Page 1 of Out of Office Nights
PROLOGUE
Teodor Domene shookhis head, a bark of disbelieving laughter escaping as he raised the crystal tumbler of premium cognac to his lips and drained it. The spectacular view before him and the sounds of revelry at the wedding of the decade blurred to nothing beneath the red haze of impotent rage threatening to swallow him whole.
He really should’ve gone ahead and called his bookie to place a bet on himself on how long he’d last at his brother’s wedding before the inevitable storm of belittling, indifference and outright mockery eroded whatever good mood he’d managed to cobble together. Despite knowing what being in this place, thispalacio, did to him.
Hell, he deserved a medal for enduring a single minute, no matter how much he loved his oldest brother.
Better yet, he should’ve taken the easier way out and avoided his father altogether, royal protocol be damned. Then he wouldn’t be caught in this relentless maelstrom of seething, helpless rage.
It’d started, as always, with the little things. A too-long sideways glance from a member of the king’s inner circle here. An uncontested scoffing remark there. Jabs wreathed in humour and false smiles. Then travelling up the food chain to the throne, where it slowly spiralled into frigid, uneasy silences from his father, the king. Culminating in downright dismissal.
As a creative, the part of Teo he’d wrestled hard into emotional detachment quite admired the intricate, hived framework of it all.
There was a time when he’d talked himself into believing it wasn’t about him, that he was overthinking things, beingtoo sensitiveas his mother had liked to taunt him with when he’d done the utterly astonishing thing and complained.
These days he never allowed it to get to that stage. Where the blatant rejection got too acute for even him—older, infinitely wiser and securely cloaked in his beloved armour of deep insouciance—to make excuses.
He felt the weight of familiar scrutiny but didn’t turn around. He was well enough attuned to his twin brother to know Valenti lurked somewhere behind him, casting one of his brooding stares his way. Teo fought the dual sparks of resentment and shame.
It wasn’t fair to shove Valenti beneath the tent of his discontent when his brother had chosen a path in life that had earned their father’s respect but had also brought horrific tragedy that Teo wished he could have spared the brother he loved. He was much better off working harder to sluice off this oily sensation of worthlessness that slicked him when he visited his father’s palace. A place not very many welcomed him to despite his grudging title of Prince of Cartana.
The Playboy Prince.
The reminder brought another sordid twist of humour but not the smug satisfaction he usually derived from his carefully cultivated persona. He knew the source of that dissatisfaction. Words strewn about with little care, as sharp and stinging as had been his bad luck to avoid overhearing them all his life. Including just five minutes ago.
‘One successful union, King Alfonse. Perhaps you can work on Valenti next? Or the wild playboy? Surely it’s time he curbed his disgraceful ways?’
‘I have heirs coming out of my ears now, hopefully with more on the way. I trust Valenti to do the right thing when the time comes. As for Teo…’
There had been a charged silence, mirth siphoned from the air.
‘Perhaps it is as well that I might not be around for much longer, eh? There are some things a father can be excused for sparing himself from,no?’
Sparing himself from…like the failure of a son?
The tightness in his diaphragm was just indigestion, he was sure. He’d overindulged in the—
‘Excuse me… Your Highness?’
He tensed at the husky voice but didn’t turn around.
He’d mastered masking his feelings, but even he reached saturation point eventually. And the owner of that voice, the woman he was increasingly struggling to place in an appropriate box, possessed eyes that saw far too much.
Her throat cleared pointedly, challengingly, and with a silent grimace he discarded his glass and turned. ‘What is it?’ His tone was harsh enough to draw a flinch, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when he was positively roiling in being aggrieved.
Sabeen El-Maleh’s eyes narrowed for a nanosecond before her proud chin went up, highlighting a regal beauty that wouldn’t have been amiss in this grand, history-drenched palace. ‘I need to talk to you. I need—’
His caustic laugher stopped her. Wasn’t this the very contrary story of his life? Those who had zero use for him and those who always wantedmore? ‘You“need”? I handed you the commission of a lifetime not a handful of months ago. You had the honour of making every stitch of the Queen of Cartana’swedding dress and trousseau. You’re the envy and talk of the haute couture scene. What else could you possibly need from me, Miss El-Maleh?’
Her chin notched up higher. ‘I need to know why I’m still just yourtemporarycreative director. I deserve to—’
The feral sound working from his throat stopped her flow of words. ‘Now is not a good time,’ he interrupted. ‘You should leave.’
‘Really?’ she scoffed. ‘What could possibly be occupying you? You’ve been standing here, alone, for ten minutes.’
‘And you took that as an open invitation?’ he taunted. ‘Fine, if you’re going to impose your presence on me, then dance with me.’
‘What?’
