THREE DAYS LATER, Clara was just about to leave the palace after her night shift when she received a text from her sister, Freja.
Have you seen this?
The message accompanied a link to a celebrity news site. The main article featured a grainy picture of Andreas and Clara kissing goodbye at her car the morning after she’d spent the night in his bed at the palace.
Her stomach dropped at the sickening headline: How Much Longer Can the Heir Play the Field?
Horrified, her pulse went through the roof. She could almost taste the public’s rejection, hear their judgement and contempt that she wasn’t good enough for Varborg’s heir. But, worse, if her identity was revealed, if the connection between Lars Lund and her got out, her family’s humiliating past might hurt Andreas at a time when he must feel as if his life was falling apart.
Tears pricked her eyes. Her father’s disgrace shouldn’t be her burden to bear, but she’d been hard-wired most of her life to feel the sting of rejection. And that guilty part of her, that should have already come clean to Andreas, now had nowhere left to hide.
It was time to face him.
Willing herself to calm down, Clara texted Andreas.
We need to talk.
Against her better judgement, she scoured the picture again. The photographer had clearly been hiding some distance away, using a telephoto lens. Clara was only visible from behind, but her parked car was in the background. The registration number had been blurred out, but it would only take some nosy journalist a few seconds of sleuthing to find out her identity and the paper trail of shame that would lead to her door.
Andreas’s reply was swift.
Come to the green sitting room in the family wing. Sorry, I can’t get away.
With acid burning her throat, Clara hurried to the room she knew of but had never been inside, grateful for the sense of legitimacy her uniform provided.
Her rapid steps matched the panicked bounding of her heart. What if poor Prince Henrik had seen the photo? What if the palace press office was aware of the identity of Andreas’s unsuitable mystery woman? Would she be fired or banned from seeing Andreas?
An ache settled under her ribs, its potency suspicious of grief. But she’d always known this day would come, that she’d have to give him up; she’d just hoped for a little more time. Knocking on the door, she waited for the call to enter and then ducked quickly inside.
He wasn’t alone.
Even with a firestorm of fear in her veins, her heart lurched at the arresting sight of Andreas. His immaculately tailored navy suit caressed his lean and sculpted body to perfection. He looked up from adjusting his crisp white cuffs, which glinted with onyx cuff links, his stare burning into hers from across the room.
Taking one look at Clara’s face, Andreas stiffened.
‘Leave us,’ he instructed the valet, who ceased his efforts brushing invisible specks of lint from Andreas’s suit and hastily fled.
‘What is it, sötnos?’ A small frown tugged down his mouth as he crossed the room.
Clara rested her eyes on his, her heart actually stuttering to a stop. The flood of desire for him was almost strong enough to dispel her profound embarrassment—almost.
Last night, snuggled on the sofa with her mum and Freja, with mugs of hot chocolate, she’d watched Andreas’s interview. She’d sat spellbound, her eyes glued to the screen as the skilled programmers painted a portrait of Andreas the doctor, Andreas the veteran, Andreas the heir.
Now, chilled to the bone, she was fooling herself to think she could have any part of such a magnificent man. He was wildly dashing, every inch the eligible prince and commanding statesman he feared he might never be. But he couldn’t fight his upbringing, his genetics and the historic breeding of his family line. He was a prince. He always had been, from the day he’d been born. Clara had just forgotten that, allowing herself to be swept along by lust, by her professional regard and the way he’d made her feel special. But he was the special one.
‘You’re scaring me, Clara.’ He gripped her upper arms. ‘Are you hurt? Is it Prince Henrik?’
Clara shook her head and blurted out her reason for disturbing him. ‘There’s a photo of us together online.’
She blinked to stave off tears; her revelation would be final confirmation that this was over. Had she already tarnished his reputation by association? And at a time when he had so much else going on.
A muscle clenched in his jaw, but he didn’t seem surprised. ‘I’ve been made aware.’ He reached for her hands. ‘I’m sorry. The announcement of Prince Henrik’s state of health has, I’m afraid, caused an increased interest in my personal life.’
She frowned, her head foggy with desire, confusion and guilt. Could she blame the public? She too had watched the candid thirty-minute interview of Varborg’s heir with rapt fascination bordering on obsession, her hot drink forgotten.
‘No, I’m sorry.’ She tugged her hands from his, feeling shabby and creased in her uniform, more aware than ever before of their massive differences.
With his face cloaked in his signature close-cropped beard, he was more handsome rogue than prince of the realm, but of course that was a massive part of his Viking appeal.
He frowned. ‘Why are you apologising? It’s me they were after, not you.’ He ran a hand through his tamed hair. ‘I should be the one apologising for not protecting you better, for exposing you to the seedier side of life in the public gaze. I know you wanted to keep us a secret. For now, they don’t seem to know who you are.’
His hands gripped her elbows and he pressed a desperate kiss to her lips. Clara’s body reacted, as always, to his kiss.
‘You don’t understand,’ she said, extricating herself from his touch. She wanted nothing more than to curl up in his arms and hide from her past, from the ugliness and risk she’d exposed him to. But shame was a painful gripe in her belly.
