One Night With The Prince. Fiona McArthur
night and storming through his rooms in a fury. If he’d been possessed of the ego of a lesser man, she might very well have deflated it by now. He’d even altered his behavior to please her. He, Pato, Playboy Prince, tabloid sensation and scandal magnet, hadn’t even glanced at another woman unless it was specifically to annoy Adriana, since he didn’t seem to be able to do without the way she took him to task.
He was like a lovesick puppy. He was disgusted with himself.
And he would never be able to fly on that plane again without being haunted by her. Her taste, her silken legs draped over his back, her gorgeous cries. He cursed into the dark room, but it didn’t help.
The list of things he shouldn’t have done grew longer every day, but tasting the heat of her, making her shatter around him, twice, was at the very top. It wasn’t only that he’d tasted her at last and it had knocked him sideways, or that it had taken every shred of willpower he possessed to keep himself from driving into her and making her his in every possible way right there and then, again and again until they both collapsed. It wasn’t only that he’d been unable to stop thinking about the fact that he was more than likely the first man to pleasure her, which made a wholly uncharacteristic barbarian stir to life inside him and beat at his chest in primitive masculine triumph. That was all bad enough.
But it went much deeper than that, and Pato knew it.
He’d known it while they were still in the air. He’d known it when he’d started telling her things he never spoke about, ever. He’d known it when the plane had finally landed and he’d sent her off in a separate car and had found himself standing on the tarmac, staring at her disappearing taillights and wanting things he couldn’t have.
He’d known for some time, if he was honest, but tonight it had all come into sharp and unmistakable focus.
Pato didn’t simply want her in his bed.
He liked her. She made him laugh, she challenged him and she wasn’t the least bit in awe of him. From the very start, she’d treated him as if she expected him to be the educated, intelligent, capable man he was supposed to be rather than the airy dilettante he played so well. He wanted to teach her every last sensual trick he’d ever learned, and bathe them both in that scalding heat of hers. He wanted to prove to her that the passion that flared between them was rare and good. He wanted to take away the pressure of all that family history she wore about her neck like an albatross.
Worst of all, most damning and most dangerous, he wanted to be that better man she deserved.
“It isn’t even my dirt, but I’m covered in it,” she’d said tonight, breaking the heart he didn’t have all over again, and he’d wanted nothing more than to be the one who showed her that she had never been anything but beautiful and clean, all the way through. Pato never should have let himself get lost in the fantasy that he might be that man. He wasn’t. There was no possibility that he could be anything to her, and couldn’t allow himself to forget that again.
Not until the game he and Lenz had played for all these years reached its conclusion. He couldn’t break the faith his brother had placed in him all those years ago. He couldn’t break the vow he’d made. He wouldn’t.
And he’d never been even remotely tempted to do so before.
Pato found himself on one of his balconies that looked out over the water to the mainland beyond and the city nestled there on the lakeshore. His eyes drifted toward the sparkling lights of the old city, the ancient quarter that had sprawled over the highest hill since the first thatched cottages were built there in medieval times. It was filled with museums and grand old houses, narrow little lanes dating back centuries and so many of Kitzinia’s blue-blooded nobles in their luxurious, historic villas. And he knew precisely where the Righetti villa stood on the finest street in the quarter, one of the kingdom’s most famous and most visited landmarks.
But tonight he didn’t think about his murdered ancestor or Almado Righetti’s plot to turn the kingdom over to foreign enemies, all in service to long-ago wars. It was only the house where she lived, where he imagined her as wide-awake as he was, as haunted by him as he was by her. He didn’t care what her surname was. He didn’t care if this was history repeating itself. He certainly didn’t care about the malicious gossip of others.
The ways he wanted her almost scared him. Almost.
And of all the things he couldn’t have while this game played on, he understood that she was going to hurt the worst. She already did.
Pato slammed his fist against the thick stone balustrade. Hard. As if that might wake him up, restore him to himself. It did nothing but make his knuckles ache, and it didn’t make him any less alone.
He hated this game, but he couldn’t lose his focus. There was one week left until the wedding, and she’d served her purpose. He had to let her go.
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