Chapter Ten

Marissa didn’t believe that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, but she did believe that the way to a benefactor’s wallet was. In her experience, the rich were always more generous after they’d been well fed, and one of the first things she’d done when she met with the catering company in charge of the meal for the Dinner, Dance and Auction was to reconfigure the menu. If this event was to garner special attention, she argued, it needed to offer something a little more special than the typical rubber-chicken plate.

The caterers grumbled about clients wanting changes made at the eleventh hour, and insisted that her “special” menu would require “special” payment. Marissa slapped down a quote from a competitor, which outlined exactly what she wanted for the meal at a cost commensurate with what the committee had agreed to pay for the original.

But she understood that successful negotiations required give-and-take on both sides, and while she refused to pay anything more than the contract price, she did offer to include the revised menu in the auction program, with the catering company’s logo and contact information. The benefit was obvious: impress the guests with the meal, and the referral business from the high-end clientele was potentially unlimited.

So the guests who attended the event in the Grand Ballroom of the Castalia Hotel in downtown Saint Georgios were presented with baskets of artisan breads instead of dinner rolls, served tomato and bocconcini salad rather than mixed greens, and offered their choice of succulent Chateaubriand with roasted red potatoes and glazed baby carrots or grilled sea bass with wild rice and peppers and mushrooms.

Throughout the meal, diners were encouraged to browse the auction tables and make an offer on favorite items, and Marissa was pleased to note that the bidding had become quite competitive even before dessert—a delectable walnut-date torte—was served. And by nine o’clock, she was certain that the Third Annual Dinner, Dance and Auction to benefit Mercy Medical Center was going to be an unqualified success.

If she’d been nervous about anything aside from the revenues generated by the event, it was the seating plan. She was attending the auction as the king’s guest, and she knew that a lot of eyes would be focused on their table throughout the evening. Thankfully, all of Dante’s family was in attendance, as well, and since Van had invited a fellow professor from the university and Francesca was accompanied by her on-again, off-again boyfriend of the past three years, their table of ten was filled with people she could trust not to spend the entire meal staring at her and Dante.

Away from the table, it was a different story, of course. But Marissa was prepared for that, and since she understood that this curiosity had probably sold a lot of tickets to the event, she tried to be gracious.

About halfway through the meal, Dr. Nikolas Stamos, chairman of the board of directors of Mercy Foundation, took the podium to welcome everyone and thank them for their generous and ongoing support of the hospital and its programs. Then he spoke briefly about the history of the facility, touched on recent advances in medical science and outlined plans for the future of Mercy. He was passionate and eloquent but, most importantly, he was concise.

He’d been a little disgruntled when Marissa nixed his suggestion of a PowerPoint presentation outlining the projected costs of the expansion. But whereas she’d strong-armed the caterer, she’d sweet-talked the chairman, gently pointing out that people who had paid to walk through the door should have an opportunity to enjoy their meal without the weight of moral obligation or social responsibility being forced upon them.

The chairman had been skeptical, but in the end, he’d deferred to her expertise. And when Dr. Stamos had taken his seat again, Marissa and Dante began to work the room.

This was Marissa’s specialty. She tended to steer away from crowds, but she was good with people in more intimate situations. And she was content to circulate here, taking the time to speak with anyone who wanted a word, happily discussing what she knew about the proposed hospital expansion and politely deflecting inquiries about her relationship with the king.

Dante stayed close by and proved willing to respond to whatever subjects were directed his way. He was knowledgeable and articulate, and he had a knack for connecting with people. He was charming and sincere. When he asked a question of someone else, he actually listened to the response. And when a question was asked of him, he considered his reply rather than reciting a stock answer.

He was the king—ruling wasn’t just his responsibility, but his birthright. He didn’t need the approval of anyone in this room, but she realized that he wanted to at least earn their respect. He was showing them that he was accessible, willing to listen to their concerns in order to better respond to them. And Marissa was forced to acknowledge that she’d made a mistake in assuming that the new king wasn’t anything more than his reputation.

She wasn’t in the habit of making premature judgments about other people. As a princess, she was often subjected to stereotyping, and she should have known better than to accept the king as a particular “type.” Just as she wasn’t as sweet and docile and empty-headed as many believed a princess should be, she should have recognized that Dante wasn’t one-dimensional.

Of course, he’d done nothing to contradict the media’s image of him. From the moment they’d met, he’d flirted with and teased her relentlessly. But now she knew that the carefree playboy image he’d so carefully cultivated was just an image—the sexy charmer was undoubtedly an aspect of his personality, but it wasn’t the complete definition of the man.

