Sighing, Kris had walked over to the diner counter, toed off his boots, and trickled water from the jug over the tops of his socks. She’d watched, pretending she didn’t have a strange addiction to seeing this man down a layer, even if it was just the cowboy boots.
“Squelchy,” she’d said with a smirk when he returned with boots in hand.
He’d had every right to be irritated, but his eyes had held a soft sparkle. “That was ruthless.”
“Yeah, sorry,” she’d said, turning toward the staircase beside the counter. “Imagine if you’d answered.”
“There is no answer. I don’t like talking about this,” he’d said, walking up the stairs behind her. He’d always driven her home from trivia and walked her right to her door. Faultless small-town manners. “Even as a joke.”
She’d fished the key out of her pocket a moment before she’d sensed him come all the way onto the small landing behind her instead of waiting several steps down. There was scarcely room for two people up here, but the broad shape of him had radiated against her back.
Her hand was unsteady as she’d tried to unlock her door. She hadn’t been able to get the key in—he was right there—the lock had changed shape or something—was he planning on making a move?—shit—she couldn’t think with him this close—she was trembling too much—
“Let me,” he’d murmured, and reached around her. The coarse pads of his fingers brushed against hers as he’d taken the key. Dizzy with his scent, his heat, she’d barely kept her balance. With his forearm braced against the wall at her other side, his chest skimming her back and his bicep just not touching her arm as he’d leaned around her toward the door handle, he had her surrounded.
“How long are we going to keep this up, Frankie?” His question had been a hot, dark breath at her ear. It had made her instantly, mortifyingly, wet.
Oh, God.
He was like a firework strapped to her back, already sparking, ready to erupt and ensure she burst with him. She wanted that—wanted everything with him.
But he was her prince. Not Kris.
Her prince.
He’d waited for her answer, holding her key loosely between thumb and forefinger, hesitating at the lock.
“I don’t like talking about this,” she’d managed to say, clinging to his earlier words, but it had come out unfamiliar, throaty and thick and breathless. A fantastic time to learn she had an aroused voice.
He’d responded to it, his own dropping to a growl. “I think we should.”
“I don’t like it,” she’d repeated. Not moving, not looking at him.
“You don’t like the thought of being with me?” he’d asked, holding still, his powerful body practically thrumming around her. “Being like this?”
Her breath had caught, a faint squeak. Denial was brutal; it made her tear herself apart just to hold still.
“I don’t like talking about this,” she’d said, stuck on those words. They weren’t lies. The less she talked, the less likely she was to give in. She couldn’t surrender to him. Even if he never ascended within the royal line, this man was still a prince and she was worse than nobody. He was also a prince who didn’t trust her enough to keep his secret, and she knew—knew—that he’d have no issues getting her into bed without sharing his heritage. Bitterness had dug into her pride.
“We don’t have to talk—”
“Don’t make me,” she’d cut him off.
Accusing him of force, small as it was, had worked instantly. He’d withdrawn like a gasp of air, shifting as far as he could to one side. Key in the lock, door open, he’d swooped down to grab his boots and started down the stairs.
“Sorry,” he’d said, his voice a different kind of quiet. Confused, shamed. “I didn’t mean to—fuck,” he’d cursed under his breath and was gone.
That night, she’d cried herself to sleep.
She should have chosen to never leave the place she was born.
6
Frankie spent the following afternoon working in the map room. She set up her laptop on the otherwise bare table, surrounded by world maps pasted on the walls. Old and not-so-old, the efforts of cartographers from centuries past. Hand-painted illustrations adorned the wallpaper beside the maps, and she supposed it would be interesting for people who had time to care about history—which she didn’t.
She cared about the heat. The room was in a non-air-conditioned part of the palace, and would have been intolerable if it weren’t for the cool air wafting out of the hole in the wall. She shifted her chair over a little, trying to catch the stale breeze. The bookcase in the corner had been moved to one side, exposing the stone staircase concealed within that connected to a network of secret passageways. It led to the palace basement and beyond, and, every so often, she looked up and frowned at it impatiently.
It was late afternoon by the time Tommy emerged.
He ducked into the room, one guard in the lead, the other bringing up the rear. Smart formation. The attention of all three shot to her, startled, and she inclined her head in Tommy’s direction with a neutral, “Your Highness.”
Then she jerked her head toward the door. Without turning, the guard in front extended a hand behind him and Tommy gave him the book he’d been carrying. The guards filed out.
Tommy offered Frankie no greeting in return. He stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, his hard expression far from welcoming.
“About time,” she said, leaning back in the chair. “I’ve been waiting hours.”
“I’d have made it days if I’d known you were here.”
She arched a brow. “Your avoidance is somehow gratifying.”
He didn’t react.
The most enigmatic of the three brothers, Tommy was naturally quiet, keen-eyed, and still. Like a thought that woke her in the night and slipped away before she could catch it, leaving her unsettled, grasping warily, unsure whether it had been good or bad. He was a shadow and she had no idea what cast him.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Kris spoke to me last night and despite your glowing suggestion, it doesn’t seem like he’s going to send me on my way.”
His eyes narrowed as he processed that information, so she asked, “I want to know if it weren’t for him, would you fire me? Reassign me? I lied to you as much as I lied to him. It’s not only his call. I can leave now, and he can think it was my decision.”
Tommy considered her. “You’d leave and pretend it was what you wanted?”
“If it’s what you want.” She wasn’t stupid. Kris valued his brother’s opinion as highly as his own. If Tommy resented her, Kris would never be settled with her in the palace.
“A friend should never do what you’ve done.”
She inclined her head in acknowledgement.
“Lie for years about something so significant.” His words were bitter, an accusation aimed at her poor excuse at friendship. Then, as she caught the hooded look in his blue eyes, it hit her in a moment of clarity that Tommy was a target for his own bitterness.
“Oh, Tommy.” She ran a hand over her eyes. Damn it. This conversation was not going to end the way she’d planned.