’t like that she was offering him help. That she was putting herself forward as another mark of her perfection. He didn’t want that. Perversely, he wanted her to be with him because she wanted to be.
There was no logic in that. To want that from the woman he had forced to accept his proposal.
Offer her freedom. See what she does.
No. He could not do that. She couldn’t have her freedom. She could not be given that opportunity. Because he needed her. He did. Whatever he wanted, he would have to be content with what they had.
There was no reason he should not be. He had everything he wanted.
He would not be everything she wanted, that was inescapable. For this was not the life she had chosen for herself. And why did he care about that at all? Only a few weeks ago he would not have. He had not. He had kidnapped her from a hospital for God’s sake.
And now, sitting here in this quiet museum with her, his hand pressed over the top of her knuckles, he burned. Ached. Wanted more than he should. Wanted things that conflicted with his goals.
“If you’re offering martyrdom to me—the kind of martyrdom that you gave your parents—then I will state for the record that I don’t want it.”
“You want me to help with your cause. To comply with your wishes. You never cared why I was giving it before. You threatened me, in fact, if I didn’t give it. How can it not be martyrdom?”
“You’re offering me your help, saying that you understand, looking at me with those angelic eyes of yours... Pity. You look at me like I’m a dog you pity. I may have taken that from my queen, but not from my lover.”
“I’m trying to help. I’m trying to do what’s expected of me. I’m trying to find my place here. This is for me as much as it is for you. I never knew where I fit. All my life I didn’t know. I felt wrong. I knew I had come from somewhere else. I knew that. There were people all around me who can trace their lineage back to the Mayflower and I couldn’t trace mine back to my parents. I couldn’t remember the first four years of my life. Well, apparently, I was born to be royalty. So here I am. And I’m trying my very best. To make this mine. To make a place for myself. And you’re accusing me of playing at empty perfection.”
He didn’t know why he was pressing this. Didn’t know why he cared at all. Mostly, he didn’t know why there was a howling, wrenching pain in his chest when he thought of her simply lying back and doing her duty for him.
He wanted to mess her up. Mess them both up.
“I have pushed you every step of the way,” he said. “And you... You seem completely and utterly compelled to prove your worth. Why should I think it’s anything different?”
She stood, pushing her chair back, her dark gaze level with his. “What do you need? You need some sort of symbol that I’m here on my own? That I’m making choices? That this isn’t about me simply complying quietly?”
She reached behind her back, and he heard the soft sound of a zipper. Then she stepped out of her dress. The shimmering fabric fell to her hips, and she pushed it down all the way to the floor.
“When have I ever complied quietly when it comes to you, Felipe?” She unhooked her bra, pushed it down her arms and then sent her panties along the same path, until she was standing naked before him wearing nothing more than a pair of high heels that made her impossibly long legs seem all that much longer. “I screamed and shouted at you as you kidnapped me from the hospital. I refused you until...”
“Perhaps only until you found that there was enough here to make compliance worth it.” He was pushing. Pushing hard. And he wanted to see how hard she would push back.
She moved to him, and he stayed seated in his chair, allowed her to curl her fingers around the back of it, to lean over him, her breasts hovering temptingly close to his lips. “Do you think I’m weak? Do you think I’m frightened of you?”
“I think you should be.” He lifted his hand and touched her chin. “I ruin people.” Then he tilted his face up and scraped his teeth along the underside of her chin. “If you think that by playing perfect you can somehow outrun that fate, then I have news for you.”
“Perhaps you should ruin me. Perhaps...we all need to be a little bit ruined. Like one of my paintings.”
It so closely echoed his earlier thoughts that it blanked his mind for a moment. But she seemed to be able to read him. That she seemed to...understand him. And that she had not run in the other direction.
He placed his hands on her shoulder blades then slid his fingertips down the elegant line of her spine, to the perfect curve of her ass. He was already so hard he hurt, his arousal pressing against the front of his slacks.