‘I understand all too well.’ His voice rose, fury sparking in his grey stare. ‘It’s an invasion of my privacy and yours. I expect it, but they have no right to target you. I won’t let that happen. I swear to you, Clara. I’ll protect you.’
‘I need to tell you something.’ Clara shook her head, trying to stay on track, but shock and desire threatened to derail her thoughts. She could no longer deny that her need for this man was now a full-blown addiction. She’d realised that last night, watching him on the screen.
‘Sötnos...’ He stepped closer and wrapped her in his arms so she was engulfed by his warmth and the scent of his cologne. ‘Please don’t distress yourself over this. Let me deal with it. I have people. I’ll ensure that you remain anonymous.’
He tilted her chin, brushing his thumb over her bottom lip, his stare dipping there. ‘It’s just a fishing expedition—social commentary from strangers who don’t know me but think I should be married by now, or some such rubbish.’
Clara recoiled from his touch, turning her head away. The idea of Andreas with another woman hit her like a slap to the face. But of course there would be other women after her, until finally his princess: a sophisticated beauty with the appropriate pedigree, well-schooled in dealing with press intrusion, her closet devoid of tawdry family skeletons. The kind of woman who would look at home on the arm of the immaculate and urbane prince before her.
Hating her own weakness, her self-doubt-fuelled envy, Clara snapped, ‘I don’t need you to rescue me or protect me; I can take care of myself.’
Andreas frowned, his gaze flicking to the clock on the wall. ‘So it’s okay for you to want to help me, but not for me to help you?’
Clara dragged in a calming breath. He clearly had places to be, important people to see. Her sad family drama would be swiftly passed to some lackey in the palace press office.
‘I won’t keep you,’ Clara said, rolling back her shoulders, ‘But I need you to listen. I told you about my father running out on us, but the bit I left out was that he was something of a swindler. Not only did he get into all kinds of debt while my parents were together, he also re-mortgaged our family home behind my mother’s back. But the worst thing he did was defraud a bunch of people in some sort of pyramid scheme. He went to prison, Andreas. He died in prison. That’s why I never had the chance to confront him, because I refused to visit.’
‘Clara—’
‘I know I should have told you before.’ She blinked, refusing to cry for the father who’d let her down so badly. ‘But I’m not exactly proud of the fact. I thought, if we were careful, it never needed to come out.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he stated flatly, moving towards her and then stopping, presumably in response to her expression.
‘Of course it matters,’ she snapped, her fears spilling free. ‘We promised we’d be careful, but now look what’s happened. I’m...news. I never wanted any of this. I just wanted you.’
‘I’m right here.’ He gripped her cold hand and rested it over his chest where his heart thudded against her palm, vibrant and steady.
Clara looked away from his impeccable appearance; he felt more out of reach than ever. ‘And you may as well be on the moon, don’t you see?’ she cried. ‘We’ve always been too different and now the whole world will see that. You’ll be embarrassed. Prince Henrik will be embarrassed. Neither of you need a scandal right now.’
She tugged her hand free and backed away from him. She couldn’t think when he touched her—that was how they’d ended up in this mess.
‘I’ll probably lose my job,’ she continued, ‘And my mother has been through enough without having the whole sordid story regurgitated.’
Tension built in the silence as she finally faced him.
‘Are you ending this?’ A fierce scowl slashed his handsome face. ‘Because I know what I need, and I told you, it’s you.’
Confused, Clara shook her head. For a brief moment, him, their connection had been the one easy thing she’d wanted. But it was no longer easy.
‘I’m not sure we ever really got started,’ she said sadly. She didn’t want to leave him, not yet. ‘But this photograph certainly complicates things.’
‘I told you, I’ll take care of it,’ he said.
‘How? You’re royalty,’ she argued, deaf to his promises. In Clara’s experience, believing in those only made you more vulnerable. ‘If people find out you’re fraternising with the penniless daughter of a convicted criminal, it could damage your reputation!’
‘Don’t do this.’ He gripped her face, staring at her with panic in his eyes. ‘Don’t let strangers come between us.’
Tilting her mouth up, he delivered a crushing kiss as if he could make her believe in him, that he’d deal with the issue.
Her lips parted on a shocked gasp. His tongue surged into her mouth, coaxing. Because she’d always been helpless to their desire for each other, Clara’s brain shut down, her body clinging to the pleasure of his kiss to block out all the ugliness in which she felt coated.
This beautiful man, who could have any woman, wanted her. The power of it surged through her. This, them together, made sense and blocked out reality.
His fingers tangled in her hair, spilling it loose from its bun. His body heat scorched her. His hard chest brushed her sensitive nipples, his thigh pressing between her legs as he backed her up against a table. There was an ominous rattle of something heavy, perhaps a lamp, but Clara was too inflamed to care. She clung to him, drowning, so far out of her depth with this man that her only certainty was that she should walk away. But it was as if her heart knew best and wanted him, no matter what.
‘Andreas,’ she moaned, spearing her fingers through his hair as he trailed kisses down her neck and slid one hand up her thigh, under her uniform and into her underwear. ‘You have to go,’ she gasped, palming his erection through his trousers, aware that she was holding him up for whatever important princely engagement he was immaculately dressed.
