CHAPTER ONE

C RISTHIAN S TERLING KNEW exactly where he could go and not be recognized. It got easier the older he got, the less he resembled a bewildered, hurting boy who’d just lost his parents—their terrible car accident splashed next to his picture on every paper, magazine, tabloid and so on.

The upper crust set still knew him by sight more often than not, so he preferred to celebrate his successes in more... middle-class establishments. Where, typically, no one would realize who he was or that his mother had been a princess and his father had been Hollywood royalty.

Inadvertently, they had both inspired his choice of profession—though their incredible wealth and prestige had passed to him and he didn’t need to work. His mother had never known quite what to do with her fame, the public’s ruthless interest in everything that made up her relationship to his father.

Though he’d only been ten when they’d died, he remembered conversations of “running away.” Of disappearing, never to be found.

But his father had continued to make movies, though he’d always put Cristhian and his mother first. His mother, no matter how it had weighed on her, had continued to fulfill her royal duties to her home country of Hisla, even as she’d raised him in a modest home outside the castle walls when they weren’t traveling with his father or visiting his American grandparents.

When they’d finally had enough of the paparazzi, of the way his mother’s family had constantly been looking for any opportunity to drive his parents apart, they hadn’t stood up for themselves. They hadn’t taken control of the situation and made it right.

They’d begun to plan their escape from the bright lights of stardom.

And in the process, they’d been involved in a disastrous car crash that had killed them both instantly.

Leaving him behind.

Perhaps if he’d been allowed to stay with his father’s parents in America where he’d been staying while his parents tried to find somewhere safe to escape to, he would feel differently about the whole situation these days. But instead he’d been ripped away, into his mother’s royal family who didn’t want him, but couldn’t bear the stories of him being raised by Americans .

Cristhian had learned something from that. He was still working what exactly out these twenty-some years later. When his profession—one he’d carved out for himself—involved him being a finder of sorts. Runaways of the royal set, errant wives, those who wished to disappear. He found them, for whomever wanted to pay his exorbitant fee.

Some people called it mercenary. Usually the people he found who weren’t happy to be escorted back to what they’d run away from.

But he knew what else awaited them out in that cold, cruel world. When you stepped out of the rules that governed your life, yourself, disaster awaited. There was only one way to deal with the unfairness of the world—it was to face all problems head-on. Running away never amounted to anything but pain. Because these royal types never stopped, never gave up. You had to beat them at their own game or lose.

So Cristhian had built himself a very clear life with very set rules. He’d stood up to the royal family who wanted to control him, and he didn’t worry himself with the opinions of others.

Ever.

He studied the drink in front of him, wondered what had made his brain take a trip down that memory lane when he should be enjoying a good drink, perhaps a beautiful woman, in celebration of his latest runaway return.

The girl had been thirteen . She might not love her life in her tiny kingdom, but thirteen wasn’t the age for a countess to try to make a life out there on her own. She would never thank him for his service, but she would not end up dead. He did not need any thanks. He had the satisfaction of a job well done.

He glanced around the bar. There were a lot of corporate types this Friday night. Ties loosened, top buttons undone, blazers discarded. Loud laughter and couples with surreptitious gazes around the bar like they knew they shouldn’t be sitting that close to their coworker. Portuguese, Spanish and smatterings of English echoed across the large room.

The door opened, letting in a little gust of air, slightly cooler than the over-warm atmosphere in the bar. Cristhian sipped his drink and watched a woman hesitate in the doorway.

She was clearly alone, and for a moment he saw a flash of fear in her expression, in that hesitation. Then the woman seemed to metaphorically straighten her shoulders, push all that fear away with determination to do whatever she came to do. For a moment, he saw a flash of his mother, doing the exact same before facing a royal event.

But he forgot all about his long-lost mother when the woman smiled. Excitement sparkled in her improbably blue eyes. Her short reddish hair swung with her confident strides against her jawbone as she sauntered fully inside. She wore a boxy sort of black dress that didn’t show off much of her figure, but it ended mid-thigh and showcased long, mouthwatering legs.

She didn’t meet his gaze. She was on a mission, it seemed, heading straight for the bar where he sat. But her gaze was on the bartender.

She leaned forward but didn’t say anything at first. The bartender sighed. “What can I get you?”

“Do you have a menu?” She had an interesting accent. Cristhian knew he’d heard it before, but it would take some thought to remind himself what tiny European country it belonged to. Something far north of southern Portugal where they were currently.

The bartender scoffed with an eye roll.

