Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

E VEN IF IT WEREN'T for the bitter, longstanding Santoro family feud with the Valentinos, and the fact the two groups were being pitted against one another for the chance to develop a lavish high-rise precinct in the stunning Mediterranean kingdom of Moricosia, Sofia would have been determined to win the contract.

Because no matter what happened with this deal, it would be the last bit of business she undertook for Santoros.

The last time she allowed herself to have her arm twisted to join the family business because they ‘needed her'. While she knew her work had merit, and she knew their appeals were genuine, she also knew she wasn't a Santoro. They might be the only family she really had, but she'd taken advantage of their generosity for too long. It was time to be a big girl and stand on her own two feet.

She'd always love them, and she'd always want to see them—she couldn't imagine a summer spent anywhere but at Gianni and Maria's villa, trying the bizarre pizza combinations Gianni forced on them all, or listening as Maria sang to them by the piano. Lazy days spent under a pergola heavy with the weight of wisteria flowers and the hum of dozens of happy, sun-warmed bees droning just overhead. Or nights staring up at the impossibly inky black sky, stars sparkling like faraway diamonds. The Santoro men, who'd always treated her like their little sister, making her feel welcome when her own mother had done the exact opposite.

Determination fired her blood, her ice-blue eyes focused on the view beyond them. Moricosia was a country bounded on three sides by the sparkling Mediterranean, the glistening blue almost too perfect to believe it was real. In the distance, a whole fleet of sailboats bobbed merrily in the sun. It was winter now, and yet here, the weather was temperate and mild, the light brightly golden. It was little wonder the people she'd glimpsed through the window, as their limousine had snaked through ancient, winding roads from the airport to the palace, had seemed so happy. What was there to be unhappy about, when surrounded by such glorious light as this?

She let out a small sigh, not allowing her mind to wander to the dank, musty boarding school she'd been sent to after her father's death. Nor to reflect on how moving there had fundamentally changed her mood and outlook on life. From running free across the Italian countryside, delighting in the flavours and fragrances of the Med, she'd been banished to a greyscape that had seemed to a nine-year-old Sofia, like a form of hell.

"Sofia?" Salvatore Santoro's voice cut through her thoughts. "You look tense. Are you okay?"

She turned to face him, pulling her long, golden ponytail over one shoulder, her gaze fixed on Salvatore's nose, with the slight bump in the centre courtesy of a fight when he was a boy. Salvatore was the most emotional of the brothers—and by that, she meant passionate. He was forever getting into scrapes back then, mostly because whatever he felt, he felt to the nth degree, and heaven help anyone who disagreed with him.

Those sharp edges of his personality had mostly been smoothed out by age, time, and continued professional accomplishment. It was hard to live with a chip on your shoulder when you succeeded as often as Salvatore did. Nonetheless, she knew he was treating this pitch as though it was the most important moment of his life.

"Fine," she promised, forcing her shoulders to relax, and smiling at the same time. "I just want to get in there and knock his socks off."

Salvatore lifted one brow, his lips quirking in a smile. "His royal socks."

"Yes, his royal socks," she agreed, flicking an imaginary piece of lint from her dress. There was never anything approaching lint on Sofia. It wouldn't dare. Sofia had made perfection an art form, and she didn't need the overpriced shrink Maria Santoro had sent her to many years ago to understand why. Maybe if I top the grade this year, my mother will love me. Maybe if I bring home the perfect boyfriend, my mother will love me. Maybe if I diet to the point of starvation and squeeze into a ridiculously tiny dress, my mother will love me. Maybe if I… eventually, she'd realised that nothing she did mattered. It wasn't about her.

Dina Marona had made a choice on the day she'd been widowed, and that choice had been to cut her daughter from her life as well.

Never mind that a nine-year-old Sofia had been plunged into a state of deep trauma and grief —not only from losing her father but from actually watching it happen. She shuttered the thought, refusing to give it breathing room now. She had to focus on the meeting at hand, on winning over the King of this country.

"What's he like, anyway?"

"Ares?"

"His Royal Highness, King Ares," she corrected. "We're here in a professional capacity."

"Right, right." Salvatore's brow furrowed. "Sometimes it's hard to think of him as a King; I've known the guy since I was this old." He gestured to somewhere around the height of his knees. "Ares is a good guy. One of the best. Had way too much responsibility thrust on him, way too young. It kind of changed him, in some ways, but he's still the same, deep down."

"Changed him how?"

