Chapter Two #4
‘Being angry at me about this is not going to help,’ he said, getting straight to the point. ‘We need to be clear-headed about this.’
‘Why?’ she shot back. ‘The truth is we slept together in a moment of madness, two months before Carlotta died. There’s no point dressing it up as something it wasn’t, and if you want to curry sympathy from the public, the only way you can do that is to let everyone know what Carlotta was really like. ’
Tension coiled inside him. He’d hoped to find a way through the morass of cover-ups and lies, come up with a form of the truth that would leave Carlotta’s reputation intact.
She’d certainly made a lot of mistakes herself, but getting Wren pregnant was his responsibility, and Carlotta’s memory shouldn’t have to suffer for it.
What about Wren’s?
Well. Hers shouldn’t have to suffer either.
‘I’m not willing to do that,’ he said. ‘What happened between us was not Carlotta’s fault.’
Wren gave a snort, which was, again, unusual for her. She was normally much more self-contained. ‘Wasn’t it? If your marriage had been a happy one, you wouldn’t have looked twice at me.’
He shifted in his chair, uncomfortable. He’d gone through this in his head many times, what he’d have done if he’d met Wren while happily married.
And there had always been a seed of doubt in him, like a worm hidden in an apple core, that he might well have done something.
Their chemistry had been instant and powerful, and in the end he hadn’t been able to fight it.
See? You are your father’s son after all. Why bother denying it?
Isandro ignored the thought. ‘That’s true,’ he said, both to himself and to the doubt. ‘Still, the mistake was mine.’
‘It was mine, too,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t just you.’
Yet he was the one who’d made the first move.
Carlotta had been photographed in the arms of a man in a nightclub in Montecarlo, and it had seemed likely that her indiscretion would be impossible to fix this time, at least not without him spending a considerable amount of money paying off the paparazzi.
He’d been angry. They’d had an argument the week before, where he’d laid down the law about her behaviour, and she’d screamed at him loud enough for the whole palace to hear, about how he spent more time with ‘that stupid PR woman’ than he did with her.
That had hit him in a painful, vulnerable place, and he’d reacted badly.
Being even more cold and unforgiving with her than he already was, even though he’d known that was a mistake.
She’d needed kindness and understanding, not him being a prick, but it had been too late.
She’d left for Montecarlo the next day without a word to him.
He’d been sure the photo had been staged by her as revenge, and had lost his temper. Wren had come around the side of his desk, wanting to calm him, but he’d turned to her, looked into her silvery eyes, and thought that if Carlotta could have what she wanted, why couldn’t he?
It had been a split-second decision, his fury turning into something hot and demanding, and he’d gripped Wren’s upper arms before he could think about it, pulling her close, and then it had felt as if the whole room had ignited.
She’d been on his desk and he’d been inside her within seconds.
So yes. It had all been his fault.
‘I made the first move,’ he reminded her, probably unwisely.
A delicate stain of pink warmed her cheeks. ‘And I didn’t say no. I know you want to take sole responsibility for this, but you can’t, Isandro. You should blame me for—’
‘No,’ he interrupted, because letting her take the blame was just not happening. ‘The press are always harder on women, you know this. You’ll be destroyed in the media, and I won’t have my queen’s reputation suffering any more than it has to.’
Her pretty mouth tightened, but she said nothing. She knew as well as he did that he was right, no matter how much she didn’t like it.
‘I’m the King,’ he went on. ‘And while my reputation might be tarnished for a time, it’ll recover eventually.
’ It wasn’t ideal by any stretch, especially given how important not tarnishing his reputation was to him.
But Wren’s wouldn’t survive this, so if he had to sacrifice his spotless record for a year or so to help her, he would do it.
‘Fine,’ she said, biting the word off as if it tasted bad. ‘You don’t need me to help you craft anything.’
‘No, but I do need you to confirm it.’
‘Why bother?’ There was challenge in her eyes, and a defiance that had never been part of their working relationship. ‘I’m only here to do your bidding anyway.’
‘Wren.’
‘What?’ Every part of her was drawn tight, as if she was trying to keep something inside her and was afraid of it getting out. ‘It’s true, Isandro. You’ve commanded me here, and now you’re going to marry me, and I have no say in any of it. So why bother with it now?’
He said nothing. What could he say? It was the truth after all.
Then abruptly, she said, ‘If you’ll excuse me, I need to go and lie down.’ Then she rose from the chair and, without waiting for him to speak, turned and walked out.