Chapter Two #2
‘Yes,’ he said, his tone clipped. ‘You’re right. In that case…’ He prowled over to where she stood, digging into the pocket of his suit trousers as he did so, and taking out a small box.
Wren froze, her pulse beating like a drum in her head. He opened the box himself, and took out a ring with the most magnificent, vivid blue diamond in the centre. It was set in a platinum band and surrounded by other diamonds.
She knew the ring. It was an heirloom piece that had once graced Carlotta’s finger.
‘Your hand, please,’ Isandro ordered.
Wren didn’t want to give it to him. She didn’t want that ring on her finger, and she really, really didn’t want to marry him in full view of the general public.
She didn’t want to marry him in an airport lounge either.
She didn’t want to marry him, full stop.
Not like this. Not when it was only obligation on his part.
He wasn’t going to let her leave, though, which meant there was no other option for her but to do what he said.
‘Isandro,’ she began.
‘Your hand,’ he insisted, and then, when she didn’t give it to him immediately, he reached down and took it.
The warmth of his skin on hers was an electric shock to her system, jolting her awake. Her breath caught and, instinctively, she looked up at him, straight into his inky blue gaze. Fire leapt there, a sudden, flickering flame, and all the breath rushed from her lungs.
That air between them was abruptly thick with memories. That hot, desperate, feverish kiss. Him lifting her onto the desk then shoving her skirt up, before stroking between her thighs…
‘Don’t,’ he said roughly. ‘Not here.’ He didn’t need to explain, she knew what he meant. Don’t think about that afternoon. Don’t think about how it felt and how intense the pleasure had been. Don’t think about any of it.
Isandro looked away, pushing the ring onto her finger without any niceties.
Her throat closed, a bitter grief flooding through her. ‘I don’t even get a proposal?’ she asked, unable to stop herself.
Isandro’s gaze rested on her for a moment, as cold as it had ever been. ‘What would be the point? This isn’t a love story, Wren. This is necessity.’
Of course, it wasn’t a love story. It never was and never could be, and she knew that. She knew that.
It was only her heart that had never got the message.
* * *
Isandro bore the drive from the airport back to the palace grimly. Wren sat in the limo as far away from him as it was possible to get. She was gazing out the window, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
The ring he’d put on her finger glittered in the afternoon light.
He’d imagined putting that ring on her finger once or twice, allowing himself impossible little fantasies, yet he’d never imagined shoving it on the way he had, without even a proposal. And Wren’s face, the betrayal on it…
He pushed the memory away, hardening himself.
Her feelings didn’t matter in the greater scheme of things, and neither did his.
This was about taking responsibility for his actions, and making sure his child grew up where he or she belonged, as part of the royal family and his heir.
It wasn’t going to be easy for either of them to front up to what they’d done, but, in time, the scandal would be forgotten and his child accepted by the population.
She’d been right about the wedding, though.
Marrying her in secret in an airport lounge would make the whole situation look even worse than it already was.
If she was going to be his queen, he’d have to present her to the people and to his parliament, a much easier job after a formal engagement and with a royal wedding scheduled.
There would be bad press, of course, but he was prepared for that.
He’d thought long and hard about this, and while in the short term there would certainly be fuss, in the long term his reign would be better for it.
Wren was right about her past, too. Parliament would not like the bastard daughter of a woman who’d nearly brought down a government as their queen, and once they found out…
Well. He was looking at weeks of hysterical media coverage, and strong opposition from Parliament.
Automatically, he started thinking about PR strategies that Wren might employ to handle the situation, then realised that Wren would not be employing any strategies. She’d be his queen, not his fixer.
Something hot and possessive pulsed low in his gut, the part of himself that was his father. It was triumphant, that part, because it meant that, not only would the child be his, she would be his, too.
Isn’t that what you wanted from the moment you saw her?
Isandro turned to the window, staring sightlessly out at the city beyond, rather than the woman in the car with him.
Her luscious, delicious scent wound around him, vanilla and musk and sex.