"Well, can you imagine the pressure of all this?" He gestured around the walls of the palace. It was a stunning building, as one would expect. Extra high ceilings, walls that were a mix of marble and gold, floors that were flanked in enormous tiles, and a corridor that led from a verdant garden on one end towards a view of the ocean on the other. Sofia, who'd always adored architecture, itched to explore it properly. "He was only fifteen when they died, and suddenly he was heir, crown regent, and the head of the family—which included looking after three younger siblings. Overnight, he had to put his own interests and needs aside so he could be what everyone else needed him to be."

She bit into her lip. She knew a fair bit about that—but not on this scale. While she'd been able to soak into the background at boarding school and lick her wounds in private, for the most part, it would have been impossible for King Ares to do any such thing.

He'd been on the world's stage. Expected to mourn in the way the world needed, to make their suffering easier; expected to act with dignity and grace, to be mature and magnanimous, and to uphold the centuries-old traditions of the Moricosian royal family, all whilst under the scrutiny of TV cameras and long-lens photojournalists.

"Excuse me," a woman's accented voice cut through her thoughts. "His Royal Highness will see you now."

Sofia unfurrowed her brow and stood, once again wiping at her lavender skirt with neatly manicured nails. Salvatore held their briefing document—though at this stage, it was exactly that. Brief. It contained the bare minimum information about the company, and the structure—matters which she suspected His Highness was already familiar with. As to the project, barely any information had been sent through with the request to pitch. It is something I would prefer to explain in person.

Salvatore placed his hand in the middle of Sofia's back as they walked towards the double-width doors a little way down the corridor. The woman smiled curtly and gestured with a white-gloved hand for them to precede her.

"Thank you," Sofia made a point of saying as they crossed the threshold.

The room was not what she'd expected. Outside, it had been all incredible pomp and glamour, but in here, there was something more accessible. It was still in a grandiose proportion, with high ceilings and glossy walls and floors, but it looked…lived in, she realised. As though, despite the size of the palace and the rooms available to him, Ares had been nesting in here. Both his desk and one half of the conference table were covered in documents, there were several coffee cups littered across the room—some on his desk, some on the conference table, one on a side table next to a sumptuously upholstered sofa. King Ares had discarded his jacket at some point and hooked it over the back of his wide, timber desk chair. Anachronistically, a computer screen sat atop the ancient, carved timber desk, the cables discreetly trimmed into the back of the construction.

"Torre," the King grinned as he crossed the room towards them, and Sofia was momentarily dumbstruck. Or starstruck. Or just plain struck.

She had seen his picture a million times, and footage of him too, but in person, the King of Moricosia was so much more. It was like he'd swallowed a ‘superhuman' pill at birth, and it had blessed him with a slightly too handsome face, a frame that was not only well above average height but perfectly filled out—muscular without being grossly buff, slim without being skinny, athletic without looking vain. His teeth were white, his jaw strong, his eyes perfectly spaced, wide, and almond shaped. They were mostly a very dark brown, except close to the pupil, where flecks of amber looked to have been sprayed and almost seemed to shine. His lashes were as dark as his hair, and thick and glossy, just like his brows, which were the perfect counterpoint to the angular symmetry of his cheekbones. It was a frame that an artist might draw and then erase, because who would believe it? No, it was a face that AI would create. Yes, he was like some kind of AI creation, she thought, swallowing back a sudden desire to laugh. It was like he had a permanent screen of photoshop smoothness layered over his body.

"Thanks for coming."

"Of course," Salvatore grinned, extended his hand, which the King shook. "Have you met Sofia?"

For the first time since entering this room, the King's gaze travelled toward Sofia, landing on her face before briefly flicking over her body and then returning to her eyes. His smile was practiced, rather than warm.

"No. It's a pleasure." The words were somewhat pro forma. This was a man who probably met dozens of people a day, at a minimum, and had his shtick down pat.

"The pleasure is mine." She held out her own hand, as Salvatore had done, for the King to shake. He took a step towards her, so she caught a hint of his masculine fragrance—oranges and cloves—and felt it dance on the edges of her senses. His broad, tanned hand encased hers, shook it lightly and the warmth from that simple gesture travelled the length of her arm, turning into a sort of spark somewhere in her chest and spreading through the rest of her. Sofia's gaze, which had been vaguely on his face, honed in on his eyes then, narrowing in surprise at the unmistakable reaction to such a simple touch.

His own eyes, with those fascinating caramel flecks, seemed to shift slightly, to deepen and wonder. Or she'd thought they had. Perhaps it had all been in her mind. He dropped her hand quickly and turned back to Salvatore. "Okay, let's do this." He gestured to the conference table at the same time a knock sounded on the main door. The woman who'd led them in reappeared, carrying a tray of refreshments.

