An Heir Fit For A King

The exiled King with the tragic past.

Leila had looked him up on the Internet last night in a moment of weakness and had read about how his parents and younger brother had been slaughtered during a military coup. The fact that he’d escaped to live in exile had become something of a legend.

Her immediate instinct was to lock the door and pull the blind down—fast. But he was right outside now and looking at her. The faintest glimmer of a smile touched his mouth. She could see a day’s worth of stubble shadowing his jaw.

Obeying professional reflexes rather than her instincts, Leila opened the door and stepped back. He came in and once again it was as if her brain was slowing to a halt. It was consumed with taking note of his sheer masculine beauty.

Determined not to let him rattle her again, Leila assumed a polite, professional mask. ‘How did your mistress like the perfume?’

A lurid image of the woman putting on that striptease threatened to undo Leila’s composure but she pushed it out of her head with effort.

Alix Saint Croix made an almost dismissive gesture with his hand. ‘She liked it fine. That’s not why I’m here.’

Leila found it hard to draw in a breath. Suddenly terrified of why he was there, she gabbled, ‘By the way, you left far too much money for the perfume.’

She turned and went to the counter and took out an envelope containing the excess he’d paid. She’d been intending to drop it to the hotel for him, but hadn’t had the nerve all day. She held it out now.

Alix barely looked at it. He speared her with that grey gaze and said, ‘I want to take you out to dinner.’

Panic fluttered in Leila’s gut and her hand tightened on the envelope, crushing it. ‘What did you say?’

He pushed open his light overcoat to put his hands in his pockets, drawing attention to another pristine three-piece suit, lovingly moulded to muscles that did not belong to an urban civilised man, more to a warrior.

‘I said I would like you to join me for dinner.’

Leila frowned. ‘But you have a mistress.’

Something stern crossed Alix Saint Croix’s face and the grey in his eyes turned to steel. ‘She is no longer my mistress.’

Leila recalled what she’d seen the previous night and blurted out, ‘But I saw you—you were together—’ She stopped and couldn’t curb the heat rising. The last thing she wanted was for him to know she’d been spying, and she said quickly, ‘She certainly seemed to be under the impression that you were together.’

She hoped he’d assume she was referring to when she’d seen the woman waiting for him outside the shop.

Alix’s face was indecipherable. ‘As I said, we are no longer together.’

Leila felt desperate. And disgusted. And disappointed, which was even worse. Of course a man like him would interchange his women without breaking a sweat.

‘But I don’t even know you—you’re a total stranger.’

His mouth twitched slightly. ‘Which could be helped by sharing conversation over dinner, non?’

Leila had a very strong urge to back away, but forced herself to stand her ground. She was in her shop. Her space. And everything in her screamed at her to resist this man. He was too gorgeous, too big, too smooth, too famous...too much.

Something reckless gripped her and she blurted out, ‘I saw you. The two of you... I didn’t intend to, but when I looked out of my window last night I saw you in your room. With her. She was taking off her clothes...’

Leila willed down the embarrassed heat and tilted up her chin defiantly. She didn’t care if he thought she was some kind of stalker.

His gaze narrowed on her. ‘I saw you too...across the square, silhouetted in your window.’

Now she blanched. ‘You did?’

He nodded. ‘It merely confirmed that I wanted you. And not her.’

Leila was caught, trapped in his gaze and in his own confession. ‘You pulled the curtain across. For privacy.’

His mouth firmed. ‘Yes. For privacy while I asked her to put her dress back on and get out, because the relationship was over.’

Leila shivered at his coolness. ‘But that’s so cruel. You’d just bought her a gift.’

Something infinitely cynical lit those grey eyes and Leila hated it.

‘Believe me, a woman like Carmen is no soft-centred fool with notions of where the relationship was going. She knew it was finite. The relationship was ending whether I’d met you or not.’

Leila balked. She definitely veered more towards the soft-centred fool end of the scale.

She folded her arms and fought the pull from her gut to follow him blindly. She’d done that with a man once before, with her stupid, vulnerable heart on her sleeve. It made her hard now. ‘Thank you for the invitation, but I’m afraid I must say no.’

