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It wasn’t a lie, she decided, because if she didn’t leave now she might actually murder him—then where would the five-hundred-year-old diplomatic accord between Saltzaland and Androvia be, which he was suddenly so concerned about?
‘Fine, then move over and I will drive you there myself,’ he demanded, calling her bluff, the bastard.
‘I will not,’ she said, because that would defeat the whole purpose of leaving in the first place. And anyway, since when did she need to rely on any man, least of all him? ‘I’m perfectly capable of driving home on my own.’
‘Move over, or so help me I will move you myself. And I think we already know who will win that wrestling match.’
Damn and blast it.
She wanted to scream with frustration. But when he continued to glare at her she knew she’d lost this round. She did not need a repeat of their previous wrestling match. And if she continued to refuse it would only make it seem as if she really feared having a conversation with him. And she would actually rather die than let him know that.
Because, however horrified she was at the prospect of spending five hours in a car with him and being forced to listen to whatever asinine thing he had to say about that night, it would be far worse to let him know she gave a damn.
She bit into her lip for the second time that night and moved across the car’s bench seat.
But when he leapt up into the cab and slammed the door his big brooding presence seemed to diminish the space, and her lung capacity again, despite the size of the vehicle.
He was so close she could smell him, and see the scar which ran across his forehead, just under the hairline.
A vivid memory assailed her—of tracing the raised scar with her fingertip while she lay in his arms and listened to his heart beating, the soreness in her sex dimmed by the heady blast of afterglow.
‘How did you get this? I’ve never noticed it before.’
‘It’s not important.’
The yearning to know him, to understand the closed expression, the reason why he’d shut her out—and her certainty then that the scar, like so many others she had discovered that night,wasimportant, despite his denial—pressed on her chest. And only made her feel angrier with herself now, as well as him.
She couldn’t afford to romanticise his bad behaviour. The man had always been reckless and impulsive—and had partied to excess for years, ever since he’d first acceded to the throne at nineteen, in fact, after his father’s death in a skiing accident. The gossip columns had been full of his crass exploits ever since. No wonder he had scars. Scars he richly deserved, no doubt.
Instead of initiating the conversation she dreaded, though, he shoved the keys into the ignition and switched on the engine. He leant across her to pop open the glove compartment, grabbed a small gizmo and clicked it, giving her another unwanted blast of his scent—cedarwood soap and the delicious aroma of his bergamot cologne—which her wayward pheromones really did not need right now.
Slinging the gizmo back inside, he slammed the compartment shut.
The heavy metal screen above the exit ramp began to crank upwards.
The Castle’s forbidding Gothic facade was slowly revealed as he shifted into gear and peeled out of the parking space. Light swirls of snow fell onto the stone turrets as he drove up the ramp and into the courtyard, then accelerated through a gate at the end of the compound.
Fireworks exploded in the sky above them, to mark the end of the celebration. And the beginning of a brand-new year.
Funny, because she suddenly felt about a million years old.
She stared at the dazzle of coloured lights, thankful the popping noise and the powerful hum of the high-powered engine made talking impossible. But her relief was short-lived as they bounded onto the mountain road leading to the pass across the Alps and Androvia.
‘Put your seatbelt on,’ he shouted as the Castle—and the celebrations—disappeared in the Jeep’s rear-view mirror.
Her heart sank into her toes, but luckily her fury at him, and this whole hideous situation, rose up to fill the gap. She could only hope it would fortify her for the road trip from hell in her immediate future.
CHAPTER THREE
‘STOP BULLYING ME, you jerk.’
Rene ignored the caustic tone when Melody did what she was told—for once—and snapped the belt into place.
Her subtle rose scent filled the car, reminding him of all the sleepless nights he’d had over the past four years, the phantom scent pulling him back to that night—which was not helping with his temper one little bit.
He flipped the switch on the dash which turned on the searchlights on the SUV’s roof. Twin beams illuminated the road ahead as they entered the forest.
‘Relax.’ He flicked a glance at her, strangely vindicated by her furious expression.