My Best Friend's Royal Wedding (ARC) Read online

  I arch an eyebrow at him. “You know the wrong kind of women, then.”

  A glimmer of a smile crosses his face. “Clearly.”

  He moves to sit next to me on the bench, still cautiously keeping distance between us. “Well

  at least we have one thing in common.”

  “What’s that?”

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  “You have a chip on your shoulder about men with money, and I have a chip on my

  shoulder about women who want money.”

  I can’t help myself. I laugh.

  He settles back, looking relieved. “You’re practical about your studies and your career, so

  don’t you agree that marriage should be practical too? Aren’t all good marriages convenient in some way?”

  This time my laugh is more like a snort. “You think Phoenix and Max’s marriage is

  convenient? Trust me, she’s not marrying him so she can be a princess and live here.” I wave my hand at the palace, which is more of a gilded prison than a home, and I think of her schedule, and all the duties she now has, how she traded her privacy and freedom to be with Max, when all she ever wanted was a life of travel and adventure. “For Phoenix, this marriage is extremely

  inconvenient. But it’s going to be the best damn marriage ever, because they love each other.”

  He still look skeptical. “Please tell me you don’t believe in all that soppy Disney hearts and flowers stuff?”

  “No, I’m not talking about fairy tales. And it’s most certainly not lust or chemistry, either.

  Love is mutual respect, shared interests, a similar sense of humor. Marriage should be a partnership, not a financial arrangement.”

  I smile as I think back to that morning when Max and Phoenix met. Lust? Sure. But that

  wasn’t what made them walk down the aisle together less than 24 hours after meeting. “Within an hour of them laying eyes on each other, I knew they belonged together, because they had all those other things in spades.”

  Adam sits straighter. “You were there when they met? But I thought you’d never been to

  Europe before?”

  Oops. “I haven’t.” And I’m not saying another word.

  “I know how to keep a secret,” he wheedles.

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  “Do you have any other lessons planned for me? Because I’m done with talking for the

  day.”

  He frowns, unimpressed by my change of subject. “No more talking today. Next, we’re

  going for a walk before lunch. Have you seen the famous water gardens?” He holds out the shoes to me.

  “You are not going to make me walk in those!” I can’t hide my horror.

  His laugh is pure evil. “Yes, I am.”

  He gets down on his knees in front of me to help me strap them on, then helps me to my

  feet. His touch sends that same breathless shiver through me, but I’m better prepared for it now.

  Then he offers me his arm in that way I’ve learned is an invitation for me to hook my arm

  through his, and we start off along one of the paths. I have to take small steps to prevent myself tottering, and I’m grateful for the support of his arm. Until he lets me go, that is. Even though the paths are made of densely packed gravel, my heels keep sinking into the ground.

  “Is there a purpose to this, or are you punishing me for losing my temper?”

  “If you can walk in those shoes here, you can walk anywhere. There are ten steps up from

  the street to the cathedral doors, and once you’re inside, the nave is about two hundred feet long.

  You’re going to be walking that with Phoenix on the big day, with a whole lot of cameras watching your every move.”

  I huff out a breath. I guess walking through the palace gardens in stilettos is a small price to pay so I don’t fall flat on my face on live television.

  The water garden is almost as big as the one at the casino where I work. Long, narrow

  channels of still water reflect the flowers and the sky, forming neat patterns that eventually merge together into one big pond where an enormous sculpture of a dragon stands framed by splashing

  mermaids. From the fountain, the water flows down a stepped terrace into a larger fish pond.

  There’s also a long walkway lined with hundreds of smaller fountains, “modeled on the Avenue of a Thousand Fountains at Tivoli in Italy,” Adam says.

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  At the end of the walkway, the path opens up into a unexpected surprise, a circular garden

  hidden from view by a wall of cypress trees, and currently deserted. The most breathtaking feature of this secluded garden is the sheer wall of water that falls from a high aqueduct into a wide, shallow pond. The water casts a fine mist up into the air.

  “There’s a secret grotto hidden behind the waterfall,” Adam says. “Want to explore?”

  There’s a glint in his eyes, as if he’s daring me. I glance at the high wrought iron railing that surrounds the pond, clearly marked with large ‘Keep Out’ signs in four different languages.

  “Sure.” I strip off the shoes, because no way am I climbing the railing in them. I absolutely

  do not plan to climb over any railings on the wedding day. “Lead the way.”

  I glance around, but we’re still alone. We climb over the railing, Adam first, then me, trying very hard not to let the skirt of this fancy dress ride too high as I climb.

  “Will you please stop objectifying me,” I grumble, as I swing myself over.

  “Huh?” He sounds distracted.

  I enunciate clearly so he can’t miss it this time. “You were checking out my ass!”

  He smirks. “Of course I was. And not for the first time, I might add. You have a particularly

  fine arse.”

  I glower, and he laughs. “I’m a man. It’s what we do.”

  “That is the most entitled thing I have heard you say yet.”

  He catches me as I jump down on the other side, holding me against him for an earth-

  shifting moment.

