One Night With The Prince: A Royal Without Rules

“Yes,” Pato said impatiently. “And yet he’s still flesh and blood like all the rest of us.”

She shook her head, and looked down at the bed. She’d done this. She understood that, if nothing else. This was the Righetti curse. This was her fault. Her head felt heavy again, and it pounded, but she knew it wasn’t a leftover from last night. It was the generations of Righettis running wild in her blood, and her silly notion she could be any different.

“Do people really think that I’m his mistress?” she asked, sounding like a stranger to her own ears. She was afraid to look at Pato then, but she made herself do it anyway. His eyes seemed darker than usual, and they glittered.

“Of course.” There was an edge to his low voice then, a darker sheen to that intent way he looked at her. “You are a Righetti, he is a Kitzinian prince, and one thing we know about history, Adriana, is that it repeats itself until it kills us all.”

Suddenly, the fact that she was practically naked with this man seemed obscene, disgusting. As if her flesh itself were evil, as if it had made her do this—her body ignoring her brain and acting of its own accord. She slid out of the bed and looked around wildly, her eyes falling on the nearest chair. She walked over and grabbed the oversize wrap that she’d worn against the cool London weather, dropped the sheet that made everything seem too sexual, and covered herself.

It didn’t make her feel any better.

Adriana couldn’t understand how she’d been so blind, so stupid. How she hadn’t known that of course people would think the worst of her, no matter if the tabloids had eased off—out of respect for Lenz, she understood now in a miserable rush of insight. No one had cared that she was good at her job, that she’d never so much as touched the future king. Why had she imagined any of that would matter? Because you wanted to pretend. Because you wanted to believe you could be someone else.

But she was a Righetti. There was never any mistaking that. She should have known it would poison everyone and everything she came into contact with. Even Lenz.

She turned then, and Pato still watched her, sitting there on his bed, a vision of indolent male beauty. Every inch of him royal, gorgeous and as utterly, deliberately corrupt as it was assumed she was. He’d chosen it. He was the Playboy Prince, scandalous and dissolute. But he was still a prince.

Adriana blinked. “So are you,” she said slowly, as an idea took root inside her, and began to grow. “A Kitzinian prince, I mean.”

Pato’s mouth crooked. “To my father’s everlasting dismay, yes.”

It was so simple, Adriana thought then, staring at him as if she’d never seen him before. It could fix everything.

“Then we should make them all think that I’m your mistress,” she said in a rush. She clutched the wrap tighter around her, drifting closer to the bed as she spoke. “The tabloids are halfway there already.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“No one would be at all surprised to discover that you were sleeping with a Righetti,” she continued excitedly, ignoring the odd, arrested look on his face. “Your brother is much too responsible to make that kind of mistake. But you live for mistakes. You’re famous for them!”

“I’m not following you,” he said, and she noticed then that his voice had gone low and hot, and not with the kind of heat she’d heard before.

“It wouldn’t even take that much effort.” She was warming to the topic as her mind raced ahead, picturing it. “One paparazzi picture and the whole world would be happy to believe that history was indeed repeating itself, but with a far more likely candidate than your brother.”

Pato only looked at her for a long moment, and Adriana found herself remembering, suddenly, that he was second in line to the throne. One tragedy and he would be king. All of a sudden he looked as commanding, as regal, as a man in such a position should. Powerful beyond measure. Dangerous.

It was as if she hadn’t seen him before. As if he’d been hiding, right there in plain sight, beneath the dissipated exterior. But how was that possible?

“It wouldn’t be real, of course,” she said quickly, confusion making her feel edgy. Or maybe that was him. “All we’d need was a few pictures and some good PR spin.”

He laughed then, but it was a low, almost aggressive sound, and it made her whole body stiffen in reaction.

“You can’t possibly be suggesting that we pretend you’re sleeping with me to preserve my brother’s reputation,” he said softly, and Adriana didn’t miss the fact that the tone he used was deadly. It made her stomach twist. “You are not actually standing here in my bedroom, wearing almost nothing, and proposing such a thing.”

She searched his face, but he was a stranger, dark and hard.