By the time they’d finished their circuit of the room, the band had started to play and several couples were on the dance floor. She glanced back at the table, looking for Dante’s parents, and noted that the seats they’d occupied at dinner were empty.

“You’re looking for someone,” Dante guessed.

“Your dad,” she said. “I promised him a dance.”

“My parents decided to have an early night.”

“Oh,” she said, genuinely disappointed.

“Of course, I’d be happy to take his place,” Dante said to her.

Her brows lifted. “Haven’t you already done that?”

“I meant as your dance partner,” he clarified, offering his hand.

She hesitated.

“Didn’t the instructors at your finishing school teach you that it’s impolite to decline a gentleman’s request to dance?”

“They did,” she acknowledged. “I just figured there was enough talk going around about our relationship without giving the crowd more reason to speculate.”

“They’re speculating already,” he warned. “Wondering why Princess Marissa is refusing the king’s gallant invitation. Doesn’t she know that he’s considered quite the catch—that women around the world are vying for the opportunity to be his queen, and that half of the women in this country would give almost anything for the opportunity to be held in his arms?”

“That would be the half that haven’t already been in his arms?” she guessed, even as she placed her hand in his.

“Ouch.”

But he was smiling as he led her into the waltz, and while Marissa had some reservations about agreeing to this dance, she couldn’t fault his style. He executed the steps smoothly, so that they moved in sync with the other couples. And as they spun around the dance floor, she couldn’t hold back the images that spun through her mind.

Images of the Mythos Ball and the man she knew only as Jupiter.

Maybe it wasn’t surprising that the memories would be triggered by this dance. After all, she hadn’t danced with anyone else since she’d danced with Jupiter that night.

Not that Dante reminded her of Jupiter in any specific way. The king was taller than the god—or maybe it was just that the shoes she was wearing tonight didn’t add a full four inches to her own height. And the king’s chest wasn’t as broad. Of course, he wasn’t wearing a breastplate, either. But there was one real and disturbing similarity, and that was the quivering excitement that originated low in her belly and slowly spread through her body.

Lust.

She recognized it now for what it was and saw no reason to romanticize the feeling. The king was an undoubtedly handsome and charismatic man and she was hardly the first woman to have lustful feelings for him. But she was likely the first who had made any effort to resist them.

“You’re an excellent dancer, Your Majesty,” she noted, hoping that the effort of making conversation would distract her from the blood pulsing in her veins.

“It’s easy with an excellent partner,” he told her. “And a sincere pleasure with a beautiful one. Have I told you how stunning you look tonight?”

She felt her cheeks flush. Though she hadn’t strayed too far from her usual color palette, the slim strapless gown of chocolate-colored silk was more eye-catching than her usual attire. And while she’d promised herself that she wasn’t dressing to catch the king’s eye, she was pleased that he’d noticed.

“You aren’t accustomed to compliments,” he noted.

“I’m not accustomed to anyone looking at me the way you do,” she admitted.

“And you’re smart to be wary,” he admitted. “Because while a man can’t help but look at what he admires, he is rarely content to simply look.”

And then he shifted topics as deftly as he transitioned through the steps of the waltz. “I saw you talking to the chief of pediatric medicine earlier.”

“Dr. Kalidindi was interested in learning more about the volunteer-cuddler program at PACH.”

“Juno’s Touch.”

She was surprised that he’d remembered the name—and she was frustrated by her own inability to forget about the one night in which she’d experienced the power and freedom of being the goddess Juno.

“He’s interested in launching a similar program here, and he asked if I would be willing to help get things started.”

“What was your answer?”

He sounded more curious than concerned, as if her response was of no consequence to him.

“I told him I would have to think about it. I have a life and responsibilities in Tesoro del Mar that I’ve already neglected for more than three weeks. Not to mention that you must be anxious to get rid of me so that your life can go back to normal.”

“You have to know I don’t want to get rid of you, Your Highness. In fact, I’d very much like you to stay.”

“Our agreement was that I would come to Ardena to help with the auction,” she reminded him.

“So let’s make a new agreement.”

“I’m not sure it would be wise for me to stay any longer.”

“Playing it safe, Princess? Or running scared?”

Both, she acknowledged, if only to herself. Aloud she said, “The song is over, Your Majesty.”

“But I’m not ready to let you go.”

