CHAPTER FOUR

JULIUSHADN'TMOVED from the chair in over thirty minutes. For the first minute after her pronouncement, he'd simply sat, as if absorbing the enormity of what she'd shared. Then he'd asked questions, collecting information about his life as if he were preparing to study for an exam. Every now and then he would pause, breathe in deeply, then continue. It was the only sign that the conversation was taxing him.

The more he'd talked, the more she'd recognized that this wasn't a ruse. A realization that had opened the door to fear that curled around her heart and crawled up her throat. Fear at whatever horrid thing had happened to him in London and caused this.

He'd resisted contacting the palace, saying he needed time to process what she'd shared. It had taken nearly ten minutes to convince him to let her call her friend Burak, a fellow guard who had been promoted to the head of Julius's detail after she'd left, and see if she could ferret out any information. Burak had grudgingly admitted that Julius had taken a sabbatical.

"Only a select few know his exact location. He made the private security I hired at the airport and threatened to fire me if I didn't pull them."

"So you're just letting the heir to the throne wander around the world?" Esme asked incredulously.

"He checks in every forty-eight hours by cell."

The edge in Burak's voice had made her change topics. She liked Burak, counted him as one of a tiny group of friends. Even if she strongly disagreed with how Julius had been allowed to roam free, she knew firsthand how the man operated. If he had decided on something, the only person he would ever bow to would be his father. And even then, if he believed in it strongly enough, he would put up one hell of a fight. It had been one of the qualities that had made her admire him even as she wanted to wring his neck.

Just like now. From here she could see the bruise just below his hairline, red turning to a mottled purple. The ugly scarlet of the cut on his face. What had he gotten into that he would have sustained such injuries?

She turned away from the window, not wanting him to suddenly turn and see her watching him like a mother hen. She put the used coffee mugs in the sink, rinsed them out, focused on the cold splash of water on her fingers, the smoothness of the porcelain in her hands, the slight clunking in the pipes.

Focus on the tangible.

Julius's voice echoed in her head. He'd come into her hospital room shortly after the accident. She'd been rising up from the depths of a nightmare, one filled with the screams of people and a frightened horse as searing pain burned through her skin. He'd taken her hand, his fingers rubbing soothing circles on her skin, as he'd told her to focus on the things she saw in her room, the things she heard. A simple exercise, but one that had grounded her and given her time to collect herself.

Perhaps that had been the moment she'd started to slip from respect into love.

She placed the mugs in the drying rack. Her hands rested on the edge of the countertop, then curled around the edge, a death grip as she bowed her head and blew out a harsh breath.

Deus me ajude.

She still loved him. After everything that had happened, love still beat inside her for a man who had used and betrayed her.

This can't be love.

Infatuation? A fantasy? The longings of a woman who had been rejected her whole life?

She grabbed onto that last thought. Of course it was hard to let go. She and Julius had grown close over the past year. He'd been there for her during her recovery, the grueling hours of physical therapy. He'd also been the first man she'd gone to bed with in over two years. It was only natural that she would still have lingering emotions, that she would feel upset that someone she had respected and come to care about had been hurt to the point of forgetting his entire life.

Upset and torn. Should she tell him about what they'd shared in Paris? Reliving the humiliation of those last few moments in his office before she'd walked out, convinced she'd never see him again?

Except what would that accomplish, other than further complicating their current situation? It wasn't as if they'd dated or had anything beyond that one night.

Get it together, Esmerelda.

The heir to the throne was sitting on her porch with no memory of who he was or what had happened to him. Now was not the time to struggle with unrequited emotions. No, she needed to get him back home to Rodina and into the care of a qualified physician since the foolish man had taken the address from that London jeweler and used almost all his cash to pay for a seat on a cargo plane that hadn't bothered to ask for a passport. When he'd told her that lovely tidbit, she'd had a vivid and painful image of him strapped into the back of a hold crowded with boxes of contraband as a rickety plane spiraled into the ocean.

If she suppressed that horrifying vision and instead focused on the reality that the so-called "Ice Prince" of Rodina had flown on a cargo plane with a bag of cash with a million-euro ring secreted in the bottom, it was almost amusing.

The ring.

Just thinking about it sobered her instantly. She hadn't seen it yet. She had no wish to. Just the thought of it made her stomach roll.

"I can see the smoke coming out of your ears."

She froze, then silently swore. No one had snuck up on her in years. Slowly, she turned.

And realized that the house was far too tiny. How was it possible that a cottage that had seemed surprisingly roomy now seemed no bigger than a closet? He filled the space, all broad shoulders and lean muscle clad in the still-damp shirt and pants that, thankfully, had dried enough they no longer clung to his body.

