One Night With The Forbidden Princess

She looked up to the ceiling, feeling the familiar sense of exhaustion that always accompanied any meeting with her parents. For that was all they ever were. Meetings.

‘Sheikh Khalil simply wanted to ensure your safety, Libby. Surely you find that romantic? I know you are prone to the sentiment.’

Her father looked down at his wife, but she had drifted off, her eyes dull and unfocused as she stared into nothingness. The look on his face changed to outright disgust and he turned away, busying himself with retrieving his jacket from a chair.

Olivia’s heart broke a little for her parents’ fractured marriage. She had fleeting memories of a happier time, when her parents had seemed madly in love and the Kingdom of Monteverre had been a shining beacon of prosperity and culture. Now there was nothing but cold resentment and constant worry.

‘Father…’ Olivia took a breath, trying to calm her rapid thoughts. ‘This is all happening very fast. Perhaps if I just had some more time—’

‘Why do you think the Sheikh arranged this trip? He plans to propose formally this afternoon so that the announcement can be made public before he leaves.’

Olivia’s breath caught, expanding her throat painfully. ‘He…he can’t do that…’

‘Oh, yes, he can—and you will be grateful for his patience.’

His voice boomed across the room, the sudden anger in it startling her, making her back away a step.

He took a breath, deliberately softening his tone. ‘Can’t you see that you are a vital part in this? There is power in your position.’

‘Power…’ Olivia repeated weakly. Her shoulders drooped. Even her bones felt heavy. Women are not always destined to surrender to men… Those words—his words—had struck something deep within her.

Roman Lazarov.

She bit her lip hard. For a moment she had regretted her decision to have him captured. He had seemed to glow from within—a fiery protector and proclaimer of women’s strength. Now she knew he was just like the rest of them. Here to ensure that her cage was kept good and tight. That she had no hope of freedom.

King Fabian tightened his lips, forcing a smile before shrugging into his navy dress jacket and fixing the diamond cufflinks at his wrists. He paused by her side, looking down at her.

‘You will have a private lunch with Sheikh Khalil tomorrow.’ He placed one hand on her shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. ‘I know you will give him the answer he wants. I’m so proud of the beautiful woman you have become.’

Olivia closed her eyes, not wanting him to see the tears that glistened there. Her heart seemed to slow in her chest as she nodded her head in defeat, glad when he was gone, with the smell of cigar smoke wafting on the air in his wake. How could he be proud of the woman she was when she had no idea who she was herself?

‘I can’t do this,’ she breathed, silently hoping her mother would look up. That she would hold her and listen to her worries, then kiss her forehead and tell her everything would be okay.

But sadly she knew that would never happen. She had no memories of ever being in her mother’s arms, and even if she had the woman who now sat like a living ghost in the sitting room was not truly her mother.

She stood still for a long time, letting the tears fall down her cheeks and stain the neckline of her dress. Eventually she wiped her face and turned away from the unbearable silence, walking through the long main corridors of the private suites.

As usual, the guards pretended not to notice her.

She took her time, idling through the gardens on her way back to her rooms. With a few deep breaths she calmed the tremor in her throat. It had been a long time since she had let a single tear fall—probably not since the day of her grandmother’s funeral. Crying was a fruitless activity when her future had already been neatly packed up and arranged.

She sat heavily on a marble bench in the centre of the courtyard. This was her favourite part of the palace, where a low stone square fountain provided the perfect vantage point to sit and listen to the staff as they went about their daily duties. Here, partially concealed by bougainvillea and foliage, she had been privy to the most heart-stopping live-action dramas outside of television.

The fights, the wicked gossip, the passionate clandestine embraces. A reluctant smile touched her lips. She had seen it all.

Just in the past month it had been revealed that one of the upstairs maids had engaged in an affair with the head gardener’s handsome son. Olivia had overheard the whole sordid situation developing—right up to the point when said housemaid had found out that her beau was also heavily involved with one of the palace florists. The ensuing slap had resounded across the courtyard and earned the young Romeo a speedy transfer outside the palace.

The housemaid had moved on quickly enough, accepting a date with a palace guard. The look of delirious happiness as she’d described their first kiss to her friends had haunted Olivia for days.

She stood restlessly, leaning against the side of the fountain. Was that look the very thing she was sacrificing by agreeing to a loveless marriage?