“Allow me to make a suggestion,” Cristhian offered, earning the woman’s curious gaze. He was half convinced she was wearing some kind of color-correcting contacts. The shade of blue didn’t suit her at all.

And yet she was beautiful. Delicate shoulders and a determined demeanor. A cupid’s-bow mouth and expressive eyebrows that she arched at him now. As if to say go on, and you had better impress me .

Cristhian grinned. He was impressive in pretty much all things. He didn’t consider this conceit so much as a healthy appreciation of facts. “Beir?o,” he said, turning his attention to the bartender. “Put it on my tab.”

The bartender nodded and turned to put the woman’s drink together. Cristhian gestured to the empty seat next to him. “Join me.”

She narrowed her eyes a little at him. “Typically, that sort of invitation is offered as a request , sir.”

He didn’t so much as flinch. Didn’t hide his interest. Why bother? “I’m not typical. Naturalmente. ”

She laughed. A lyrical sound that was tinged with a little huskiness that intrigued him more than he could remember being intrigued for quite some time. With an elegance that spoke of training—royal training at that—she slid onto the stool next to him.

The hint of royal had him studying her more closely. Her clothes, the haircut, these things were all firmly not royal. But Cristhian knew well that facades could be deceiving.

In a corporate bar in Faro? He was letting his work get to him.

The bartender slid her the drink he’d ordered for her, and a refill of Cristhian’s own drink. The woman took a tentative sip, and he watched her reaction intently.

“Perfect,” she said, then flashed him a dazzling smile. The kind of smile that spelled trouble.

Luckily, Cristhian excelled at trouble. Wrangling it into all the rules he liked to follow.

“So, what brings you to Faro?”

“Work,” she said without hesitation. And royals didn’t work, he reminded himself. “But I’m done now and headed home tomorrow.”

“And where’s home?”

This she hesitated over. Which could be chalked up to a woman being careful of what she told a man. “Hamburg,” she eventually offered. “For now.”

The accent wasn’t a perfect match, but the for now made him think she wasn’t a German native. It all added up, and he was celebrating a job well done, not working , so he needed to relax.

Enjoy.

“Are you local?” she asked him, continuing to sip at her drink. Real diamonds winked at her ears. Expensive diamonds.

He tried not to frown at himself. No more work. Celebrate. “I’m more of a nomad myself. Though I find myself in Faro often enough.”

“A nomad,” she said, as if considering. “No home base, then?”

“I have many home bases.”

She angled her chin at him, just so. Haughty, but not in a standoffish kind of way. It suited her, this unearned confidence. “With a woman at each?”

His mouth quirked. “Ah, you impinge my character.”

She made a waving gesture. “And you don’t deny it.”

“There is no specific woman in any such home base. I find relationships don’t really fit in with my schedule of travel. My work takes up most of my life.”

Something about the word work had her expression tightening. Some of that easy bemusement melting out of her eyes.

“You look like someone with a home fire burning,” he said, hoping to get some of that sparkle back in her gaze.

She shook her head, no amusement. A hint of sadness at the edge of her features instead. “Not the way you mean. But responsibilities, I suppose. Work. Calling me home.” She took a deep drink, set the glass on the bar. “But not until tomorrow,” she said forcefully, staring hard at the bar. “For tonight, I’ll enjoy freedom from responsibilities.”

“Well, I suppose it’s kismet then. I, too, am enjoying my freedom tonight. Freedom is much more fun with some company, don’t you think?”

She studied him, some of that amusement returning to her expression. “I do,” she agreed. “Is there anywhere around here with dancing?”

“There’s a club right across the street. Rua Noturna.” He nodded to the door.

She slid off her stool. “Let’s go then.”

Zia Rendall had not intended to pick up a man this evening. It wasn’t fully out of the scope of her plans. She might have hoped she’d meet someone who made her insides hum just from a look, but she’d known how unlikely that would be.

Her week of freedom had been hard-won to say the least. It hadn’t just been escaping the palace and Lille—she’d spent most of her adolescence perfecting those things. It had been about getting out and flying under the radar for a week.

Luckily her twin sister, Beaugonia, was an expert at so many things, she’d helped. Procured the colored contacts Zia now wore, the dye she’d used in her hair once she’d been free of the palace. Beau had even done the honors and chopped off Zia’s hair.

It was Beau’s expertise at computers that had gotten Zia fake identification, a flight to Portugal, and a hotel first in Lisbon, then the past few days in Faro.

Zia had left a note for her parents and a promise to return, and Zia knew that and Beau’s efforts to smooth over their parents’ anger would be the only reasons they wouldn’t send armed guards after her.

