CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

Back in Androvia TMW, checking out Ridge. Meet me @ 2 @ top & tip off press 4 pix.

T

I SABELLE REREAD THE message she had received on her private mobile phone yesterday, for about the ten thousandth time. She’d had to get Mel to translate it for her—because she had never received a text written in code before in her entire life. Luckily, her assistant was also her best friend and confidante, and knew about Isabelle’s cunning plan to arrange a marriage with Travis Lord—and therefore release her from the strictures of her father’s trust.

‘How am I supposed to tip off the press?’ Isabelle murmured. ‘The only conversations I’ve ever had with them have been in press conferences. It’s not as if I have the paparazzi on speed dial.’

Mel walked out of the dressing room with Isabelle’s ski suit. ‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll have a word with Hans in PR. He knows some local photographers. If he tells them you’ll be skiing on the ridge this afternoon, they’ll stake out Sariyelva,’ she said, mentioning the picturesque town nestled at the bottom of the White Ridge gorge. ‘Once they have photos of you with Lord, they’ll be able to sell them to the highest bidder worldwide,’ Mel added as she laid out the suit. ‘It’ll be a great boost to the local economy. Just make sure you end up there after your meet-up,’ she finished with a quick grin.

Isabelle scowled. ‘Easier said than done. I suspect directing Travis Lord to do anything is going to be like trying to herd a cat. A very big cat,’ she added, barely able to contain a shudder at the thought of all those muscles.

She already knew he was going to look annoyingly magnificent in his skiwear. Because she’d seen photos of him modelling the Lord Culture brand. She tugged on her thermal undergarments. The silk felt like sandpaper against her oversensitive skin.

When exactly was her bizarre reaction to him going to end? She pursed her lips, aware of the tingling sensations that had tormented her for two weeks. She’d even had dreams about his kiss. His stunt kiss.

‘Just remember, you’re a queen, he’s a commoner,’ Mel said, giving her a confident smile. ‘Dazzle him with your authority.’

‘Believe me, Travis Lord is not a man who can be dazzled by anyone’s authority but his own,’ she said. And certainly not by someone with as little experience as she had of men. ‘I got the definite impression he was more disdainful of my position than dazzled by it.’

‘Then kiss him—and dazzle him with that instead.’

‘What?’ Isabelle swallowed heavily, the buzz on her lips joined by the hum at her core, which had plagued her at night, too.

‘Do I need to kiss him?’ Again. ‘Won’t being seen with him be enough?’ She didn’t want another fortnight of disturbed sleep, thank you very much. It was just over two months until Christmas—which meant her schedule was packed with official engagements already, because Androvia, with its array of Christmas markets and winter activities, was a luxury tourist destination for the festive season. One of her responsibilities as Androvia’s sovereign was to promote that to the best of her ability.

Mel laughed, counting the reasons on her fingers. ‘Firstly, you want to give the photographers an exclusive they can sell, and, believe me, a clandestine kiss will fit that brief perfectly, especially as you’ve never been caught kissing a man on camera.’

‘Perhaps because I’ve never kissed any man on or off camera before I met Mr Lord,’ Isabelle protested, then winced, realising how gauche that sounded.

No wonder her one stunt kiss with Travis Lord had had a far greater impact on her than it should. She was a complete novice. And how sad was that for a woman in her early twenties? But after acceding to the throne as an eight-year-old, she had not been afforded the romantic opportunities other girls took for granted.

Home-schooled in the palace until she was eighteen, she had then been enrolled in a private all-female college in Switzerland. But while the other students had been able to enjoy the nightlife in Zurich, Isabelle had concentrated on her studies—and been accompanied at all times by her security personnel.

‘My point exactly,’ Mel said, unfazed by the revelation, because Mel knew exactly how inexperienced Isabelle was when it came to men. And kissing.

