Thabiso stood in the middle of the orderly stainless steel kitchen holding the plate of kale, staring at the space Naledi had occupied before giving him an order and rushing off.
This was the woman who should have been his bride, whose destiny had been entwined with his by religious divination and royal decree. The woman whose family had broken their promise and brought dishonor on themselves and on the priestesses who had fasted and sweated and prayed for days before choosing Naledi as the future queen. She should have been bowing down and begging forgiveness; instead she had thrown greens at him and ordered him about as if he were a peasant and not a prince.
His people would be incensed, his parents aghast. Thabiso was intrigued.
Naledi.
Her eyes were large, the deep brown irises fringed with long, long lashes. Her skin was a smooth, radiant brown that gave her an aura of innocence, as if she’d yet to encounter anything in this life trying enough to crease her brow in worry. Her mouth was another tale entirely. Wide, lush lips that left any thoughts of innocence far behind even though they were bare of makeup. Her accent was not quite like the New York accent from films he’d seen, but captivating all the same.
She was more beautiful than the photos Likotsi had poached from her barely used social media accounts. She’d been reserved in the photos—the pictures hadn’t captured her energy. There was a solid air about her; she seemed like someone you could trust to get a job done.
Then why was she here, and not in Thesolo as her betrothal demanded?
He could have just asked her that, point-blank, but something had stopped him. It was the way she had looked at him. There had been heat in those lovely eyes of hers as her tongue swiped over her luscious bottom lip, but more importantly, there had been no sign of recognition. He had been slightly annoyed as he’d watched and waited for a reaction from her and realized none was forthcoming. He had imagined dozens of variations on their reunion—her apologizing, at the very least, had been a recurring theme. There had been no kale in any of them. But the way she had looked at him as if he were just another man was like a magic door opening up beside the one he’d thought was his only way forward.
She doesn’t know who I am.
Thabiso was used to being regarded as HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, was bored of it really, but the thread of lust that had spun taut between them like a strand from Fate’s loom had been inspired by him and him alone. Thabiso had wanted to tug at the thread, pull her closer until she was in his arms. And he wanted to enjoy just a bit more of her time before he became Prince Thabiso and she became another Thesoloian project to be managed. Because that was what any talk of betrothal and marriage would be for him: work.
There was something else that had held him back: her eyes. The aura of joy and happiness from her childhood photo was gone. She’d been friendly, but there was a wariness to her that gave him pause. He had been trained to read body language, an invaluable skill when negotiational prowess could decide the future of millions of people, and she was as cagey as any diplomat he’d ever encountered. But in the moment when he’d first caught sight of her, she’d been vulnerable. Frustrated. A woman at the end of her rope.
Thabiso had often wondered how his life had been impacted by her absence—he’d spent a lifetime being told what could have been if his betrothed hadn’t disappeared—but what had her life been like without him? Without Thesolo?
He’d meant to sweep into her mundane job and dazzle her, a task made easy when you were royalty, but nothing had gone as planned since he’d walked into the building.
When a riverbed takes a sharp curve, the water follows.
Thabiso looked down at the kale, then turned and walked out of the double doors toward the table of rude people who had assumed he was a waiter. Naledi had believed this as well. Was there something about him that exuded a sense of servility? He had thought his shirt becoming, but perhaps he would have to tell Likotsi to retire it.
Thabiso dropped the plate onto the table with a loud ceramic thunk.
The man who had requested it took it up in his hand without even looking at him, continuing to converse with his compatriots. He had just been waited on by royalty and couldn’t even manage a nod of gratitude?
Son of a two-legged antelope . . .
Thabiso waited a moment longer for the recognition owed to him, and then snatched the kale back.
“I beg your pardon,” the man said, clearly confused as he finally turned his gaze toward Thabiso.
“Your pardon is denied. I just performed a task for you. The correct thing to say in this situation is ‘Thank you.’” Thabiso imbued each word with the disdain learned from years of etiquette lessons.
The man sputtered, eyes wide behind his glasses, then stammered out a thanks. Thabiso returned the kale to him.
“You are welcome.” He clapped his hands together. “Now, you must leave this place, as I’ve been informed that there is work to be done for a later event. I give you permission to take this plate with you, as it’s obviously of inferior quality and will not be missed.”
The man and his group of friends quickly gathered their things and shuffled out. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched them go.
Do I ever thank my servants?
He couldn’t remember explicitly doing so. His servants had always been there, like the photos of ancestors on the walls and the furniture handed down for generations. Surely, they didn’t feel affronted when he waved or beckoned without a word. He was a prince, after all. He had expectations that commoners couldn’t be expected to understand.
A familiar censuring tap on his shoulder reminded him of Likotsi’s presence. “If I may be so bold, Your Highness—what, exactly, are you doing?”
“I’m working,” Thabiso said. He was feeling rather pleased with himself. Not only was he an excellent negotiator and a shrewd businessman, but having completed the tasks assigned him, he was well on his way to becoming a master waiter, too. The goddess really did shine on all of his undertakings. “It appears I have acquired a job.”