  The spray from the wall of water rains down on us, plastering his shirt to his torso, and

  soaking through my dress. I shiver, but not from the chill of the water. I don’t think I’ve appreciated just how fine Adam’s torso is until now. My skin feels as if it’s burning up. I’m surprised there isn’t steam rising off us.

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  I realize my hand is splayed out on his chest, and it doesn’t seem to want to move. Yeah,

  I’m very aware that right now I’m not only objectifying him too, I’m also enjoying a bit of a grope.

  That’s only fair play, though, right?

  He steps away, grabs my hand, and pulls me after him. We splash through the pond, ducking

  under the plunging waterfall into a dimly-lit grotto. The walls are made of rough stone, surprisingly dry considering the deluge we passed through to get here.

  My hair has started to escape from its fancy French twist and plasters against my face. I

  wipe it away. “How do you know about this place?”

  “Max and I used to sneak down here to drink during his parents’ parties.”

  “What about his brother Rik?” I sit on the rough stone ledge that circles the cave like a

  bench, more to place some distance between me and Adam so I can get my breath back.

  He pulls a face. “Rik was always the well behaved one. As crown prince, he had to be the

  responsible son so he could never sneak off.”

  It seems a cruel twist of fate that Rik, the dutiful heir apparent, was disinherited, and Max, who was happier making wines at his grandfather’s vineyard in California, had to drop everything to take over as Archduke. All because of a blood test. Rik was kicked out when it was discovered that he wasn’t in fact the previous Archduke’s son, but his mother’s bastard from a liaiso
n before she met the Archduke.

  Adam circles the grotto, running his hand along the face of the rock. As he draws nearer, my

  pulse picks up in this damned inconvenient dance it does whenever he’s close. Why couldn’t I have felt this stomach-fluttering attraction to Raúl, who was kind and sweet and steady? Why do my

  traitorous hormones have to go into over-drive for a man who won’t stick around until morning, as Elena pointed out?

  As Adam moves closer, I jump to my feet. Though my intention was to place distance

  between us, I misjudge and the movement brings us chest to chest. My body stills, like prey

  awaiting the predator’s pounce. The moment hangs suspended between us, then he slowly reaches

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  up and pulls my hair loose, sending at least a half dozen bobby pins clattering to the floor. His hand stays in my hair a heartbeat longer than necessary.

  I fully expect him to pull a typical entitled jerk move, like trying to grab me or kiss me, but he doesn’t. He seems almost as breathless as I am, and his eyes are wild and dark. Does he feel the same desperate need arcing through him? I hate myself for this feeling. Not just for wanting him, but for wanting him so much I’m even contemplating kissing him.

  I have to clear my throat to speak. “You said something about lunch?”

  He nods, stepping back, and my breath rushes out. He kneels to gather the bobby pins from

  the floor, then I follow him back out through the curtain of water into the pond. When we climb back over the railing, my hem snags on one of the posts, ripping and creating a long slit up my thigh. I’m horrified, wondering if the stylist will kill me for ruining the dress, but cost is clearly the last thing on Adam’s mind. His gaze is on my bare thigh, and his expression is like that of a stoner eyeing a bucket of KFC. I should be insulted by that look, but instead I wonder if fried chicken wings also feel a desire to be eaten when looked at like that.

  In silence, we make our way back to the palace. With my body wound so tight, I don’t think

  I could make conversation now even if I wanted to. It’s just chemistry. It’s nothing. It’s less than nothing.

  By the time we reach the side entrance to the palace, the one that leads to the private

  apartments and the guest wing, we’re still both sopping wet. The footman at the door, the same one who was on duty yesterday, does his best not to gape as we step inside.

  I’m barefoot, not having bothered to put the strappy sandals back on, and the designer dress

  seems to have shrunk a size or two on me. “I need a hot shower,” I say, shaking droplets from my hair.

  Adam’s gaze scorches as it roams from the fabric clinging to my breasts down to my bare

  legs. He grins. “Good idea, but I think mine’s going to need to be a cold one.”

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  I race up the stairs, Adam half a step behind me. On the landing at the top of the stairs, we

  part ways. “See you in the dining room in half an hour,” he says.

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  Chapter Eleven

  Adam

  I stand beneath the spray of the shower until the water turns to ice, but it doesn’t help. God knows what happened in that moment in the grotto, but it’s as if my body has been set alight, and the fire can’t be quenched. Trust me, I’ve tried to quench it.

  The water drums on my shoulders as I rest my forehead on the cool tiles. I’ve lusted after

  enough women to know what desire feels like, and this isn’t it. Because in that moment my need wasn’t just physical. It was primal. I wanted to possess her, to mark her as mine. And I have never felt that way about any woman before.

  Could this uncontrolled hunger inside me be nothing more than the thrill of the chase? It’s

  been so long since I had to do much chasing, I’ve forgotten what it feels like.

