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He studied her for the longest time, clearly not convinced by her denial. But then the penetrating glare softened a fraction.
‘Fine, you can go,’ he said, as if she needed his permission. ‘On the condition we have this out in the morning. No more avoidance tactics.’
Like hell we will.
What exactly did he think they had to talk about, anyway? She’d thrown herself at him that night, believing they’d made a connection of some sort, and he’d let her, then he’d left before she’d woken the next morning and ghosted her for weeks afterwards until she’d finally got the message: that she was just another notch on his bedpost who meant nothing.
On what planet would she want to revisit that humiliation? And to what end? So he could tell her again, in words instead of deeds, that she was a nobody? That he’d used her for a quick endorphin fix because she’d been willing and available?No, thanks.
‘Your animosity towards me is starting to impact my work, and yours,’ he continued in that authoritarian tone as if he were the boss of her. ‘Tonight’s little farce being a perfect example,’ he continued. ‘And with Isabelle now happily loved-up with her new husband we may have to deal with each other a lot more often.’
Her temper reignited at the patronising statement—the gall of the man, questioningherprofessionalism. She’d come here, she’d allowed herself to be dressed up like a courtesan and spent five never-ending minutes on his arm being treated like an accessory. And then four endless hours avoiding him so they wouldn’t have a spat in public… And this was the thanks she got.
‘I’ll see you at breakfast, ten o’clock sharp, so we can discuss how to repair our working relationship,’ he added. ‘Or, rather, how you are going to start doing your job. And stop trying to screw up five hundred years of diplomacy between our two countries because of a few hurt feelings. You’re not eighteen any more, Melody. And my patience with your childish attitude towards me is at an end.’
You bastard.
She bit into her lower lip, hard enough to taste blood, to stop herself from reacting to the carelessly cruel statement.
Her role in Androvia as Isabelle’s trusted assistant was something she took incredibly seriously. It was the achievement she was most proud of, the one thing she excelled at. She made it her business to know and understand Isabelle’s role and her responsibilities as Queen, to support her and counsel her, not just because she was paid a generous salary, but also because Isabelle had been her best friend since they were both ten years old.
She would never let Isabelle down… Not again, anyway.
That she had allowed Rene—or, rather, the incident between them four years ago—to compromise that closeness, that friendship, because she had never had the guts to confide in Isabelle what had happened that night, still upset her, and made her feel miserably guilty.
That he was digging at that sore spot by questioning her professionalism felt so unfair. But she sucked in a breath and refused to react. Because that would only prove his point. That she was an overemotional basket case who still wanted his approval, when nothing could be further from the truth.
And arguing with him had always been a pointless exercise. Rene knew all her weak spots and had none of his own—because he had always been more than happy to wear his arrogance and entitlement like a badge of honour.
The good news was, Rene was wrong about the impact of Isabelle’s marriage to Travis Lord on their working relationship.
Because Mel knew that Isabelle’s marriage was a sham. That her friend had only married the American sportswear entrepreneur to circumvent her father’s will and facilitate a land deal. In fact, Isabelle’s ‘loved-up’ new marriage was only due to last a year. After this debacle, Mel would simply impress upon Isabelle that asking her to act as a proxy in the Queen’s dealings with Saltzaland’s Prince was not a good idea, diplomatic-relations-wise.
Luckily, Isabelle knew that Mel and Rene had always been at loggerheads—ever since they were children and Rene had teased them both mercilessly whenever he visited Androvia’s White Palace with his father. So Isabelle would not question her continued animosity towards him now. Or request she host any more balls on his arm.
‘If you really wish to discuss our working relationship tomorrow morning, you can,’ she managed, determined not to let him see how much his patronising accusations had hurt her. ‘But FYI, my desire not to spend time with you has nothing to do with one night of poor judgement and everything to do with what an overbearing arse you have been ever since you were sixteen,’ she finished with a flourish, glad when his eyes narrowed.
‘I’ll want your word on that,’ he snapped, still behaving as if he were the boss of her.
‘Go to hell, Rene,’ she shot back. She was not about to give him her word because he didn’t deserve it. Plus, she planned to be long gone by ten tomorrow morning—andherword actuallymeantsomething to her, unlike Rene.
‘You can bully everyone else,’ she added. ‘But you can’t bully me. Because I know exactly who you are. Now more than ever.’
She swung round—finally—and marched up the staircase in her bare feet, aware of him glaring at her. She kept her spine straight and refused to look back, but she could feel the prickle of awareness tangling with the anger and indignation in her gut every single step of the way.
But as she hurried to her guest room, she couldn’t help berating herself again, for once being young and foolish enough to offer her heart to the Prince of Saltzaland on a platter. She should have known, even as a naïve eighteen-year-old, that an entitled bastard like him would trample all over it.
CHAPTER TWO
AN HOUR LATER, Mel’s insides were still churning from her close encounter with Prince Overbearing Arse as she crept down the East Wing’s service staircase in her winter gear, toting a bag packed hastily for the journey. It had taken an age to get out of the blasted dress and deconstruct the chignon a team of hairstylists had spent an hour constructing.
The bass beat of amplified music echoed dully in the concrete stairwell as she reached the entrance to the garage and keyed in the code given to her by Marco, the young mechanic she had charmed that afternoon.
She pushed the security door, which opened with a loud clang.
At least the New Year celebrations were still going strong in the ballroom several floors above—which meant she had no chance of being waylaid or manhandled by the Egomaniac again. Because Rene would have returned to the party—to find a willing woman to warm his bed for the night.
Twin tides of anxiety and temper were joined by the prickle of something that felt uncomfortably like envy—which she ruthlessly ignored. She had been one of Rene’s conquests once, and while she now understood far too well why he was so irresistible to so many women, she had absolutely no desire to be one of his harem. The sex had been overwhelming, physically as well as emotionally, but being the centre of his attention for that one night—the focus of all that charm and charisma—had also been disturbing. Because she had managed to kid herself for weeks afterwards that they had shared something rare and precious—when she now knew they hadn’t.