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Royal Maid’s Awakening
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Hannah Mendoza’s heart was beating so hard she had to force herself to take deep breaths so she wouldn’t keel over in a faint. But it was hard to cool her pulse and calm her head. Because he was here, Lukas Zárate, back on the island Kingdom of Santanger in the Mediterranean, at a glittering formal function in the grand ballroom of the palace.
He’d left Santanger twelve years ago, to go and make his fortune. He’d returned only once in that time for a brief visit, six years ago, the last time Hannah had seen him. He’d been twenty-four, and still holding onto a certain youthful gangliness.
But now, he was fully grown. A man in his prime. Dark blond hair, thick and wavy, slightly too long. Standing almost a head taller than everyone around him. Broad shoulders. Powerful body sheathed in a classic tuxedo that had to be bespoke because it hugged his muscular form like a second skin.
His face had lost any youthful softness and was now carved in hard lines, softened only by an indecently sexy mouth. He was in profile to her where she stood, hidden behind some verdant ferns on the edge of the palace ballroom. His head was bent towards a beautiful woman, who was speaking and gesturing animatedly at him, jewels sparkling at her throat and on her fingers and wrists.
Hannah blinked. Not sure if her mind was playing tricks on her. She’d dreamed of this moment when she would see Lukas again for so long. But he didn’t disappear. He was still here.
A surge of complicated emotions mixed with desire battled for supremacy in Hannah’s gut. She loved this man, but she also hated him. A childish crush on Lukas many years ago had morphed into adolescent feverish adoration, fueled by watching his progress from afar. Six years ago, when he’d come home for that brief visit, she’d turned eighteen. On her birthday she’d told him she loved him and he’d…crushed her with his rejection. She hadn’t seen him from that day to this.
She’d always felt that it had been her fault that he’d left. A dark shadow crossed her mind. Well, perhaps not entirely her fault. Her older brother had been Lukas’s best friend, and when he’d died tragically, Lukas had never really been the same. A light had gone out. For all of them.
Hannah shook her head faintly at herself. Lukas Zárate was always going to come home again at some stage. If anything, this just demonstrated how little she mattered in his life. She hadn’t even known he was coming back to Santanger.
When Hannah focused on the crowd again, she couldn’t see him. She felt a simultaneous sense of relief and disappointment. Maybe she had just conjured him up?
But then she turned around and came face to chest with a snowy-white shirt. She looked up past the pristine black bow-tie to an angular jaw, dusted with dark blond stubble.
Lukas. He was real.
Hannah took a step back, struggled for composure. She was not that naive eighteen-year-old anymore. ‘Lukas, you’re home. How long has it been? I can’t quite recall.’
He arched a brow. ‘So you are still holding a grudge.’
His voice was low and gravelly, settling deep inside her where butterflies were somersaulting. Hannah’s face got hot. ‘Have you let my parents know that you’re here?’
He looked affronted. ‘Of course, they knew I was coming.’
But she hadn’t. She lived at the palace now in her own tiny apartment, so it wasn’t as if she saw her parents every day, but a feeling of hurt intensified, on top of every other swirling thing. Most dominant of which right now was sheer…dizzy lust. Lukas’s scent was tantalising. Musk and wood with complex undertones of something more exotic.
Had he always been so huge? He seemed taller and broader than she remembered. Feeling exposed, she said, ‘Six years of nothing, no contact, and now you’re just…back.’
His jaw clenched. ‘I have been in touch with your folks.’
Hannah knew that, but she’d stubbornly refused to ask after him. Lukas had kept in touch with them because he’d lived with them for three years before her brother’s death, due to losing his own family in tragic circumstances.
He’d more than kept in touch with them, he’d supported them.
Then Lukas said, ‘I haven’t been in touch with you because I thought I’d be the last person you wanted to speak to.’
Terrified that he would see how hurt she still was that he’d cut off all contact, Hannah said breezily, ‘It was a long time ago.’
His dark green gaze narrowed on her. ‘You don’t still feel the same way.’
She let out a laugh, hoping it sounded carefree. ‘How pathetic would it be if I still had a crush on my older brother’s best friend?’
Lukas paled at that and Hannah immediately cursed herself. She bit her lip. ‘I didn’t mean to mention…’ She trailed off.
‘Danielo.’
‘Yes.’ The air between them was suddenly thick with memories and grief and all the unspoken things.
‘It’d be strange if we didn’t mention him,’ Lukas said heavily.
Hannah’s heart ached. Twice, she’d stood by this man at a graveside. The first time when his entire family had died in a car crash, and the second, three years later when her brother had died.
She remembered his face at his family’s funeral, white and pinched with shock and grief. His tall, gangly body hunched over as if he wanted to curl into a ball. Only about nine years old, she’d moved to stand beside him, and put her hand in his. He’d looked at her, dark green eyes full of a pain that Hannah had been too young to even fathom. But even then, she’d wanted to do anything she possibly could to alleviate that pain.
Since he’d left Santanger for the first time, not long after Danielo’s funeral, Lukas had become a billionaire tech entrepreneur with a reputation for being enigmatic and elusive. Although, not so elusive that there weren’t pictures of him online with some of the most beautiful women in the world.
