you met Angelique Sauveterre?”
* * *
“Ms. Sauveterre, the Crown Prince of Elazar, Xavier Deunoro.”
Xavier had known exactly what he was doing when Clair Dmitriev had cornered him into making an appearance at her charity event. He was buying a future favor from her powerful husband, a man who was notoriously difficult to influence.
He had also known it would be an evening rife with what he had before him: Women in daring gowns, swishing their hips in enticement, sweeping lashes in false shyness while they twisted their hair in invitation.
As Europe’s most eligible bachelor, he was used to having his pick from such an array. He only needed to drop a claw and let it pick up one of the brightly colored toys before him. It didn’t matter which one fell into his hands. They were all the same, providing brief entertainment and something soft to embrace for a night, before forgetting them in the hotel room when he left the next morning.
Given the news he had received this morning, tonight’s plaything would be his last before his royal duty took precedence. It was another reason he had agreed to this ridiculousness. At least he had a decent selection for his final visit to the amusement park.
He was taking his time singling out his companion. They all had their charms. Was he in the mood for voluptuous or fair? Should he be practical and choose the one wearing enough gold not to covet his own? Or go with the one who promised some spark as she set her chin and glared at the rest?
Then his hostess presented a newcomer like a gift, one who made the rest of the women take sharp little breaths and step back.
She was taller than most, with divine features that matched her name. Her skin was soft and flushed, too warm to be called cream yet not dark enough to be olive. Golden as a sunrise glancing off a snowy peak.
A muse, clearly, since he felt poetic stirrings just by gazing at her. How could he not admire her? Her figure was goddess-perfect, her mouth sinful, her eyes fey and mysterious, colored somewhere between gray and green. If he pulled her from the cloud of perfume surrounding them, he bet she would smell like mossy forest and clean cold streams.
That was what she presented on the surface, at least. In a blink, she had shifted ever so slightly and it was as if she’d hit exactly the right angle to catch and reflect the sun. Something less tangible than external beauty seemed to concentrate and strike out in a sharp white light that pierced his eyes, like a star being born.
She was the diamond in a bowl of imitations, a woman of facets and contrasts, infinitely fascinating and priceless. If recognizing that caused him a stab of regret because he didn’t have time to fully explore her depths and contradictions, he ignored it. Such was his life. He took what he could, when he could.
Tonight, he would take her, grazie mille.
“Good evening.” He bowed over her hand, letting his breath warm her knuckles and feeling the tiny flex of her reaction. “It’s an honor to meet you.”
“A rare treat indeed.” The tilt of her lips suggested an inside joke. “The honor is mine.”
“I’ve seated you at the VIP table,” Clair said. “Please find your way when you’re ready. Has everyone seen the silent auction items?” Clair broke up the knot of disgruntled women, most of whom drifted off.
A few opportunists remained, one being the redhead with the determined chin. He sighed inwardly as the redhead flashed a too sweet smile before asking, “Angelique, how is your sister? Still keeping to herself?”
Ah yes. That’s why the name had struck him as familiar. The family had a tragic history. One of the twin girls had been kidnapped as a child. She was rumored to be batty, so they kept her out of sight. As someone who had been reported as everything from born of an alien to outright dead, he put little store in such gossip, but did wonder how she would respond to such a blatant intrusion. It was clearly meant to disconcert.
She swung a scythe-sharp glance at the redhead, revealing the compressed carbon beneath her sparkle.
“She’s excellent.” Her tone struck him as ironic. “What’s your name? I’ll tell her you were asking about her.”
“Oh.” The redhead was startled, but flicked him a glance and decided to take a final stab at snaring his interest. “Lady Wanda Graves.”
“I’ll be sure you’re added to our list.” She smiled distantly and turned to him. “Shall we find our seats?”
She didn’t see the redhead brighten briefly before a darker thought struck, one that tightened her mouth. The other women who’d been standing by widened their eyes then averted their gazes before they scurried off.
He offered his arm and dipped his mouth to her ear. “You have a blacklist?”
“Nosy people do not wear our label.”
Catty, ruthless, or both? Either way, he was entertained.
And now he was reminded that the sisters had some kind of design house. Women’s fashion was last on his list of interests, but he took a fresh assessment of her gown, appreciating the peek of thigh exposed by the slit and the gather of strapless satin that left an expanse of upper chest and breast swell to admire.
“This is one of your creations? It’s pure artistry.”
“I can tell when I’m being patronized,” she warned.
“Then you’ll know I’m sincere when I say the dress is lovely, but I see the woman inside it. Which is the point, is it not?”
“Do you?” She tilted a considering look up at him, something dancing in the elfin green of her eyes. He could have sworn they were gray a minute ago. Her gaze dropped to his chest, where the band of silk slashed across his heart. “I see the crown, not the man. Which is what this is meant to convey, isn’t it?”
Astute, but a woman who made her living with clothing would understand such nuances.
The sash in question felt unaccountably restrictive this evening. Duty hovered in his periphery, set there by a brief news item passed along from his PA about Bonnafete, a small principality in the Mediterranean. The reigning prince’s daughter, Patrizia, had called off her marriage to an American real estate mogul.
Patrizia was a longtime acquaintance. Xavier was not as sorry as he had implied when he had sent his condolences. He was in need of a titled wife. His grandmother wanted him married so she could step down. Patrizia was infinitely suitable.
He had asked that his grandmother be made aware of the broken engagement. It was an acknowledgement of his responsibility toward her, their bloodline and the crown. Loath as he was to marry, he preferred to spearhead such actions himself, rather than wait for her to issue orders. She might be the one person on this earth with the power to govern his actions, but he didn’t have to encourage it. He was confident she would approve and God knew she would let him know if she didn’t.
“Is it heavy?” his final sown oat asked of his sash. The levelness in her tone told him she didn’t mean physically, proving she was even more perceptive than he’d imagined.
Compassion was not something he looked for in anyone, though, least of all his temporary companions. There was no room for any weakness
