CROWN PRINCE ANDREAS CRONSTEDT, heir to the Varborg throne, was rarely surprised by the many people he met. But the enchanting beauty who’d marched into his bathroom with her no-nonsense attitude didn’t bat an eyelid at his rather unusual request.
‘Of course,’ she said, casting big, blue eyes around the bathroom. ‘Your leg; where might I find that?’
Satisfaction spread through the ancient Viking blood in Andreas’s veins like lava. She was spectacular. And obviously had no idea that he descended from a long, ancient line of Scandinavian princes.
‘Try behind you, in the bedroom. Under the curtains, perhaps?’ Andreas indicated the doorway, through which this fascinating and forthright woman had come. ‘I’m quite impressed with myself for making such an improbable shot.’
‘What is it doing all the way over there, when you’re stuck in your cold bath?’ she asked, casting him an unsympathetic look he found thrilling.
Rather than having the desired effect, her taunting reprimand, and the way she looked at him with both interest and astonishment at his stupidity, flooded his groin with heat. Too bad she was a palace employee, one of the round-the-clock nurses employed to keep Prince Henrik in excellent health, and therefore strictly off-limits.
‘I’m afraid I hurled it away, unthinkingly, in a rare fit of frustration,’ he said, gleefully admitting to this intriguing stranger that his current predicament was totally self-inflicted.
‘So you only have yourself to blame,’ she pointed out, one hand on her hip.
Had anyone ever before found him ridiculous? Had a woman ever stirred his curiosity so...intensely? Right then he couldn’t recall a single time.
‘I’m afraid so.’ He smiled, noticing how her lips twitched, as if she was trying not to laugh.
‘Interesting...’ she said and turned away.
As Prince Henrik’s second, less important son, Andreas had been allowed to pursue a career of his choosing. As a doctor, he met a lot of nurses, but none as unique, strikingly beautiful or unapologetically herself as this one. Where on Earth had the palace found such a refreshingly candid character?
Through the open door, he watched her stoop in search of his leg. As she looked behind the heavy curtains, Andreas willed his eager anatomy into submission. But he was only a man, not super-human. He couldn’t have stopped his stare sliding to the curve of her hips and derrière as she bent over if his life had depended upon it. Perhaps he should turn on the cold tap, shock his libido into behaving, but where was the fun in that?
And tonight, after having been rudely summoned home, his locum position in Stockholm cut short by his father’s personal secretary with only the briefest of explanations—Prince Henrik was fatigued following a short illness and needed time to recover—Andreas deserved a little flirtatious interlude with a woman for whom he was just an ordinary man.
Excitement buzzed through his nervous system at the heady freedom this encounter offered. Most people recognised Varborg’s physically challenged prince, a man who was not meant to rule and could never replace his late older brother, the popular Oscar. But, with this woman, he had the opportunity for complete anonymity; to be no one but himself for a moment.
He’d never met anyone like her, least of all in his royal life, in which women were cookie-cutter sophisticates who fitted into two categories: those who fawned and flattered him and those too intimidated by his title to utter a single word. Even the women he bedded were careful to avoid any verbal display beyond voicing their delight between the sheets, should it somehow lose them his royal favour.
On discovering he was an amputee, some went overboard on the sympathy, infantilised him. He might have lost a leg, but the rest of him worked just fine, as proved by the very functional stirring in his groin that this delightful stranger had provoked the minute she peered into the room with her cutting remarks and her prim and proper hairdo.
‘Found it,’ she said, returning to the bathroom, flushed and slightly breathless in a way that made him think of kissing. ‘Luckily for you.’
He was lucky that she’d been the one sent to his aid. If he’d known that she awaited him, he might not have been so reluctant to return to the oppressive confines of the palace, all be it to the guest wing he’d insisted upon. He wasn’t ready to sleep in the suite that had once belonged to Oscar. Nor did he intend to be solely at the crown’s beck and call just because he’d returned to help out Prince Henrik with royal engagements. He’d taken a locum position at the local private medical clinic, his work the one thing in his life that filled him with uncomplicated pride.