"I asked for tea and coffee, but would you prefer anything else?"

"Coffee would be great," Sofia said, gratefully.

"Actually, could I just grab a water?" Salvatore said, surprising Sofia. The man always had a coffee in hand. She glanced at him swiftly, noticing his skin was a little pale.

But then, they began the pitch they'd prepared, both confident because this was second nature to them. While Sofia had only recently joined the Santoro company officially, she had lived and breathed their work and triumphs all her life, and she was more than able to extol their strong commercial history, their reputation, and their established contacts in the industry.

"In terms of construction," Ares interrupted, "Almost one hundred per cent of the workforce would need to be sourced locally. There's an employment problem in the country, brought about by the collapse of one of the largest shipping operators in the region…"

"I read about that," Salvatore leaned closer. "Did you consider buying in?"

"I looked at it," Ares admitted. "But it wouldn't have been enough. The business was in too much trouble. It had to go." He shook his head with obvious frustration. "Unfortunately, that's had a knock-on effect of supply issues to the country. We've turned a corner lately, but it's been a difficult year."

And there'd been his breakup too, Sofia thought. She'd read about it in the papers, only six or seven weeks earlier. Having dated for more than two years, it had been largely expected that a summer engagement and wedding would be on the cards for the King of Moricosia, but instead, there'd been a dramatic and immediate split, splashed all over the tabloids.

"I want these buildings, and the surrounding precinct, to offer my people hope. This is more than a construction project; it's a beacon."

A shiver ran down Sofia's spine. "A beacon," she murmured, glancing at the large easel behind the King, which had concept drawings of the project pinned to it. Unbidden, she stood, walking with unconscious grace towards it, eyes scanning first the towers, and then the gardens. Large arches were formed from metal and stone, covered in abundant, blooming bougainvilleas, which were synonymous with this island. The artist's rendering included people —families, individuals, couples—enjoying the garden as an extension of their lives. It was a broad, community space, the kind of project that did indeed act as a beacon.

She turned back to the King and Salvatore to say as much, only to realise they'd moved on, and were in conversation. "The terrain is easy enough—don't be afraid," Ares was saying, in a teasing tone.

Salvatore, who was almost grey now beneath his tan, nonetheless smiled. "Are you forgetting who you're talking to?"

"You don't mind if I borrow Salvatore for a few days, do you?" Ares asked, turning to Sofia, so their eyes met once more and she experienced a rush of heat, just like when he'd shaken her hand.

She shook her head, suddenly not trusting her voice.

"His Highness has suggested a hike," Salvatore added, raising a brow as he looked at Sofia.

"It's something I do every couple of months," the King explained. "I was planning to leave this afternoon—Salvatore's being here is perfect. It will give us a very overdue chance to catch up."

"It has been too long," Salvatore agreed.

"It has," Ares agreed.

"You've been busy."

"And you haven't?" The King prompted. "The Santoros seem to be taking over the world, one development at a time."

"Which is why we're perfect for this job," Sofia said smoothly, coming back to the table and taking her seat, aware of the King's eyes on her in a way that she probably shouldn't have been. Her body tingled and zinged in response to his focused attention.

"We'll see," he responded, in a tone that gave her little insight to how he felt. She knew one thing for certain: it wasn't a done deal. Personal friendships wouldn't make the leader of this country invest with the Santoros—he couldn't be seen to allow something like affection to cloud his judgement. His eyes lingered on Sofia's so her lips parted in a soft exhalation. When he glanced back at Salvatore, she expelled a longer breath, glad that she was out of the high beam of his inquisitive attention. "You will have a few days of uninterrupted time to try to convince me," Ares promised.

Salvatore turned to Sofia. "Is that okay with you?" He asked, in a way that was solicitous and sweet—which infuriated her. It was a prime example of why she couldn't work for Santoros. They still treated her like the lost little nine-year-old she'd been that first summer. Like a little girl who desperately needed their protection and love, who needed to be looked after.

But Sofia had grown a lot, and she was no longer that child. She had become strong. Hardened by life, rejection, and a lack of love from the one person she'd most wanted to be loved by: her mother. That grief had sort of fossilized inside of her at first, and then it had grown and expanded to become like a shield.

"Of course." Her tone was a little sharper than intended. She softened it with a smile, but it was too late—the King was looking at her with that focus again, in a way that made her cheeks heat. "I'll explore the site and start working on costings, while you're gone."

