An Heir Fit For A King. Эбби Грин
WAS HALFWAY across the quiet square, fuelled by a surge of angry disbelief, before the thought managed to break through: no woman, ever, had turned him down like that. So summarily. Coldly. As if he’d overstepped some invisible mark on the ground. As if he was...beneath her.
He dismissed his security detail with a flick of his hand as he walked into the hotel, with staff scurrying in his wake, the elevator attendant jumping to attention. Alix ignored them all, his mind filled with incredulity that she had said no.
He’d ended his liaison with Carmen specifically to pursue Leila Verughese.
When Carmen had undressed in front of him in his suite he’d felt nothing but impatience to see her gone. And then, when he’d gone to his window and seen the light shining from a small window above the perfume shop and that slim figure, all he’d seen was her alluring body in his mind’s eye. The hint of generous curves told of a very classic feminine shape—not exactly fashion-forward, like Carmen, with tiny breasts and an almost androgynous figure, but all the more alluring for that.
He wanted her with a hunger he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time. And that impatience to see Carmen gone had become a compelling need.
When Alix got to his suite of rooms he threw off his coat and prowled like a restless animal. He felt animalistic.
How dared she turn him down? He wanted her. The exotic princess who sold perfume.
Why did he want her so badly?
The question pricked at him like a tiny barb and he couldn’t ignore it. He’d only ever wanted one other woman in a similar way. A woman who had made him think she was different from all the others. When she’d been even worse.
Alix, young and far more naive than he’d ever wanted to admit at the age of eighteen, had been seduced by a beautiful body and an act of innocence honed to perfection.
Until he’d walked into her college rooms one day and seen one of his own bodyguards thrusting between her pale legs. The image was clear enough to mock him. Years later.
As if his own parents’ toxic marriage hadn’t already drummed it into him that men and women together brought pain and disharmony.
Ever since then Alix had excised all emotion where women were concerned. They were mistresses—who pleasured him and accompanied him to social events. Until the time came for him to choose a wife who would be his Queen. And then his marriage would be different. It wouldn’t be toxic. It would be harmonious and respectful.
Alix thought about that now. Because that time would be coming soon. He was already being presented with prospective wives to choose from. Princesses from different principalities who all looked dismayingly like horses. But Alix didn’t care. His wife would be his consort, adept at dealing with the social aspects of her role and providing him with heirs.
So why is this woman getting under your skin?
She’s not, he affirmed to himself.
She was just a stunningly beautiful woman who’d connected with him on some very base level and he wasn’t used to that.
Alix didn’t like to recall that first meeting, when just seeing her had been like a defibrillator shocking him back to life.
His was a life that needed no major distractions right now. He had enough going on with the very real prospect that in a couple of weeks he was going to regain control of his throne. Something he’d been working towards all his life.
And yet this woman was lingering in his mind, compelling him to make impetuous decisions. And despite that Alix found himself drawn once again to the massive window through which he’d seen Leila across the square last night. The shop was in darkness now, the blind pulled firmly down.
A sense of impotent frustration gripped him even more fiercely now. The upstairs was in darkness too. Was she out? With another man? Saying yes to him? Alix tensed all over at that thought and had to relax consciously. He did not do jealousy. Not since he’d kicked his naked bodyguard out of his traitorous lover’s bed. And had that even been jealousy? Or just young injured male pride?
He emitted a sound of irritation and plucked a phone out of his pocket. He was connected in seconds and said curtly, ‘I want you to find out everything you can about a woman called Leila Verughese. She owns a perfume shop on the Place Vendôme in Paris.’
Alix terminated the connection. He told himself that she was most likely playing a game. Hard to get. But he didn’t really care—because he was no woman’s fool any more and, game or no game, he would have her and sate this burning urge before his life changed irrevocably and became one of duty and responsibility.
She didn’t have the power to derail him. No woman did.
* * *
For two days Leila stood in her shop, acutely aware of Alix Saint Croix’s cavalcade sweeping in and out of the square. Every time his sleek car drove past she tensed inwardly—as if waiting for him to stop and get out and come in again. To ask her to dinner again.
She hated it that she knew when his cars were parked outside the hotel. It made her feel jittery, on edge.
Just then her phone rang, and she jumped and cursed softly before answering it. It was the hotel. They wanted Leila to bring over an assortment of perfumes for one of their guests.
She agreed and put the phone down, immediately feeling nervous. Which was ridiculous. This wasn’t an unusual request—hotel guests often spotted the shop and asked for a personal service. At one time Leila had gone over with perfumes for a foreign president’s wife.
Even though she would be venturing far too near to the lion in his lair, she welcomed the diversion and set about gathering as many diverse samples of perfumes as she could.
On arrival at the hotel, dressed smartly in a dark trouser suit and white shirt, hair up, and with her specially fortified and protective wheelie suitcase, Leila was shown to the top floor by a duty manager.
The same floor as Alix Saint Croix’s suite.
She felt a flutter of panic, but pushed it down as the lift doors opened and she stepped into the opulent luxury of one of the hotel’s most sumptuous floors.
To her vast relief they were heading in the opposite direction from the suite she’d watched so closely the other night.
The duty manager opened the door to the suite and ushered Leila in, saying, ‘Your clients will be here shortly—they said to go ahead and set up while you’re waiting.’
Leila smiled. ‘Okay, thank you.’
When she was alone she set about opening her case and taking out some bottles, glad to have the distraction of what she did best. No time to think about—
She heard the door open behind her and stood up and turned around with a smile on her face, expecting to see a woman.
The smile promptly slid off her face when she saw Alix Saint Croix and the door closing softly behind him. Client, not clients. For a long moment Leila was only aware of her heartbeat, fast and hard. He was dressed in a white shirt and dark trousers. Sleeves rolled up, top button open. Hands in his pockets. He was looking at her with a gleam in his eyes that told her the predator had tracked down his prey.
So why was she suddenly feeling a thrum of excitement?
He took a step further into the room and inclined his head towards her suitcase, which was open on an ottoman. ‘Do you supply men’s scents also?’
Leila was determined not to appear as ruffled as she felt. She said coolly, ‘First of all, I don’t appreciate being ambushed, Mr Saint Croix. But, as I’m here now—yes, I do men’s scents also.’
Alix Saint Croix looked at her with that enigmatic gaze, a small smile playing around his mouth. ‘The hotel told me that you regularly come to do personal consultations. Do you regard all clients