The Once and Future Prince / Pretend Mistress, Bona Fide Boss. Оливия Гейтс

blinked. What the…?

      “But it’s my job to negotiate on the king’s behalf. Even for a prize I don’t think worth winning.”

      Two

      Leandro consulted his hearing. And his memory.

      Had she really said what he’d heard her say?

       A prize I don’t think worth winning.

      And that would be…him?

      He stared at the woman Phoebe Alexander had become. She strode into his den as if it were her own sanctuary and he the intruder, each stride loud with the bearing of someone who knew her worth, her effect, exuded it to perfection with each breath.

      Confusion mounted as his gaze clung to the new lushness encased in the formal attire of her profession, the severity of which only accentuated each long limb and ripe curve. His eyes followed each undulation of feminine assurance and fluid grace, pored over the areas her suit left exposed. That smooth neck with the modest expanse of flesh just below, those molded legs. He could almost taste her new creaminess. Would it taste the same as her honeyed tan once had…?

      Abbastanza, you fool. Focus on her face. Fathom her tactic.

      He did, only to wish he hadn’t. Lingering on features that had been sculpted to their full potential by a connoisseur god of taste and elegance only intensified the rush of hormones through his system, had every nerve ending rioting like a wheat field in a storm. And there was nothing in her expression to guide him.

      She reached the oak coffee table in front of his Chesterfield couch arrangement, bent to place her gray briefcase down with a concise click. Her thick braid fell forward, drawing his gaze to the femininity encased snugly in a jacket that reflected her silver eyes. Fantasies washed over him, of dragging her by the braid, undoing it with fingers made rough by haste to the cadence of her encouraging moans, releasing the twining locks into a cascade of glossy raven waves. Another kick of blood rushed to his loins.

      Then she straightened, looked straight at him as if she were looking through spotless glass. She laced her fingers loosely in the pose of a saleswoman waiting on the whims of an ambivalent client, and all he could think was that those supple hands had once been all over him, stroking him to a frenzy, pumping him to oblivion, digging into him in ecstasies of release, that they were now linked right in front of…

      Dio. What was wrong with him? He couldn’t finish one thought without taking it to a carnal conclusion? Without imagining her abandoned in his arms as he did everything with her, to her?

      He shouldn’t have abstained. Even if he hadn’t felt any urge for female company, for physical gratification, he should have sought both. Just like he sought sustenance. He shouldn’t have convinced himself he didn’t need the release, needed all his drive intact for his endeavors. Now it seemed he was starving.

      Ma, maledizione…he hadn’t been. Not until she’d walked in.

      “Shall we begin the negotiation?”

      He winced. Her voice was the same, velvety and rich like chocolate and red wine. But even when she’d spat her last words at him before walking out of his life, she hadn’t sounded so—arctic. And that frostiness was nothing compared to how those eyes swept over him as if examining an icky lifeform.

      She dropped his gaze like a hot potato, swept hers around as if seeking something worthy of her focus. “You do want to get this over with so you can get on with the rest of your day, don’t you?”

      The answer that almost escaped was What I want is for you to tell me who you are and what you did with the Phoebe I knew.

      Did the change in her extend so deeply beyond the physical? Had the woman who’d inundated him with hunger and appreciation and exuded passion from every pore disappeared? Was this what had replaced her? A woman who was finally true to her namesake?

      The name of a goddess of the moon had been such a misnomer for the sunny entity she’d been. But now the name and the myths woven around it seemed to have been invented for her. Where once her skin and hair and figure and vibe had glowed with the sun’s heat and energy, they were now permeated by the moon’s light, by its night and fullness. By its coldness.

      But then the changes were probably only superficial. Her old spontaneity and warmth must have been an act. One he’d fallen for.

      So why had she dropped the facade now, when she was here to insinuate herself into his favor?

      A scoff almost burst from his lips. Favor? That she now hoped to win by telling him how worthless she thought him?

      Which was a strange declaration. As one of the most powerful men in the world, he epitomized worth. She herself must have plotted to ensnare him the moment she’d recognized his potential.

      She’d read him, played him like a virtuoso. The endlessly loving sister, the innocent who’d gone up in flames at his first touch, the one presence in his life that had been undemanding and soothing during conflicted times. She’d projected everything that had captivated him with unerring consistency.

      She’d moved on after he’d been wiped out of the picture, looking for a replacement prince. And she’d found one—and lost him. To this day, Leandro had been unable to find out the true circumstances of her broken engagement to one of his second cousins, Prince Armando D’Agostino.

      But she’d had a contingency plan. She’d become the indispensable presence that connected the über-traditional monarchy to the modern world. The one the kingdom relied on in its hours of need. The one they’d sent to him.

      And she wanted to “start the negotiations.” Wanted to get it over with so he could “get on with the rest of his day.”

      Not the words or attitude of someone who cared one way or the other if those negotiations bore fruit.

      So what was she up to now?

      She must have a plan. A new act. She must have decided to walk in here, pretend antagonism, condescension, and before he interpreted any level of emotional involvement in either, she would switch to indifference. Keep him guessing. Keep him off-balance and enmeshed in the game, trying to anticipate her next move and how to counteract it.

      Masterful. A resounding success.

      And why not? He’d let her perform this new scenario. Watching her execute it should be therapeutic.

      He advanced on her with steps that he hoped looked measured. His resolve to purge her wasn’t lessening her impact. He stopped two steps away, and it hit him two hundred times harder.

      He made another split-second decision, to give in to it rather than fight it and lose more to its sway. He let her aura flood over him, took another step closer.

      “And hello to you, too, Phoebe.”

      Her eyes swung up to his. Blood grew thicker, demanding harder contractions from his heart to push it through his arteries.

      She took half a step back. Slow. Smooth. Dancing with him already? They’d once danced so…exquisitely together.

      “There’s no need to pretend we owe each other hellos.”

      The matter-of-factness of her tone was like an intravenous stimulant, riding his circulation’s rapids to his fingertips, his toes, his scalp, his erection. He made up for the half step she’d gained. “Don’t we? You keep saying the most interesting things.”

      “I’m stating facts. Now, if we can move on?”

      “So, me not being a prize worth winning, and us not owing each other hellos are ‘facts.’ Because you say so, of course.”

      Her gaze shifted downward. He felt it scrape down his body, as inflammatory as her nails had once been.

      But what was the stirring he saw in her eyes? Irritation? At him? Or at herself? Because she hadn’t intended