His brows snapped together in a frown. ‘Are you married?’

His gaze dropped to her left hand as if to look for a ring, and something flashed in his eyes when he took in her ringless fingers. Leila’s hands curled tight. Too late.

The personal question told her she was doing the right thing and she said frostily, ‘That is none of your business, sir. I’d like you to leave.’

For a tiny moment Alix Saint Croix’s eyes widened on her, and then he said coolly, ‘Very well, I’m sorry for disturbing you. Good evening, Miss Verughese.’

CHAPTER TWO

ALIX WAS HALFWAY across the quiet square, fuelled by a surge of angry disbelief, before the thought managed to break through: no woman, ever, had turned him down like that. So summarily. Coldly. As if he’d overstepped some invisible mark on the ground. As if he was...beneath her.

He dismissed his security detail with a flick of his hand as he walked into the hotel, with staff scurrying in his wake, the elevator attendant jumping to attention. Alix ignored them all, his mind filled with incredulity that she had said no.

He’d ended his liaison with Carmen specifically to pursue Leila Verughese.

When Carmen had undressed in front of him in his suite he’d felt nothing but impatience to see her gone. And then, when he’d gone to his window and seen the light shining from a small window above the perfume shop and that slim figure, all he’d seen was her alluring body in his mind’s eye. The hint of generous curves told of a very classic feminine shape—not exactly fashion-forward, like Carmen, with tiny breasts and an almost androgynous figure, but all the more alluring for that.

He wanted her with a hunger he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time. And that impatience to see Carmen gone had become a compelling need.

When Alix got to his suite of rooms he threw off his coat and prowled like a restless animal. He felt animalistic.

How dared she turn him down? He wanted her. The exotic princess who sold perfume.

Why did he want her so badly?

The question pricked at him like a tiny barb and he couldn’t ignore it. He’d only ever wanted one other woman in a similar way. A woman who had made him think she was different from all the others. When she’d been even worse.

Alix, young and far more naive than he’d ever wanted to admit at the age of eighteen, had been seduced by a beautiful body and an act of innocence honed to perfection.

Until he’d walked into her college rooms one day and seen one of his own bodyguards thrusting between her pale legs. The image was clear enough to mock him. Years later.

As if his own parents’ toxic marriage hadn’t already drummed it into him that men and women together brought pain and disharmony.

Ever since then Alix had excised all emotion where women were concerned. They were mistresses—who pleasured him and accompanied him to social events. Until the time came for him to choose a wife who would be his Queen. And then his marriage would be different. It wouldn’t be toxic. It would be harmonious and respectful.

Alix thought about that now. Because that time would be coming soon. He was already being presented with prospective wives to choose from. Princesses from different principalities who all looked dismayingly like horses. But Alix didn’t care. His wife would be his consort, adept at dealing with the social aspects of her role and providing him with heirs.

So why is this woman getting under your skin?

She’s not, he affirmed to himself.

She was just a stunningly beautiful woman who’d connected with him on some very base level and he wasn’t used to that.

Alix didn’t like to recall that first meeting, when just seeing her had been like a defibrillator shocking him back to life.

His was a life that needed no major distractions right now. He had enough going on with the very real prospect that in a couple of weeks he was going to regain control of his throne. Something he’d been working towards all his life.

And yet this woman was lingering in his mind, compelling him to make impetuous decisions. And despite that Alix found himself drawn once again to the massive window through which he’d seen Leila across the square last night. The shop was in darkness now, the blind pulled firmly down.

A sense of impotent frustration gripped him even more fiercely now. The upstairs was in darkness too. Was she out? With another man? Saying yes to him? Alix tensed all over at that thought and had to relax consciously. He did not do jealousy. Not since he’d kicked his naked bodyguard out of his traitorous lover’s bed. And had that even been jealousy? Or just young injured male pride?

He emitted a sound of irritation and plucked a phone out of his pocket. He was connected in seconds and said curtly, ‘I want you to find out everything you can about a woman called Leila Verughese. She owns a perfume shop on the Place Vendôme in Paris.’