“People are watching.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.” She curtsied and stepped back. “I told you when I agreed to come here that I didn’t want my photo splashed across the newspapers under headlines speculating about the nature of our relationship.”

He fell into step beside her as she moved away from the dance floor and back to their table. “Then let’s stop the speculation.”

She picked up her water glass, sipped. “How?”

“By announcing our engagement.”

Her heart actually stuttered, and she realized that at some point over the past few weeks, the idea of marrying the king had become less daunting and more enticing. She wasn’t entirely sure when her feelings toward him had changed, but she suspected it was around the time she’d stopped thinking about him as His Majesty the King of Ardena and started seeing him as Dante Romero.

Because she knew now that he wasn’t just a ruler, he was a man. And while he was undoubtedly handsome and charming and smart and sexy, he was more than that. He was a man she liked and admired. She enjoyed spending time with him, she respected the sharpness of his mind and the warmth of his heart and she seriously lusted after his body.

Okay, so there could be some definite benefits to letting the king put a ring on her finger. But would he want to put a ring on her finger if he knew about her one-night love affair?

“Not tonight,” she finally responded to his suggestion.

“You didn’t say no this time,” he mused. “Maybe next time you’ll actually say yes.”

Marissa danced with several other people after that, including Dr. Kalidindi, who used the excuse of a fox-trot to press his case. He was as charming as he was persistent, and at the end of their three minutes on the dance floor she found herself agreeing to at least stay another week so that she could tour the pediatric wing of the hospital and meet with him.

When she finally made her way off of the dance floor, she decided to steal a quiet moment alone and catch a breath of fresh air. As guests had been coming and going through the main doors, she opted to slip out of the side entrance for a little privacy.

Apparently she wasn’t the only one with that idea, as she saw that Dante had gone out this way, too. Well, she figured it was as good a time as any to tell him that she was staying in Ardena—at least for another week.

It wasn’t until he turned to speak to someone that she realized he wasn’t alone. She paused with her hand on the glass, her heart hammering in her chest.

She couldn’t see who he was with, but he looked angry. Furious. Then his companion stepped into the light, and Marissa sucked in a breath as she recognized the girl who had introduced herself as Naomi when she met her at the hospital in Port Augustine.

She pushed open the door, just a little, unashamedly eavesdropping. They were too far away for her to hear their words, but Dante’s tone was harsh, the girl’s softer, almost taunting.

Maybe Naomi did know some of the king’s secrets—or maybe she was one of his secrets. The possibility made Marissa’s stomach churn.

No—if Naomi had been sleeping with the king, she would have said so. She’d only told Marissa to ask him about Siobhan, and then she’d refused to say anything more.

It’s not my story to tell.

Then whose story was it?

Marissa decided it was time she got an answer to that question.

After their dance, Dante and Marissa went in opposite directions. As much as he wished he could spend all of his time with her, he understood the expectations and protocols of his position. But by midnight, the crowd had thinned considerably and they were finally able to head back to the palace.

He was going to suggest opening a bottle of champagne to toast to the success of the evening, but noticed that she was rubbing her forehead.

“Ready to call it a night?” he asked.

She surprised him by shaking her head. “Actually, I think I’m going to go out back to get some air.”

“Do you want company?”

“It’s your palace,” she reminded him.

Not the most gracious invitation he’d ever received, but he was willing to take it.

She settled in one of the chairs facing the pool, and he chose the one beside her.

“I figured you’d be exhausted after all the work you did—not just today and tonight, but over the past few weeks.”

“I am exhausted,” she admitted. “But too wired to sleep just yet.”

“Anything in particular on your mind?”

“A few things.”

He wondered if one of those things was his proposal—or at least the offer from Dr. Kalidindi. “Which one is responsible for that little crease between your brows?”

She shifted her chair so that she was facing him more directly before she responded. “Siobhan.”

He looked startled. “What do you know about her?” he asked cautiously.

“I don’t know anything,” she admitted. “I was hoping you would tell me.”

If it was true that she didn’t know anything, he could keep the details sparse, giving her enough information to satisfy her curiosity and nothing more. Except that she was looking at him with such unguarded faith that he knew no half-truths would suffice. She was trusting him to tell her the truth; he could only hope that she would believe him when he did.

“Siobhan is the six-month-old daughter of Fiona Breslin, a part-time assistant events coordinator here at the palace. When she was born, she seemed to be a normal, healthy baby, but after a few weeks, Fiona noticed that the infant was struggling to catch her breath and her skin had a slightly bluish tinge.”

“She had a hole in her heart,” Marissa guessed.

