Page 8 of Claimed By the Crown Prince
Dax frowned. ‘Ari is eminently reasonable...much more so than me.’
Princess Laia shrugged minutely. ‘Not in this instance. He sees our marriage as a done deal, and when I try to talk to him about it he’s not interested.’
‘Why don’t you just pick up the phone and talk to him about it now?’
She shook her head. ‘And let him know my location? No. It’s too late for that. There’s no discussion to be had. We’re not getting married. I will never become Queen of Santanger.’
Dax folded his arms. ‘So if you’re here...and so intent on not marrying him...then who is the woman purporting to be you in Santanger right now?’
The Princess went pale. Her mouth closed. Lush lips were sealed. Eyes wide. He saw the shadow of guilt in her expression. So she wasn’t entirely comfortable with what she was doing. Dax would exploit that chink of vulnerability mercilessly.
He said, ‘Ari knows she’s not you because he’s sent me after you.’
Princess Laia’s jaw clenched. ‘How did you find out where I was?’
‘Thanks to some disreputable people I know in the security industries, I tracked you to Langkawi.’
She said, ‘I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you know people on the margins.’
Dax tensed, surprised at the dart of something that felt suspiciously like hurt. He held back the urge to ask her to clarify what she meant, because he already knew and her opinion shouldn’t matter.
He’d honed his own disreputable reputation for so long now that he couldn’t remember a time when it hadn’t been stained with rumours and innuendo. Lots of people had said things to him over the years and it was like water off a duck’s back. But not with this woman. He didn’t like that revelation. He barely knew her.
He said, ‘So, who is the woman pretending to be you?’
With palpable reluctance, Princess Laia said, ‘She’s my lady-in-waiting. Her name is Maddi.’
Dax absorbed this. ‘I only saw a couple of pictures of them returning to Santanger and getting off the plane. She’s uncannily like you. Hence the switch, I presume?’
Princess Laia nodded. Suddenly she did look distinctly guilty. Almost green around the gills.
He said, ‘Are you sure you have the stomach for this?’
Her eyes flashed, and Dax found himself welcoming that sign of her spirit. Dark luxuriant hair slipped over one shoulder. It reached almost to the top of her breasts.
‘I am absolutely fine with this,’ she said. She put out a hand ‘Why don’t you have a look around? Make yourself at home. And please believe me when I say there is no way off this island without triggering an alarm. There is also no access to any communication devices or the internet, so don’t bother looking. The bedrooms are on the third level—a guest suite has been made up for you, it’s the first one on the right.’
Mercifully, the man left the kitchen and Laia sagged a little. Being in close proximity to him was like being hooked up to an electric charge. It was impossible to relax.
She continued to put the shopping away, including the bags he’d carried, hoping that doing something mundane would make her feel more centred again. But she couldn’t stop her mind going back to that seismic moment when she’d first met him. When she’d been sixteen years old.
She’d been attending a charity polo match with her father in Paris, and Prince Dax had been playing for the European team against a team from South America.
Her eye had been drawn to him like a magnet. She hadn’t been able to look away. He’d been so unbelievably—ridiculously—gorgeous. Dark messy hair. Stubbled jaw. A face surely carved by the same artists who had created Greek and Roman statues. A body that was lean but muscled in a way that had made her feel funny inside...as if she’d known that it was something she didn’t fully understand yet.
At sixteen she’d been worldly-wise in so many ways, but not when it came to boys—or men.
She’d seen him from a distance before that, once, on a rare trip to the palace in Santanger with her father when she’d been much younger. He’d been a gangly teenager. But in Paris he’d been a man.
The VIP hospitality tent had been alive with whispers and gossip about him. His legendary sexual prowess. His string of lovers. His absolute contempt for showing an atom of responsibility. His poor brother who had to do all the work. And, worse and most salacious of all, the fiercely whispered rumour that he’d been responsible for his mother’s tragic and untimely death in a car crash because he’d been driving the car.
That was a scandal in itself, because he’d only been fifteen years old—too young to drive legally. But the Queen’s death had been ruled a tragic accident and no further legal proceedings had issued from it. People had commented on the entitlement of the rich and powerful, who felt they were above the law.
So, to say he’d had a reputation as anenfant terriblewould have been an understatement. He’d appeared after the match in the tent, still wearing his mud-splattered clothes, his dark skin gleaming with perspiration. Obviously uncaring what anyone thought.
Laia would never forget his scent: earth and musky sweat and pure undilutedmale.As potent as if he’d just climbed out of a lover’s bed. She’d been struck mute by his sheer raw magnetism and total insouciance.
He’d seen her father and had come over, and she had been able to tell that her father disapproved of him. They’d greeted one another, though, civilly. And Prince Dax had looked at her then, with an appraising gaze. Laia had been mortified by the flash of heat that had washed through her entire body, making her aware of it in a way she’d never experienced before. Making her aware of the dress she was wearing, which had suddenly felt too tight and childish.