Their Royal Wedding Bargain

‘Rafa.’ Jag greeted him with a hint of stiffness. ‘I wasn’t sure you were going to make it this year.’

‘Never miss it. Especially if there’s a French heiress to be had.’

‘Rafa!’ Milena scolded under her breath. ‘You promised.’

Rafe laughed. ‘Don’t worry. Jag knows I’m joking.’

‘Jag hopes you’re joking,’ his brother muttered. ‘And just because you made a career out of annoying our father don’t feel that you have to carry the tradition on with me because I’m King.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ Rafe grinned. ‘I hear you’re having some issues with the Berenians.’

‘Don’t mention that word. I swear they’re the most stubborn people on earth.’

A photographer stopped in front of them. ‘The lighting is probably better over by the far column, Your Majesty; do you mind moving in that direction?’

‘Not at all,’ Jag said, casting his eyes across the sea of chattering guests until he spotted what he was looking for. He crooked his finger, a small smile playing at the edges of his mouth, softening his face in a way Rafe had rarely seen before. Following his line of sight, he watched as Jag’s new wife made her way towards them. Clearly pregnant, in a slim-fitting gown, she looked beautiful and only had eyes for his brother.

When she reached his side, Rafe could have sworn the rest of the room dissolved for both of them. Bemused, he wondered what it felt like to want someone that much, and then decided he didn’t want to know.

‘Good evening, Your Majesty,’ Rafe greeted his new Queen. ‘You’re looking as beautiful as ever.’ He took her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Should you ever tire of my stiff-necked brother, you only have to—’

‘Rafa—’ Jag began warningly.

Queen Regan laughed softy and placed her hand on his brother’s arm. ‘Always the devil, Rafaele.’ She smiled at him. ‘It’s a skill to make a pregnant woman blush. But where is your date tonight? I understand you’re seeing a Spanish supermodel. Ella? Or Esme?’

‘Estela,’ Rafe corrected.

‘My apologies.’ She glanced around curiously. ‘Did you bring her with you?’

‘Unfortunately, we had a difference in priorities and parted ways.’

‘And you’re clearly crestfallen.’ Regan arched a brow, a playful glow in her eyes. ‘Do I want to know what those priorities were?’

‘If you two are quite finished flirting,’ Jag said with an edge of menace in his voice, ‘the photographer is waiting.’

‘Sorry.’ Regan threaded her arm through his. ‘But I’m a married woman now. I have to live vicariously and Rafaele always has such interesting stories.’

‘I’ll give you an interesting story later on,’ Jag promised throatily. ‘For now just smile and imagine it.’

‘Whatever they have, I don’t want it,’ Rafe grouched, lining up on the other side of his sister.

‘It’s called love,’ Milena said impishly. ‘And I can’t wait to experience it.’

‘Just don’t fall in love with anyone I haven’t checked out first,’ Rafe warned sternly.

‘Oh, fiddle.’ She waved him away. ‘You and Jag are as bad as each other. You’re more alike than you might think.’

She was wrong. It had always been easier to be the bad to Jag’s good. But he didn’t offer an objection. Instead he pasted a smile on his face and pinched his sister’s side just as the photographer clicked the shutter. Milena kicked his ankle in return and it was their usual game on to see who could make the other break first.

Two hours later, bored to the bone, Rafe thought about heading to his hot tub—alone—when he saw her. A vision who appeared to be nude at first glance but who, unfortunately, wasn’t. But she was breathtaking, with her dark hair, smooth caramel skin and elegant cameo-like profile. Her delicate features were complemented by slender curves and long legs.

They’d fit, he realised with a jolt, somehow already knowing just how good they would be together though he’d never even spoken to her. Instantly intrigued by the notion that he wanted to know the colour of her eyes and the taste of her lips under his. He wanted to feel her warm silken skin and feast his eyes on her sweet curves as he stripped that clever gown from her body with aching slowness for the very first time.

As if sensing the heat of his thoughts, she turned her head, her eyes instantly finding his.

