Conveniently Wed To The Prince. Nina Milne

       CHAPTER THREE

      STEFAN FIDGETED IN the incredibly comfortable Tudor-style seat that blended into the discreetly lavish décor of the Knightsbridge hotel. Gold fabrics adorned the lounge furniture, contrasting with the deep red of the thick curtains, and the walls were hung with paintings that depicted the Tudor era—Henry VIII in all his glory, surrounded by miniatures of all his wives.

      The irony was not lost on Stefan—his own father was reminiscent of that monarch of centuries ago. Cruel, greedy, and with a propensity to get through wives. Alphonse’s tally had been four.

      Stefan tugged his gaze from the jewelled pomp of Henry, fidgeted again, drummed his fingers on the ornamental desk, then realised he was doing so and gritted his teeth. What was wrong with him?

       Don’t kid yourself.

      He’d already identified the problem—he was distracted by the sheer proximity of Holly Romano. Had been all day. To be fair, it wasn’t her fault. Earlier, at his suggestion, she’d remained in the car whilst he conducted the site visit; now they were in the hotel and for the most part she was absorbed in her work. Her focus on the computer screen nearly absolute.

       Nearly.

      But every so often her gaze flickered to him and he’d hear a small intake of breath, glimpse the crossing and uncrossing of long, slender jean-clad legs and he’d know that Holly was every bit as aware of him as he was of her.

       Dammit!

      Attraction—mutual or otherwise—had no place here. Misplaced allure could not muddy the waters. He wanted Il Boschetto di Sole.

      An afternoon of fact-finding had elicited the news that the lemon grove wasn’t just lucrative—a fact that meant nothing to him—but was also strategically important. Its produce was renowned. It generated a significant amount of employment and a large chunk of tax revenue for the crown.

      Ownership of Il Boschetto di Sole would bring him influence in Lycander—give him back something that his father had taken from him and that his brother would grant only as a favour. For it to come from a place his mother had loved would add a poignancy that mattered more than he wanted to acknowledge. Perhaps there he could feel closer to her—less guilty, less tormented by the memory of his betrayal.

      He could even move her urn of ashes from the anonymous London cemetery where her funeral service had taken place. For years he had done his best, made regular pilgrimage, laid flowers. He had had an expensive plaque made, donated money for a remembrance garden. But if he owned the grove he would be able to scatter her ashes in a place she had loved, a place where she could be at peace.

      His gaze drifted to Holly Romano again. He wanted to come to a fair deal with her, despite her vehement repudiation of the idea. His father had never cared about fairness, simply about winning, crushing his opponent—Stefan had vowed never to be like that. Any deal he made would be a fair one. Yes, he’d win, but he’d do it fair and square and where possible he’d treat his adversary with respect.

      He pushed thoughts of Alphonse from his mind, allowed himself instead to study Holly’s face. There was a small wrinkle to her brow as she surveyed the screen in front of her, her blonde head tilted to one side, the glorious curtain of golden hair piled over one shoulder. Every so often she’d raise her hand to push a tendril behind her ear, only for it to fall loose once more. There came that insidious tug of desire again—one he needed to dampen down.

      As if sensing his scrutiny, she looked up.

      Good one, Petrelli. Caught staring like an adolescent. ‘Just wondering what you’re working on. Admin isn’t usually so absorbing.’

      There was a hesitation, and then she spun the screen round to show him. ‘It’s no big deal. One of the managers at work has offered to mentor me and she’s given me an assignment.’ She gave a hitch of her slender shoulders. ‘It’s just some research—no big deal.’

      Only clearly it was—the repetition, her failed attempt to appear casual indicated that.

      ‘Maybe you should consider asking to move out of admin and into a marketing role.’

      ‘No point. I’m going back home in a few months.’

      Then why bother to be mentored? he wondered.

      As if in answer to his unspoken question she turned to face him, her arms folded. ‘I want to learn as much as I can whilst I’m here, to maximise how I can help when I get back.’

      It made sense, and yet he intuited it was more than that. Perhaps he should file it away as potentially useful information. Perhaps he should make a push to find something he could bring to the negotiating table.

      ‘Fair enough.’ A glance outside showed the autumn dusk had settled in, which meant... ‘I’m ready for dinner—what about you?’

      ‘Um... I didn’t realise it was so late. I’m quite happy to grab a sandwich in my room. I bet Room Service is pretty spectacular here.’

      ‘I’m sure it is, but I’ve heard the restaurant is incredible.’

      Blue eyes surveyed him for a moment. ‘So you’re suggesting we go and have dinner together in the restaurant?’

      ‘Sure. Why not? The reviews are fantastic.’

      ‘And you’re still hoping to convince me to cut a deal and cede my claim.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘It won’t work.’ There was steel in her voice.

      ‘That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try. Hell, don’t you want to convince me to do the same?’

      ‘Well, yes, but...’

      ‘Then we may as well pitch over a Michelin-starred meal, don’t you think?’

      She chewed her bottom lip, blue eyes bright with suspicion, and then her tummy gave a less than discreet growl. She rolled her eyes, but her lips turned up in a sudden smile.

      ‘See? Your stomach is voting with me.’

      ‘Guess my brain is outvoted, then,’ she muttered, and she rose from the chair. ‘I’ll be five minutes.’

      True to her word she emerged just a few moments later. She’d changed back into the charcoal skirt she’d worn earlier, topped now by a crimson blouse. Her hair was swept up in an artlessly elegant arrangement, with tendrils free to frame her face.

      In that moment he wished with a strangely fierce yearn that this was a date—a casual, easy, get-to-know-you-dinner with the possibility of their attraction progressing. But it wasn’t and it couldn’t be. This was a fact-finding mission.

      Suddenly his father’s words echoed in his ears with a discordant buzz.

      ‘Information is power, Stefan. Once you know what makes someone tick you can work out how to turn that tick to a tock.’

      That was what he needed to focus on—gaining information. Not to penalise her but so that he could work out a