She must obey his command...

Desperate to escape her stifling royal life, Princess Valentina swaps places with her newly discovered identical twin. But fooling her billionaire “boss” Achilles Casilieris is harder than Valentina imagined...especially when his every look makes her burn with longing!

When closed-off Achilles discovers the game Valentina’s playing, he’s furious. But now the power is in his hands: it’s only a matter of time before her stunning facade cracks. He’ll push this perfect princess to her very limits...and he’s not afraid to use the full force of their attraction!

Achilles smiled as Valentina settled herself across the coffee table from him, with a certain inbred grace that whispered of palaces and comportment classes and a lifetime of genteel manners.

Because she thought she was tricking him.

Which meant he could trick her instead. A prospect his body responded to with great enthusiasm as he studied her, this woman who looked like an underling a man in his position would never have touched out of ethical considerations—but wasn’t.

She wasn’t his employee. He didn’t pay her salary. And she wasn’t bound to obey him in anything if she didn’t feel like it.

But she had no idea that he knew that.

Achilles almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

Scandalous Royal Brides

Married for passion, made for scandal!

When personal assistant Natalie and Princess Valentina meet they can’t believe their eyes...they’re the very image of one another. They’re so similar it’s impossible that they’re anything but identical twins.

Dissatisfied with their lives, they impulsively agree to swap places for six weeks only...

But will they want to return to their old lives when the alpha heroes closest to them are intent on making these scandalous women their brides?

Read Natalie and Prince Rodolfo’s story in

The Prince’s Nine-Month Scandal

Available now

And discover Princess Valentina and Achilles Casilieris’s story

The Billionaire’s Secret Princess

Available now!

The Billionaire’s Secret Princess

Caitlin Crews

www.millsandboon.co.uk

USA TODAY bestselling and RITA® Award–nominated author CAITLIN CREWS loves writing romance. She teaches her favourite romance novels in creative writing classes at places like UCLA Extension’s prestigious Writers’ Program, where she finally gets to utilise the MA and PhD in English literature she received from the University of York in England. She currently lives in California, with her very own hero and too many pets. Visit her at caitlincrews.com.

Books by Caitlin Crews

Mills & Boon Modern Romance

Castelli’s Virgin Widow

At the Count’s Bidding

Scandalous Royal Brides

The Prince’s Nine-Month Scandal

Wedlocked!

Bride by Royal Decree

Expecting a Royal Scandal

One Night With Consequences

The Guardian’s Virgin Ward

The Billionaire’s Legacy

The Return of the Di Sione Wife

Secret Heirs of Billionaires

Unwrapping the Castelli Secret

Scandalous Sheikh Brides

Protecting the Desert Heir

Traded to the Desert Sheikh

Vows of Convenience

His for a Price

His for Revenge

Visit the Author Profile page

at millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.

To all the secret princesses cruelly stuck working in horrible offices: as long as you know the truth, that’s what matters.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Scandalous Royal Brides

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

ACHILLES CASILIERIS REQUIRED PERFECTION.

In himself, certainly. He prided himself on it, knowing all too well how easy it was to fall far, far short. And in his employees, absolutely—or they would quickly find themselves on the other side of their noncompete agreements with indelible black marks against their names.

He did not play around. He had built everything he had from nothing, step by painstaking step, and he hadn’t succeeded the way he had—building the recession-proof Casilieris Company and making his first million by the age of twenty-five, then expanding both his business and his personal fortune into the billions—by accepting anything less than 100 percent perfection in all things. Always.

Achilles was tough, tyrannical when necessary, and refused to accept what one short-lived personal assistant had foolishly called “human limitations” to his face.

He was a man who knew the monster in himself. He’d seen its face in his own mirror. He did not allow for “human limitations.”

Natalie Monette was his current executive assistant and had held the position for a record five years because she had never once asserted that she was human as some kind of excuse. In point of fact, Achilles thought of her as a remarkably efficient robot—the highest praise he could think to bestow on anyone, as it removed the possibility of human error from the equation.

Achilles had no patience for human error.

Which was why his assistant’s behavior on this flight today was so alarming.

The day had started out normally enough. When Achilles had risen at his usual early hour, it had been to find Natalie already hard at work in the study of his Belgravia town house. She’d set up a few calls to his associates in France, outlined his schedule for the day and his upcoming meetings in New York. They’d swung by his corporate offices in the City, where Achilles had handled a fire he thought she should have put out before he’d learned of it, but then she’d accompanied him in his car to the private airfield he preferred without appearing the least bit bothered that he’d dressed her down for her failure. And why should she be bothered? She knew he expected perfection and had failed to deliver it. Besides, Natalie was never bothered. She’d acquitted herself with her usual cool competence and attitude-free demeanor, the way she always did or she never would have lasted five minutes with him. Much less five years.

And then she’d gone into the bathroom at the airfield, stayed in there long enough that he’d had to go find her himself, and come out changed.

Achilles couldn’t put his finger on how she’d changed, only that she had.

She still looked the part of the closest assistant to a man as feared and lauded as Achilles had been for years now. She looked like his public face the way she always did. He appreciated that and always had. It wasn’t enough that she was capable of handling the complications of his personal and company business without breaking a sweat, that she never seemed to sleep, that she could protect him from the intrusive paparazzi and hold off his equally demanding board members in the same breath—it was necessary that she also look like the sort of woman who belonged in his exalted orbit for the rare occasions when he needed to escort someone to this or that function and couldn’t trouble himself to expend the modicum of charm necessary to squire one of his mistresses. Today she wore one of her usual outfits, a pencil skirt and soft blouse and a feminine sort of sweater that wrapped around her torso and was no different from any other outfit she’d worn a million times before.

