Page 44 of Incognito

He made me fall for him, to feel things I’ve never felt before.

He made me trust again.

He made me wish for a future no matter how far-fetched or unobtainable.

He made me want the fairytale happy ending.

Blinking back the sudden sting of tears, she said, “Then the prince goes cold on me. Says he’s leaving. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “If you ask me, that’s stranger than any of those other things I’ve had to deal with all week.”

Natasha sighed and leaned back, all out of puff. What had started out as an accusatory monologue had petered out to a pathetic cry for answers.

She scanned his face, knowing every angle as if she’d studied it her entire life. She saw the slight widening of his eyes, the tense jaw, and the flash of something akin to anguish cross his face.

That couldn’t be right. What did she expect, that he felt pain walking away after the meaningless week they’d shared?

As if.

“I don’t owe you any explanation,” he said, his stony expression unchanging, sending any faint hope that she might get closure plummeting.

“No, I guess you don’t.”

She glanced away, shame flooding her. What had possessed her to rave like that? The guy was a prince, for goodness sake. He wasn’t used to answering to anybody, so what made her think she was so special that he’d actually give her an explanation for his strange behaviour?

“Goodbye, Natasha.”

Dante pushed away from the table and inclined his head in her direction. She nodded back, aiming for the same politeness while her heart splintered into a million pieces.

He hesitated for a fraction and their gazes locked, hers inquiring and hopeful, his dark and unreadable, before he turned and walked out of her life.

24

Dante forced himself to walk out of the café and not look back, despite every instinct urging him to run back inside, sweep Natasha into his arms, and never let go.

He hadn’t expected to see her again.

He planned on leaving a terse note—along with a cheque for payment of her services as his PA, and extra because he couldn’t fulfil his promotional duties as he’d promised her in exchange for her help— at the hotel’s front desk before he left.

After stewing all night, he finally managed to get his frustration under control and knew the best thing would be to change hotels. He’d had six days of blessed anonymity, but couldn’t stay at Telford Towers for the next week while conducting official duties, seeing her, running into her, having to pretend that everything was fine between them when every time he closed his eyes, the image of her in the arms of her ex flashed before him like some awful clip of a natural disaster.

It had been a simple plan, one that would’ve been executed to perfection if he hadn’t had a hankering for one last exquisite cup of Lygon Street espresso, and hadn’t chosen the same café Natasha obviously frequented.

She must be a regular by the old man’s reaction when she walked in, but what he couldn’t fathom was his. He’d invited her to sit down when it was the last thing he wanted, yet the minute he’d seen her he’d wanted to talk to her, to give her a chance to explain.

But he couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t ask her.

Maybe he was a proud man, maybe he was stubborn like his mother always said, but when Natasha sat opposite him, looking cool and fresh in a strapless summer dress the colour of sunflowers in bloom, he hardened his heart.

He’d wanted to demand answers, to discover why she still loved her ex despite telling him otherwise, why she didn’t feel more for him, why she didn’t feel their connection.

He’d wanted to touch her, to taste her full lips, to run his fingers through her silky hair and savour her light floral fragrance.

He wanted her.

He wanted it all.

Instead, he channelled the callous king he would be one day, and allowed a cold, hard rage to consume him. He allowed his bitterness to fan the flames of his anger, a bitterness that centred on one salient fact: for a man who could have anything he wanted in this world, he couldn’t have her.

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