Hannah, much to her shame, had pored over any mention of him in the press like a starstruck groupie.
‘Why are you here, Lukas?’ she blurted out, almost angry with him now for showing up again and dredging up a slew of painful memories.
A Gift From The Billionaire
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‘You do know that dress is a crime against fashion, don’t you?’
Sasha Marchetti looked up from where she’d been successfully hiding in the shadows. Until now. She felt as if a spotlight was picking her out, highlighting her fussy olive green dress with its too-tight bodice, full skirt and puffy sleeves.
Her blonde hair in its sleek up-do was the only thing sleek about her.
Standing before her was Dante Danieli, renowned award-winning film director and photographer. And even more renowned international playboy. She’d known Dante for years and he had never failed to raise her hackles and make her feel prickly all over. Like her skin was too tight. And hot. It was winter outside this very exclusive reception room in a hotel in London but she was experiencing a heat-wave right now, emanating from her core.
Before she could formulate a nonchalant answer that belied the way he made her feel, he reached for her hand and pulled her up, then led her over to the dance floor, where a slow, jazzy song was playing.
‘What are you doing here?’ Sasha hissed at Dante when he swung her into his arms before she could protest. He held her so close that all she could feel was the lean strength of his body. Every taut and honed inch. It rendered her momentarily insensible.
‘I’m here because I was invited by my good friend, your brother Maks. To celebrate his wedding,’ he pointed out dryly.
Sasha scowled. She knew very well that Dante and Maks were friends.
‘Don’t they look adorable?’
Sasha followed Dante’s look to see her new sister-in-law, Zoe, looking up into Maks’s face as they danced. They were utterly absorbed. Utterly in love. A pang of envy lanced Sasha’s heart before she could stop it. She felt guilty, because Maks deserved every happiness. But after witnessing their parents’ disastrous marriage and divorce, Sasha had never believed either one of them would find such happiness. And now Maks had and she felt ridiculously bereft, as if she’d lost an ally.
She Looked away. Scowled instead at Dante. ‘Since when did you turn into such a romantic?’
No man that looked like him could be a romantic. He had the dark, messy-haired good looks of the playboy he was. No, scratch that. Not good looks. Gorgeous. Dark eyes under slashing black brows. Cheekbones that would make a woman weep with envy. A sensual mouth that promised sin and pleasure in equal measure. And a hard, uncompromising jaw that took all of that prettiness and made it into something uncompromisingly masculine.
Not that Sasha had ever really thought about Dante’s looks much.
‘I came especially to see you.’
Sasha rolled her eyes. ‘As if, Dante.’
‘It’s true, I really did.’
Her heart thumped. She could never figure out if Dante was teasing her or not. The truth was that she found him all too fascinating and compelling. And if he realised that for a second, she was sure he’d use it to humiliate her. Except, she had to concede, she had no real basis for that suspicion, only the fact that around him, she always felt unaccountably vulnerable. Since the day they’d met.
As if reading her mind he said, ‘Do you remember when we first met? Four years ago on the set of the commercial for -’
‘Yes, I remember,’ Sasha interjected. She remembered all too well. He’d been directing his first commercial. She’d been twenty. Feeling very pale and gauche next to all the stunning models. She’d been there to help Maks, who was overseeing the shoot as brand manager for The Marchetti Group, a vast luxury conglomerate that owned every major designer label.
Dante was shaking his head. ‘You were more beautiful than any of those models – you know that, don’t you?’
Sasha stopped moving. Now she knew he was teasing her. ‘Why would you say such a thing?’
‘Because it’s true.’
A wave of emotion, hot and thick, rose up inside her. She twisted out of Dante’s arms and left the dance floor. A voice behind her called her name but she ran from the room, all the way down to the lobby of the hotel.
People turned to look at her and her face burned with self-consciousness. Sasha had got used to being pilloried by the press and judged by others for her lack of fashion sense. Especially when she was the daughter of a Russian supermodel and the stepdaughter of the man who had founded The Marchetti Group, now run by Maks and his half-brothers.
Usually she reveled in it. Using it like an armour to shield herself from further scrutiny or pain. She’d learnt from her mother a long time ago that she would never match up to the beauty ideal demanded by their society or the world around them, so she shouldn’t bother trying.
Sasha knew objectively that she wasn’t _un_attractive, but her instinct to hide from sight had been internalised and solidified so long ago that it was like a second skin that she wore without even thinking about it.
Until she’d met Dante Danieli and he’d looked at her and the first thing he’d said was ‘Who are you hiding from?’
Her hand was taken now and she looked around, momentarily disorientated. Dante. In his classic black tuxedo, looking so beautiful it hurt.
He said, ‘Let’s get out of here.’
He started to tug her towards the entrance of the hotel and Sasha resisted. ‘But where are you going? Why do you want me to come with you?’
Dante faced her properly. ‘This moment has been a long time coming, Sash. You know there’s always been this…pull between us. You can continue to ignore it and tell yourself I’m just an irritation that pops into your life every now and then, but if you decide to stay, then this is it. I walk away and if you see me again it’ll only be by chance.’
