The Prince's Cinderella Bride. Christine Rimmer

      “Not so.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “You were very right to call me tonight.”

      “I—”

      “But you were wrong to run off without a single word to me.”

      “Max, I did not ‘run off.’ I moved. I certainly have a right to move without checking with you first.”

      He was silent.

      “Max?” She was sure he’d hung up on her.

      “Where are you?” Low. Soft. But not in any way tender.

      “I don’t—”

      “An address. Give me your address.”

      “Max, I—”

      “I must tell you, I could have your address so easily without asking you. Gerta would give it to me. I could get it from Rule. And there are other ways. There are men my family hires to find out whatever we need to know about anyone with whom we associate.”

      “Max, what are you doing? I really don’t like this. Is that a threat?”

      “No threat. Only an explanation. I can find out whatever I want to know about you. But I would never do that. I care for you. I respect your rights and your privacy. So please. Give me your address or hang up the phone and never call me again.”

      “Max, this isn’t like you. Ultimatums have never been your style.”

      “My style, as you put it, is not serving me well with you. Make a choice. Do it now.” There was nothing gentle in that voice. He didn’t grant her so much as a hint of the compassionate, patient Max she’d always known.

      Obviously, her sweet and tender prince was being a complete jerk and she needed to hang up and forget about him. Let it be and let him go. Move on. It was only what she’d repeatedly told him she wanted.

      He spoke again. “Lani. Choose.”

      She gave him the address.

      Chapter Four

      Max was furious.

      He’d been furious for a couple of days now. Ever since Gerta had told him that Lani was no longer Trev and Ellie’s nanny, that she’d found an apartment and moved into it.

      He left the palace by a side door and walked down Cap Royale under the pale sliver of a new moon. It took him eight minutes to reach her street and a minute more to get to her door.

      The old villa was locked up at that hour of the night. But she was waiting in the vestibule, as he’d told her to be.

      Their gazes locked through the etched glass at the top of the door. She opened it. He went in. She wore yoga pants and a big sweatshirt that made her look small and vulnerable, her hair curling on her shoulders, a little wild, as though she hadn’t been able to stop herself from raking her fingers through it.

      “This way,” she said in a hushed voice, and turned for the stairs.

      He caught her arm before she could escape him.