Despite their differences, she and Mel had become firm friends as ten-year-olds when Mel’s mother had become the palace’s head chef. But while Mel had learned how to flirt with boys at the local community college as a teenager, Isabelle had been busy learning the protocols of how to host a dinner party for two hundred VIPs, or address the UN assembly. In many ways, Isabelle had lived vicariously through Mel, because she’d had no romantic adventures of her own—which would be sad, if it weren’t so pathetic.

‘Secondly, you’re meant to be in love with the guy, that means making out like you can’t keep your hands—or your lips—off him,’ Mel continued.

‘It does?’ Isabelle said, her throat tightening. And the hum in her abdomen becoming a definite throb.

‘Of course.’ Mel smiled. ‘Don’t look so worried, Issy. You said you liked kissing him.’

‘Well, he’s very accomplished at it.’

‘Then, kissing him again shouldn’t be a problem. He’s agreed to go through with this farce,’ Mel added, because she had never been one hundred per cent on board with Isabelle’s plan, believing a fake marriage was going above and beyond the call of duty. But then Mel had never really understood Isabelle’s devotion to her role as Androvia’s queen. ‘Let him take the lead,’ she said easily. ‘It sounds like he’s more than capable. And given that he’s such a good kisser...’ Mel’s blue eyes twinkled with mischief ‘...you should enjoy it. Plus, you definitely need more practice, if you’re going to have any hope of pulling this off.’

Isabelle nodded. ‘All exceptionally good points,’ she said—but her panic did not downgrade much. She sighed and breathed through the anxiety.

She needed to view her relationship with Travis Lord as a transaction—pure and simple. Lord was getting the land he wanted for nothing and she would finally be able to grow Androvia’s economy with a string of infrastructure projects.

But just because this would not be a real romance, or a real marriage, there was no reason not to use this opportunity to explore being a woman as well as a queen.

She had never even flirted with a man before now. And when would she get the chance to develop those skills on a man as accomplished as Lord? He’d been mocking her when he’d initiated their library kiss. She’d understood that—while she’d been analysing the kiss in minute detail at two in the morning. However embarrassing that was on one level, it also gave her an opportunity. Because if he was going to use her—and their fake marriage—for his own amusement, she need not feel guilty making the most of his kissing skills.

He had not been indifferent to the kiss, any more than she had. Even with her total lack of experience she’d seen the dark shadow of awareness, maybe even arousal, in his gaze.

And the thrill had been... Not insubstantial.

They had already agreed that physical intimacy would not be a part of their relationship, but public displays of affection were required. So, really, more practice would not go amiss.

As Mel helped her pull on the ski suit, Isabelle decided she would not worry about her physical response to Lord—when it was a basic biological urge—especially as she would be able to control the outcome, thanks to their deal.

As the cavalcade of security vehicles drove to the end of the mountain track, Isabelle spotted a single black SUV stopped on the ridge, the engine still running. Lord stood alone a few feet from the vehicle with a large snowboard under his arm. He looked suitably striking and intimidating in a bright red ski jacket and black ski pants fitted perfectly to his athletic build.

Figures.

He signalled to his driver, and the SUV reversed and drove past them as Lord himself kept his eye on her entourage approaching.

After her security team had checked the perimeter, she stepped into the pristine snow, the lightweight ski boots she preferred sinking into the icy blanket with a crisp crunch. She dragged in a heady lungful of the clean cold air. They were a good three and a half thousand metres above sea level here, which had to explain why she felt light-headed, while the throb of anticipation could only be the rare chance to spend an afternoon skiing.

One of her staff placed her skis in front of her. She dug her feet into the bindings and thanked the young man, before putting on her goggles and gloves while she waited for her guards to equip themselves.

Once the whole party was ready, she skied smoothly across the ridge towards Lord, who hadn’t budged. Why was she not surprised he was making her come to him?

She reached his position, with two of her security team flanking her and two more trailing behind.

‘Hello, Mr Lord,’ she said, his expression unreadable behind a pair of designer sunglasses. He wore no hat, or goggles, his dark unruly hair ruffled by the slight breeze. She kept her gaze fixed on his face, and not on his physique in the striking outfit.

