CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER TWO
A N HOUR LATER , Mel’s insides were still churning from her close encounter with Prince Overbearing Arse as she crept down the East Wing’s service staircase in her winter gear, toting a bag packed hastily for the journey. It had taken an age to get out of the blasted dress and deconstruct the chignon a team of hairstylists had spent an hour constructing.
The bass beat of amplified music echoed dully in the concrete stairwell as she reached the entrance to the garage and keyed in the code given to her by Marco, the young mechanic she had charmed that afternoon.
She pushed the security door, which opened with a loud clang.
At least the New Year celebrations were still going strong in the ballroom several floors above—which meant she had no chance of being waylaid or manhandled by the Egomaniac again. Because Rene would have returned to the party—to find a willing woman to warm his bed for the night.
Twin tides of anxiety and temper were joined by the prickle of something that felt uncomfortably like envy—which she ruthlessly ignored. She had been one of Rene’s conquests once, and while she now understood far too well why he was so irresistible to so many women, she had absolutely no desire to be one of his harem. The sex had been overwhelming, physically as well as emotionally, but being the centre of his attention for that one night—the focus of all that charm and charisma—had also been disturbing. Because she had managed to kid herself for weeks afterwards that they had shared something rare and precious—when she now knew they hadn’t.
Sex was a game to Rene, one he played well, but it could never be a game to her.
His rejection had hurt, but what had hurt far more was how thoroughly she had allowed herself to fall into the trap of thinking there was a complicated man behind the mask of the dissolute Prince. Especially as she had known, even as a girl of ten, that Rene Gaultiere had no hidden depths.
When someone told you who they were, you needed to believe them. After all, her father had taught her that lesson before she had ever met Rene.
She pushed the unsettling thoughts to one side. This was all ancient history, which Rene had deliberately yanked out into the open with his caveman routine tonight. Maybe he enjoyed getting the better of her. It wouldn’t be the first time, given their endless feud as kids, when he had taken great pleasure in teasing her and Isabelle. She had been the one to stand up to him because Isabelle had always been far too sweet. But he wasn’t her problem any more, especially once she got out of here.
She scanned the cavernous, dimly lit garage in earnest, searching for the vehicle she had arranged with Marco to have fuelled and waiting for her, the keys in the ignition—ready for her to pick up first thing in the morning.
She walked along the rows of expensive luxury cars, gleaming in the half-light, then spotted an all-terrain vehicle at the far end, near the exit ramp. The huge silver car, its wheel arches almost as high as the low-slung sports car beside it, looked ready for anything… And like a lot more vehicle than she had ever handled before.
She swallowed the bubble of apprehension. Just because she was more used to being chauffeur-driven these days didn’t mean she couldn’t handle the all-terrain monster.
She sighed with relief as the door opened with a satisfying click. The SUV was unlocked. Yup, this was definitely her ride. She slung her pack into the back seat, tugged off her ski jacket and clambered into the driver’s seat.
The keys, though, weren’t in the ignition. She frowned, then began to search for them, wondering where on earth Marco had left them instead.
‘Looking for these, Melody?’
Her gaze shot up, and her heartbeat hit her chest wall.
The Prince of Saltzaland was standing leaning against a concrete pillar not five feet in front of the car, wearing dark jeans, boots, a black polo-neck and a shearling jacket—to ward off the chill in the cavernous space—and a cynical smile, while dangling a set of car keys from his index finger.
My car keys.
She gulped down the panic and glared. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, trying for indignation, and failing miserably, because her body was already responding to him as if it had just been plugged into an electric socket.
He levered himself off the pillar and strolled towards her, throwing the keys up and catching them in his fist.
He reached the car and wrenched open the driver’s door.
‘Get out,’ he said, in the same he-who-shall-be-obeyed tone he’d used earlier, the cynical smile history.
‘I will not.’ She gripped the steering wheel. ‘Just give me the keys.’ She reached out to take them. ‘Something came up and I have to get back to Androvia tonight,’ she added nonchalantly. ‘I’ll have the car brought back first thing tomorrow, I swear.’
She hated to beg, hated even more that he had discovered her cowardly attempt to avoid him tomorrow morning, but the only option she had now was to lie her head off.
‘I think not,’ he said in the same forceful tone, which was starting to get on her last nerve. ‘As I recall, you gave me your word once already tonight, which we now know is completely worthless, so it seems we are going to have to do this the hard way.’
She flushed, his humourless tone and the grim expression almost as disturbing as the adrenaline charging through her system.
She’d always hated cynical, jaded, don’t-give-a-damn-about-anything Rene, but she was beginning to discover that cynical, jaded, scowling tyrant Rene was a whole lot worse. But where was this new Rene coming from? And why on earth was he suddenly so determined to rake over the coals of their one night together, four years after the damage had been done?