"There's a lot to think about."

Thankfully her voice came out steadier than her chaotic stream of thoughts.

"Agreed." He glanced around the cottage, the casual gesture not masking the intensity in his eyes. "How did you find this place?"

"Vacation listing online."

Her jaw tightened as she followed his gaze. It wasn't the same caliber as the fancy Parisian hotel they'd made love in, or the sweeping glamor of the Rodinian seaside palace. Not even close, with the worn white wicker furniture and amateur photographs of Grenada on the faded blue walls.

But that had been part of its charm. It was clean, affordable and exactly the opposite of where she'd been living.

"Cozy."

"You mean cheap," she retorted.

Embarrassment crept up her neck as his gaze swung back to her, a slight smile tugging at one corner of his full lips. Lips she'd kissed, lips he'd used on her breasts, trailed over her stomach, then lower still to—

"Your blushes are telling."

"I don't blush." She moved to the living area and folded a blanket, needing something to do with her hands, to put distance between them. "I flush. There's a difference."

"Oh?"

"Blush implies roses, delicate pinks and beautiful women." She swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat. Beautiful women like her mother. Beautiful women like the future bride of Prince Julius Carvalho. "Flush is more accurate for someone like me."

"Someone like you?"

Surprised at the sudden hardening in his tone, she looked up to see him glowering at her.

"I turn red. Red underneath freckles, coupled with this hair, does not an attractive woman make."

"And who told you that?"

She laid the blanket on the sofa's sagging back and smoothed out the wrinkles. The sound of her mother's disappointed sigh when Esme had turned down yet another offer to have it professionally dyed to something "more suitable than that unfortunate mix of red and yellow," still sounded as piercing as it had the day her mother had said it.

On her thirteenth birthday.

"It doesn't matter." She'd told herself that so many times over the years until she'd almost believed it. "I don't know how we even got onto this ridiculous topic. We should be discussing what to do next with you and...all of this," she finished with a wave of her hand.

He inclined his head to her.

"Given you know more of...well, everything," he said with another faint smile, "I am at your mercy."

"All right." She sank down onto the arm of the sofa, details swirling through her mind. Her ability to analyze and create a plan was one of the few skills she felt truly confident in. That it was a part of her and not just something instilled on her by an aloof mother or a hard-nosed father.

"You should call the palace and let them know what happened to—"

"No."

Irritation trickled down her spine, but she kept it in check. She had conducted herself with the highest level of professionalism during her time as a guard.

Minus sleeping with the boss.

She silenced her conscience and returned his rigid expression with an impassive one of her own.

"I'm sorry, I must have misunderstood the part where you're at my mercy."

"If what you're telling me is true—"

"If?"

"You must admit, telling someone they're a prince and heir to a European nation is outlandish."

She cocked her head to one side and gave him a sweet smile.

"As outlandish as a prince showing up on the doorstep of the palace guard they fired from their service and claiming to have forgotten their entire life? Or perhaps as preposterous as said prince catching a cargo plane to—"

"Suficiente."

She didn't bother suppressing her smug smirk as he ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

He held up the prepaid cell phone he'd purchased at the airport.

"I found news stories to support what you told me."

Irritation flickered through her.

"I didn't lie."

"I know. Surely you can understand the need to see it with my own eyes, to catch up on..." He paused. "Well, my entire life. But," he added, stepping closer as he slid his hands into his pockets, "one thing was missing."

"What?"

"Any news on my engagement, the woman I'm dating, anything."

"Given that you hadn't dated anyone in over a year, I'm not surprised."

"Then I'm not engaged."

"Not yet. But you will be soon."

"To whom?"

"You didn't share with me. You may not have even known at the time who your fiancée was to be."

His lips parted. "How is that possible?"

"Because ‘royal marriages are transactions for the betterment of the country.' A direct quote from both you and your father. I'm sure a list of recommended candidates was provided to you around the time or shortly after I left. You must have traveled to London to select a ring for her."

Jealousy coiled in her stomach, followed by shame. The woman chosen to be the future Queen of Rodina would have been someone she would have been proud to serve and protect. Up until she shirked everything she had vowed to uphold and slept with said woman's future husband.

He turned away, giving her a moment to blink back the hot sting of tears. He reached into the bag she'd brought inside while he'd ruminated on the porch after her incredible announcement and pulled out an obsidian-colored velvet box.

"You were listed as the primary contact for the ring. Why?"

She looked away from the box and out the window to the sea.