‘Call me Travis, Belle,’ he said, using the ridiculous nickname again. Before she had a chance to comment though, he directed his gaze over her shoulder. ‘What’s with the circus?’

‘Excuse me?’ she managed, before she realised he was referring to her security team. She had become so used to taking the guards with her wherever she went, she didn’t really notice them any more, but she could see from his scowl he was not pleased.

‘Your babysitters,’ he clarified, with typical bluntness. ‘Why do you need them in the middle of nowhere?’

‘It’s procedure,’ she said stiffly, determined not to let him aggravate her straight away. ‘And we won’t be in the middle of nowhere once we arrive in Sariyelva,’ she added, pointedly. ‘Which is where we are supposed to end up so the local press can photograph us together.’

‘Then tell them we’ll meet them there,’ he replied coolly.

At least he hadn’t objected to their destination, she thought ruefully. ‘I also need them on hand to protect me.’

‘From what?’

‘Threats against my safety,’ she said, firmly.

Why was he being so difficult? Having the security detail with her had felt hideously restrictive when she was younger. For years, the constant shadow had made her feel both suffocated and self-conscious, her every move monitored and measured, but she had come to accept the intrusion as a requirement of her position over time. And he would have to do so now, as well.

‘Are we talking assassins and kidnappers or bears and broken bones?’ he asked.

She bristled. What exactly was he implying, that Androvia was the Wild West? Or that she couldn’t ski as well as he could snowboard?

‘We do not have any intelligence about bad actors in the region. The bears are hibernating at this time of year, and I’m not going to fall. I happen to have been skiing almost as long as I’ve been able to walk,’ she announced, her irritation getting the better of her, despite her best intentions.

‘Terrific,’ he said, dropping the snowboard onto the ground. ‘Then tell your minders to scram and we’ll see them in Sariyelva.’

‘I can’t ski without them,’ she said, her patience starting to fray. ‘They need to know I’m safe at all times.’

‘You can , you’re their boss,’ he said, giving her instructions as if he were her boss—the self-righteous bastard. ‘I’ll make sure you’re safe on the ride down. And they can track your phone if they need to.’

‘I’m not going to ask them to...’ she began, but he cut off the protest, by placing his chilled hand on her cheek, his familiarity shocking her into silence.

‘Belle, listen up. This is non-negotiable. The deal’s off if you can’t get rid of the audience for an afternoon. I’m not comfortable with them trailing us everywhere we go. And no way are we going to persuade anyone we’re an item if we’re never alone.’

She started, shocked not just by the demand, and the ultimatum, but the familiar touch. And the way it made her feel—as if she wanted to jump out of her skin and lean into his callused palm at one and the same time.

‘I just... I’m not used to doing anything alone,’ she said, then wished she hadn’t, because it made her sound pathetic.

But instead of mocking her, he brushed her cheek with his thumb. The caress was slight, but had a predictably shocking effect, before he let her go to lift his sunglasses.

What she saw in his expression wasn’t the disdain she had expected.

‘You’re not alone, you’re with me. We’re gonna need privacy to figure stuff out. And the downhill will be a lot more fun without the guard dogs.’

She cleared her throat. Fun.

Her temper deflated.

Hadn’t she once longed for the freedom to do exactly what he was suggesting?

She took a steadying breath to consider his request—without letting her annoyance at his high-handedness get in the way.

It was a glorious day, the afternoon sunlight making the snow glisten and sparkle, and the forested gorge was the perfect gradient for a fast and challenging descent. The aloneness, the stillness, the silence—only broken by the cry of a raptor hunting in the blue above them—were spellbinding, vibrating with the possibility of adventures she had been denied for so long.

Would it really be so wrong to indulge yourself, just this once?

She swung round to address the head of her security detail before she could overthink the impulse. ‘Jensen. Could you and the team meet us at the trailhead near Sariyelva?’