"Good," Salvatore nodded as he stood. Sofia followed suit, but the King stayed sitting, his eyes lingering on Sofia's chair a moment longer than after she abandoned it.

"We'll leave in an hour," he said, a moment later, standing and extending his hand to Ares first, and then Sofia. She hesitated briefly before putting her own in his, and she couldn't put into words how grateful she was not to be included on the hiking trip. For many reasons, but principally this: she didn't trust anyone who threatened her equilibrium. In the past, when she met someone who inspired any kind of strong, instant reaction, she'd run a mile, because it terrified her to think of succumbing to that kind of temptation.

Not that she'd ever be stupid enough to succumb to someone like a King. Heaven help her. And not that he'd even be interested in her. It was all the stuff of hypotheticals. But her awareness of King Ares as a man was unsettling. She was beyond relieved for the reprieve of a few days, in which she could simply focus on the job at hand.

"You have to go with him." Salvatore clutched the edge of the bed as though he were on a rocking boat.

Sofia stared at him, aghast. "My God, what's happened? You look dreadful."

"I suspect food poisoning," he grimaced.

Sofia's jaw dropped. "It can't be."

But she stared at him, remembering the kebab he'd bought as they'd left the airport. I get one every time—it's tradition.

"Oh no," she swallowed. "You can't be…"

Before she could even finish the sentence, Salvatore was reaching for the waste paper basket and leaning over it, emptying the contents of his stomach in a loud, immersive way. Sofia took a step back automatically, wrinkling her nose, before realising that her dear friend was ill, and she was the only one there to help. She crossed to the en-suite bathroom quickly. Sofia and Salvatore had been installed in identical guest apartments in the palace, though she noted absent-mindedly that her view was superior—she had a panoramic outlook of the ocean in the distance.

She moistened a face washer and wrung it out, carrying it back to the bedroom where, blessedly, Salvatore had finished. She pressed the flannel to his forehead; he winced.

"I can't leave you like this," Sofia said, not entirely because she relished the thought of remaining to be his nurse.

"You must. You heard what Ares said —it's three days to convince him we're the people for the job."

"There's no way he'd want me to go in your place."

"True," Salvatore admitted. "But he's way too polite to say that."

Sofia's jaw dropped again. "You'd seriously inflict me on one of your closest friends, to get the deal across the line?"

"Need I remind you who our competition is?" Salvatore implored. "If it was anyone else…"

"But the Valentinos," she grimaced. She knew enough of the history between the two families, particularly how devastating the loss of the acquisition of Acto Corp to the Valentino family, had been to the Santoros, to understand how deeply personal this was. To all of them.

She closed her eyes on a small wave of surrender because Salvatore was right. The King had handed them an extra bargaining chip, a small advantage in this race, because he was granting them an extra opportunity to win him over.

"I can't leave you like this. You look awful."

"I'm fine."

"You are not fine. Drop the tough guy act. You're literally cradling a bucket of vomit."

Salvatore pulled a face. "I will be fine. But I can't leave the palace, obviously, until this passes."

"I agree. But my original point stands: the King asked you to go with him, not me."

"But you can go, in my place."

She closed her eyes on a wave of panic, because she was torn. Like Salvatore, she was determined to get this deal across the line. To best the Valentinos and win King Ares's business. Three days hiking with him would certainly give her a chance to work on him, to sell the Santoros at every chance she got. Didn't she owe them that much?

"Hiking, though?" It was not something she'd ever done, nor thought of doing. Though, as a girl, she'd adored the outdoors and had spent her days running wild in the countryside, rolling down hills, climbing trees, walking for miles. She didn't hate the idea of hiking in this stunning country.

"You'll love it."

She rolled her eyes, even when a part of her wondered if she might. "I have nothing that's suitable to wear."

"I've got it covered."

She glanced at him. "What? How?"

"I knew I wouldn't be able to make it pretty much as soon as I got back to my room and lost…well, I thought everything, but apparently not. I sent out for clothes and shoes for you. They should be in your room anytime now."

It was yet another example of how money talked. The Santoros were not just wealthy, they were fantastically, uber-rich, some of the wealthiest people in the world, in fact. Though there was money in Sofia's family, it was more in the realms of the ordinary.

"He's going to be furious."

"No, he'll be irritated. But he'll put up with it, because he's a good friend."

She dropped her head into her hands. "You bloody owe me, Salvatore Santoro, and after the next few days are over, you're going to owe the King, too."