He reached up then, forking his fingers in her hair, curling his fingers around the massive curls and tugging her head back as he pulled her more firmly onto his lap, rolling his hips upward, well aware that he was rubbing his hardness against that place she was already wet and needy for him. She was undoing him, he couldn’t deny it. But he would see her undone, as well.
If he was going to break, she would break along with him. They would break together.
He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the pounding pulse at the base of her neck, then tracing a trail up to her jaw with the tip of his tongue, along upward to her lips, where he claimed her fiercely, with no delicacy at all.
She gasped, her fingers working clumsily on the front of his shirt, tearing at his tie, at the buttons there. And then she gave up, hands moving to his belt buckle, tugging at the fabric until she freed his erection. She curled her delicate fingers around him, her hand small and dark, soft, over that rock-hard arousal, the contrast an aphrodisiac that nearly sent him over the edge.
“Show me,” he said, planting his hands on her hips, holding her steady over him. “Show me how much you want me.”
Keeping her hand on him, she tilted her hips forward and guided him toward her slick entrance, placing him there, slowly lowering herself onto him. His breath hissed through his teeth and he let his head fall back, let himself get lost in all that tight, glorious heat.
It was tempting to close his eyes, to shut everything out except for that sensation. But he forced himself to keep them open, so that he could look at her. So that he could watch the glorious bounce of her breasts as she rocked herself up and down over him.
He looked beyond her shoulders, at all the art that was mounted on the walls. She rivaled all of it. Made these masterworks as finger paintings in his eyes. He slipped his hands up to her narrow waist, holding her hard as she moved.
Then he leaned forward, capturing one of her nipples with his mouth, sucking it in deep. She let out a low, hoarse sound and her pleasure exploded all around him. She didn’t close her eyes; instead, she looked deep into his, her expression one of fierce intensity and concentration.
This was just for him. She had never even kissed another man before him. She had certainly never come for another man. And here he was, buried deep inside her, wringing out every last bit of her pleasure, taking it on as his own. He didn’t deserve it. Didn’t deserve her. And yet, he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t fathom not taking this. Not taking her.
She tossed her head back at the last moment, planting her hands on his shoulders as she ground her hips against his, extracting each and every possible wave of pleasure from him, her climax a fierce and wild thing he didn’t deserve in the least.
When she righted herself, when she looked at him again, he was the one who had to look away. He was undone by that emotion in her eyes. A vulnerability that ran beneath the strength he had just seen. The kind of vulnerability a man like him could exploit. A softness he could so easily destroy.
The sort of thing he would do well to be gentle with. And yet he found himself tightening his hold on her. Driving himself up inside her as he chased his own release. As he allowed that white-hot wave to wash over him, to steal every thought, every doubt, from his mind. At the moment he was inside Briar. And she was all around him. Her soft skin, her delicate scent, everything that she was filling him, consuming him.
A soft smile curved her lips, an expression of wonder on her face. She cupped his head in her hands, sliding her thumbs along the line of his jaw as she gazed down at him. No one had ever looked at him like this before. As if he were a thing they had never before seen. As if he were something magic.
He should explain to her that he was not magic. He was not unique. And he would only destroy her.
Instead, he found himself reaching up, wrapping his hands around her wrists, pulling her more firmly against him, forcing her to wrap her arms around his neck. His lips pressed against hers, and when he spoke it was nearly a growl. “We will be married next week. Then you will truly be mine.”
Her lashes fluttered, a slight hint of shock visible in those dark eyes. But then she smiled. “I’m glad.”
She shouldn’t be. And he had a feeling in time she wouldn’t be. But self-sacrifice was for another man, a better man. And if he was a man capable of those things, perhaps he would be worthy of her.
And so it was an impossible situation. For her.
As for him, he would have what he wanted.
The dragon inside him was content. And the man... Well, the man wanted her already, all over again. As though she had opened up a need inside him that he’d never before known existed. One he was afraid would never entirely be satisfied again.
Good thing they would have a lifetime for him to try and exhaust it.
Then she did something he could not have anticipated. She leaned forward, kissing him softly, sweetly. And then she spoke.
“I love you.”