‘Thank you,’ he said, savouring her striking face, her hair the colour of burnt caramel and the playful glint in her blue eyes. ‘What’s your name?’
He swept his gaze from her exquisite features down the length of her body, tracing her blistering figure underneath the nurse’s uniform, in the way she’d blatantly appraised him earlier. ‘I should have asked before, given the circumstances.’
‘Circumstances,’ she scoffed, holding out the prosthesis. ‘Is that what we’re calling a fit of leg-hurling impatience? I thought it was a self-inflicted situation.’
He grinned, waiting patiently for her answer, while her stare once more dipped to his torso in obvious admiration. She couldn’t seem to stop checking him out.
When he made no move to take the leg, she huffed. ‘My name is Clara. Clara Lund.’
A small smile tugged at his mouth—captivating, candid Clara. ‘Pleased to meet you, Clara.’
Her name caressed his tongue the way he imagined her kiss would taste: breathy, bold, undaunted: like the woman herself. A woman who clearly didn’t care one jot that he was someone important enough to stay at one of the Cronstedt palaces.
She frowned and shuddered a little, as if his speaking her name gave her a thrill of pleasure that was inconvenient. He understood her dilemma. Regardless of the sparks between them, he couldn’t bed this woman whom the universe had delivered as if to soothe his grieving soul. Because being back home resurfaced complex emotions.
‘Thank you for finding it.’ He took the prosthesis, noting with satisfaction the way her eyes were averted from the layer of thinning suds that, just about, still concealed his lower half. ‘You should know that not many people surprise me, Clara.’
‘Well, I’m glad I could save you that undignified crawl across the tiles.’
Andreas’s smile widened. The more they talked, the better he felt about being here, a place of bittersweet memories. She’d helped him forget that, one day, be it in five years or fifteen, he would have to abandon the medical career he loved and succeed his father. It wouldn’t matter that, as the spare who’d been left to his own devices, he was unqualified for the role. Nor would it matter that the nation, who still referred to Andreas as ‘the party prince’ he’d been in his twenties, had adored Oscar, just like Prince Henrik—just like Andreas himself, in fact. He would have no choice but to turn his back on the life he’d built for himself and step into his brother’s shoes.
‘I’ll be going, then, if that’s everything...?’ She glanced at the door, as if she was dying to escape.
He should let her go, but not yet.
‘Yes, time to get out, I think.’ Andreas propped his prosthesis against the side of the bath and pulled the plug. He braced his hands on the bath’s edge as if to lever his body from the water, unable to resist one final flirtation, if only to see the censure once more sparking in her pretty eyes.
Right on cue, she flushed. ‘Right... I’ll...um...leave you to it.’
She cast one last look down his chest to the waterline and scurried from the room.
‘I’d appreciate it if you could wait,’ he called after her, a rumble of amusement trapped in his throat. ‘I’d like to thank you properly—face to face, as it were. When I’m no longer naked.’
He heard a nervous squawk from the bedroom, neither a refusal nor acceptance, but some instinct told him that she’d wait.
Andreas used his upper-body strength to haul himself from the bath. He reached for a towel, impatient now to know everything there was to know about the palace’s newest nurse, perhaps the only woman on the planet who’d failed to recognise him; a woman with whom he would be free simply to be an ordinary man—not Andreas, the second-choice heir.
He attached his below-knee prosthesis to his left leg and wrapped a fresh towel around his waist, swallowing down the sour taste of failure that being back here had caused to resurface. Judgement seemed to seep from the ancient palace walls. He wasn’t meant to have been the one. It should have been Oscar in line to the throne.
If only Andreas had been able to save him. The defeat and guilt brought jarring flashes of his worst memory—a crumpled vehicle wreck, the smell of hot metal and petrol, the urgency to save his unconscious brother and his attempts at CPR. And then nothing but blackness until he’d woken up in hospital.
Why hadn’t he died in that accident instead of Oscar? With the ruler who’d trained for the role from birth, the future of Varborg would have been secure. Whereas Andreas knew more about the human body than being a statesman.