“That’s exactly what I’m proposing.”

His jaw worked. His golden eyes flashed. “No.”

She scowled at him. “Why not?”

“Do you really require a reason?” he demanded, and then he got to his feet, making everything that much more tense. “You’d be much better served making certain we both forget this absurd conversation ever happened.”

That was when Adriana realized, in a kind of shock, that he was angry. Pato, who famously never got angry. Who was supposed to be carefree and easy in all things. Who had laughed off every sticky situation he’d ever been in.

But not this one. Not today. He was angry. And she had no idea why.

She watched him warily as he roamed around the foot of the bed, so close to naked, and now that temper she hadn’t known he had spilling out around him like a black cloud. But she couldn’t stop. Not when she’d figured out a way to fix things. And what did he care, anyway? It wasn’t as if his reputation was at stake.

“I don’t understand,” she said after a moment, trying to sound reasonable. Rational. “You’ve gone out of your way to link yourself to every woman with a bad reputation you’ve ever come across. Why not me? My bad reputation goes back centuries!”

“I actually did those things,” he replied, that dark temper rich in his voice, in the narrow gaze he aimed at her. “I didn’t pretend for the cameras. I don’t apologize for who I am, but I also don’t fake it.”

Adriana blinked. “So your issue isn’t the idea itself, then. It’s that you need your debaucheries to be honest and truthful. Real.”

The way he looked at her then made a low, dark pulse begin to drum in her, panic and heat and something else she’d never experienced before and couldn’t name. It took everything she had not to bolt for the door and forget she’d ever started this.

“My reputation is my life’s work,” Pato said, and there was a certain harshness in his voice then, dark and grim and tired, that made something clutch hard in Adriana’s chest. “It’s not a cross I’m forced to bear. It’s deliberate.”

“Fine,” she blurted out. She’d never felt so desperate. She only knew this had to happen, she had to have the opportunity to fix one thing her family name had ruined, just one thing—

“Fine?” he echoed, his golden eyes narrowing, focusing in on her in a way that should have made her fall over in a dead faint. Incinerate on the spot. Run.

Something.

But she met his gaze squarely instead.

“We don’t have to fake it,” Adriana said, very distinctly, so there could be no mistake. “I’ll sleep with you.”

All the air in the room evaporated into a shimmer of heat. Into the intensity of Pato’s gaze, the electricity that arced between them, the tension bright and taut and very nearly painful.

He laughed, low and dark and wicked, and Adriana felt it like a touch, as if his strong, elegant hands were directly on her skin. It made her feel weak. It made her want to drop the wrap and press herself against him, to see if that might ease the heavy ache inside her, the pulse of it, the need.

But who was she kidding? She knew it would. And so did he.

“You have no idea what you’re asking, Adriana,” he scoffed. His mouth curved mockingly, knowingly, and that ache in her only grew sharper, more insistent. She suddenly wasn’t at all sure what she was desperate for. But she couldn’t look away. “You wouldn’t know where to start.”

Adriana couldn’t stop the shivering, way down deep inside her.

Her bones felt like jelly and she didn’t know what scared her more—that she might really follow through and throw herself at him, and God only knew what would become of her then, or that the terrible ache inside her might take her to the ground on its own, and then he’d know exactly how much he tormented her.

Though she suspected he already did.

Pato was coming toward her, that sun-kissed skin on careless display, the faint brush of dark hair across his hard pectoral muscles seeming to emphasize his fascinating, unapologetic maleness. And he watched her so intently as he moved, his golden eyes gleaming as if all the wickedness in the world was in him, dark and rich and his to use against her if he chose. All his.

She shouldn’t find that at all intriguing. She shouldn’t wonder, now that she’d glimpsed a different side of this man, what else he hid behind his disreputable mask.

This is about Lenz, she reminded herself sharply. She refused to think about Pato’s claim that her beloved crown prince had wanted her as his mistress all those years she’d believed they’d been working together in harmony. She couldn’t let that matter. This was about saving the one thing she could save, the one thing her family name had blackened that she could actually wash clean.