nodded and withdrew, and Phoebe was alone.
She glanced around the room, a gilded prison. This was so much like the last time she’d been summoned to the royal family—had she learned nothing in six years? She’d let herself be bullied then; she wouldn’t now. She didn’t want Anders’s money, she didn’t want anything from him that he hadn’t been prepared to give her when he was alive, and she acknowledged grimly just how much that had been: nothing.
Nothing then, nothing now. And that was fine, because she was fine. She’d sign their damn paper and go home.
She registered the soft click of the door opening and stiffened, suddenly afraid to turn around and face the person waiting for her there.
For in that moment she knew—just as she had known when she’d heard those three short raps on the door of her apartment—her life was about to change. Impossibly, irrevocably. For ever.
For she knew from the coldness in her bones, the leaden weight of her numbed heart, that a fussy palace official or consulate pencil-pusher was not waiting for her across ten yards of opulence. She knew, even before turning, who was waiting. Who had been sent to deal with her—an inconvenience, an embarrassment—again.
She turned slowly, her heart beginning a slow yet relentless hammering, a distant part of her still hoping that he wouldn’t be there—that after all these years it couldn’t be him—
But it was. Of course it was. Standing in the doorway, a faint, sardonic smile on his face and glittering in his eyes, was Leo Christensen.
CHAPTER THREE
‘WHAT…?’ The single word came out involuntarily, a gasp of shock and fear as the sight of Leo standing there so calm and assured brought the memories flooding back. Phoebe threw her shoulders back and lifted her chin. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked in a calmer voice.
Leo arched an eyebrow as he strolled into the room, closing the door softly behind him. ‘Is this not the Amarnesian Consulate?’ he asked, and Phoebe was conscious of how effortlessly he made her feel like an interloper. An ignorant one.
‘Then I suppose the question to ask,’ she replied coldly, ‘is why I am here.’
‘Indeed, that is an interesting question,’ Leo murmured, his voice as soft and dangerous as it had been six years ago. Phoebe felt it wrap around her with its seductive chill and tried not to shiver.
He was the same, she thought numbly, the same as he’d always been. The same sleepy, bedroom eyes, the same aura of confident sensuality even dressed as he was in a dark suit, undoubtedly coming as he did from Anders’s funeral, although there was no sign of grief in his saturnine features.
‘How did you get here?’ Phoebe blurted. ‘You were in Paris, at the funeral—’
‘I was this morning,’ Leo agreed blandly. ‘Then I flew here.’
She tried for a laugh. ‘Am I that important?’
‘No,’ Leo replied, and turned from her to move to a small table equipped with a few crystal decanters and glasses. ‘May I offer you a drink? Sherry, brandy?’
‘I don’t want a drink,’ Phoebe replied through gritted teeth. ‘I want to know why I’m here and then go home.’
‘Home,’ Leo repeated musingly. He poured a snifter of brandy, the liquid glinting gold in the lamplight. ‘And where is that, precisely?’
‘My apartment—’
‘A one-bedroom in a rather run-down tenement—’
Phoebe stiffened, thinking of the rather astronomical rent she paid for an apartment most people would think more than adequate. ‘Obviously your opinion of what constitutes run-down differs from mine.’ She met his gaze directly, refusing to flinch. ‘I’m not sure what the point of this is,’ she continued. ‘I assume I was summoned here for a purpose, to sign some paper—’
‘A paper?’ Leo asked. He sounded politely curious. ‘What kind of paper?’ He smiled slightly, and that faint little gesture chilled her all the more. Leo’s smiles were worse than his scowls or sneers; there was something cold and feral about them, and it made her think—remember—that he was capable of anything. She’d read it in the tabloids’ smear stories; she’d felt it the last time she’d stood across from him and listened to him try to bribe her, and she’d seen it in the cold, cold look he’d given Anders.
‘Some kind of paper,’ she repeated with a defensive shrug. ‘Signing away any rights to Anders’s money—’
‘Anders’s money?’ Leo sounded almost amused now. ‘Had he any money?’
‘He certainly seemed to spend it.’ Phoebe heard the ring of bitterness in her voice and flinched at what it revealed.
‘Ah. Yes. He spent money, but it wasn’t his. It belonged to his father, King Nicholas.’ Leo took a sip of his brandy. ‘Actually, Anders hadn’t a euro or cent or whatever currency you prefer to his name. He was really quite, quite broke.’
His words seemed to fall into the empty space of the room, reverberate in the oppressive silence. ‘I see,’ Phoebe finally managed, but sadly, scarily, she didn’t. If Anders didn’t have any money…then why was she here? ‘Then is it about the Press?’ she asked. Hoped. ‘A gagging order or some such? So I don’t write some sort of embarrassing memoir?’
Leo’s smile widened; he really was genuinely amused now, and it made Phoebe feel ignorant again. Stupid. ‘Have you memoirs?’ he queried. ‘And would they be so…embarrassing?’
Phoebe felt herself flush, and she shrugged, angry now. Angry and afraid. Not a good combination. ‘Then just tell me why I am here…Your Grace.’
The smile vanished from Leo’s face before he corrected with lethal softness, ‘Actually, my title is now Your Highness. Since Anders abdicated, I am the country’s heir.’
Phoebe stilled, the realisation trickling coldly through her. She hadn’t realised Leo was now the crown prince, although of course she should have known. She knew there was no one else. Anders and Leo were both only children, which was why they’d been raised like brothers.
For a second the old myth flashed through Phoebe’s mind as it had the last time she’d seen Leo: Hod and Baldur. Twins, one dark, one light. One good, one evil. Except she knew Anders’s true colours now, and he was far from being good or light. Not evil perhaps, but silly, shallow, selfish and vain. She shook her head, banishing the memories. ‘Your Highness, then. What do you want with me? Because I’d prefer to get to the point and go home. My son is waiting upstairs and he’s hungry.’ Brave words, she knew. Strong words, but she didn’t feel particularly brave or strong. The longer she remained in Leo’s company, bearing the weight of his silence, the more she felt her strength being tested. Sapped. ‘Well?’ she snapped, hating the way he was toying with her, sipping his brandy and watching her over the rim of his glass as if she was an object of amusement or worse, pity.
‘I don’t want anything with you in particular,’ Leo replied coolly. ‘However, my uncle, King Nicholas, hasn’t been well, and he has suffered great regret over what happened with Anders—’