“You obviously spend a lot of time at the hospital.”

She shook her head. “Gabriella’s daughter, Sierra, was born with an atrial septal defect.”

“Well, an echocardiogram confirmed that it was an ASD, and while Siobhan’s doctor kept promising Fiona that the hole would close on its own, her condition continued to worsen. She finally took her to the hospital, where it was determined that she needed emergency surgery. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a surgeon at Mercy qualified to perform that kind of surgery on an infant.”

“You sent her to PACH,” Marissa realized. “I remember when she was brought in—just a few weeks ago. Dr. Nardone did the surgery.”

“And now Siobhan is recovering on schedule.”

“There has to be more to the story,” she guessed.

He nodded. “As a part-time employee, Fiona had limited medical insurance that didn’t cover the cost of transportation to, or any kind of procedure in, a foreign country. It was Fiona’s sister, Naomi, who came to me. She said that I had to help, because if I didn’t, my baby was going to die.”

Marissa’s gaze never flickered, never wavered.

“You’re not going to ask if it’s true—if the baby is mine?”

She shook her head. “I know it’s not.”

He was as surprised as he was touched by her unquestioning support. “While I appreciate your vote of confidence, how can you be so sure?”

“Because you date supermodels and movie stars—women who, while not of equivalent rank to a king, would be able to relate to you on somewhat equal terms. You would never sleep with someone who worked for you, however indirectly, because of the disparity in your positions. And if I’m wrong about that and you did get involved with an employee, you would never abdicate your responsibilities.”

“Well, Fiona didn’t know that about me, and apparently—though our paths only crossed on an infrequent basis—she developed something of an infatuation with me.”

“She would be one of the half of the women in this country who would give almost anything for the opportunity to be held in your arms?” she teased.

He smiled, appreciating her attempt to lighten the conversation.

“But since that wasn’t happening, she hooked up with someone else. And when she found out she was pregnant, she was too ashamed to admit to her sister that the father of her baby abandoned her, so she told her that I was the father.”

“An allegation easy enough to disprove,” Marissa reminded him.

“But not without a whole lot of publicity and fanfare. And it wasn’t just that I didn’t want the press speculating that I might have fathered a child out of wedlock and all the issues that went along with that. I didn’t want to refocus attention on the funding problem at the hospital, which may or may not have resulted in the baby’s condition not being diagnosed properly and treated sooner.”

“You covered the cost of Siobhan’s medical care, didn’t you?”

He nodded. “And maybe that was a mistake, because Naomi interpreted that as proof I felt responsible for the baby and assumed it meant the baby was mine.”

“But if you hadn’t stepped in, she would have died.”

And that was all he’d thought about at the time. He hadn’t considered the implications of his actions beyond the fact that they were necessary to save the life of a child.

“So what does she want from you now?” Marissa asked.

“Who?”

“Naomi. I saw her with you at the hotel.”

“She doesn’t want anything from me. It seems her sole purpose in life, now that her sister’s baby is home, is to expose my true character to the people of Ardena, to prove I’m unworthy of wearing the crown.”

Marissa reached across the space that separated them and took his hands. “Then you shouldn’t worry—because if the people of Ardena see you for who you really are, they’ll know how lucky they are to have you as their king.”

Her words were a balm to his bruised confidence. “They’d be more likely to believe that if they had a queen who believed it, too.”

She only smiled as she released his hands. “Good night, Your Majesty.”

He stood with her. “Am I wrong in thinking that we’ve become friends over the past few weeks, Your Highness?”

“I don’t think so,” she replied.

“Then maybe you could call me Dante instead of using my title all of the time?”

She nodded. “Good night, Dante.”

Nearly a week had passed since the auction and Marissa had yet to make definite plans for her return to Tesoro del Mar. She’d thought she would be eager to get back, and she did miss her family and her friends and the routines at PACH that had become so much a part of her life over the past several years. But whenever she thought about saying goodbye to Dante, she felt an unexpected pang deep inside her heart.

So for now, she was content to maintain the status quo and keep in touch with her family through phone calls and emails. She was at the computer now, and smiling as she read the latest update from Sierra, who was having the time of her life at the University of San Pedro. Marissa finished reading and had just clicked Reply when a quick knock sounded on the door.

Before she had a chance to say anything, the handle turned and Dante walked in. In the six days that had passed since the auction, she’d hardly seen him at all. But suddenly he was here and, without any explanation or apology for his intrusion, he crossed the room to where she was seated at the desk and closed the lid on her laptop.

