Royal Families Vs. Historicals. Rebecca Winters

one of my brothers. Honestly, it’s fine. I’m supposed to be at a thing tonight and—” She’d forgotten to cancel, she realized. She had decided not to go once she realized Trella would be in town, but had paid the plate fee because it was a charity she liked to support. It wasn’t a big deal that she was a no-show. She shouldn’t be experiencing this stab of guilt.

      All part of Kasim’s magnifying effect on her emotions, she supposed. She frowned, aware of a cloud of traitorousness blanketing her too, along with a niggling desire to rebel. She put it all down to letting him extract that surrender to his seduction at the expense of thinking of—

      She scrambled out of his arms to sit up. Trella.

      “What—?” Kasim made a noise.

      She kicked away the covers as she scooted off the bed. “I have to check in with Trella.”

      “Why?”

      “I just do,” she muttered and quickly shrugged into his robe, tying it tight then leaving to scour the lounge for her cell phone.

      * * *

      Angelique had put down the agitation in her belly to the sound of an invisible clock ticking down on her time with Kasim and all the things that she was doing that were out of character: engaging in an affair, leaving her sister, shunning work responsibilities.

      But there was that other plane of awareness that her sister occupied in her unconscious…

      Kasim came into the lounge, pants pulled on, but wearing nothing else, blanking her mind. Lord, he was beautiful, moving with economy, sculpted muscles rippling under smooth, swarthy skin. For a moment she forgot to breathe, she was so captivated.

      He prowled to where the food had been received and abandoned on the dining table an hour ago. They had been too busy with each other when it arrived to do more than set it aside and get back to bed.

      He opened the wicker basket and said, “We should eat before this is stone cold.”

      When he glanced at her, he caught her ogling. A light smirk touched his gorgeous mouth. He hooked his thumbs in his waistband, so sexy her mouth watered.

      “Unless you’re hungry for something else?”

      She swallowed and ignored the fact her blood turned to lava. It was better that he wouldn’t be in Berlin. He had way too much power over her as it was.

      “I could eat.” She hid her reaction by gathering their still-full wineglasses and bringing them across to the table under his watchful eye.

      “Your sister?” he prompted.

      “Fine.” She bit her lip, flashing him an uncertain look. “She told me not to hurry back.”

      Take advantage of flying under the radar as long as you can, Trella had texted, but Angelique was still aware of her sister in that peripheral way. Trella wasn’t frightened precisely, but she was disturbed.

      They had used their authentication codes, though. She knew it was definitely Trella telling her to stay in London, coming across like an adolescent pushing for independence, insisting she was completely fine.

      Angelique hadn’t tried a video call, too embarrassed at how much she would betray, especially wearing Kasim’s robe.

      “So you’ll stay the weekend.” Kasim looped his arm around her.

      “Do I have a choice?” she challenged tartly.

      He stroked the back of his bent finger along her jaw, perhaps looking apologetic, but all he said was “Not if I have anything to do with it, no.”

      Then he kissed her until she was leaning into him, utterly spellbound.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      ASIDE FROM THE odd time when she had become tipsy from having too little to eat before having a glass of wine, Angelique had never been drunk or stoned. Kasim, however, provoked a feeling in her that she imagined one felt when ingesting party pills.

      She walked around in a fog of euphoria after London, mood swinging wildly. One minute she was lost in recalling how they had essentially spent two solid days in bed, rising only to eat and make love elsewhere in the flat: the sofa, the kitchen chair, the shower. It made her too blissed out to care about the lost shipment of linen or the hundreds of euros in hand-made bobbin lace that wound up attached to the wrong gown.

      The next minute she plummeted into a withdrawal depression, certain she’d never hear from him again. With his hand buried in her hair, he had kissed her deeply late Sunday afternoon, both of them aware cars and planes were waiting for them. He had finally released her, saying, “You won’t hear from me. I’ll be tied up in meetings. I’ll try to meet you in Berlin. If I can’t, we’ll figure out something for the following week.”

      Would they, though? She wished they’d made a clean break of it. She could have handled that. This veering between hope and despair was too much!

      If Trella noticed Angelique’s distraction, she didn’t say anything. She was immersed in finishing Hasna’s wardrobe, almost obsessing over each piece, working late and rising early to ensure everything was perfect. She seemed really wound up about it when she was usually the coolheaded one about deadlines and never lacked confidence that their work would be received with great enthusiasm.

      Angelique had a fleeting thought that her sister was burying herself in work to avoid her, but they were behind, thanks to Angelique staying in London an extra day. It was probably her own distraction making it seem like her sister was off. She was grateful to Trella for picking up the slack and tried to set her own nose to the grindstone so they could ship everything as planned.

      Then, even though time passed at a glacial pace, she suddenly found herself rattling around her hotel room in Berlin, phone in hand as she compulsively checked her messages for word from Kasim, behaving exactly like an addict needing a fix. She had sent him her agenda yesterday, mildly panicked at the lack of word from him. She absolutely refused to let herself text again.

      Tonight’s event was taking place here in this brand-new hotel. Her suite was airy and ultra-contemporary, run by a firm out of Dubai that understood the meaning of luxury. She promised herself a soak in the private whirlpool tub when she returned later. It was already filled and warmed. Tiny whorls of steam wisped from the edge of its rollback cover and candles were at hand, awaiting a match.

      She would need to drown some sorrows since it looked like Kasim wouldn’t turn up. She was devastated.

      That shouldn’t surprise her. Right from the beginning he had pulled a formidable response from her.

      She fought tears as she set out her gown and did her hair, then her makeup, saying a private Thanks, Trella, as her sister’s face appeared in the mirror to bolster her.

      She wished now she had brought one of Trella’s designs. Her sister’s confections tended to have a self-assured cheekiness whereas Angelique’s evoked more introspective moods. Hers tonight was wistful and damned if it wasn’t blue.

      A powder blue in silk, sleeveless, but abundant enough in the skirt to move like quicksilver. The bodice was overlaid with mist-like lace that split apart at her naval and fell into a divided overskirt that became a small train. She pinned her hair back from her face, but let it fall in loose waves behind her naked shoulders and painted her lips a meditative pink.

      Her earrings were simple drop crystals that caught the light. A velvet choker with a matching stone collared her throat. A panic switch was sewn on the underside. She and her sister often joked about starting their own line of high-end security wear, but they didn’t want to tip off anyone that they wore it themselves.

      Just for a moment, as she took in her reflection, she wondered what it would be like to live without so much vigilance. In a prince’s harem, for instance.

      This lipstick