“And my grandfather provided for the education expense of every child in that line since.”
“There haven’t been that many.”
“No.”
“Including Chanel?”
“Yes. The full ride and living expenses scholarship she received is apparently what gave Perry Saltzman the idea to approach Yurkovich Tanner and trade on a connection more than half a century old.”
“What do you want me to do? Find her a Volyarussian husband?”
“He has to be from the Yurkovich line.”
“Your son is already married.”
“You are not.”
Neither was Demyan’s younger brother, but he doubted Fedir considered that fact important. Demyan was the one who had been raised as “spare to the throne,” almost a son to the monarch. “You want me to marry her.”
“For the good of Volyarus, yes. It need not be a permanent marriage. The will makes no stipulations on that score.”
Demyan did not reply immediately. For the first time in more years than he could remember, his mind was blank with shock.
“Think, Demyan. You and I both know the healthy economy of Volyarus sits on a precarious edge, just like the rest of the world’s. The calamity that would befall us were we to be forced to distribute the funds to Miss Tanner would be great.”
“You are being melodramatic. There’s no guarantee Maksim the First’s duplicity would ever be discovered.”
“It’s only a matter of time, particularly with a man like Perry Saltzman in the picture. His kind can sniff out wealth and connections with the efficiency of ferrets.”
“So, we deny the claim. Our court resources far exceed this young woman’s.”
“I think not. There are three countries that would be very happy to lay claim to Volyarus as a territory, and the United States is one of them.”
“You believe they would use the unclaimed shares as a way to get their hands on a part of Volyarus.”
“Why not?”
Why not, indeed. King Fedir would and, come to it, Demyan wouldn’t hesitate to exploit such a politically expedient turn of events himself.
“So I marry her, gain control of the shares and dump her?” he asked, more to clarify what his uncle was thinking than to enumerate his own plans.
He would marry one day. Why not the heir to Bartholomew Tanner? If she was as much a friend to Volyarus as her grandfather had been, they might well make an acceptable life together.
“If she turns out to be anything like her grasping stepfather, yes,” Fedir answered. “On the other hand, she may well be someone you could comfortably live with.”
The king didn’t look like he believed his own words.
Frankly, Demyan wasn’t sure he did, either, but his future was clear. His duty to his country and the well-being of his family left only one course of action open to him.
Seduce and marry the unpolished scientist.
CHAPTER ONE
DEMYAN SLID THE black-rimmed nonprescription glasses on before pushing open the door to the lab building. The glasses had been his uncle’s idea, along with the gray Armani cardigan Demyan wore over his untucked dress shirt—no tie. The jeans he wore to complete the “geeky corporate guy” attire were his own idea and surprisingly comfortable.
He’d never owned a pair. He’d had the need to set the right example for his younger cousin, Crown Prince to Volyarus, drummed into Demyan from his earliest memory.
He’d done his best, but they were two very different men.
Maksim was a corporate shark, but he was also an adept politician. Demyan left politics to the diplomats.
For now, though, he would tone down his fierce personality with clothes and a demeanor that would not send his prey running.
He knocked perfunctorily on the door before entering the lab where Chanel Tanner worked. The room was empty but for the single woman working through her lunch hour as usual, according to his investigator’s report.
Sitting at a computer in the far corner, she typed in quick bursts between reading one of the many volumes spread open on the cluttered desktop.
“Hello.” He pitched his voice low, not wanting to startle her.
No need to worry on that score. She simply waved her hand toward him, not even bothering to turn around. “Leave it on the bench by the door.”
“Leave what, precisely?” he asked, amused in spite of himself by her demeanor.
“The package. Do you really need to know what’s in it? No one else ever asks,” she grumbled as she scribbled something down.
“I do not have a package. What I do have is an appointment.”
Her head snapped up, red curly hair flying as she spun her chair to face him. “What? Who? You’re Mr. Zaretsky?”
He nodded, impressed by the perfect pronunciation of his name.
“You aren’t expected for another half an hour.” She jumped to her feet, the pocket of her lab coat catching the edge of a book and knocking it to the floor. “And you’re going to be late. Corporate types interested in funding our research always are.”
“And yet I am early.” He crossed the room and picked up the book to hand to her.
Taking it, she frowned, her small nose scrunching rather charmingly. “I noticed.”
“Eventually, yes.”
Pink stained her cheeks, almost washing out the light dusting of freckles. “I thought you were the delivery guy. He flirts. I don’t like it, so I ignore him if at all possible.”
The woman was twenty-nine years old and could count the number of dates she’d had in the past year on less than the fingers of one hand. Demyan would think she might welcome flirting.
He did not say that, of course. He gave her the smile he used on women he wanted to bed. “You have no filter, do you?”
“Are you flirting with me?” she demanded, her gray eyes widening in shock.
“I might be.” Awkward and this woman were on very friendly speaking terms.
Her brows furrowed and she looked at him with evident confusion. “But why?”
“Why not?”
“I’m hospitably inept, not desperate.”