‘Are you sure, Your Majesty?’ the man said, frowning.

‘Yes, myself and Mr Lord are going to ski alone,’ she added with an authority she didn’t entirely feel—but which only made the thought of playing hooky for the afternoon more exhilarating. ‘We should be there in two hours at the most. Give me the satellite phone,’ she said, holding out her hand to take the device. ‘If there’s a problem, we’ll contact you.’

The man looked past her towards Lord, not at all happy about the instruction. Lord simply raised an eyebrow, and she could almost hear him saying, in that deep, husky American accent: Yeah, so what you gonna do about it, buddy?

The silence stretched, the stand-off between the two men vibrating with tension... And annoying her. Why was Jensen confronting Lord when this was her decision to make?

But then her security chief nodded and handed her the phone. Capitulating to her or Lord she wasn’t quite sure—but she would take it.

‘We will be waiting to escort you into Sariyelva,’ he said. ‘If we don’t hear from you in two hours, we will send out a search party.’

‘Of course, and thank you, Jensen,’ she said, the spurt of adrenaline becoming intoxicating at the thought of having the whole afternoon to herself.

Jensen and his men returned to their vehicles and drove away, leaving the two of them alone on the ridge.

Lord fixed his feet into the snowboard’s bindings, then bent to tighten the straps, apparently so confident he would win this round, he wasn’t even going to gloat over his victory.

Isabelle’s irritation spiked. She dug her sticks into the snow, determined to take back control of their afternoon excursion.

‘Race you to the bottom, Mr Lord. The last one there is a rotten egg,’ she shouted over her shoulder as she launched herself off the crest, flying into the undriven snow like a missile fired from a starting pistol.

The adrenaline was like a drug as she slalomed down the slope at breakneck speed, her muscles singing, and heard him shout from behind her: ‘You’re on.’

Who knew? Her Majesty has some serious moves—and a killer instinct to match.

Travis grinned as his fake date for the afternoon shot down the steep slope, switching through the turns to carve tracks in the untouched snow ahead of him...

The old exhilaration pounded through his veins as he gained ground by taking the more direct route. Her lithe figure bent over her skis as she ramped up her stick action to increase her speed—aware of him catching her.

Strictly speaking, skis were a faster way to travel on snow than a board—because two long thin sticks of fibreglass were aerodynamically a more efficient form of transportation than the shorter board he was using. Plus, the rider could distribute their weight more efficiently.

But he had a few key advantages. He was bigger, more badass, and, however good she was, she was still an amateur who had never risked her neck to win a race...

His bad leg jarred as the board hit a rock under the snow. He rebalanced himself, then gritted his teeth and crouched lower to push harder.

She glanced over her shoulder—her face a picture of shock, then grim determination.

His grin widened, despite the pain in his kneecap, as he swept past her. He could ice the knee later. Much later.

The slope reached the tree line, the conifers too tightly packed for even him to risk racing any further, so he looped round and slammed into a stop.

‘I win!’ he shouted.

She skidded, spraying him with snow as she was forced to brake hard a couple of feet above him.

He tugged off his sunglasses and flicked off the film of ice. ‘Guess you’re the rotten egg, Belle.’

She yanked off her goggles. Then threw them into the air and laughed, her delighted expression making his heart pound.

‘I don’t care, that was glorious!’ she announced. ‘It’s been so long since I’ve been permitted to ski that fast.’

‘Yeah, who was stopping you?’ he asked, intrigued, not just by the joy in her eyes, but also the sense of fellowship. He knew what it was like to get back something you’d figured might be lost for ever. While he’d never be able to board at the level he had before the accident, being able to ride at all felt precious now, even with the price he was usually forced to pay afterwards if he pushed too hard... As he had today.