‘I don’t care.’ He shoved down her underwear and unbuckled his belt. ‘I only care about you. About this. About us.’
Frantic now with desire, Clara tackled his fly, freeing him from the confines of his suit.
‘You can’t leave me, not yet.’ With a grunt, he hauled her around the waist and deposited her backside on the edge of the table. He kissed her again, his fingers working her nipple through her uniform and bra.
‘I won’t,’ she cried as they broke free of their kisses to fumble together.
Clara hiked up her skirt and spread her thighs. Andreas shoved down his trousers, just enough to free him from his underwear.
‘Soon. I’ll let you go soon,’ he said, staring into her eyes as he pushed inside her. A low growl rumbled in the back of his throat. His hands clutched at her waist, hips and breasts with thrilling heated possession.
‘I want you, Clara...’ He groaned against her neck, thrusting inside her. ‘You asked me what I needed and the answer is this. You.’
He pulled back, stark need in his eyes.
‘I want you too.’ Clara sighed and shuddered, gripping his hips with her thighs and clinging to him as they rode this storm of need together.
‘Tell me you’re still mine, sötnos,’ he muttered between kisses, his hands holding her hips so tightly, she wondered if he’d leave marks. ‘Tell me we’re still in this together—different but equals. Tell me.’
His thrusts grew more frantic, his kisses deep and demanding, his eye contact so intense, Clara could only hold on and give him her all in return.
‘I’m yours,’ Clara said, stifling her cries against his lips as pleasure shook her from head to toe, heightened by the glitter of triumph and possession in his stare.
Andreas gave a rough cry and crushed her in his arms as they climaxed together, the furious need finally abating. For long seconds they stayed locked together, hearts thudding, breaths panting.
He moved first, slipping from her body. He stepped back, helping her slide from the table. He buttoned up and Clara shakily scooped her underwear from the floor, stepping inside the garment while her mind raced and her body tried to recover.
What was she doing? She was out of control for this man: risking her emotions; making him promises she might not have the strength to keep; giving him everything when she’d vowed to hold something back as a shield around her inexperienced heart.
He touched her hand and she looked up. Apart from slightly dishevelled hair and a bit of colour on his cheekbones, he was still perfect, still achingly beautiful, still a prince. Sadness, maybe even pity, touched his eyes. ‘I’ve always known about your father, Clara.’
Horrified, she frowned, searching his stare for the truth as ice shifted through her veins.
Andreas’s beautiful mouth flattened into a grim line. ‘No one works for my family without a police check and a background check.’
He’d known...all this time? For all his talk of equality...
‘You consented to be vetted when you landed the job,’ he explained. ‘Palace security investigate everyone who works here: their past, their family and their employment history. It’s all thoroughly scrutinised.’ His lip curled with the barest hint of distaste. ‘The price you pay for any association with me, I’m afraid. I wish it wasn’t necessary, just like I wish I could spare you the paparazzi.’
He shrugged with sad inevitability.
Clara shrivelled inside, as if what they’d just done had left her dirty. She looked away from him, their differences neon-bright, and the trust she’d foolishly imagined shattered on the floor like shards of glass.
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ Humiliation burned her eyes as she forced herself to look at him.
All this time she’d thought that on some level they were equals, just Clara and Andreas enjoying their chemistry, but in reality he’d always held all of the power in the relationship.
‘It didn’t matter to me,’ he said flatly. ‘You did nothing wrong. It’s like you said the first time we met—our scars don’t define us.’
The lump in her throat expanded. How could she have been so naïve?
Andreas raised her chin. ‘If you care for me at all, please don’t let them come between us. We know who we are, what we value, and we know each other. You know me, Clara. If I say it doesn’t matter to me, it doesn’t matter.’
Numb, Clara nodded. She did know this man. She knew her feelings for him were reckless. She knew he’d seen the deeply vulnerable part of her that she’d always kept guarded. She knew that, if she wasn’t careful with her heart, she could fall for him and he could destroy her.
I’ll let you go soon...
She winced, hating the words she’d been too pleasure-drunk to analyse when he’d spoken them earlier. She didn’t want to be this Clara: uncertain, emotionally exposed, scared. She wanted to be her old self, the woman who could take care of herself, needed no one and had her life all figured out.
‘I need to go,’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘I have to drive home and change and head to Nordic Care. I’m doing a late shift.’
He cupped her face. ‘I’ll take care of the press. Trust me.’
She nodded numbly, kissing him and then moving to the door. She did trust him, but it changed nothing. She’d let Andreas too close. She’d wanted him and he’d wanted her and their fling had seemed harmless. But danger was everywhere, overwhelming.
At the door, she turned to look at him one last time. His back was to her. He checked his watch, tugging on his cuffs, and pressed a buzzer on the desk, presumably summoning the valet once more.
He was unspeakably beautiful. The demands on him were staggering. She’d wanted to ease his burdens, not add to them. She’d wanted to be there for him, not rely on him. She’d wanted to enjoy their affair and then walk away unscathed.
But it was like he’d once said: ‘you don’t always get what you want’.