gave a little toss of her head. ‘I arranged to meet him and then I stood him up.’
Her sister sat back in her chair with a musing smile. ‘Well, well, well.’
‘Don’t get any funny ideas. He’s the last man on earth I’d ever consider having a fling with. He’s got no morals. He’s a man slut, that’s what he is. He doesn’t stay with women long enough to remember their names. You should have seen the girl he had waiting on him down on the beach. She was fawning all over him as if he was some sort of sex god. It was nauseating.’
‘Listen to you.’ Madeleine laughed. ‘There’s nothing wrong with having a little fling if someone takes your fancy. It’s about time you put yourself out there again. Lucca Chatsfield would be quite a fabulous scalp to hang on your belt. I bet there are things he could show you in the bedroom that would make your hair stand up on end.’
Lottie glowered. ‘That man is nothing but a thorough nuisance. I can’t think why you agreed to such a harebrained scheme to bring him here to meddle with my plans. He’s going to ruin everything, I just know it.’
Madeleine gave her a teasing smile as she reached for another croissant. ‘I think you like him.’
Lottie sprang up from the table. ‘I hate him! I detest him! I swear to God if he was here now I would say it to his face.’
‘Save it, ma chérie.’ Madeleine wiped her fingers on a starched napkin. ‘You can tell him at dinner.’
‘Dinner?’ Her heart gave a sudden lurch. ‘Don’t tell him me you’ve invited him to dine with us. That’s taking things way too far.’
‘Not with us.’ Madeleine said. ‘You and him. Alone.’
‘What?’
‘You can consult him about the hens’ night. I’ve planned a private dinner for you both in the Green Room.’
Lottie gaped at her sister. ‘Why are you doing this? Have you gone completely mad?’
‘He’s fun loving and dashing.’
‘He’s an outrageous flirt and an arrogant devil!’
‘I know.’ Madeleine smiled again. ‘Don’t you just love that about him?’
A palace official led Lucca to a private room in the west wing of the palace. It was decorated in various shades of green with a background of cream with trimmings of gold. A small antique dining table had been set up in front of the large bay of windows that overlooked the palace gardens, and a bowl of full-headed creamy roses was on a brass-inlaid cabinet nearby, their peppery, clove-like scent filling the room. There were two deeply cushioned sofas facing each other in the middle of the room in a cream brocade fabric with an array of scatter cushions. A cherry-wood glass-fronted bookcase was against one wall with a small writing desk and chair set in front of it with a quaint lamp that was casting an incandescent glow over the room. It was a comfortable room rather than a formal one. It reminded him of a sitting room/library in a stately manor in the English countryside, not unlike his family home, Chatsfield House, in Buckinghamshire.
Thinking about home—why did he persist in calling it home when it had never been anything like one?—always made him antsy. He’d spent far too many years of his childhood yearning for a home and family like that of his schoolmates. Chatsfield House was one of the most beautiful houses in the English countryside but no one could ever call it a home. It had no heart. No warmth. No soul. And as for family … well, with his older siblings and his younger one with issues of their own and a father who sought refuge in a bottle, it was hardly what anyone could describe as a happy family life.
The official poured Lucca a drink and informed him the princess would be with him shortly before bowing politely and leaving.
He checked his phone to see he had missed a call from Orsino. He’d yet to talk to him about Giatrakos and was faintly curious to see how the Greek had attempted to co-op his brother. It was hard enough to get hold of his twin at the best of times, considering he was usually halfway up a mountain, or saving starving children in some godforsaken place, so how on earth Christos had contacted him was anyone’s guess. When Lucca dialled Orsino’s number there was no answer—typical—so he left a brief message without saying much about his situation.
Ten minutes later Lucca had paced the floor so many times he was sure he’d left a foot-deep trench in the soft carpet. Was this another game of Lottie’s? He didn’t like the tables being turned on him. He was the one who played and won. If Lottie thought she could manipulate him to walk out before the time was up she was in for a big surprise. Nothing and no one was going to make him relinquish his goal. No one.
He turned when he heard a light footstep at the door. Lottie was standing there looking very composed but he noticed she was doing that flicking thing with her finger and thumb. She was dressed in black from head to foot, which did nothing for her colouring. Her hair was scraped back in an even more severe style and she wore no cosmetics or any jewellery. There was a spark of defiance in her gaze, however, that alerted him that her choice of garb this time might well have been for his benefit. Even her shoes were something a grandmother with bunions would wear.
‘Who died?’
Her brows met between her eyes. ‘I beg your pardon?’
He waved a hand to indicate her outfit. ‘Have you been to a funeral?’
That stubborn little chin came up. ‘I happen to like wearing black.’
‘You look terrible in it. It makes me want to rush to the nearest blood bank to order a transfusion for you.’
She walked into the room with her head high. ‘If and when I want fashion advice from you I will ask for it.’
‘I liked that tracksuit you were wearing on the beach yesterday. I almost didn’t recognise you.’
Her cheeks were pink when she turned to face him, her eyes behind their glasses—the tortoiseshell ones—brittle with resentment. ‘Did you enjoy your drink?’
‘It was very enjoyable. The view was amazing.’
Her look was brimful of dislike. ‘The beach or that blonde’s cleavage?’
He gave her a glinting smile. ‘What do you think?’
She flattened her mouth as if she didn’t trust herself to respond in a civil fashion. She stalked over to where some drinks were laid out and poured a glass of water but he suspected it had more to do with her needing something to do with her hands than actual thirst. She turned and cradled the glass without taking a sip from it. ‘How did you know I wasn’t going to go up to your penthouse?’
He studied her tense little expression for a beat or two. ‘I knew you weren’t ready.’
‘Not ready?’ she spluttered, eyes flashing at him in indignation. ‘What, you think it’s only a matter of time before I jump into bed with you?’
‘Your body wants to, it’s just your head hasn’t quite got around it.’ He took a measured sip of his whiskey and added, ‘But it will.’
Her hands around her glass tightened. ‘Your overblown confidence astounds me. I have absolutely