Alix terminated the connection. He told himself that she was most likely playing a game. Hard to get. But he didn’t really care—because he was no woman’s fool any more and, game or no game, he would have her and sate this burning urge before his life changed irrevocably and became one of duty and responsibility.

She didn’t have the power to derail him. No woman did.

* * *

For two days Leila stood in her shop, acutely aware of Alix Saint Croix’s cavalcade sweeping in and out of the square. Every time his sleek car drove past she tensed inwardly—as if waiting for him to stop and get out and come in again. To ask her to dinner again.

She hated it that she knew when his cars were parked outside the hotel. It made her feel jittery, on edge.

Just then her phone rang, and she jumped and cursed softly before answering it. It was the hotel. They wanted Leila to bring over an assortment of perfumes for one of their guests.

She agreed and put the phone down, immediately feeling nervous. Which was ridiculous. This wasn’t an unusual request—hotel guests often spotted the shop and asked for a personal service. At one time Leila had gone over with perfumes for a foreign president’s wife.

Even though she would be venturing far too near to the lion in his lair, she welcomed the diversion and set about gathering as many diverse samples of perfumes as she could.

On arrival at the hotel, dressed smartly in a dark trouser suit and white shirt, hair up, and with her specially fortified and protective wheelie suitcase, Leila was shown to the top floor by a duty manager.

The same floor as Alix Saint Croix’s suite.

She felt a flutter of panic, but pushed it down as the lift doors opened and she stepped into the opulent luxury of one of the hotel’s most sumptuous floors.

To her vast relief they were heading in the opposite direction from the suite she’d watched so closely the other night.

The duty manager opened the door to the suite and ushered Leila in, saying, ‘Your clients will be here shortly—they said to go ahead and set up while you’re waiting.’

Leila smiled. ‘Okay, thank you.’

When she was alone she set about opening her case and taking out some bottles, glad to have the distraction of what she did best. No time to think about—

She heard the door open behind her and stood up and turned around with a smile on her face, expecting to see a woman.

The smile promptly slid off her face when she saw Alix Saint Croix and the door closing softly behind him. Client, not clients. For a long moment Leila was only aware of her heartbeat, fast and hard. He was dressed in a white shirt and dark trousers. Sleeves rolled up, top button open. Hands in his pockets. He was looking at her with a gleam in his eyes that told her the predator had tracked down his prey.

So why was she suddenly feeling a thrum of excitement?

He took a step further into the room and inclined his head towards her suitcase, which was open on an ottoman. ‘Do you supply men’s scents also?’

Leila was determined not to appear as ruffled as she felt. She said coolly, ‘First of all, I don’t appreciate being ambushed, Mr Saint Croix. But, as I’m here now—yes, I do men’s scents also.’

Alix Saint Croix looked at her with that enigmatic gaze, a small smile playing around his mouth. ‘The hotel told me that you regularly come to do personal consultations. Do you regard all clients as ambushing you?’

Leila’s face coloured. ‘Of course not.’ She felt flustered now. ‘Look, why don’t we get on with it? I’m sure you’re a busy man.’

He came closer, rolling his sleeves up further as he said, with a definite glint in his grey eyes, ‘On the contrary, I have all the time in the world.’

Leila’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. She boiled inside at the way he’d so neatly caught her and longed to be able to storm out...but to where? Back to an empty shop? To polish the endless glass shelves? He’d just suggested a lucrative personal consultation—even if his actions were nefarious. Not to mention the wad of cash he’d left her the other day...

Swallowing her ire, and not liking the way he was getting under her skin so easily, she forced a smile and said, ‘Of course. Then, please, sit down.’

Leila was careful to take a chair at a right angle to the couch. Briskly she took out some of her sample bottles containing pure oils and a separate mixer bottle.

As he passed her to sit down she unconsciously found herself searching for his scent again, and it hit her as powerfully as it had the first time. Leila had a sudden and fantastical image of herself having access to this man’s naked body and being allowed to spend as much time as she liked discovering the secret scents of his very essence, so that she could try to analyse them and distil them into a perfume.