Focus on the future. Answer his questions. Get him help. Get him out of your life once and for all.

"It's standard practice to list a member of the security detail as the contact for any business a member of the royal family doesn't want the public knowing about."

"But you said you haven't worked for my security team for over a month."

"You must have made the appointment before you fired me."

"With an address in the Caribbean?"

That part stumped her. He'd most likely hired a detective, someone outside of the palace, to track her down. Why was anyone's guess.

And she didn't care. Couldn't care.

"Why did I fire you?"

It was too much. She'd lasted this long. But it was time for Julius to go. To return to his life and receive the care he needed from a doctor. To rejoin royal life and leave her behind.

"You'll either remember or someone else will inform you." She held out her phone. "You can use my cell to call in for your security check. Tell them what happened and they'll—"

"No."

Irritation flickered through her.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I just found out I'm a prince. A prince who is heir to the throne," he repeated, his voice dark and dangerous and hard. "What you just described sounds unappealing at best. My every move shadowed by a security team. An engagement to a woman selected like I'm shopping for produce at the damned market."

"What did you expect?" she snapped. "You're royalty. Real-life royalty. This isn't a fairy tale, Your Highness."

"Do you know what I expected, Esmerelda?"

She stifled the stirring deep in her belly at his use of her full name. The last time he'd said it, he'd moaned it against her lips as he'd slid inside her.

"I can only imagine, sir."

"I expected for you to be the woman I bought the ring for. That I would arrive here and find out I was a banker or a CEO, something mundane that would explain the massive amount of cash and the diamond." His eyes flashed as his fingers tightened around the box. "I thought this was for you, not some faceless woman chosen off of a list."

She tried to ignore the jab of the knife to her heart as he casually mentioned the possibility of having bought the ring for her. She'd known once they'd kissed, once she'd made the decision to finally share her body with him, that it couldn't last. That at most, it would never go beyond an affair. He was a prince. Princes married princesses, duchesses, politicians' daughters, other wealthy people who brought their own connections to the union. She'd known, and accepted, that there would be pain. To her, the year they'd spent together as prince and bodyguard, coming to know each other on a deeper level after her accident, followed by the most incredible night she'd ever spent with a man, had been worth the eventual heartache.

She just hadn't expected the end to come so soon, nor so viciously.

"It's not all glass slippers and champagne, sir. I'm sorry you had to find out this way, but I can't help you anymore. I'm sure a plane can be ready in an hour to take you home."

He stood, regarding her with an intensity that made her want to squirm. Would he suddenly remember? Would the memories come rushing back like they did in the movies, leaving her to experience his disgust and rejection all over again?

"I have impressions. Feelings. They're faint, almost as if a shadow has been wrapped around them."

He stepped closer. She stood her ground, willing herself not to retreat.

"But before I even heard your name, I remembered you." His hand came up, his fingers gliding across one of her wild curls. "When Miss Smythe named you as the contact, I knew that I knew you. That there's something important, something unfinished, with you."

Her heart cried out at the passion in his gaze. Her mind stifled the desire.

"Perhaps it's guilt for acting like a pompous jerk when you removed me from your detail."

His lips tightened.

"We were lovers."

"No."

The lie came quickly, uttered with such feeling she almost believed it herself. Not a lie, she reassured herself even as her conscience disagreed. He had never loved her. He'd had his fun, then chosen to distance himself so he and his reputation wouldn't be sullied by a one-night stand with his bodyguard.

"No?" His thick brows drew together. "I remember..."

She nearly caved at the confusion on his face. Nearly told him about the night in Paris.

"I have a reputation to uphold, Miss Clark. Your continued employment on my security team threatens that."

"We were not lovers, Your Highness. I was your bodyguard. We were friends. Or at least I thought we were." She looked away then, knowing she was stretching the truth. But she couldn't bear this again, to rehash the horrible things he'd said and relive the heartache only to have him rush off again as soon as he regained his memory. "Your father requested you marry. You reassigned me without even talking to me about it beforehand and delivered the news rather brutally."

"Why?" he demanded.

"You said it would look better. Your new team was all male." She let the implication hang between them as she tugged on her robe and belted it tightly at the waist. "I declined the reassignment, walked out of the palace and hopped on a plane. I was tired of letting people in my life guide my choices. I stopped briefly at the home my mother left me in Scotland to oversee my things getting moved in, then booked a flight to Grenada to figure out what I wanted for my life. And now you're here."

She faced him then, shoulders thrown back, holding his intense gaze.

And nearly crumpled as he flipped the lid open on the ring box.