this man in all his haughty, brooding ruthlessness wasn’t listening to her. She’d stood up and he was clearly intrigued by that. He let those shrewd gray eyes travel all over her, and the worst part was that she had the childish urge to cover herself while he did it. When really, what did she care if some weird guy stared at her? She didn’t wear skinny jeans and tight thermal long-sleeved T-shirts that fit her like a second skin to admire her own figure.
Yet somehow, she got the impression he wasn’t staring at her ass like all the other rich guys had when she’d worked down the street in one of the village’s bars and they’d been after a little bit of local flavor in between ski runs and highly public divorces.
“It is uncanny,” the man said, his voice lower now and something like gruff. “You could be her twin, save the brazenly appalling hair.”
“I don’t have a twin,” Maggy snapped, and she could hear that there was too much stuff in her voice then. The way there always was anytime some stranger claimed she looked just like their niece or friend or cousin. When she’d been a kid, she’d gotten her hopes up every time. But she was a lot older and whole lot wiser now and she recognized these moments for what they were—throwaway comments from people who had no idea what it was like to have been thrown away themselves. “I don’t have anyone, as a matter of fact. I was found by the side of the road when I was eight and I can’t remember a single thing from before then. The end.”
“Ah, but that only proves my theory,” the man said, something hard, like satisfaction, gleaming like silver in those eyes of his.
He pulled off his leather gloves as if it was part of an ancient ceremony. Maggy couldn’t have said how he managed it, to somehow exude all of that brooding masculinity and yet be standing there doing nothing but removing a pair of gloves. He wasn’t sacking the walls of a city or performing some athletic feat, no matter how it echoed around inside of her. When he was done—and when she was busy asking herself what on earth was wrong with her that she should find a man’s strong, bare hands illicit—he pulled out a smartphone from his pocket, much larger and clearly more high-tech than the one she’d gotten recently when she’d felt so flush after her first month of regular paychecks here. Her fingers clenched hard on hers, as if she was embarrassed by her own phone, and she shoved it in her back pocket again. He swiped his screen a few times and then offered it to her, his face impassive. Though through it all, his gray eyes gleamed.
Maggy stared at his shiny, top-of-the-line smartphone as if it was a wasp’s nest, buzzing a warning straight at her.
“I don’t want to look at that,” she told him. Because he was overwhelming and he didn’t make sense and he was too much. And she was being smart not to let him reel her into anything, the way she’d always had to be smart, because it was that or be a victim. But that didn’t explain the sudden, hollow sensation deep inside her. “I want you to go. Now.”
“Look at the picture, please.”
He didn’t sound as if he was really asking. He didn’t sound as if he ever asked, come to that. And she noticed he didn’t promise that he would leave her alone if she looked as ordered, either.
So Maggy had no idea why she reached out and took the damned smartphone from him, making absolutely certain not to touch him. Or why the faint glint of approval in his stern gray gaze...did something to her. She swallowed hard and looked down at the smartphone in her hand, still warm from its close contact with his skin. Which should absolutely not have made her fight back a shudder.
Maggy focused on the screen in her hand. And then froze.
It was a picture of a woman.
She was standing somewhere beautiful, all gleaming lights and old stone, and she was looking back over one bared shoulder with a wide smile. Her dark chestnut hair was swept back into some kind of complicated bun and she was wearing the sort of dress real people never wore, long and sleek and seemingly threaded through with diamonds to match the bright strands draped around her neck.
If Maggy didn’t know better, she’d have said it was a picture of her.
“What is this?” she whispered, aware as she did that her heart was pounding at her. That her stomach knotted so hard it hurt. That her head ached, hard and strange at her temples. “Who is this?”
The man before her didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t lift one of his powerful fingers. He didn’t do anything, and yet there was something about the way he watched her then that took over the whole world.
“That is Serena Santa Domini.” His voice was cool, and yet she was sure there was something like satisfaction in his voice, threaded in deep, like stone. “Better known as Her Majesty, the queen of Santa Domini, who died twenty years ago in a car crash in Montenegro.” His gray eyes flashed with something Maggy didn’t understand, dark and sure, but it hit her like a wallop all the same. “I believe she was your mother.”
* * *
Reza Argos, more widely known and always publicly addressed as His Royal Majesty, King and Supreme Ruler of the Constantines, was not a sentimental man.
That had been his father’s downfall. It would not be his.
But either way, there was no doubt that he was a king. That meant there was no room for the maudlin trap of sentiment, especially in a country like the Constantines that prided itself on its correctness with, it was true, a certain intensity that suggested a number of unpleasant undercurrents. Like all the whispers about his father’s longtime mistress, for example, that no one dared mention directly—especially not after the way his father had died. Not that anyone said suicide, either. It was too messy. It hinted too strongly at the darkness beneath the Constantines, and no one wanted that.
It was all unpleasant history. Reza focused on the present. His trains ran on time. His people paid their taxes and his military zealously maintained his borders. He and his government operated transparently, without unnecessary drama, and in the greatest interests of his people to the best of his ability. He did not succumb to the blackmail of a calculating mistress and he certainly did not risk the whole country because of it. He was nothing like his father. More than that, the Constantines were nothing like their closest neighbor, the besieged Santa Domini, with its civil and economic crises these last thirty years.
Unsentimental attention to detail on the part of its rulers was how such a small country had maintained its prosperity, independence, and neutrality for hundreds upon hundreds of years. Europe might rage and fall and rise again around them, but the Constantines stood, a firm guard against encroaching darkness and Santa Dominian refugee crises alike, and no matter how grim and worrying it had all been these last three decades.
His father’s descent into cringe-inducing protestations of what the heart demanded—followed by what might well have become a constitutional crisis had it not been stopped before the blackmail had truly ripped apart the kingdom—did not count. Since very few people knew how bad it had all gotten outside the royal family and the most highly ranked ministers.
Reza had held his tiny alpine country together since his ascension to the throne at the tender age of twenty-three following what had been widely reported as his father’s sudden heart attack, as the latest in a long line of monarchs from the House of Argos. The Constantines was a small country made up of two pristine valleys high in the European Alps. The valleys were connected by a vast, crystal blue lake, bristled with picturesque villages and plump, comfortable banking concerns, and were bordered on all sides by crisp snowcapped mountains and luxury ski resorts.
The Constantinian people