  In another woman, I’d assume this was all a game, a tease to make me want her more. But

  with Khara I know this isn’t a game. In the grotto, when I was a hair’s breadth away from leaning forward and kissing her, she looked me in the eye, looked deep inside me, as if she was seeing the real me. And she didn’t like what she saw.

  My head throbs with a dull ache. No matter what Max thinks, I do have a type, and that type

  isn’t ‘easy’. She’s shallow. The type of women I usually sleep with don’t look at me the way Khara does. They don’t care who I am inside; all they care about is the lifestyle, the status, the proximity to a title. They’re women who won’t tempt me to stick around. Women who won’t make me care.

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  So why don’t I just walk away from Khara? I could drop this charade of tutoring her, go out

  to a bar or a nightclub and find myself someone willing, someone who won’t expect anything more of me than a good time and expensive baubles.

  I could, but I won’t.

  And there it is, a prickling at the edges of my awareness, a deep, dark fear I refuse to

  acknowledge. A fear I felt on that drunken night in Vegas, a fear I’ve been chasing away ever since.

  I switch off the taps, wrap myself in a towel, and step out of the shower. I know from experience that if I keep moving, this fear I don’t want to name will go away.

  I dress carefully, as if I were going to lunch with my mother, in khaki chinos, a button-down

  Oxford shirt, and a navy pullover. Maybe if I look respectable on the outside, I’ll feel less

  uncivilised on the inside.

  When I step into the state dining room, Khara is already there, haloed in the pool of sunlight falling through the tall windows. The long table has been set with just two places, and the butler hovers nearby. He nods at my approach, confirming everything has been arranged as I requested. I take the seat opposite Khara, and she sets aside the book she was reading, a dog-eared Faye

  Kellerman mystery. She has changed back into her jeans and sweater, and somehow looks younger

  and more fragile in her casual clothes and with her damp hair loose.

  Lunch is not so much a meal as a lesson. I hadn’t realised just how many ‘don’ts’ I’m

  hemmed in by until I start to teach them to her. There’s all the usual stuff: take small bites, don’t talk with your mouth full, don’t lean your elbows on the table, don’t cut bread rolls but rather break them with your fingers, don’t hold your knife like a pen. And then there’s a whole bunch of other unspoken rules that are completely outdated but woe betide anyone who ignores them, like

  following the host’s pace to eat, never handling the plates or serving dishes, standing every time the hostess or guest of honour stands, making conversation with the person seated to my right during the first course, then alternating with the person on my left for the next course, and so on. I’m only just beginning to understand how excruciating last night’s diner must have felt for Khara.

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  “What was with the tiny portions they served?” she asks. “And I used to think our hotel

  restaurant served small portions!”

  “Formal dinners are more about the social interaction than about eating,” I explain. “Since

  eating and drinking get in the way of making conversation, the courses are more an excuse for

  people to be there than for sustenance. That’s why you should never come hungry to a banquet or dinner party.”

  It’s clear she’s trying very hard not to roll her eyes, and I completely agree. Though for me

  it’s not the food that’s in short supply. There’s never enough alcohol served at these shindigs for my tastes. When you spend over an hour making polite conversation with a dowager whose sole

  preoccupation is her latest charity fundraiser to benefit people she’s most likely never come within spitting distance of, a half glass of wine per course just doesn’
t cut it. You don’t want to know some of the conversations I’ve endured in the interest of being polite and engaging.

  That night, over a quiet dinner with Max and Phoenix in their apartment, we teach Khara

  how to shake hands and how to curtsey, the correct way to air kiss (but never hug - that’s too informal), and how to address titled guests. As we’re served coffee and a cheese platter, Max

  explains the complicated seating arrangements and order of precedence at formal dinners.

  Khara turns a thoughtful frown on me. “So when the protocol secretary wanted to seat you

  closer to Max’s end of the table, it must mean you’re pretty important?”

  Both Max and Phoenix stay quiet, watching us. I avoid their gazes. “I’m not really

  important, but my mother is,” I hedge.

  Max’s eyebrow arches and I can practically hear his speculation. He’s wondering why I’m

  not being more forthcoming. But I learned enough about Khara today to know that while she

  somehow doesn’t hold Max’s title and wealth against him, in me she sees those same qualities as a major personality defect. Heaven only knows what I did to deserve that prejudice. And far from impressing her, as it would other women, the revelation that my mother’s a princess is more likely to send Khara running than impress her.

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  And I don’t want her to run. Not yet. Despite the way she makes me feel hot and desperate

  and uncivilised, despite the fact that whatever is stirring between us is far more complicated than I’m prepared for, I don’t want this to end.

  She’s not shallow, she’s not easy, but I want her more than I’ve wanted anything in a very

  long time.

  And it feels so good to want something again.

  So I behave like the perfect gentleman all through dinner, treating Khara the same way I

  treat my sister, the same way I treat Phoenix. Max’s sidelong glances, as if he’s waiting for me to step out of line, are insulting. He should know me better. I may be a cad, but I’m also my mother’s son. I know how to behave in any social situation, I know how to do what is expected of me. And I know how to seduce a woman, even if I haven’t had to do it in a while.