She frowned, drawing her hand through the water and watching the ripples spread across her own solemn reflection. Love was about falling for the wrong guy, having your heart broken and then ending up with your handsome Prince Charming—not that she had ever experienced it. But she had watched enough old movies to know it was always true love’s kiss at the end that gave her that butterflies feeling in her stomach. That moment when the couple swore their undying devotion and fell into each other’s arms…

She wanted to feel like that. At least once in her life.

There had been a handful of kisses in her past; she was twenty-six, after all. But never more than a brief touching of lips. The kind of men who had been permitted near her just happened to be the kind of men who got aroused at the thought of their own reputations inflating with a real-life princess on their arm. Not one of the men she’d dated had ever tried to get to know her really.

A prickle made its way along her skin as she thought of a certain pair of grey eyes, raking their way down her body. It was madness, the way her body had seemed to thrum deep inside just from a man’s gaze. It was ridiculous.

She looked down at her forearms, seeing the gooseflesh there. Why did he have to affect her so violently when no other man had managed to inspire so much as a flicker of her attraction?

She bit the inside of her cheek with frustration and turned to begin walking back to her apartments—only to find a large male frame blocking her path.

‘Good evening, Printsessa.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘I SEE THEY have released you… Mr Lazarov.’ The Princess straightened her shoulders defensively, moving a long silken curtain of vibrant red hair away from her face as she directed her gaze upon him.

Roman ignored the strange tightening in his stomach at the way she said his name, focusing on her pale features to better read her mood.

She seemed less colourful than he remembered—as if something had stolen the fire he had witnessed earlier in the day, both at the racetrack and afterwards.

‘Once they realised their mistake they were quite accommodating. I hope you were not worried for my welfare.’

‘If it were my choice I would have had you detained for the night.’

She held her chin high as she delivered the blow, but Roman saw the telltale convulsive movement in her throat as she took a breath. He leaned casually against a nearby column, raising a single brow in challenge.

Far from bowing under his scrutiny, she held his gaze evenly. ‘I assume you are here to make your apology?’

Roman fought the urge to laugh. ‘I’m no stranger to handcuffs, Princess.’ He smiled darkly. ‘It would take more than five hours in a cushy palace detainment room to force me to my knees.’

Her gaze lowered a fraction and Roman gave in to his mirth, a darkly amused smile spreading across his lips.

‘I don’t want you to be on your…’ She shook her head, exhaling hard. She crossed her arms below her chest—a gesture likely meant in defence, but all it served to do was draw his attention to the resulting swell at the neckline of her delicate yellow dress.

‘Well, you are free to go,’ she said, sarcasm dripping from her tone as she gestured towards the door to the main palace.

For the first time in his life Roman was at a complete loss as to what to say. How he had not recognised that she was a royal instantly, he did not know. The woman before him seemed to exude class and sophistication in every inch of her posture. She eyed him with suspicion, her brows lowering in a mixture of challenge and defence.

He should have left the moment he had been freed, and yet he had sought her out. He had told himself he needed to apologise, but right now, remembering the honest arousal in her eyes as he’d been pressed close to her… He wasn’t feeling quite so apologetic.

He stood taller, hardening his voice. ‘In case you are planning another escape, the tunnel has been blocked. It is no longer passable.’

‘You certainly work fast,’ she said quietly, leaning back against the lip of the fountain. ‘I assume the Sheikh asked you to make sure my cage was good and tight?’

‘Your…cage?’

She was oblivious to his confusion. ‘Of course it matters to no one that I am an adult with free will. By all means let him have the run of the palace. There will be bars installed on my bedroom windows next.’

Roman raked a hand across the shadow beginning to grow along his jaw. He allowed her to a rant a moment, before clearing his throat pointedly. ‘You seem upset.’

‘“Upset” does not even begin to cover it. Everything about today has been unbearable.’

Something about the faraway look in her eyes bothered him. It was as though she were on the edge of a complete meltdown, and he worried that it was his mistake that had brought her there. Perhaps there was a need for his apology after all—much as it pained him to admit it.

‘Princess, I need you to understand that I am not in the habit of holding a woman against her will,’ he said solemnly. ‘Earlier…when I searched you…’

She looked back at him, her lashes half lowered with something dark and unspoken. ‘Will you be telling your fearsome Sheikh about that, I wonder?’

‘The Sheikh is not the villain you seem to think he is,’ Roman said quietly, inwardly grimacing at the thought of telling his best friend how he had manhandled his future wife. ‘I have never known someone as loyal and dedicated.’

‘Perhaps the two of you should get married, then,’ she said snidely.