He found Clara in the suite’s living room, her back to the fire while she looked out at the shadowy, mountainous view beyond the windows. He clung to the distracting sight of her wonderful ordinariness. It made him want to be an ordinary man, not a last-resort prince. To shrug off the sense of being second best and feel invincible, the way he had when she’d moved her eyes over his nakedness. To be himself, the man she’d seen when she’d challenged him so unflinchingly.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ he said, entranced by the angles of her profile as he flicked on the lamps.
Clara turned to face him and gaped. Her throat moved on a pained-looking swallow that fanned his ego. ‘You’re still naked.’ Her gobsmacked stare travelled down his bare torso, which was dotted with the droplets of water he’d missed in his haste to prolong their thrilling interaction.
‘Not quite.’ He shrugged, unabashed. ‘Would you like a drink?’ He poured himself a nightcap.
‘No, thank you. I’m supposed to be working.’ She fidgeted with her hair, pushing some unruly strands of honeyed gold behind her ear, while she tried valiantly to keep her eyes averted from his bare chest and the towel slung low on his hips.
Oh, yes, she felt this primal attraction as strongly as him, and the intense chemistry neither of them could dismiss, no matter how inconvenient or ill-judged.
‘Well, I need to warm up after that tepid bath.’ He joined her before the fire.
Something about her made him feel less alone, as if the ferocity of their attraction proved they were humans first, all other expectations second.
‘You could always put some clothes on,’ she snapped.
‘I could.’ Grateful to have their playful banter back, he made no move to oblige her. ‘But then I’d miss the way you’re looking at me.’
‘I’m not looking at you. I’m wondering how soon I can return to my proper job.’
‘Point taken. But, before you leave, tell me, do you work here full-time?’ he asked, already looking forward to their next meeting.
‘Part-time,’ she stressed. ‘I have another full-time job at a local hospital.’
‘You work two jobs?’ he asked, astonished by her impressive dedication.
‘Some people must if they want a roof over their heads.’ She cast him another of those challenging looks and then glanced around the immaculately elegant room, a barely concealed sneer on her lips.
Of course; the palace was completely over the top compared to how most normal people lived.
‘Forgive me.’ Andreas frowned, appalled by the arrogant assumptions he’d made about this intriguing woman’s life. ‘I’ve detained you long enough.’
But now he wanted to know everything about Clara Lund. To understand what had shaped her, what drove her, what dreams she held. Meeting her tonight had been a welcome-home gift he could never have anticipated. Knowing she worked in a place where he should feel at ease to be himself but instead felt like an imposter gave him the strength to face all that this place represented: memories, good and bad; expectations of duty and obligation at odds with his dreams; the disappointment in people’s eyes, his father’s included.
He placed his barely touched Scotch on the table and held out his hand, wishing he didn’t have to let her go. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Clara. Thank you for your help.’
She took his hand, her grip firm and her fingers warm, her touch calling to that part of him that was, first and foremost, a man.
‘Perhaps you’ll be more careful where you throw your prosthesis in future,’ she said, those big, intelligent eyes teasing.
What did she see when she looked at him? Suddenly, he wanted to know.
‘You haven’t asked—about how I lost my leg.’ He kept hold of her hand, hoping she couldn’t feel the rapid acceleration of his pulse. ‘Most people can’t help their curiosity.’
But he’d already established this woman wasn’t most people.
If she did ask, he’d have to confess his true identity, explain the accident and voice his worst failing to this extraordinary, ordinary woman. Would she view him differently if she knew how he’d failed his brother, his family, his nation? Would she too find him somehow lacking?
Could he stand to find out?
Her stare clung to his. ‘If you wanted me to know, a complete stranger, you’d have told me.’
Andreas’s breath caught in his chest, her answer more perfect than he could ever have imagined.
‘And why does it matter?’ she asked, her pupils dilating in the dim lighting. ‘Our scars don’t define us, do they?’
