At His Majesty's Request. Maisey Yates

      “Right. And how do we establish for certain if she can … produce heirs?”

      “Most women can, I assume.” He said it with such throwaway carelessness. As though the idea of a woman not being able to have children was almost ridiculous.

      She pursed her lips. “And some can’t.” Why did the subject always make her feel sick? Why did it always make her feel like a failure?

      Well, discussing the ability to bear children as an essential trait of a queen, a wife, was never going to be easy, no matter how much peace she imagined she’d made with her lot in life.

      “As we get closer to choosing someone, we’ll have to undergo a medical screening.”

      “You’ll be required to do the same,” she said.

      “Will I?”

      “Well, yes, I’m not allowing any of the women I might find for you to sleep with you until I establish that you have a clean bill of health.”

      “You need me to get tested for STDs?”

      “Yes. I do. You’re planning on having children with the woman who marries you, which means unprotected sex. And that means a risk to the health of your wife.”

      “I assume the women will be undergoing the same tests?”

      “All of the women who come to me, all of the women and men in my file, are required to submit those test results to me.”

      “As it happens, I just got tested. Clean. You can have the results if you like.”

      “I would like them. And I assume you won’t be taking on any more sexual partners while we undergo this process?” She felt her cheeks heating again. The topic of sex and Stavros, in the close proximity of the limo, was just a bit too much.

      His eyes flickered over her, leaving heat behind. “Naturally not,” he said, the words coming slowly. Unconvincingly. “And I haven’t had one in quite a while.”

      “Good. Also, you will not sleep with the women I introduce to you. They know the rules. I don’t allow sex between my clients.”

      “You don’t?” he asked, an incredulous laugh in his voice.

      “Not until a match is set and I’m not longer involved. Clearly, the relationship can still dissolve, but I’m not a pimp. I’m not prostituting anyone, and I’m not allowing them to prostitute themselves. This is about creating a relationship, a real lasting relationship, not about helping people hook up casually.”

      “I suppose, running it as a business, you would have to be careful of that,” he said.

      “Very. When I was starting the business I was really excited, and then I realized what it could quickly turn into if I didn’t lay the rules out. Men … well, and women … could use it to find suitable people to … use. And that’s not what I want.”

      “So, you’re not a big one for romance, and yet, this is what you choose to do for a living? Why is that?”

      She looked out the window, at the crystalline sea and white sand blurring into a wash of color. “It was what I was doing anyway, though not on this level. But after … when I made some changes in life and started my own business, I knew that somehow … I knew relationships could work.”

      “So you went looking for the formula.”

      “Yes. And I don’t have the only method, though mine has proven highly successful, but I think the way I go about it works. It also helps to have a disinterested party involved who doesn’t have their heart in it. That’s me. I help people think things through rationally. I set rules so that physical lust doesn’t cloud everything else, doesn’t create a false euphoria.”

      “And why don’t you apply it to yourself?”

      She laughed. “Because. First of all, I can’t be my own disinterested party. Second, I don’t have the energy or the desire to do it again. I had one big white wedding and I do not intend to do it again.”

      “Yet you watch other people do it. Get married, I mean.”

      “Yes. But I find that it … helps. It’s restored my faith in humanity a little bit.”

      The corner of his lip lifted in a sneer. “Was your ex that bad?”

      She shook her head slowly. “Sometimes people change, and they change together. Sometimes one person changes. And the other person can’t handle it.”

      It had been her. She’d changed. Her body had changed. And it had altered everything the marriage was built on. Their dreams for the future. It had been too much.

      “You’re selling the institution so well,” he said dryly. He punched the intercom button on the limo divider. “Stop us at Gio’s.” He let up on the button.

      “I’m not trying to sell you the institution. You have to get married.”

      “True.”

      “And most people who come to me want marriage, or need it for some reason. My personal story, just one of a sad, all too common statistic, will hardly dissuade them. And I’ll admit, most of them don’t bother to ask about my personal life.”

      “I find that hard to believe,” he said, as the limo slowed and turned onto a narrow road that wound up a hillside.

      “Do you?”

      “You’re interesting. Your clothes for example—interesting. The things that come out of your mouth, also interesting. You beg to have questions asked of you.”

      “You would be in the minority in that opinion.”

      “Again, I find it hard to believe.”

      “I’m very boring. I have a house in North Dakota. I grew up there. Obviously, I don’t work with many billionaires, royalty or socialites in North Dakota. I do a lot of work online, and I travel a lot. I’d say my house is empty at least eight months out of the year. I live alone. Can’t have a cat because … well, the traveling. So that’s me.”

      “You skipped a lot.”

      “Did I?”

      He leaned in, his head turned to the side. Sort of like how a man looked right before he kissed a woman. If she could even remember back that far, to when she’d experienced anything close to it. “You didn’t tell me why you’re so prickly.”

      She leaned in a fraction. “And I don’t intend to. Stop flirting with me.”

      “Am I flirting with you?”

      “I think so.” If he wasn’t that was just too horrifying.

      “I can’t help it. You’re beautiful.”

      She swallowed. “Look, I know women melt at your feet and all, but I have a job to do, so best you leave me unmelted, okay?”

      He leaned back, his lips curving into a smile. “But you’re in danger of melting.”

      She was afraid she might be. “No. Sorry.”

      He chuckled and settled back in his seat.

      The limo stopped in front of a small, whitewashed building that was set into the side of a mountain. The building was tiny, but the deck was expansive, filled with round tables, most occupied by diners. The tables overlooked the beach, with strings of white lights running overhead.

      “Ready?” he asked.

      She nodded and put her beer in a cupholder. He got out of the car before her and opened her door. “Isn’t your driver supposed to do that?” she asked.

      He shook his head. “I always open the door when I accompany a woman.”

      “Another one for your file,” she said.

      “I’m not sure