‘No one...specifically.’ She brushed her hair back from her face, releasing the long blonde locks from the updo—which hadn’t survived the ride. ‘I just have certain responsibilities, ever since my parents died.’ She glanced away, her complexion reddening in the chilly air. When she met his gaze again, the unguarded look had been replaced by something pensive. And wary. Was she thinking about her folks? Or just embarrassed she had revealed so much to a stranger? Because, although he hardly knew her, he had already figured out Queen Isabelle was not an over-sharer.

‘That must be a royal pain in the butt,’ he said, thinking it was a damn shame she never got to cut loose. ‘Always having to do what you’re told.’

‘Not at all,’ she said, the swift denial and the stiff tone contradicted by the colour still making her cheeks glow. ‘I welcome the responsibility.’

‘Uh-huh,’ he said, letting his scepticism show. She’d enjoyed the race, why not admit it? After all, there was no one here to punish her for not being queenly enough.

‘I didn’t know you could race like that... After your accident,’ she said.

‘The accident wasn’t that bad.’ He lied smoothly, not liking the flicker of sympathy in her eyes, or the abrupt change of subject. ‘And I’d have had to be dead to stop boarding. Or to let an amateur beat me on the downhill,’ he added. ‘Although you gave me a decent run there for about a nanosecond.’

A frown formed on her forehead—and he congratulated himself on locating the killer competitor again, behind the responsible rule-follower.

‘A nanosecond?’ she scoffed. ‘You only beat me by a whisker, you...you...’

‘Spit it out, it’ll do you good...’ he coaxed, enjoying her indignation almost as much as the sight of all that gold hair, flowing around her heart-shaped face. She really was a looker, especially with her hair loose.

‘Your attempts to provoke me won’t work, Mr Lord,’ she said, trying to regain the decorum she’d lost so comprehensively during their downhill.

But he’d glimpsed the reckless girl, and he wasn’t about to let her shut that girl down again so easily.

‘Oh, yeah?’ he said, then scooped up a handful of snow, pressed it into a ball and lobbed it straight at her.

She ducked just before it hit her, but the shock on her face was worth the miss.

He laughed, while arming himself with another handful of snow.

‘What are you doing, Mr Lord?’ she declared, while working her boots out of her skis.

Clever girl.

He snapped his own boots free, then tossed the ball from hand to hand. ‘Declaring a snowball war,’ he said as he stalked towards her. ‘Fair warning, Belle, you call me Mr Lord again and you’re gonna be in big trouble.’

Her brows launched up her forehead as she retreated.

‘You wouldn’t dare...’ she gasped, but he could see exhilaration—alongside her astonishment.

‘Wanna bet?’

‘But I’m a queen,’ she said, falling backwards as she scrambled to get away. ‘I could have you arrested.’

‘I’ll take my chances...’ He fired the snowball, just as she turned and ducked again.

It sailed over her head. She jumped up and let out a triumphant hoot. ‘You missed me...’

The second ball hit her square in the neck, filling her mouth with snow.

She let out a shocked gasp.

He grinned as she raced to arm herself.

He continued to advance on her—scooping up snow as he went—his adrenaline pumping.

He didn’t care how much she loved the responsibilities of being a queen, everyone deserved a chance to cut loose occasionally. And seeing the mask of perfection slip was almost as much fun as beating her on the downhill.

They followed each other around the snowy clearing, snowballs exploding off the trees as they ducked and dived and shouted trying to gain an advantage. She was quicker than him in the cumbersome boots and had one hell of a throwing arm. But he was persistent and more willing to take the hits—which kept coming.

She landed pretty much every shot—but he kept advancing, ignoring the ice sliding down his neck, his frozen fingers or the snow coating his hair.

Finally, he had her cornered. Realising she was trapped, and all out of ammunition, she turned to make her getaway—a second too late.

‘Oh, no, you don’t...’ He charged, throwing himself at her. Wrapping his arms around her hips, he swung in mid-air to take the brunt of the fall. They crashed together into a drift, her shrieking and him laughing so hard he was surprised he didn’t bust a rib.

