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Her back stiffened with indignation—and hurt. She dismissed it. She didn’t care what Rene thought of her. She had stopped caring a long time ago.
But how dare he look at her like that, as ifshehad done something wrong by talking to Carter, when he was the biggest libertine on the planet?
Carter threw up his hands in a defensive gesture, but the mocking tone was unmistakable when he shouted a reply above the chorus of ‘Auld Lang Syne’.
‘Perhaps we should let the lady decide who she wants to celebrate the New Year with, Your Majesty?’ he all but sneered.
‘The lady does not intend to celebrate it with either of you,’ Mel interjected, her fury at Rene’s high-handedness building. ‘Because she’s going home.’
She didn’t wait to watch the pissing contest continue, turning to push through the crowd. Before she could reach the ballroom’s service doors, though, a large hand grasped her wrist, forcing her to an abrupt stop. She knew whose hand it was when sensation sprinted up her arm.
‘Not so damn fast.’ Rene was so close she could smell him, that devastating aroma of cedarwood soap and man and expensive cologne.
The anger she wanted to feel tangled with the hole in her gut she had spent four years repairing. And the inappropriate yearning—as she recalled his touch, so sure and devastating, the feel of him, so overwhelming inside her… And the morning after, when he’d been gone and her heart had imploded.
‘Release me.’ She struggled against his hold.
‘The hell I will. Where do you think you’re going now?’
‘None of your business.’ She wasn’t about to tell him of her plans, even though he couldn’t possibly want her here, any more than she wished to be here.
She jerked her hand loose and shoved open the service doors, then lifted her skirts and ran past the line of waiters holding trays of champagne flutes aloft. But as the music faded behind her, she could hear running footsteps cutting through the noise coming from the kitchen.
She had barely made it through the kitchen doors before her pursuer snagged her wrist a second time. ‘Stop, dammit. What are you running from, you little fool?’
She skidded to a stop, aware of the scene they were making in front of the kitchen staff, who were all watching with varying degrees of avid curiosity and shock.
She wondered what exactly was so shocking—that their Prince was behaving like an overbearing arse, or that his date for the evening was trying to get away from him?
‘I’m running fromyou. Who else?’ she snarled, breathless—it had been a long night already, and she was fast losing patience with his overbearing arse routine. ‘Now, go away and leave me alone.’
‘That does it. I’ve had enough of your nonsense tonight,’ he said and then, to her utter shock, leant down, gathered her legs and scooped her up and over his shoulder.
Suddenly, she was upside down, staring at a pair of tight male buns clad in black serge, her belly bouncing in time with his purposeful strides.
It took her a full second to process what was happening. Mortification tightened her lungs, her breasts all but spilling out of her gown. But as soon as she had caught her breath, she began to kick and punch in earnest.
‘Put me down, you oaf!’ she shouted.
But he ignored her, even as her shoes flew off, and he marched her through the crowd of chefs and porters and serving staff—who were all gaping at them now in stunned silence.
‘You want me to drop you on your head, then carry on struggling. Otherwise, be still,’ Rene demanded.
She choked back a sob of outrage but stopped fighting, because hitting the deck in front of all these people would surely be worse.
After several eternities, they made it through the kitchens and into the bowels of the Castle. As the metal doors swung closed behind them and they were alone, she gave his back another almighty punch with the last of her strength. He didn’t even flinch.
‘Put me down right now, or I will scream my lungs out,’ she threatened, impressed with the steadiness of her voice, given that her insides had turned to mush.
His shoulder hitched under her belly. ‘Go ahead, no one will hear you.’
But after he had pushed through another set of doors, he finally deposited her on her feet in the ornate entrance hall of the East Wing.
Her bare toes sank into the embroidered silk carpet. She wrenched up the bodice of the far too revealing dress, which had dropped dangerously low during her ignominious exit through the kitchens, then lifted her head to glare at her kidnapper. Unfortunately, without the benefit of her heels, she had to look way, way up. The man was at least six foot two and she barely reached his collarbone.
It was just another humiliation to add to all the others he had heaped upon her over the years.
The cavernous hall—its twin mahogany staircases leading to the gallery above them and the guest suites—was eerily quiet and dimly lit, the muted lighting from the wall sconces casting shadows over Rene’s saturnine features.