‘I did not give you my word,’ she replied, her grip tightening on the wheel.
‘Precisely, because you knew you were going to break it,’ he said, making her realise she had just waltzed into a trap of her own making. ‘Which brings us back to your latest lie, that something came up in the past hour, when we both know you arranged to have this vehicle ready to leave tonight hours ago. Nice touch, by the way, charming Marco into not telling his manager.’
Her astonishment that he knew the young garage mechanic’s first name had barely had a chance to register before he continued.
‘At this point, I’m not sure what’s more concerning, your tenuous relationship with the truth, how close you came to losing Marco his job—’ his voice lowered, his scowl becoming catastrophic ‘—or your asinine decision to take your life into your hands by driving five hours alone at night through the mountains, just to avoid an adult conversation with me.’
The unfairness of his diatribe—which had left her with a ton of unfounded accusations to unpick—left her speechless for about a nanosecond.
‘Don’t you dare sack Marco,’ she said, swallowing the trickle of guilt at the thought she had put Marco’s job in jeopardy because she had assumed Rene wouldn’t even notice she was gone, let alone care.
‘Don’t worry, I don’t intend to sack my best mechanic when you’re the one who…’
‘And I’m not scared of having an adult conversation with you, you egomaniac,’ she interrupted him as her temper kicked in. ‘I really do need to get back to Androvia.’
It wasn’t a lie, she decided, because if she didn’t leave now she might actually murder him—then where would the five-hundred-year-old diplomatic accord between Saltzaland and Androvia be, which he was suddenly so concerned about?
‘Fine, then move over and I will drive you there myself,’ he demanded, calling her bluff, the bastard.
‘I will not,’ she said, because that would defeat the whole purpose of leaving in the first place. And anyway, since when did she need to rely on any man, least of all him? ‘I’m perfectly capable of driving home on my own.’
‘Move over, or so help me I will move you myself. And I think we already know who will win that wrestling match.’
Damn and blast it.
She wanted to scream with frustration. But when he continued to glare at her she knew she’d lost this round. She did not need a repeat of their previous wrestling match. And if she continued to refuse it would only make it seem as if she really feared having a conversation with him. And she would actually rather die than let him know that.
Because, however horrified she was at the prospect of spending five hours in a car with him and being forced to listen to whatever asinine thing he had to say about that night, it would be far worse to let him know she gave a damn.
She bit into her lip for the second time that night and moved across the car’s bench seat.
But when he leapt up into the cab and slammed the door his big brooding presence seemed to diminish the space, and her lung capacity again, despite the size of the vehicle.
He was so close she could smell him, and see the scar which ran across his forehead, just under the hairline.
A vivid memory assailed her—of tracing the raised scar with her fingertip while she lay in his arms and listened to his heart beating, the soreness in her sex dimmed by the heady blast of afterglow.
‘How did you get this? I’ve never noticed it before.’
‘It’s not important.’
The yearning to know him, to understand the closed expression, the reason why he’d shut her out—and her certainty then that the scar, like so many others she had discovered that night, was important, despite his denial—pressed on her chest. And only made her feel angrier with herself now, as well as him.
She couldn’t afford to romanticise his bad behaviour. The man had always been reckless and impulsive—and had partied to excess for years, ever since he’d first acceded to the throne at nineteen, in fact, after his father’s death in a skiing accident. The gossip columns had been full of his crass exploits ever since. No wonder he had scars. Scars he richly deserved, no doubt.
Instead of initiating the conversation she dreaded, though, he shoved the keys into the ignition and switched on the engine. He leant across her to pop open the glove compartment, grabbed a small gizmo and clicked it, giving her another unwanted blast of his scent—cedarwood soap and the delicious aroma of his bergamot cologne—which her wayward pheromones really did not need right now.
Slinging the gizmo back inside, he slammed the compartment shut.
The heavy metal screen above the exit ramp began to crank upwards.
The Castle’s forbidding Gothic facade was slowly revealed as he shifted into gear and peeled out of the parking space. Light swirls of snow fell onto the stone turrets as he drove up the ramp and into the courtyard, then accelerated through a gate at the end of the compound.
Fireworks exploded in the sky above them, to mark the end of the celebration. And the beginning of a brand-new year.
Funny, because she suddenly felt about a million years old.
She stared at the dazzle of coloured lights, thankful the popping noise and the powerful hum of the high-powered engine made talking impossible. But her relief was short-lived as they bounded onto the mountain road leading to the pass across the Alps and Androvia.
‘Put your seatbelt on,’ he shouted as the Castle—and the celebrations—disappeared in the Jeep’s rear-view mirror.
Her heart sank into her toes, but luckily her fury at him, and this whole hideous situation, rose up to fill the gap. She could only hope it would fortify her for the road trip from hell in her immediate future.