Not that they hadn’t tried, no doubt, but more on the down-low. They would go harder once her week was up. Tomorrow, bright and early, she had to be on a plane back to Lille or things would...implode, no doubt.

So this was it. She hadn’t been about to throw herself at just any man for the sake of it. Her fun had included being a normal human, walking about without guards. Sleeping, eating, drinking and doing whatever she fancied, rather than follow royal protocol and a schedule someone else had made for her.

It had been like breathing for the first time. She had lived for herself. While she was still worried about Beau at home alone with their parents, she hadn’t had to think of how to protect her with every step. For the first time in her life, a weight she’d grown so accustomed to she had stopped noticing it had lifted.

And now it was all over. Back to the palace. Back to the responsibilities she did not want but had to face. For Beau.

Except it wasn’t over just yet. She still had tonight.

Walking into that bar and meeting the gaze of this man had made it very easy to determine that a wildly handsome stranger, and maybe even a night with him, would be the cherry on top of her last night of freedom.

She had lied to him about some things, but not about freedom and this being her last day of it. Tomorrow she’d return to Lille, her role as Princess Zia Asta Alberte Elisabeth Rendall and the responsibilities waiting for her.

Like a royal wedding in the spring. Crown Prince Lyon Traverso was handsome enough, and not mean , by any stretch. But he was aloof, at best. And had plans for his kingdom that he wanted no help with. She would have no say as his wife. Her role would essentially be to pop out princes and princesses until the kingdom was satisfied.

She had no desire to be a broodmare for anyone, let alone a virtual stranger, but it had certainly not been her choice, this political merger her father had planned and inked out. Heir or no, she had no say in her father’s choices. She was promised to Lyon.

She could have refused, she supposed, but her parents had made it clear if she did not meet her responsibilities, everyone would pay the price. Mostly her twin, who was... eccentric .

At least, that’s what the palace called it.

This week was the closest thing she was ever going to have to making her own choices, and as much as she hated that, she hated the idea of Beau suffering the slings and arrows of their father more.

Zia didn’t want to think about any of it tonight. She wanted to feel freedom in this last night of it. She wanted to drink, to dance.

She wanted the stranger she’d picked up at a bar. Sinfully handsome, too charming for anyone’s good. He was impossibly tall, with broad shoulders to match. Dark hair cropped short, dark eyes, wearing all black like some kind of evil spirit. His smile was sin itself. He was no doubt the type to love and leave.

So, perfect. Maybe an evil spirit, but one who would be a lot of fun before she had to spend the rest of her life metaphorically chained to a monarchy and a man she didn’t care about in the least.

But she cared about her sister, and—

She wasn’t thinking about that tonight. She was thinking about the man dancing with her. His body was a hard wall of heat. His hand on her back felt like a brand, but it was nothing to the way they moved together. Like two interlocking parts.

While lights flashed and music thrummed around them, it felt like they were the only two people in existence. Which was a freedom even greater and more exhilarating than the one she’d found on her own. Because she was still a princess when it was just her. When she was with him, she was a nameless woman. Nothing about her title mattered. Nothing about her country or the expectations laid upon her or who she needed to protect. She could just be whoever she was underneath that.

She’d begun to be afraid there was nothing. But this man laughed when she told a joke. He listened when she explained what she liked about Portugal. There was a give-and-take to their conversation, to their dancing. Not just control .

In fact, it seemed as if there was no control between either of them at all. Everything that existed here was elemental. Nothing but chemistry and heat and want.

His hand skimmed down her spine, inciting a jolt of desire, a deep, dark craving swirling around inside her, and an arrow of heat straight to her core. She pressed herself even more firmly to him, and his leg skimmed between hers, making the faintest contact with her bare inner thigh.

Her breath came out in a huff she should have done a better job of hiding. Especially when his chuckle was low and rumbled along her exposed neck. She suddenly understood those over-the-top vampire romances her sister loved to read. She’d do anything to feel his mouth on her neck, no matter how reckless or ill-advised.

So she followed all that reckless down the rabbit hole and lifted to her toes to press her mouth to his, here in this crowded club, where she was no one, except a woman who wanted him.

He tasted like danger. It shot through her bloodstream. Stronger than any drink she’d had tonight. Heat and need and the whirling, sparkling joy of doing whatever the hell she wanted.

Royal protocol be damned. Finally .

“I have a hotel suite not far from here.” His voice was a rasp in her ear. “And a car to get us there.”

It was all the invitation she needed. “Let’s go.”