He let her hand go and a chill skated over Sasha’s skin. Never see Dante again? The prospect made her feel panicky. She’d known he would be here tonight. And even as she might deny it to herself with her last breath, she’d been waiting for him to arrive all evening. Only feeling truly alive when he’d found her, hiding in the shadows. As she’d known he would. Because he always did.
She’d taken him for granted. He’d always been there but at a safe distance. Never pushing her. Until now. It would be so easy to say no. Turn around. Go back into the reception. And then the image of her brother looking at his new wife so lovingly came back to her. That pang of envy. They wouldn’t even notice if she left. Nor should they.
Sasha said almost to herself, ‘But what do you want from me?’
Dante stepped close. He found a loose tendril of hair and tucked it behind her ear, his touch trailing an electric sizzle over her skin.
‘I want all that you have to give, Sasha. Nothing less.’
The Sheikh’s Christmas Proposal
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‘You’re sure about this, Riad? It isn’t an insignificant offer, to become the King of Tabat…’
Riad Arnaud responded to his good friend and distant cousin’s question with a dry tone. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I was under the impression that kingdoms are inherited through the royal family line.’
Sheikh Salim Ibn Hafiz Al-Noury made a rude sound on the other end of the phone. ‘You’re a Sheikh and have inherited your own not insubstantial lands on the borders of Tabat and Jandor. We’re not that far removed, cousin, even if you don’t use the formal title handed down to you from your great – uncle.’
Riad repeated what he’d said to Salim already. ‘I don’t use the title because I haven’t done anything to deserve calling myself Sheikh. There are no people living in Nadar, apart from the workers who migrate in and out to maintain the oil wells. Perhaps if communities do settle there and a city is built, then it might be time to call myself Sheikh, but until then I’m running a business, that’s all. I have no desire to expand my interests in that region and becoming King would require considerably more than that. You know why I can’t, Salim.’
Riad heard his cousin sigh, admitting defeat, and felt for him, but he wouldn’t budge on this. He couldn’t. It was asking too much.
Salim addressed the reason for Riad’s refusal to uproot his life so comprehensively and asked, ‘How is Elise?’
Riad’s mouth curled up into an indulgent smile as he looked out over the stunning view of Paris outside his office window. ‘She’s amazing. The love of my life. You might know what that’s like some day, to be so wrapped around a woman’s finger that your life isn’t your own anymore.’
Salim laughed but it sounded terse. ‘I think the fact that she’s your daughter skews your bias slightly. But, love for her notwithstanding, I expect you’ll be bringing a more adult companion to the party in Tabat this weekend?’
‘That’s assuming I’m still invited?’ Riad said lightly, even as his mind was instantly flooded with images of the woman he’d left in her bed only a few hours ago, before returning to his own apartment as dawn had broken over Paris to be there for when his seven-year-old daughter woke up to go to school.
Long, dark red hair had been spread across the pillow…a lithe body strategically covered by a sheet from her waist down. From her high, perfectly shaped breasts, to her small waist, generous hips and impossibly long legs, she was every inch the supermodel who had dominated the fashion industry for nearly a decade, Cassidy O’Connor.
With irritating predictability his blood got hot, flowing to parts of his body that he’d had little control over for months. Six months. Riad preferred not to think about the significance of that.
He’d taken lovers since his wife had died almost six years ago but none had lasted more than a couple of weeks. Until Cassidy.
‘Of course you’re still invited.’ Salim’s voice broke him out of his reverie and Riad welcome it, not liking where his thoughts had been heading.
‘Then I’ll be there. I can’t do as you ask, Salim. I won’t do that to my daughter, thrusting her into a life of duty she never asked for. But I will support you in whatever you do, you know that.’
His cousin sounded a little gruff. ‘Thank you, I appreciate that. So, who will be your guest?’
Riad felt the slightest moment of uncomfortable awareness of his lover’s significance in his life before pushing it down and saying, ‘I’ll be bringing Cassidy.’ A little voice pointed out that he hadn’t actually asked her yet, but with an arrogance born of coming from one of France’s oldest and wealthiest families, not to mention his status as one of the world’s most eligible widowers, Riad knew the answer would be yes.
Not many turned him down in any sphere of his life. Cassidy had, though, at the start. Until you finally persuaded her into your bed. Riad crushed that memory, too, not liking to be reminded that even now she was the only woman he’d ever been with whose behaviour he couldn’t predict.
It had taken time to woo her, and while that had been refreshing to his jaded palate, he’d put it down to the fact that she was just more adept at playing the game than his other lovers. But that assertion rang hollow now. After getting to know her, he knew she didn’t play games.
His cousin made a whistling sound down the phone. ‘It’s still Cassidy? She’s lasted longer than most…’
Hearing his own thoughts spoken out loud was not welcome. Riad terminated the conversation with a terse ‘I’ll see you at the weekend, Salim.’
Still feeling prickly and irritated, he composed a text and sent it, then threw his phone down onto the table.
Riad walked over to the massive window and told himself that the only reason Cassidy was still in his life was because their chemistry was off the charts, and because they were on exactly the same page. They both knew that this relationship had no future.