She cursed her wayward imagination and said, without looking at him, ‘Had you any particular scent in mind? What do you usually like?’

She was aware of strong thighs in her peripheral vision, his trousers doing little to hide their length or muscularity.

‘I have no idea,’ he said dryly. ‘I get sent new perfumes all the time and usually just pick whatever appeals to me in the moment. But generally I don’t like anything too heavy.’

Leila glanced at him sharply. His face was expressionless, but there was an intensity in his eyes that made her nervous. For a moment she could almost believe he wasn’t talking about scents at all, and felt like telling him to save his breath if he was warning her obliquely that he wasn’t into commitment—because she had no intention of getting to know him any better.

She couldn’t deny, though, how her very body seemed to hum in his presence.

Instinctively she reached for a bottle and pulled it out, undoing the stopper. She sniffed for a moment and then dipped a smelling strip into the bottle and extracted it and held it out towards him. ‘What do you think of this, Monsieur Saint Croix?’

‘Please...’ he purred. ‘Call me Alix.’

Leila tensed, her hand held out, refusing to give in to his unashamed flirtation. Eventually, eyes sparkling as he registered her obvious struggle against him, he took the sliver of paper and Leila snatched her hand back.

He kept his eyes on her as he smelled it carefully, passing it over and back under his nose. She saw something flare in his eyes, briefly, and felt an answering rush of heat under her skin.

Consideringly, he said, ‘I like it—what is it?’

‘It’s fougère—a blend of notes based on lavender, oakmoss and coumarin: a derivative of the tonka bean. It’s a good base on which to build a scent if you like it.’

He handed her back the tester and lifted a brow. ‘The tonka bean?’

Leila nodded as she pulled out another bottle. ‘It’s a soft, woody note. We extract ingredients for a scent from anything and everything.’

She was beginning to feel more relaxed, concentrating on her work as if there wasn’t a whole subtext going on between her and this man. Maybe she could just ignore it.

‘It was developed in the late eighteen-hundreds by Houbigant and I find it evocative of a woody, ferny environment.’

Leila handed him another smelling strip.

‘Try this.’

He took it and looked at her again. She found it hard to take her eyes away as he breathed deep. Every move this man made was so boldly sensual. Sexy. It made Leila want to curl in on herself and try not to be noticed.

‘This is more...exotic?’

Leila answered, ‘It’s oudh—quite rare. From agarwood. A very distinctive scent—people either love it or hate it.’

He looked at her, his mouth quirking slightly. ‘I like it. What does that say about me?’

Leila shrugged minutely as she reached for another bottle, trying to affect nothing but professionalism. ‘Just that you respond to the more complex make-up of the scent. It’s perhaps no surprise that a king should favour such a rare specimen.’

Immediately tension sprang up between them, and Leila busied herself opening another bottle.

Alix Saint Croix’s voice was sharper this time. ‘A king in exile, to be more accurate. Does that make a difference?’

Leila looked at him as she handed him another sample and said, equally coolly, ‘I’m sure it doesn’t. You’re still a king, after all, are you not?’

He made a dissenting sound as he took the new tester. Leila wondered how much more patience he would have for this game they were playing. As if someone like him really had time for a personal perfume consultation...

She looked to see him sniff the strip and saw how he immediately recoiled from the smell. He grimaced, and Leila had to bite back a smile.

‘What is that?’

She reached across and took the paper back. ‘It’s extracted from the narcissus flower.’

His mouth curled up slightly. ‘Should I take that as a compliment? That I don’t immediately resonate with the narcissus?’

Leila avoided looking at him and started packing up her bottles, eager to get away from this man. ‘If you like any of those scents we tested I can make something up for you.’

‘I’d like that. But I want you to add something I haven’t considered...something you think would uniquely suit me.’

Leila tightened inwardly at the prospect of choosing something unique to him. She closed the case and looked at him. ‘I’m afraid I will be bound to disappoint you. Perfume is such a personal—’

‘And I’d like you to deliver it personally this evening.’ He cut her off as if she hadn’t even been talking.