She was only an arm’s length away. He could touch her if he wanted, bring her close if he wanted.
Kiss her if he wanted, she wouldn’t refuse him.
That moment in the lounge, when he’d touched her, put that ring on her finger, had told him everything he wanted to know about whether she still wanted him.
She did. Oh, yes, she did.
But those were dangerous thoughts. Those were thoughts his father would have acted on without a second’s hesitation, following his own selfish desires wherever they led him without heed to the consequences.
Isandro had done that once, and, given the consequences that he was now dealing with, it wasn’t something he’d ever do again. His desires must be kept in check, must be controlled, and he couldn’t do that around Wren.
What does it matter? If she’s going to be your wife?
Again, a low, hot pulse went through him, tensing his muscles and hardening his cock.
He could have a wedding night. A proper wedding night.
The one he’d had with Carlotta had been disappointing, though he’d made an effort to hide his lack of enthusiasm.
Not that she’d enjoyed it, either. They’d had no chemistry to speak of, and after the disappointments of not being able to conceive, she’d taken to sleeping in her own room rather than his.
If you don’t take Wren to bed, you’re looking at a lifetime of celibacy.
He shifted in his seat, his jaw tight. That was true.
His bed had been cold for years, which had been part of the reason he’d lost his head so profoundly that afternoon in his office.
So, logically, if he didn’t want to make the same mistake with another woman further down the track, sleeping regularly with Wren was almost mandatory.
Not that he would ever make that same mistake with another woman. He couldn’t even conceive of it.
Except you clearly did conceive of it when it came to Wren, so who knows? You’ve got too much of your father in you.
Isandro gritted his teeth. Well, he knew that.
Which made it even more imperative that he and Wren have a full marriage.
That, of course, could sound like an excuse, and Xavier had certainly had plenty of those, but Isandro knew himself.
If his current obsession and temptation was already in his bed, then he’d be less likely to stray.
The base part of him growled in approval at the decision, already thinking of a wedding night and Wren, naked in his bed, clawing at his back and screaming his name.
The thought made him even harder, but he ignored it.
He wouldn’t touch her again until they were married, when it was all legal and above board, and not a moment before.
He’d expected Wren might want to ask him questions during the journey back to the palace, but she didn’t. She remained tense and silent the whole way, staring fixedly out the window.
She really didn’t want to marry him, did she?
She’d gone white when he’d told her about his decision, and there’d been real fear in her eyes.
He could understand that—facing up to what you’d done was never easy—but surely she must know that he’d protect her from the worst of it?
He might be furious about the situation, but he’d never leave her to deal with it on her own.
Another thing he would have to talk to her about.
* * *
The Valdoran royal palace was ancient and built on a rocky promontory that overlooked the capital city of Valdoria. It was grand in the old, medieval way, with turrets and curtain walls, and battlements.
His father had hated the palace, living mostly in a ghastly and tastelessly decorated mansion just outside the city, but Isandro loved it.
He loved the history, and the ancient stones, and the walled gardens that were like little oases of calm.
His mother had loved the palace, too, and before she’d left, she’d taken a personal hand in the designing of said gardens.
Pity she hadn’t taken such personal attention with him, but all that was in the past now. He never thought of her any more.
Arriving at the palace, Isandro had his driver take him around to the King’s private entrance, off to one side of the huge front gates. It was through an archway in the curtain wall, and so hidden from the eyes of the general public. No point advertising Wren’s presence here before he was ready.
The entrance led directly into the King’s private wing, where his apartments and offices were located.
He’d had the whole thing redone after his father had died, since Xavier had had a fondness for gold and had gilded everything in sight.
Isandro had ripped out the gilt and returned the King’s wing to its original state, with stone walls and weathered parquet flooring.
Carlotta had complained about how dark it was, but Isandro had disagreed. Perhaps it was a little dark, but considering the palace had been built in the early Middle Ages, that was to be expected. Also, it was historic and much more true to his own reign and not that of Xavier.