Page 3 of A Royal Mistake
The palace was overflowing with courtiers, all of whom would be too happy to gossip about the outcome of her walk with Dominik. Pippa turned the corner, mind occupied by court politics, and crashed into a solid wall of muscle.
The air punched out of her lungs and she stumbled back, slipping and sliding in her sodden shoes. Powerful hands shot out and grasped her arms, holding her upright as she scrambled for balance. When her feet were solidly under her again, she took a step back, pulling out of the stranger’s firm grip.
“Excuse me,” Pippa said, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear as she looked him over. He was tall. That was the first thing she noticed. She was five-nine, and he had at least four inches on her. In fact, he was tall, dark, and, okay, maybe not royal, but definitely a suitor. She was sure of it. The man oozed wealth and power from the tips of his tousled brown hair to the toes of his polished Italian loafers. He wore a crisp linen suit, and although it was only mid-morning, a five o’clock shadow dusted his high cheekbones, giving him a rebellious edge.
Their eyes met, and she was struck by déjà vu. Which was silly, because a guy like that? She’d definitely remember if they’d met before. No way she’d forget those intense umber eyes. “I— I didn’t see you there.”
“You don’t say?” He flashed a crooked smile, and sweet Jesus, her knees trembled. Probably just a chill from her wet clothes. She was definitelynotmelting for one of the toffs. “No need for apologies, Your Highness. The fault is entirely mine.” He dipped his chin, but his eyes remained locked on hers. “To be honest, I’d hoped our paths might cross. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
Well, she’d called that, hadn’t she?
The smile that had definitelynotmade her knees tremble edged over the line to a smirk, and she saw red. How many more men would come calling for her crown? This whole situation was getting out of control and she was bloody over it.
“Just perfect. Another suitor come to win my hand?” Pippa clenched her fists. Was it so hard for her parents to accept that she aspired to more than a favorable marriage? That she had goals and ambitions that didn’t involve extending the royal blood line? “I am not some prize to be won. And, as you can see,” she said, gesturing to her sopping dress, “I’ve already been sufficiently wooed, so I suggest you pack your bags and get the hell out of Valeria.”
* * *
So much forrolling out the red carpet.Heinrich von der Recke gave the princess a slow once-over. He’d expected his time in Valeria to be challenging, but he hadn’t anticipated such a hostile reception. Certainly not from The Princess Royal.
After all, he had nothing to do with her farce of a courtship.
It doesn’t matter.
It couldn’t. Not with the future of von der Recke International hanging in the balance. Henry had dedicated his life to serving others, to building an organization that empowered the world’s youth to face the most pressing global crises head-on, and now, thanks to one poor decision, he was poised to lose everything.
No. He couldn’t allow that to happen. Too many people were counting on him, and he would not let them down. He’d made promises. Promises he intended to keep. If dealing with cosseted royals was the price of meeting with the Royal Foundation of Valeria, he’d pay it.
Because without an influx of cash—the kind only the RFV could provide—von der Recke International would crumble. And every commitment he’d made to expand VDRI programs would crumble with it.
“You know,” he said, a smile curving his lips. “Where I come from, it’s considered poor manners to throw a guest out of the country before they’ve even unpacked.”
Philippa’s nostrils flared ever so slightly, and she narrowed her eyes. “Then I suppose it’s fortunate we’re not in your country, isn’t it?”
Henry chuckled, the low rumble vibrating deep in his gut. “Sure, if you’re into Scheisse manners and inhospitable royals.”
Which he wasn’t, but he’d make an exception for The Princess Royal.
He had no interest in securing a royal match, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate a beautiful woman when he saw one. And Philippa was lovely. Oh, she’d changed her hair, lightening her long chestnut locks to a honeyed blonde, but he’d recognize her anywhere. After all, how many times had he seen her luminous smile splashed in the populars at some royal affair or another?
Not that the grainy tabloid photos did her justice.
Philippa was tall and curvy, with soft brown eyes and a wide smile that—on the rare occasion she shared it—showed all her brilliant white teeth. From the looks of things, he wouldn’t be seeing that smile today. Not with the way she was glaring at him, lips pinched in disapproval.
“You have some nerve,” she snapped, planting a manicured hand on her hip.
Goading the princess was a terrible idea, but he couldn’t resist. The youngest of five boys, he’d learned early that when someone came at you, you responded in kind. And, the truth was, this sharp-tongued side of the pampered royal was delightfully unexpected.
Who’d have thought she had that kind of fire in her belly?
Everything he’d seen and heard in the media suggested she was meek and mild-mannered. Oh, she’d had her share of bad press, which until recently had consisted of ridiculous breaches of royal protocol. Hell, just last week the news had been speculating about her lack of virtue because she’d been photographed in public with bare legs.
Talk about some sexist Kuhscheiße.
“Tell me, princess, do you have a problem with all visitors, or is there something about me in particular that offends your delicate sensibilities?”
She lifted her chin in silent challenge, drawing his attention to the delicate curve of her neck. “What I have a problem with is being paraded around like a bloody thoroughbred for self-important arses who are more interested in getting their hands on my crown than on me.”
Was it possible the princess was an unwilling participant in this summer of love?