She lifted her brows. “What are you doing?”

“I’m breaking you out of here,” he told her.

“I didn’t realize I was being held prisoner.”

“Well, I assumed you must be, since you haven’t stepped foot outside of the gates of the palace in the past six days, except to visit Dr. Kalidindi.”

“Maybe because I haven’t wanted to step foot outside of the gates,” she suggested.

“I know you don’t like being hounded by the media—that’s why I brought these.” He tossed a neatly folded bundle of clothes on the settee.

“Where did you get those?”

“I pilfered them from Leticia’s wardrobe,” he explained. “We’re going incognito.”

She sorted through the items. “How are a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt and a baseball cap going to help me blend in?”

“They’re not going to help you blend. Princess Marissa blends. Your disguise is not to blend.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” He started toward the door. “I’m giving you five minutes to change, then we’re out of here.”

“But I was—”

“Four minutes and fifty-five seconds.”

She scowled at the back of the door.

After six days of almost no communication, what gave him the right to barge in and start issuing orders? Okay, maybe he was the king of Ardena, but he wasn’t the boss of her. And even if she was admittedly curious about his plans, she wasn’t going to jump just because he told her to. Not until she was ready.

She opened the lid of her computer again and typed her response to Sierra. When she’d finished her message, she surveyed the borrowed outfit again.

Leticia was of similar height and build to Marissa, but her taste in clothes was very different. Marissa eyed the boldly printed T-shirt, cherry-red hoodie and low-cut dark wash jeans with skepticism. Although she didn’t wear them often, she did have jeans of her own—softly faded and conservatively cut—and she was more than a little tempted to dig them out of her drawer instead of wearing Leticia’s. But she knew the bundle of clothes Dante had borrowed from his sister wasn’t just a commentary on her wardrobe but a challenge, and Marissa never liked to back down from a challenge.

She carried the bundle into the adjoining bedroom and stripped off her skirt and blouse.

Dante paused in the open doorway of Marissa’s bedroom, his jaw on the carpet.

He’d counted down the promised five minutes and, assuming that she’d had plenty of time to perform a simple change of clothes, knocked on the door of her sitting room and walked in. But she wasn’t in the sitting room—and she hadn’t closed the door that separated it from the bedroom.

And she was naked—well, naked except for a couple of scraps of very sexy red lace.

She had her back to him, presenting him with a spectacular view of strong shoulders, slender torso, deliciously curved buttocks and mile-long legs. He swallowed, trying to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth to say something. Not that he would be able to speak any coherent words, because the only thought going through his mind was ohmylordthereisagodinheaven.

She bent over to pick up the jeans that she’d laid out on the foot of the bed and his blood roared in his head. She put one foot in, then the other, then she wriggled her hips as she slid the denim up those long, lean legs.

“I know I didn’t get those undergarments from my sister’s closet.”

Marissa yelped and spun around, her eyes wide.

Dante grabbed hold of the doorjamb for support, because as glorious as the view had been of her backside, the front—where delicate cups of scarlet lace cradled unexpectedly lush breasts—was even better.

She grabbed for the T-shirt on the bed, holding it in front of her like a shield. But it was too late—the image of her gorgeous, mostly naked body was already imprinted on his brain forever.

“Don’t you knock?” she demanded.

“I told you I would give you five minutes, and your five minutes are up.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to barge in here!”

“You’re right,” he admitted.

“Could you please stop staring?” she snapped.

He managed to clear his throat, though he couldn’t tear his gaze away. “I honestly don’t think I can.”

“Dante…”

“Yes?”

“Get out!”

Marissa sank onto the edge of the mattress when he was gone, her heart pounding, her knees weak. She might have succeeded in banishing Dante from her room, but cooling the heat in her veins proved to be a much more challenging task.

With a groan of purely sexual frustration, she yanked the T-shirt over her head, shoved her arms in the sleeves of the sweater and slapped the ball cap on top of her head.

She didn’t feel any better when she was done, but at least she was dressed.

He hadn’t made a move toward her. He’d just stood in the doorway, more than three feet away. But she’d felt the hunger in his gaze as it raked over her—as tangible as a caress. All it had taken was a look, and everything inside of her had trembled. With awareness. Desire. Need.

It made her wonder what might have happened if he’d actually touched her—just the lightest touch of his fingertips on her skin. Or kissed her—the barest brush of his mouth against hers. No doubt her body would have gone up in flames.

And no way would she be alone on this big, soft bed right now.