Conveniently Wed To The Prince

‘Maybe you should consider asking to move out of admin and into a marketing role.’

‘No point. I’m going back home in a few months.’

Then why bother to be mentored? he wondered.

As if in answer to his unspoken question she turned to face him, her arms folded. ‘I want to learn as much as I can whilst I’m here, to maximise how I can help when I get back.’

It made sense, and yet he intuited it was more than that. Perhaps he should file it away as potentially useful information. Perhaps he should make a push to find something he could bring to the negotiating table.

‘Fair enough.’ A glance outside showed the autumn dusk had settled in, which meant... ‘I’m ready for dinner—what about you?’

‘Um... I didn’t realise it was so late. I’m quite happy to grab a sandwich in my room. I bet Room Service is pretty spectacular here.’

‘I’m sure it is, but I’ve heard the restaurant is incredible.’

Blue eyes surveyed him for a moment. ‘So you’re suggesting we go and have dinner together in the restaurant?’

‘Sure. Why not? The reviews are fantastic.’

‘And you’re still hoping to convince me to cut a deal and cede my claim.’

‘Yes.’

‘It won’t work.’ There was steel in her voice.

‘That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try. Hell, don’t you want to convince me to do the same?’

‘Well, yes, but...’

‘Then we may as well pitch over a Michelin-starred meal, don’t you think?’

She chewed her bottom lip, blue eyes bright with suspicion, and then her tummy gave a less than discreet growl. She rolled her eyes, but her lips turned up in a sudden smile.

‘See? Your stomach is voting with me.’

‘Guess my brain is outvoted, then,’ she muttered, and she rose from the chair. ‘I’ll be five minutes.’

True to her word she emerged just a few moments later. She’d changed back into the charcoal skirt she’d worn earlier, topped now by a crimson blouse. Her hair was swept up in an artlessly elegant arrangement, with tendrils free to frame her face.

In that moment he wished with a strangely fierce yearn that this was a date—a casual, easy, get-to-know-you-dinner with the possibility of their attraction progressing. But it wasn’t and it couldn’t be. This was a fact-finding mission.

Suddenly his father’s words echoed in his ears with a discordant buzz.

‘Information is power, Stefan. Once you know what makes someone tick you can work out how to turn that tick to a tock.’

That was what he needed to focus on—gaining information. Not to penalise her but so that he could work out a fair deal.

Resolutely turning his gaze away from her, he made for the door. But as they headed down plush carpeted corridors and polished wooden stairs it was difficult to remain resolute. Somehow the glimpse of her hand as it slid down the gleaming oak banister, the elusive drift of her scent, the way she smoothed down her skirt all combined to add to the desire that tugged in his gut.

She paused on the threshold of the buzzing restaurant, a look of slight dismay on her face. ‘I don’t think I’m exactly dressed for this.’

‘You look...’ Beautiful. Gorgeous. Way better than any of the women sitting in white cushioned chairs braided with gold, around circular tables illuminated by candles atop them and chandeliers above. ‘Fine,’ he settled on.

Smooth, Petrelli, very smooth.

But oddly enough it seemed to do the trick. She looked up at him and a small smile tugged her lips upwards. ‘Thank you. I know clothes shouldn’t matter, but I am feeling a little inadequate in the designer department.’

‘I’m hardly up to standard either,’ he pointed out. ‘I’m channelling the lumberjack look—the whole jeans and checked shirt image.’

The maître d’ approached, a slightly pained expression on his face until he realised who Stefan was and his expression morphed to ingratiating. ‘Mr Petrelli. This way, please.’

‘People are wondering why we’ve been allowed in,’ Holly whispered. ‘They’re all looking at us.’

‘Let them look. In a minute George here will have discreetly spread the word as to who I am and that should do it. Royal entrepreneurial millionaire status transcends dress code. Especially when accompanied by a mystery guest.’

‘Dressed from the High Street.’ Her tone sounded panicked. ‘Oh, God. They won’t call the press or anything, will they?’

‘Not if they know what’s good for them.’

She glanced over the menu at him. ‘You don’t like publicity, do you?’

In fact he loathed it—because no matter what he did, how many millions he’d made, whatever point he tried to get across, the press all wanted to talk about Lycander and he didn’t. Period.

‘Nope. So I think we’re safe. Let’s choose.’

After a moment of careful perusal he leant back.

‘Hmm... What do you think? The duck sounds amazing—especially with the crushed pink peppercorns—but I’m not sure about adding cilantro in as well. But it could work. The starters look good too—though, again, I’m still not sure about fusion recipes.’

A small gurgle of laughter interrupted him and he glanced across at her.

‘What?’

‘I didn’t have you down as a food buff. The lumberjack look didn’t make me think gourmet.’

‘I’m a man of many surprises.’

In truth, food was important to him—a result of his childhood. Alphonse’s toughening up regime had meant rationed food, and the clichéd bread and water diet had been a regular feature. His stomach panged in sudden memory of the gnaw of hunger, the doughy texture of the bread on his tongue as he tried to savour each nibble. He’d summoned up imaginary feasts, used his mind to conjure a cacophony of tastes and smells and textures. Vowed that one day he’d make those banquets real.

Whoa. Time to turn the memory tap off. Clearly his repressed memory banks had sprung a leak—one he intended to dam up right now.

The arrival of the waiter was a welcome distraction, and once they’d both ordered he focused on Holly. Her cerulean eyes were fringed by impossibly long dark lashes that contrasted with the corn-gold of her hair.

‘And do you cook? Or just appreciate others’ cooking?’ she asked.

‘I can cook, but I’m not an expert. When I have time I enjoy it. What about you?’

Holly grimaced. ‘I can cook too, but I’m not inspired at all. I am a strict by-the-recipe girl. I wish I enjoyed it more, but I’ve always found it quite stressful.’ Discomfort creased her forehead for a second, as if she regretted the words, and she looked down. ‘Anyway, today I don’t need to cook.’