Likotsi’s mouth gaped in dismay and she shook her head. “No. No, Sire. You have a job. Princeing. And you also have a business dinner with the Omega Corporation in two hours.”
Thabiso had thought he would show up, make Naledi rue the day her family had slunk out of Thesolo like minks, and then continue with his trip. But she hadn’t known who he was. And he wanted to know more about the intriguing, if somewhat strange, beauty.
Thabiso shrugged. “Omega can wait.”
Likotsi’s mouth went tight. “The finance ministers made very clear how important this meeting is.”
The finance ministers sent me here to sell our country’s well-being to the highest bidder. But he couldn’t tell her that; she knew his most intimate details, but not that he’d agreed to allow the minerals to be extracted from beneath peoples’ ancestral lands. There would be relocation, paid for of course, but it still didn’t sit well with him.
“The people will understand that the well-being of a nation comes first, Prince Thabiso.”
Sometimes a prince had to do unsavory things. And sometimes plans changed.
“The goddess has presented me with the chance to know Naledi, and I cannot pass it up for Omega Corp.”
“Is that what you wanted, sire? To . . . know her?”
Thabiso hadn’t thought so. What had he wanted when he tasked Likotsi with finding her? A reckoning? An outlet for his frustrations? Something, anything, other than the thousand worries that beat at his shoulders like the noonday sun? It didn’t matter. Now that he had seen Naledi, he wanted to know her. It may have been a whim, but that was his wont, and it was the very least owed to him.
“Naledi has mistaken me for a new coworker. Can you think of a better chance for me to learn about her, and why she left, than to observe her from the same lowly level she occupies? If I tell her who I am, as planned, she would immediately change her behavior and we might never learn the truth.”
He was being selfish, and for a very simple reason. He’d never had someone ask him to do something simple like deliver a dish of food; no one would ask such a thing of a prince—not unless they wanted to be shamed. The demands usually made of him were much more strenuous and always came with a price, no matter how deferential the person was when they asked. Naledi had ordered him to do something without blinking, without a hint of brownnosing, and he found that he wanted her to do it again.
Likotsi drew herself back in horror. “You wish to engage in deception! By Ingoka, goddess of truth and virtue, I cannot allow it.”
Thabiso dropped his gaze to the ground, not because he was ashamed but because he had long ago learned how to bypass his assistant’s innate sense of honor. He caught her eye and grinned at her, then glanced around the room conspiratorially.
“Why Likotsi . . . don’t you wish to solve the mystery of the missing matrimonial match? To discover why her parents abandoned their lives, friends, and family? Why they fled from their duties and her birthright?”
“Well . . . yes.” Some of the stiffness went out of Likotsi’s shoulders.
“And do you think if I tell her who I am, she’ll just reveal that secret? Especially in light of her response to your email campaign?”
Likotsi paused, pursed her lips. “Perhaps not.”
“Then it is settled. I can get close to her through this job and find out her secrets. It will be an undercover adventure, like in the Suncatcher novels of our youth!”
Just then, a lanky young man walked into the dining room, his hoodie and faded jeans indicating he was a student. He hesitated and, seeing no one else around, turned to Thabiso and Likotsi.
“Hey. I’m Jamal. I’m supposed to start working here this afternoon? Sorry I’m late. My train was stuck in a tunnel for like forty-five minutes. You know how it is.”
Ah. The source of their misunderstanding—and the man who had allowed him to gain closer access to his betrothed. The priestesses often said that Ingoka took many forms to shepherd believers onto their true path. Thabiso took such sayings with a grain of salt, but perhaps Jamal was one of these shepherds.
“The position has already been filled, Jamal,” Thabiso declared. “But you will be reimbursed for making your way here. Likotsi, please pay him for his troubles.” He glanced at the kitchen doors, through which Naledi could emerge at any moment. “Outside.”
“Wait. Hold up!” Jamal said, taking a step forward in protest. “You can’t just go back on your word. I need this job, man.”
The pleading in the man’s voice took Thabiso by surprise—who would be so upset over the loss of such trivial work? But then Thabiso remembered the charts about joblessness in American youth that he had studied; jobs were not plentiful in this country, and colleges were not free or affordable as they were in civilized nations like Thesolo.
“Give him fifteen thousand dollars,” Thabiso said, his gaze still on the kitchen. “Twenty. Just do it away from here.”
Jamal stood still, mouth wide-open. The hands he’d thrown up in annoyance dropped to his sides and smacked against his jeans. “That isn’t funny.” His brow creased. “You serious?”
“You question my honor?” Thabiso asked, slitting his gaze toward Jamal.
“People don’t go around slinging cash like this. Is this a joke or . . .”
“If you want the money, follow Likotsi and she will give it to you.”
Thabiso could tell Likotsi didn’t approve of this expenditure. “Your Hi—”
“I’ve spent more on shoes and you’ve said nothing. Get the young man his money and I will see you at the hotel tonight.”
She gave a brusque nod and made for the exit with Jamal quick on her heels.
“Thank you?” he called out over his shoulder.
Thabiso headed back to the kitchen, to Naledi. He’d been training to run an entire country for most of his life. How hard could serving dinner be?