Page 2 of Prince She Shouldn't Crave
‘Your Highness,’ Henri said with a quizzical kind of look on his face. ‘Ms Lena Rosetti.’
Ms Rosetti seemed to compose herself. She dipped into a deep and perfect curtsey. His body’s reaction was immediate and brutal, like a kick to the solar plexus. A physical blow he required all his years of royal training to not show, and that waseven before his mind had really registered the full sense of her rather than the parts he’d first noticed. Her fathomless eyes. Her intoxicating perfume.
The picture then began to click into place, almost as if his brain were putting her together like a jigsaw puzzle. There was nothing outstanding about her appearance. A black suit. Shop bought, because heknewtailoring, but nicely fitted. Her jacket buttoned up high, crisp white shirt, dull flat shoes that looked out of place with the outfit. Black hair pulled back in a severe bun. Totally unremarkable, except for her eyes, and yet he was like a tuning fork just struck. He vibrated.
‘We have a problem.’
The words simply spilled out of him with no thought to his illogical reaction to her. Her soft pink mouth opened into a perfect O. She reached up her hand almost as a reflex as if to tuck some stray hair behind her ear. Ms Rosetti had long, elegant fingers, though why that observation was of any consequence he couldn’t say. Then she seemed to hesitate, as if realising there was no stray hair to be put back into place. Instead, she rustled about her handbag. Tugged something out, held it up.
‘I broke a heel.’
He was assailed by her voice, its softness, like a caress. The melodic sound of her accent signalled she was from the country of Isolobello with its Latin roots, being an island state off the coast of Italy. Where his sister Cilla now lived, and would become future Queen when she married Prince Caspar in a number of months.
Luckily Ms Rosetti was oblivious to the sensations warring inside him, or that his words had been meant to convey another meaning entirely. That it wasn’t her lateness, but his reaction to her, that was the real issue. Then he looked at what she held in her hand. A stiletto. Black. Patent leather. The type of shoethat would make the calves of any woman wearing it swell in a distracting kind of way. Heels seductively lengthening her legs.
The type of shoes a man might ask a woman to leave on, not take off.
Gabe tried to ignore the burn of heat that once again roared over him. Instead, he concentrated on the broken heel that was, indeed, dangling from the shoe.
A faint wash of colour drifted across her cheeks. Did something show on his face? The strange desire that hit like a kick in the gut again? He needed to rein it in. Time he’d been spending trying to quell the negative press had meant a case of all work and no play. Though for Gabe, since his early twenties, any amount of ‘play’ had always been intensely discreet. He’d been taught a painful lesson of what might occur if you let the wrong person get too close. The ideas that fertile imaginations could conjure. Now, he had a firm rule. Don’t subject a woman to the glare of the spotlight unnecessarily if she was never going to be his wife.
‘Put the footwear away, Ms Rosetti. I demand punctuality of my employees, and of myself.’
‘It’s why I was late. I—I twisted my ankle on the cobblestones on the way and had to find alternative shoes.’ She looked down at her feet and his gaze followed. She seemed to wiggle her toes in her uninspiringly practical flat shoes, but his attention locked on her elegant slender ankles. Ones that his hands might encircle easily.
This wouldn’t do. What he needed was to contact one of the few friends with benefits he kept. Women who enjoyed pleasure for the evening and would go on their way. No expectations from either of them. He knew there was a certain cache in the aristocracy with being his lover, even if it would never come to anything. All he needed to do was make a call. Engage in an evening of mutual, adult pleasure.
He had no idea why, right now, that thought held no interest. Yet the recesses of his errant brain finally registered her words. Had she hurt herself? What was he thinking? Nothing sensible at all, clearly.
‘Do you require medical attention?’
She shook her head. ‘No, thank you, sir.’
He strangely liked the way she called him sir, even though all his staff used the term. What would it be like to hear her say his name? Gabriel… Gabe.
Impossible.
This was meant to be an interview. An audition of sorts, but not one for a lover.
‘Come into my office. Take a seat.’
He turned and led the way. Trying to ignore the prickle at the back of his neck indicating she was close.
He lowered himself into his own chair. Blue tie be damned. He clasped his hands in front of him. Fixed her with a glare. The one he usually reserved for more recalcitrant advisors of state, which people might describe asovertlyintimidating. She was to be in charge of hisimage. One that was very personal to him. Further, anyone who worked so closely with him might come to know secrets. Some he’d prefer weren’t exposed.
‘One hint. I value punctuality…’
‘But—’
He held up his hand. She stopped speaking. ‘…and preparedness.’
‘So do I,’ she shot straight back, then seemed to pull into herself. Adjusted her shapely jacket, which remained buttoned closed.
‘I’m a reasonable employer. However, I have high expectations.’
She nodded. Short, sharp and businesslike. ‘I understand.’
‘Excellent. Then let’s begin. I have questions.’ So many questions. Whilst she came highly recommended, she seemed underqualified for the role. ‘You’ve read the brief?’