Leila stood up abruptly and looked down at him. ‘Monsieur Saint Croix, while I appreciate the custom you’ve given me today, I’m afraid I...’

He stood up then too, and the words dried in her throat as his tall body towered over hers. They were too close.

His voice was low, with a thread of steel. ‘Are you seriously telling me that you’re turning down the opportunity to custom make a scent for the royal house of Isle Saint Croix?’

When he said it like that Leila could hear her mother’s voice in her head, shrill and panicked, Are you completely crazy? What was she doing? In her bid to escape from this disturbing tension was she prepared to jeopardise the most potentially lucrative sale she’d had in years? The merest hint of a professional association with a king, no less, and her sales would go through the roof.

In a small voice she finally said, ‘No, of course I wouldn’t turn down such an opportunity. I can put a couple of sample fragrances together and deliver them to the hotel later. You can let me know which you prefer.’

His eyes were a mesmerising shade of pewter. ‘One scent, Leila, and I want you to bring it to me personally. Say seven p.m.?’

Her name on his lips felt absurdly intimate, as if he’d just touched her. She glared at him but had no room to manoeuvre. And then she told herself to get a grip. Alix Saint Croix might be disturbing her on all sorts of levels but he was hardly going to kidnap her. He wouldn’t need to. That was the problem. Leila was afraid that if she had much more contact with him, her defences would start to feel very flimsy.

Hiding her irritation at how easily he was sweeping aside her reservations, she bent down and closed her suitcase—but before she could lift it off the ottoman he brushed her hand aside and took it, wrapped a big hand firmly around the handle.

Leila straightened, face flushed. He extended a hand and lifted a brow. ‘After you.’

Much to her embarrassment, he insisted on escorting her all the way down to the lobby and seemed to be oblivious to the way everyone jumped to attention—not least his security guards. He called one of them over and handed the thickset man the case, instructing him to carry it back to the shop for Leila. Her protests fell on deaf ears.

And then, before she could leave, he said, ‘What time shall I send Ricardo to escort you to the hotel?’

Leila turned and looked up. She was about to assert that she’d had no problem crossing the square on her own for some two decades, but as soon as she saw the look in his eye she said with a resigned sigh, ‘Five to seven.’

He dipped his head. ‘Till then, Leila.’

* * *

Once back in his own suite, Alix stood looking across the square for a long time. Leila’s reluctance to acquiesce to him intrigued him. Anticipation tightened his gut. Even though he knew this was likely just a game on her part, he was prepared to indulge it because he wanted her. And he had time on his hands.

He felt a mild pang of guilt now when he thought of what his security team had reported to him about her.

The Verughese family were wealthy and respectable in India. A long line of perfumers, supplying scents to maharajas and the richest in society. There were a scant few lines about Deepika Verughese, who had been Leila’s mother. She’d come to France after breaking off relations with her family, where she’d proceeded to have one daughter: Leila. No mention of a father.

In all other respects she was squeaky clean. No headlines had ever appeared about her.

He felt something vibrate in his pocket and extracted a small, sleek mobile phone. Without checking to see who it was, and not taking his eyes off his quarry across the square, he answered, ‘Yes?’

It was his chief advisor, and Alix welcomed the distraction, reminded of the bigger picture.

He turned his back to the view. ‘How are the plans for the referendum coming along?’

Isle Saint Croix was due to vote within two weeks on whether or not they wanted Alix to return as King. It was still too volatile for Alix to be in the country himself, so he was depending on loyal politicians and his people, who had campaigned long and hard to restore the monarchy. Finally the end goal was in sight. But it was a very delicate balancing act that could all come tumbling down at any moment.

The ruling party in Isle Saint Croix were ruthless, and only the fact that they’d had to reluctantly agree to let international observers into the country had saved the process from falling apart already.

Andres was excited. ‘The polls are showing in your favour, but not so much that it’s unduly worrying the military government. They’re still arrogant enough to believe they’re in control.’