He lifted over her, pinned her wrists above her head, then shook his hair, until the snow landed in her face.

‘I win again,’ he declared, but he was still chuckling, while she was huffing and puffing and wiggling furiously under him.

‘You bastard!’ she announced—finally getting out the insult she’d wanted to call him earlier... Good to know a snowball fight could demolish all those years of stellar breeding in five minutes flat.

‘Belle, sweetheart, you’re only just figuring this out now...’ He laughed some more, enjoying the flush of outrage and the sheen of exhilaration in her eyes. Until she wriggled some more, and a surge of heat hit him.

She went still, they both did. Then her gaze dropped to his mouth, her lips opening. The soft sob she made was like a siren call to his senses.

The urge to capture those full lips again streaked through him—as intoxicating as it was ill-advised. But he’d never been a guy to ignore his instincts, or the clear invitation in a woman’s eyes. So, he lowered his head, ready to feast on her this time—until she tensed and murmured, ‘Mr Lord?’

He stopped, registering the shocked tone, and the panic in her eyes, alongside the awareness.

He let go of her wrists, rolled off her—and flopped onto his back.

Dumb move, Lord.

He stared at the snow-covered pines—and took several long deep breaths of the frigid air, while willing the heat to take a hike.

What the hell had he been thinking? Or rather not thinking.

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I should not have let you provoke me into the snowball fight,’ she added. ‘It was totally inappropriate given our circumstances.’

Annoyance—mostly with himself—kicked him in the gut.

Why was she taking the blame when he was the one who had started the snowball fight...and initiated their almost kiss?

He let out a gruff chuckle—although he wasn’t at all amused—to release the knot of tension, and the weird regret.

Playing rough and tumble with her had been a schoolboy error. But seeing her lose her usual reserve had also been fascinating—so he refused to beat himself up about it too much, even though the ache in his groin was even more pronounced than the one in his cruciate ligament now.

He turned his head, to find her lying beside him staring back, a confused, questioning look on her face.

‘No apology required. The snowball fight was my idea, Belle,’ he said gruffly, to get that straight at least.

He rolled away from her to stand, then leant down to offer her his hand.

‘Come on. Let’s head to Sariyelva,’ he said.

She clasped his hand. Even through her glove, he could imagine her skin so soft against his own as he tugged her onto her feet. Terrific.

She really was a petite little thing, he realised as he waited for her to brush the snow off her suit. When exactly had that become a major turn-on, too?

She lifted her hair, tied it into a knot, her expression closed, her movements cautious.

Shame, he thought. But he held back the urge to tell her how much he liked her hair down.

She’s not yours, Lord.

‘How long to the end of the trail from here?’ he asked, to get his mind back on business.

‘Sariyelva is nestled in the valley below. It shouldn’t take us more than an hour to ski down to it through the forest.’ She began to talk in that clipped rushed tone, which he had figured out from their first meeting was a sign of her nerves. He relaxed a bit. At least he wasn’t the only one affected by their horseplay.

‘The PR team have let some local reporters know I’ll be there this afternoon with you—incognito.’ She continued to talk too much.

‘Cool, so I guess we better make sure we put on a convincing show. To clue your subjects in to our torrid love affair.’

Her gaze snapped to his, the blush firing across her cheeks.

Damn, but teasing her was irresistible—however dumb.

‘Um...well, yes...’ she murmured, her expression an engaging mix of panic and awareness.

She couldn’t possibly be that sheltered—she’d been the monarch of a major Alpine country for most of her life. But even if the strange innocence that clung to her wasn’t real, it wasn’t helping him get the heat under control either...

He headed to the board, fitted his feet back into the bindings. ‘It’s your call, Belle,’ he said, and tried to mean it.

Giving in to the temptation to kiss her would not be smart. But as they headed through the forest trails towards their rendezvous with her security team and the local paparazzi the urge to get his mouth on hers again resolutely refused to take a hike, along with the desire to tempt the reckless girl back out of hiding.