‘I did not expect an actual princess to be quite so…cutting.’ He pressed a hand to his chest in mock injury. ‘Is it any wonder I mistook you for a common thief?’

That earned him the hint of a smile from her lips. The movement lit up her eyes ever so slightly and he felt a little triumphant that he had caused it.

Roman smirked, turning to lean against the fountain, taking care to leave a good foot and a half of space between them. It had been a long time since he had been this conscious of a woman’s presence.

‘You seem like quite the man of mystery, Mr Lazarov,’ she said, turning to look at him briefly. ‘Best friends with a sheikh…founder of an international security firm.’

‘You’ve been researching me?’

‘I only found out your name twenty minutes ago,’ she said honestly. ‘Does the Sheikh always fly you in for such favours?’

‘No, he does not.’ Roman felt the corner of his mouth tilt at her mocking. It had been a long time since a woman had been so obviously unimpressed by him. ‘I have my own means of transportation for such occasions.’

‘Let me guess—something small and powerful with tinted windows?’

‘It is black.’ His lips twisted with amusement at her jibe. ‘But my yacht is hardly small. No tinted windows—I much prefer the light.’

Her gaze wandered, the smile fading from her lips as she looked away from him. ‘A playboy’s yacht…of course.’

‘These things have not magically fallen into my lap, I assure you. I have worked hard for the lifestyle I enjoy.’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean…’ She turned her face back towards him quickly. ‘I envy you, that’s all.’

He raised a brow, wondering not for the first time what on earth was going on inside her head. ‘There is an entire fleet of vessels moored in the harbour with the royal crest on their hulls. You’re telling me you couldn’t just choose one at will?’

‘I spent years learning how to sail at school. But I have yet to go on a single trip by myself,’ she said, looking up and meeting his eyes for a long moment. ‘It’s strange…’ she began, before shaking her head and turning her face away. ‘I’ve spoken more frankly with you today—a complete stranger—than I have with anyone in a long time.’

Roman did not know how to respond to that statement. He swallowed hard, looking ahead to where a group of housemaids walked and chatted their way across the second-floor balconies. When he finally looked back the Princess had moved from beside him.

He stood up, looking around him for a sign of where she had gone, only to see a glimpse of pale yellow silk disappearing through the archway that led to the royal apartments.

He took a step forward, then caught himself.

She was where she belonged—surrounded by guards and staff.

It was time for him to get back to his own life.

The afternoon sun was hot on his neck when Roman finally walked out onto the deck of his yacht the next day. In his line of work he was no stranger to going to sleep as the sun rose, but his restless night had little to do with work. Being handcuffed in a room by himself had given him far too much time with his own thoughts. A dangerous pastime for a man with a past like his.

Nursing a strong black coffee, he slid on dark sunglasses and sank down into a hammock chair. They would set sail for the isla soon enough, and he would be glad to see the back of this kingdom and all its upper-class pomp.

He surveyed the busy harbour of Puerto Reina, Monteverre’s main port. Tourists and locals peppered the busy marble promenade that fronted the harbour—the Queen’s Balcony, he had been told it was called. A glittering golden crown insignia was emblazoned over every sign in the town, as though the people might somehow otherwise forget that it was the crown that held the power.

Never had he met a man more blinded by his own power than His Majesty, King Fabian. Khal had insisted on them meeting two nights previously, so that the three men could discuss the situation of the Princess’s security—Khal was notoriously meticulous when it came to bodyguards and security measures.

It had been clear from the outset that Roman would be treated like the commoner he was, so he had made the choice to leave, rather than sit and be spoken down to. His tolerance levels only stretched so far. It seemed His Majesty still harboured some ill will, as made apparent by the gap of five hours between the time he had been informed of the incident at the palace and the time at which he’d authorised Roman’s release.

Roman’s fists clenched by his sides. He was no stranger to dealing with self-important asses—he’d made a career of protecting arrogant fools with more money than sense. But it was hard to stay professionally disengaged when one of the asses in question was your best friend. Khal had never treated him as ‘lesser’—he knew better. But he had not so much as made a phone call to apologise for his oversight.

His friend knew, more than anyone, what time locked in a room could do to him.

Roman tilted his head up to the sun and closed his eyes. He was not in a locked room right now. He was on his own very expensive yacht, which would be out in open water just as soon as it was refuelled. He exhaled slowly, visualising the clear blue waters of Isla Arista, his own private haven.

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