The Only Woman He Wanted… Was The One He Couldn't Have
Darius Santiago is the King’s most trusted spy. He is charming, ruthless, and he has one weakness –the stunning Princess Serafina. She is all he has ever wanted and everything he cannot have. Serafina has always worshiped Darius, knowing that deep in the reaches of her soul, where she is not royalty, but a flesh-and-blood woman, she belongs to this dangerous man. Unable to suppress their desire, they are swept into a daring dance of passion until a deadly enemy threatens to destroy their new love.
She could see the shape of him, tall, bedecked in his finery. She could see the shape of the pistol in his hand and knew her pale silk gown was sure to be visible through the branches. She crouched down and moved silently away.
"Don't be afraid, Your Highness," came Henri's mellifluous voice from several rows away. "We're not going to hurt you. Come out now. There's nothing you can do."
They had split up so they could surround her. She choked back a sob, clawing to keep hold of her fragile control as she tried to decide which way to go. She had run around in this maze since she was a little girl, but she was so frightened she had lost all sense of direction.
She heard the lulling splash of the fountain in the tiny center courtyard of the maze and used the sound to try to orient herself. Clenching her fist so tightly her nails dug into her palm, she huddled against the bush, edging inch by inch down the lane. At the end, she pressed her back flat against the scratchy bushes, too scared to turn the corner. She waited, shaking, praying, trying to gather her nerve, her stomach in knots.
She didn't know what they wanted.
She had been propositioned many times by the gilded, predatory courtiers of the palace, but no one had ever attempted to haul her away before. No one had ever used guns.
God, please.
She would have cried, but she was too terrified. The breeze rose again. She smelled cut grass, jasmine, man.
They're coming.
"Your Highness, you have nothing to fear. We are your friends."
She bolted, her long, black hair streaming out behind her. Thunder rumbled, the scent of a summer storm on the wind. At the end of the lane, she stopped, again too petrified to turn the corner, lest she find Philippe or the blond one, Henri, standing there waiting to catch her. She kept thinking how her ex-governess always said something like this would happen to her if she didn't mend her wild ways, stop acting so bold.
She vowed she would never be bold again. Never flirt. Never trust.
Her chest lifted and fell, lifted and fell.
They were coming. She knew she could not remain where she was for more than a few seconds longer.
I am trapped. There is no way out of this.
And then there came another voice, barely audible, a ghostly whisper.
"Princesa."
The single word seemed to rise from the earth, or to slip out of the very air.
She nearly sobbed aloud to hear it, wanting with all her heart to believe it was not her panicked brain playing tricks on her. Only one person called her by that name, the Spanish version of her proper Italian title, Principessa.
If ever she'd had need of him, it was now.
Beautiful, blackhearted Santiago.