Her astonishing reply sliced through him like a blade. She couldn’t possibly know he struggled with imposter syndrome, not because he’d lost a limb, but because he’d been raised from birth to know that he wasn’t quite as important as his older brother, a brother who had then died on Andreas’s watch.
‘No, I suppose they don’t,’ he said, as fresh heat boiled inside him.
What scars had shaped beguiling, hard-working and independent Clara?
For Andreas, his injury represented what might have been, what should have been, if Oscar had survived the accident instead. His scars were a daily reminder of the brother he’d failed to save. And more—with Oscar dead, and his father growing older, Andreas would one day need to forgo his career and his freedom.
But she was right: there was more to him than his scars, his past mistakes and the future role he would one day inherit. In that moment, he was desperate to be nothing more than an ordinary man.
‘May I?’ he asked, slowly lifting his hand to an escaped lock of hair on her cheek.
She nodded, her eyes dipping to his mouth for a revealing second as her breathing accelerated.
This close, he could see a tiny hole in her nose from a piercing. It made him smile and strengthened his resolve to stand up to the palace’s demands for his time, to cling to the medical career he loved, until he was finally forced to stop. He tucked the silky strand behind her ear, his fingers lingering over that soft golden hair.
Oh, Clara, Clara, Clara... Why is it so hard to let you walk away?
As if she’d read his mind, she gripped his wrist, holding his hand in place.
His pulse spiked. He should tell her to leave. Except her warm, feminine scent lured him as she swayed closer and wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, her hungry stare latched to his, as if she saw deep inside his soul.
‘You should go,’ he said in one last ditch attempt to do the right thing, to resist the madness engulfing him like a rogue wave sucking him under.
‘I should.’ She nodded, swallowed and inched closer.
Damn it, just one taste.
Crushing her to his bare chest, he covered her mouth with his, pressing her pliant body close, from breasts to hips. Need roared through his blood, powerful and inescapable, setting off a chain reaction of desire so intense, he lost his mind. Her lips were soft, her whimper a moan of desperation that echoed so deeply inside him he struggled to recall if he’d ever wanted a woman more.
She parted her lips and touched her tongue to his, twisting his hair in her greedy hands. He tasted sweet triumph. He wasn’t alone. She felt this uncontrollable chemistry too.
Her body writhed against his as their kiss deepened. His towel loosened and slid from his hips to the floor. But he was too far gone to care, too intent on the thrilling duel of tongue against tongue, too aroused by the intense flare of mutual passion as they kissed.
With a sudden gasp, she broke free. She pushed at him, so he stepped back, releasing her at once.
Her hand flew to cover her mouth, but not before Andreas saw the evidence of her kiss-swollen lips. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.’ She looked down at his nakedness—he was hard—and stepped back towards the exit. ‘You’re a guest here.’
‘No, I’m...here on business.’ He speared his fingers through his hair, lingering arousal and fresh guilt shredding his composure. ‘I’m the one who’s sorry. It was my fault.’
‘Please don’t have me fired,’ she whispered, backing further away as if he was some sort of lecherous creep. ‘I need this job.’
Fired? Guilt rattled his bones. ‘There’s no question that you’ll lose your job.’
He’d taken advantage of the situation, kept his identity secret and indulged himself with a beautiful woman in his father’s employment. Yes, she’d kissed him back, her passion as desperate as his, but he should have controlled himself. He knew better and held himself to higher standards than other men.
‘Wait,’ he said, reaching for his towel as she turned and headed for the exit.
He strode after her, tucking his towel around his waist. For a wild and irresponsible moment, he’d relished the freedom to be the anonymous man Clara saw, flirted with and found attractive. He would make this right and tell her his name, hope she didn’t curtsey or something equally hideous, and perhaps they could laugh about the situation.
Except, by the time he reached the corridor, she’d disappeared. Andreas cursed under his breath. He closed the suite door and retraced his footsteps. The room seemed to have shrunk, the walls pressing in on him with the heavy weight of regret. He touched his lips, the lingering taste of Clara soured by the bitter taste of what might have been if he were any other man.