a half-finished, bottle stood precariously on the carpet next to him, the liquid gleaming gold in it.
As if on cue came her powerful kick from the left field and the ball zoomed toward the net and past the flailing hands of the goalkeeper. The sound was on Mute, yet the applause roared in Mia’s ears as if she were standing there on the field, the Spanish sun kissing her face.
The camera zoomed on her, sweaty and delirious with joy, her grin splitting her mouth into a wide curve.
A spark of joy lit up within Mia now, a quiet jolt as if she were being kicked back into life. On the screen, she did the victory lap around the perimeter of the ground and then that stupidly ridiculous dance, shaking her bum...
And the screen stilled on that image.
Nikandros was watching the game with an intensity that spoke of madness, obsession. It didn’t matter that the Prince was known to be a hard-core fan of the sport, that it was the game that could have arrested his attention.
But no, he was watching her.
She walked down the few steps, heart pounding in her chest. “Turn off the game.”
His body bent at an angle, he looked up. Long lashes cast crescent shadows on his cheekbones. But even those envy-inducing lashes couldn’t hide the thorough way he stared at her, all the way from her wet hair to her bare feet. That same devilish half-amusement lingered around his mouth. “Don’t tell me it’s another eccentricity of yours, not watching yourself play?”
“Another one?”
“The midnight swim?” he added, gaze focused on the wet ends of her hair. “The isolation before a big game?”
Mia shrugged, the knowledge of how keenly he was aware of her every eccentricity touching a fragile, buried part of her. His interest in her soccer career, in her, was extremely addictive. And was going straight to her head and other parts. “Only in the last few months have I been able to accept that I’ll never play again.” She looked up at the screen, an ache that never went away settling deep into her. “That part of my life is over.”
Up the steps and into the corridor she went, something uncoiling within her.
Something had changed tonight, even in the past few minutes maybe—a line had been crossed, a line between existing and living. The numbness that had descended on her seemed to crack. A steely grip on her arm halted her.
“I did not realize—” a restless kind of energy seemed to radiate from him and it touched Mia like a spark to dry tinder “—what you have gone through this past year.”
Her back to him, she pressed her forehead against the wall, unable to catch her breath. Every inch of her trembled from the small contact, every muscle locked painfully against the impulse that was coursing through her. “I hate it when you put it like that,” she said into the wall. “Like I was a victim. Of fate first, and then Brian. I find this...that feeling unbearable. As if nothing was in my control.
“For a year, I wallowed in that self-pity. With Brian’s affairs coming out—” a bitter laugh escaped her “—strangely, I seem to have found myself again. I refuse to be still anymore, refuse to be a victim.”
The grip released on her arm. Now his fingers teased her skin with soft strokes. “You astound me, Mia.” His words were deep and low, with a longing that resonated with her own.
But he still didn’t make a move on her.
Mia was terrified that he would and desolate that he wouldn’t.
“I’m grateful that you were there today, Nikandros,” she said, uncaring at this point that her voice betrayed her. “I didn’t realize until now how much I needed a...familiar face.”
Barely had her breath settled when she felt his hands slide to her shoulders. Her front was pressed against the wall, and at her back, he was a wall of warmth and want. With gentleness that undid her, he pushed her hair to the front and kneaded the hard knots on her shoulders.
His thumbs traced the sensitive skin at her nape. Breathing became a shallow exercise, a cavern of longing opening up within her. And then, just like that, he released her. “I will say good-night...and good-bye then.”
She turned around fast.
Dark stubble gave him a grungy, roguish look. His swarthy skin, as always, contrasted with the glittering blue of his eyes, making the man knee-meltingly gorgeous. Blue shadows cradled his eyes. He looked different somehow.
Charm and looks had been a common enough combination in some of the male athletes Mia had known in her career. But all of it was blunted in Nikandros’s case. As if they were nothing but surface traits.
It was the vitality that clung to his very pores, the sheer virility of a man who pitted himself against the extremes of nature and won, that made every cell in her ping with awareness.
The word good-bye sat like a boulder on her chest. She wasn’t prepared to say it. Not yet. “Where are you going?” she finally asked, carefully keeping her eyes away from the languid line of his mouth.
A self-deprecating smile carved a dimple in one cheek but left his eyes still far too intent on her. “To Drakon.”
That Nikandros had turned his back on his royal family years ago—it was a little gold nugget the media recycled every few months. With his daredevil stunts and extreme sport enthusiast career, Nikandros regularly courted the media, and like faithful little dogs, they went digging every single time. No one, however, knew the cause of the falling-out.
“You’re returning to your country?”
“For a visit, at least. My father’s dementia has become public knowledge. The Crown Prince has summoned me. My sister and my mother, even though she divorced my father a while ago, think my brother needs me. Desperately, according to them. Although I can’t imagine Andreas would know desperation if it smacked him in the face.”
“How long have you been away?”
“A decade, maybe.” The casual indifference couldn’t belie the torment in his eyes. “This is the first time my brother has sought me out.”
Clearly, he hadn’t been expecting that. “I’m sorry, Nikandros,” she finally said, sensing the ache in him.
He bent so suddenly that her breath whooshed out. One hard muscled thigh grazed the side of her legs, leaving her quaking. “Pity is not something I could tolerate.”
“Did Brian’s death make you feel sorry for me?” she countered. “Make you change your judgment of me?”
“No,” he said without missing a beat.
“Honesty, honesty, my hide for honesty,” she quipped in a singsong voice, giving in to the abrupt, insane urge to laugh.
Arms locking on either side of her head, he smiled. It touched his eyes then, which were like the sky on a summer afternoon. Time seemed to fly away, seconds turning to minutes and she felt the most insane urge to stop it. To grab it with both hands and hold on to this moment. “When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
That