She blinked, as if she felt the caress of the erotic images coursing through his brain, a flush touching her high cheekbones. Or was that just his imagination going overboard? It certainly couldn’t be because of the fool standing in front of her. Count Kushnir wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like that if he had a set of instructions and an accompanying magnifying glass.

Rafe let a slow grin curve the corners of his lips, noting the way her eyes widened with alarm as if she too already knew that they were destined to become lovers.

Because they would become lovers. Tonight, tomorrow night—for Rafe it was already a forgone conclusion. He only hoped she wasn’t one of those women who liked to play hard to get, imagining that if he had to work for it he’d be more interested. He wouldn’t. Because he couldn’t be more interested in this woman if he tried.

CHAPTER TWO (#ua6b1350c-4259-5002-a31c-57f7b1df00b5)

ALEXA FELT PRINCE RAFAELE’S gaze on her as if it were a tractor beam.

This was it. The moment she’d been waiting for. The moment he’d notice her so that they would meet and she could introduce herself. Not that she’d probably need to do that because he would surely know who she was but still, it was the polite thing to do. She’d introduce herself, make small talk and…and…

‘Choo-choo…choo-choo!’

‘I’m sorry?’ Forcing her attention back to the man in front of her, with a noble Russian lineage dating back before Peter the Great, she tried to smile. ‘I don’t think I heard you right?’

At least she hoped she hadn’t. But no…there it was again. An obnoxious, high-pitched noise as he mimicked the sound his toy steam engine made as it trundled around an apparently life-sized track. It reminded her of the stories of sybaritic kings of old who set up lifelike warships in large lakes and watched them battle for supremacy. If she had thought this man might be a possible candidate for a fake engagement should Prince Rafaele turn her down, he’d just convinced her to look elsewhere. The only thing she could fake in this man’s company was a smile. And even that was growing old.

‘May I interrupt?’ A smooth deep voice beside her thankfully broke off the man’s description of yet another steam engine.

Expecting the voice to belong to Prince Rafaele, she breathed a heavy sigh of relief intermingled with disappointment when it wasn’t. Immediately her eyes cut to the place she had last seen him but he wasn’t there any more.

‘Your Royal Highness?’

Somewhat perplexed that the Prince had simply walked away after staring at her so openly, Alexa smiled at the newcomer beside her. What had he asked her? To dance? ‘Yes. Thank you.’

She didn’t actually want to dance but maybe movement would help settle her suddenly jangled nerves.

It had been the look the Prince had given her. That all-encompassing male glance that had raked her from head to toe and then pierced her with heat. It had completely thrown her. Of course she’d known he was good-looking. The mouth-watering photos Nasrin had dredged up on the Internet were demonstration enough of that, but in the flesh… In the flesh he was something more. More charismatic. More powerful. More sensual. More physical.

Taller than those around him, he’d been wide-shouldered and lean-hipped, his body exuding the kind of animal grace that drew the eye of anyone in his vicinity and held it. His dark brown hair was cut in longer layers, framing his chiselled jaw and well-shaped lips to perfection.

In many ways he’d reminded her of King Jaeger but this man had a laconic, laidback sense to him that was powerfully sexy, and strangely she’d never once thought of the King as sexy.

Powerful, yes. Intimidating and regal, yes. But she’d never looked at him and felt her blood pump faster through her veins, as had happened from one long, wicked look from Prince Rafaele.

Feeling guilty that she was completely ignoring the man who was currently holding her at a respectful distance on the dance floor, she tried to dredge up something interesting to say to break the silence between them. God knew she had years of banal small talk rolling around inside her head but, for the life of her, she couldn’t seem to recall any of it, her brain stuck on the strange lethargy that had entered her body at Prince Rafaele’s heated stare.

‘I hate to cut in, Lord Stanton, but you need to contact your office. Something about a paternity test being carried out with your name on it.’

‘Pardon?’ Her dance partner instantly dropped her hand and frowned at the man she’d been waiting all night to ‘run into’ with horror. ‘That can’t be true.’

Prince Rafaele gave an indolent shrug of one wide shoulder. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’