His Royal Highness Prince Magnus Ruben Ambjørn Octavian Gyldenstierne of Helgmøre—widely known as Ruben—was trying his best not to look bored. After all, contrary to popular belief, he did have some manners.

But he was almost certainly failing.

Still, he supposed it didn’t really matter. Chris Tabary, the source of Ruben’s current boredom, was so far up his own arse that he probably wouldn’t notice if Ruben whipped off his trousers and threw them out the bloody window.

“After lunch,” the older man droned, “we’ll begin touring the new build—soon to be the elite branch of the Academy, for our particularly promising pupils…”

Ruben’s mind, which had been in the middle of deciding how soon was too soon to leave, caught on the word elite like a cat with a mouse.

“What does that mean?” He demanded, leaning forward. He could almost feel the eyes of his close guard and best friend, Hans, boring into the back of his head. Could almost hear the other man’s voice: Don’t let your mouth run away with you. Again.

Clearing his throat, Ruben attempted to sound polite. “I mean—when you say ‘elite’, you are referring to…?”

Tabary blinked. Clearly, he was not used to being interrupted. But he collected himself in record time, clasping his slender hands together and offering what he probably thought of as a charming smile. It was a little too wide, a little too plastic, and showed far too many teeth.

“By ‘elite’, Your Highness—”

Ruben winced. “Please. No titles. I assume Demetria sent you the materials?” It was a rhetorical question. Demetria always sent the materials.

“Ah, yes.” Tabary appeared slightly unsettled by his mistake. He winced a little, his smile wavering, but then he dragged it back into place. “My apologies. I should say, Mr. Ambjørn. Here at the Academy, we pay special attention to those students identified as elite via our stratified testing system. Students are monitored throughout the term, and tested once per year—”

“Aside from the national tests, you mean?”

“Precisely. Every September, we undertake school-wide testing to ensure that our most elite intellectuals are separated from the other students.”

Ruben’s alarm bells were not simply ringing; they were screaming. “By testing,” he said carefully, “you refer to… ah… examination? In a room?” At Tabary’s slight frown, he added, “My English. You understand.”

Ruben’s English was perfect, courtesy of three years studying at the University of Edinburgh. But surely he must be misunderstanding here? Surely Tabary did not insist on extra testing just to create some kind of intelligence-based class system in his school?

Tabary offered a benevolent smile. “Well, yes, examinations. The students are taken into a room and asked to complete a question paper in silence. Then we mark the papers… et voila!” He chuckled.

Ruben nodded along politely. Mentally, he was planning the easiest way to extract himself from this situation.

Rosewood Academy was not an appropriate contender for the scholarship programme he planned to create. Excessive testing was something Ruben disapproved of anyway, but sending the children that his Trust catered to—children of disadvantaged backgrounds and unique needs—to a school that openly referred to better-testing students as elite…

Demetria would be so smug when she found out about this. Hadn’t she told him to stop accepting applicants based on nothing but social networking?

Shifting in his seat, Ruben turned to catch his bodyguard’s eye. Hans stood, as always, by the door, looking dour and dangerous as ever. Ruben would give the signal, and Hans would think up some sort of excuse—

The sound of voices floated in through Tabary’s office door. It was muffled, but still clear enough to distract Ruben from his plan.

“Oh! Hello…” The voice softened, trailing off into a low murmur that he couldn’t quite catch. Then came another voice in response, much lower than the first. That was one of his guards. Who were they talking to?

“Are you alright, Mr. Ambjørn?”

Ruben turned back towards Tabary, and found the man looking at him with a frown.

“Yes, yes,” Ruben said. “Just… thought I heard something.”

“Oh, there’s often a racket along these corridors.” Tabary waved a hand. “We share the tower with the administrative staff. They roam around clucking like hens, bless them. Our girls love a gossip.”

Ruben’s brows shot up. Our girls love a gossip? The patronising little shit.

Fuck manners. He was leaving.

But, before he could make a move, there came a sharp knock at the door. He had just enough time to wonder if there was some emergency—hadn’t Tabary asked not to be disturbed?—before the door opened and a hurricane swept inside.

“Chris, darling!” She tottered in on high-heels, closing the door behind her with a bump of her hips. And good Lord, what hips. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, but this absolutely couldn’t wait.”

