King's Ransom. Amelia Autin

and pressed, ready for her to wear. Now she pulled out the full-length violet silk sheath that nearly matched the color of her eyes. Could she carry it off? Could she wear it the way it was intended to be worn, with no bra, no panties—not even a thong—and no pantyhose? Nothing except silk fabric clinging to her bare skin like a lover’s caress, a daring side slit to mid-thigh. She’d bought the gown when she’d known she was coming back here. When she’d known she would see him again. It was a dress designed to make him remember...and regret.

      And he will regret, she promised herself as cold anger shook her. Naked, she slithered into the tight sheath and zipped it up, then stepped into the matching violet-tinted pumps. With shaking hands she added the diamond-and-tanzanite choker and earrings her father had presented her with after she won her first Best Actress award, because, he’d said with fond pride, they matched her eyes.

      She quickly brushed her hair, swiped on a touch of lip gloss and added a dab of violet eye shadow to make her eyes even more mysterious. She didn’t use eyeliner or mascara—her lashes were naturally long, dark and double-lashed. Then she spritzed herself with her favorite perfume, which she rarely wore. Not at $695 an ounce. But tonight she was pulling out all the stops. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll make him regret.

Chapter 2

      Juliana made an entrance as she hesitated at the top of the Grand Staircase leading into the Great Hall. Conversation stopped for a full thirty seconds as heads turned toward her. There were a few sharply indrawn breaths and a few gasps—from women, of course—at the sight of a dress few women would have dared to wear.

      Somewhere down there she knew Dirk and Sabrina were making the rounds, and sprinkled throughout were other people she knew—cast and crew. But Juliana had eyes for only one man in the glittering crowd, and she saw him instantly. Even without the royal uniform he wore she would have known him in a heartbeat, and at the sight of him a shaft of pain rippled through her, as unexpected as it was unwelcome.

      He turned at the sudden hush and saw her. Then he was moving toward her with obvious intent through the crowd that parted for him like the Red Sea before Moses. Tall, regal and handsome—just as she remembered him all those years ago. Just as she remembered him when she was a shy fourteen and he was the Crown Prince—eighteen and already a man—welcoming her to the palace. So handsome in full dress regalia then as now, with his golden-brown hair and finely chiseled features. So kind. So gentle with the shy, tongue-tied girl she’d been, coaxing her into talking with those smiling green eyes that invited confidences.

      Don’t remember that now, she warned herself. Don’t.

      He turned to the bodyguard following him like a silent shadow and said something—she couldn’t hear what—but the man nodded acknowledgment of the order he’d just received and faded back into the crowd, although his eyes never left the man he was guarding.

      When Andre reached her side at the top of the staircase, she said, “Your Majesty,” and curtsied to him. But she refused to bow her head, matching him in pride. Playing a role, she held her hand out to him in the imperious manner of a woman who knows her own beauty and expects homage—something she’d never done in her life. But she’d planned just what she was going to do when she met Andre again, how she would act, what she would say. Every sleepless night she’d spent since she’d known she was coming back here, she’d sworn he would never know how he’d savaged her heart. He would never know how much courage it took for her to face him again after the humiliating end to their relationship. She wasn’t about to betray herself now.

      He took her hand in his, staring down into her eyes. “Andre,” he murmured in dissent, then went on to remind her, “You were never so formal before.” He bent over her suddenly trembling hand and pressed a formal kiss on the back of it. At least that’s what it looked like to the other guests in the room below. Juliana knew differently. It wasn’t a formal kiss. Andre was seducing her right there, in front of hundreds of people. His lips were warm, firm and masculine, yet so tender and seductive she shivered and her nipples tightened beneath the raw silk. The fabric rubbed against those hard little peaks, making them tighten even more, until they ached unbearably.

      When he raised his head from her hand she saw from the knowing glint in his eyes that he knew the effect he was having on her. He knew. And he smiled, the satisfied smile of a man who knows he’s a man, and that the woman with him knows it, too. It was not the expression Juliana had sworn to herself he would wear.

      He drew her closer and tucked her hand under his arm. When she tried to draw it back he refused to let her go, and she reluctantly let him lead her down the stairway and into the Great Hall. The only way Juliana could have escaped would have been to make a scene, something she wasn’t willing to do. Not here. Not yet. If she did that people might suspect she had something to hide, and her pride wouldn’t let her give rise to gossip. Not only that, Andre might suspect...something. And she was fiercely determined he would know...nothing.

      Laughter and chatter swirled around them, and sly, sidelong glances were cast their way. The massive chandelier overhead glittered with a thousand points of light, reflecting off the gilded ceiling and walls. Andre steered Juliana through the crowd, stopping courteously as people greeted her. But he never let go of her arm. And he never lost sight of his ultimate goal—a quiet alcove on the far side of the room, to which he eventually led her.

      He briefly stopped a passing waiter and took a champagne flute, which he formally offered to her before taking one for himself. Then he saluted her with his glass and spoke for the first time since he’d met her at the top of the stairs, and his voice was just as she remembered. Deep, tender, with that barest hint of an accent to his English. “You are more beautiful in person than any woman has a right to be.”

      She stiffened. Was he mocking her? He’d known her when she hadn’t been beautiful. When she’d been plain and awkward. He seemed to read her mind and shook his head slightly. “No, Juliana. Beauty of face and figure will fade. But your eyes, those windows into your soul, will always be beautiful to me. Forever and a day.”

      Those last four words stabbed at her heart. Once upon a time she’d prayed to hear those words from him. Once upon a time she’d thought he felt them, even if he didn’t say them. But she’d been wrong. Horribly, heart-wrenchingly wrong. She’d paid the price of loving unwisely, while he...

      Desperate to wound him as grievously as he had wounded her with his comment, Juliana drawled cynically, “Ah yes, those immortal words, forever and a day.” She raised her champagne glass to him in a mocking toast. “To love. Immortal love. Isn’t that why I’m here?”

      Andre’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “What do you mean by that?”

      “King’s Ransom. A love story for the ages,” she said flippantly. “A fairy tale. As if any man, then or now, ever loved a woman that much.” She tried for a carefree laugh, but couldn’t prevent a tinge of bitterness from creeping in. Couldn’t prevent her own life’s experiences from coloring her perspective. “As if any man in that day and age would take a woman back who had shamed him in the eyes of the known world. Not to mention a king who could easily have the marriage annulled and have his pick of women. Chaste women.”

      She faltered at the icy expression in his eyes and the danger that radiated from him, so palpable she could feel it. She stared up at him, remembering Andre telling her the love story behind King’s Ransom, the story of the founder of the House of Marianescu, the first king of Zakhar. Remembering how she’d hung on every word. Remembering how she’d believed in the immortal love the story represented—once upon a time.

      Remembering, too, how she’d yearned to be a woman like Eleonora, who had inspired that kind of love in her husband, the first Andre Alexei. How she’d dreamed of someday making her Andre love her that way. My Andre? she told herself with redoubled cynicism. He was never my Andre. What a fool I was. As if I ever meant anything to him other than another conquest.

      The frightening