The hurricane was a woman. A woman with laughing eyes and a heart-shaped face and a figure that could kill a man. A woman whose dark, springy curls gleamed like midnight, who has incongruously chubby cheeks and brown-sugar skin.

She sailed past Hans as if he wasn’t even there, and Ruben wondered what had happened to the men stationed outside. Then he watched her hips sway as she walked, and decided they’d probably passed out at the sight of her.

“Cherry,” Tabary said, frowning at her. Ruben wondered why he was calling her Cherry—a pet name?—and why he was frowning at the most beautiful woman on earth. Had the man no fucking sense? “This is a very important meeting,” Tabary continued.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the woman said, her tone dripping with apology. But Ruben had the strangest impression that she wasn’t sorry at all. Then, for the first time since she’d come in, her eyes flitted over to his.

And he realised that beautiful was an understatement.

Her face was almost unnaturally perfect. For one disturbing moment he was reminded of his sister—but Sophronia’s beauty was cold. So fucking cold.

This woman might burst into flame at any moment.

She slapped a stack of papers on Tabary’s desk and bent at the waist, leaning over his shoulder as she pointed at something on the first page. Her cleavage, already magnificent, swelled against the neckline of her dress. Ruben reminded himself to keep breathing.

“If you could just have a look at this,” she said, her voice soft. “I can’t quite get a handle on it…”

Tabary’s frown disappeared, and he gave the woman a look of affection. That look made Ruben’s fists clench, made him grind his teeth—which was both ridiculous and inevitable. He may not know this woman, but something about her triggered a single, disturbing thought.

I have to have her.

Confusing. Surprising. He’d seen plenty of beautiful people in his time, and he’d never reacted like this. But Ruben wasn’t in the habit of ignoring his instincts.

“Oh, Cherry,” Tabary tutted. “Silly girl. Look here; you’ve mucked up the sums. That’s all.”

The woman put her fingers to her lips. No—she brought them to hover just over her lips, which were painted scarlet. Her eyes widened like a doe’s as she gasped. “Oh, Chris! You’re right. What am I like?”

Tabary rolled his eyes dramatically, a grin bursting across his narrow face. The kind of grin that weak men released when offered the chance to correct a supposedly stupid woman. His annoyance forgotten, he handed the papers back with a fond smile. “Off you go, Cherry, dear. I am in the middle of something.”

The woman straightened up, clutching the papers to her chest. Her eyes settled on Ruben with exaggerated surprise, as if she’d only just noticed his presence. And he knew instantly that she’d orchestrated this entire thing.

“Oh, gosh,” she said. “How rude of me.” And then, skirting around Tabary’s desk, she stepped right up to him and held out a hand, and said: “Cherry Neita.”

Cherry. Her name was Cherry.

Ruben stood and took her hand in his. Her skin was warm and soft, her fingers tipped with the most outrageous nails—long and pink and glittery, all studded with gems. Ridiculous. He adored them. Bowing over her hand, Ruben pressed the ghost of a kiss to her knuckles.

Then Hans, the fucker, cleared his throat. Loudly.

Oh. Right. Kissing women’s hands wasn’t the best way to blend in.

Trying not to wince, Ruben straightened up and gave her his best smile. Prince Charming he was not—as the press loved to remind him—but for this woman, he’d do his best.

“Ruben Ambjørn,” he replied. It wasn’t a lie, he told himself. Not technically.

“Lovely to meet you,” she murmured. And for a moment, her voice dipped from the light, airy tone she’d used with Chris to something low and earthy that suited her far better. Then she looked down at their hands, arching a brow—and he realised that he was still clutching her fingers like a lost child.

He should probably let go.

No, his newly animalistic mind whispered. Never let her go.

Hm. His mind was starting to sound like a stalker.

Ruben released her, trying not to make his reluctance obvious. “What is it you do here, Ms. Neita?” He imagined she’d make an excellent teacher. Her class wouldn’t know what’d hit them.

But God, if he’d ever had a tutor like her…

“I’m in HR,” she said, shattering his fantasies. “And I really should get back upstairs. So sorry to intrude.” She turned to Tabary and flashed him a smile, wider this time—and Jesus fucking Christ, she had dimples. That simply wasn’t fair. “See you later, Chris!”

With that, she disappeared, hips swaying beneath her tight skirt. The door swung shut behind her, and the office descended into a dazed sort of silence.

Cherry fucking Neita. Fancy that.