Natalie dressed to disappear in plain sight. But for some reason, she caught his eye this odd afternoon. He couldn’t quite figure it out. It was as if he had never seen her before. It was as if she’d gone into the bathroom in the airport lounge and come out a completely different person.

Achilles sat back in his remarkably comfortable leather chair on the jet and watched her as she took her seat opposite him. Did he imagine that she hesitated? Was he making up the strange look he’d seen in her eyes before she sat down? Almost as if she was looking for clues instead of taking her seat as she always did?

“What took you so long in that bathroom?” he asked, not bothering to keep his tone particularly polite. “I should not have to chase down my own assistant, surely.”

Natalie blinked. He didn’t know why the green of her eyes behind the glasses he knew she didn’t need for sight seemed...too bright, somehow. Or brighter, anyway, than they’d been before. In fact, now that he thought about it, everything about her was brighter. And he couldn’t understand how anyone could walk into a regular lavatory and come out...gleaming.

“I apologize,” she said quietly. Simply. And there was something about her voice then. It was almost...musical.

It occurred to Achilles that he had certainly never thought of Natalie’s voice as anything approaching musical before. It had always been a voice, pure and simple. And she had certainly never gleamed.

And that, he thought with impatience, was one of the reasons that he had prized Natalie so much for all these years. Because he had never, ever noticed her as anything but his executive assistant, who was reasonably attractive because it was good business to give his Neanderthal cronies something worth gazing at while they were trying to ignore Achilles’s dominance. But there was a difference between noting that a woman was attractive and being attracted to that woman. Achilles would not have hired Natalie if he’d been attracted to her. He never had been. Not ever.

But to his utter astonishment that was what seemed to be happening. Right here. Right now. His body was sending him unambiguous signals. He wasn’t simply attracted to his assistant. What he felt roll in him as she crossed her legs at the ankle and smiled at him was far more than attraction.

It was need.

Blinding and impossible and incredibly, astonishingly inconvenient.

Achilles Casilieris did not do inconvenience, and he was violently opposed to need. It had been beaten into him as an unwanted child that it was the height of foolishness to want something he couldn’t have. That meant he’d dedicated his adult life to never allowing himself to need anything at all when he could buy whatever took his fancy, and he hadn’t.

And yet there was no denying that dark thread that wound in him, pulling tight and succeeding in surprising him—something else that happened very, very rarely.

Achilles knew the shadows that lived in him. He had no intention of revisiting them. Ever.

Whatever his assistant was doing, she needed to stop. Now.

“That is all you wish to say?” He sounded edgy. Dangerous. He didn’t like that, either.

But Natalie hardly seemed to notice. “If you would like me to expand on my apology, Mr. Casilieris, you need only tell me how.”

He thought there was a subtle rebuke in that, no matter how softly she’d said it, and that, too, was new. And unacceptable no matter how prettily she’d voiced it.

Her copper-colored hair gleamed. Her skin glowed as she moved her hands in her lap, which struck him as odd, because Natalie never sat there with her hands folded in her lap like some kind of diffident Catholic schoolgirl. She was always in motion, because she was always working. But tonight, Natalie appeared to be sitting there like some kind of regal Madonna, hands folded in her lap, long, silky legs crossed at the ankles, and an inappropriately serene smile on her face.

If it wasn’t impossible, he would have thought that she really was someone else entirely. Because she looked exactly the same save for all that gold that seemed to wrap itself around her and him, too, making him unduly fascinated with the pulse he could see beating at her throat—except he’d never, ever noticed her that way before.

Achilles did not have time for this, whatever it was. There was entirely too much going on with his businesses at the moment, like the hotel deal he’d been trying to put together for the better part of the last year that was by no means assured. He hadn’t become one of the most feared and fearsome billionaires in the world because he took time off from running his businesses to pretend to care about the personal lives of his employees.

But Natalie wasn’t just any employee. She was the one he’d actually come to rely on. The only person he relied on in the world, to be specific.

“Is there anything you need to tell me?” he asked.

He watched her, perhaps too carefully. It was impossible not to notice the way she flushed slightly at that. That was strange, too. He couldn’t remember a single instance Natalie had ever flushed in response to anything he’d done. And the truth was he’d done a lot. He didn’t hide his flashes of irritation or spend too much time worrying about anyone else’s feelings. Why should he? The Casilieris Company was about profit—and it was about Achilles. Who else’s feelings should matter? One of the things he’d long prized about his assistant was that she never, ever reacted to anything that he did or said or shouted. She just did her job.

But today Natalie had spots of red, high on her elegant cheekbones, and she’d been sitting across from him for whole minutes now without doing a single thing that could be construed as her job.

Elegant? demanded an incredulous voice inside him. Cheekbones?

Since when had Achilles ever noticed anything of the kind? He didn’t pay that much attention to the mistresses he took to his bed—which he deigned to do in the first place only after they passed through all the levels of his application process and signed strict confidentiality agreements. And the women who made it through were in no doubt as to why they were there. It was to please him, not render him disoriented enough to be focusing on their bloody cheekbones.

“Like what, for example?” She asked the question and then she smiled at him, that curve of her mouth that was suddenly wired to the hardest part of him, and echoed inside him like heat. Heat he didn’t want. “I’ll be happy to tell you anything you wish to hear, Mr. Casilieris. That is, after all, my job.”

“Is that your job?” He smiled, and he doubted it echoed much of anywhere. Or was anything but edgy and a little but harsh. “I had started to doubt that you remembered you had one.”

“Because I kept you waiting? That was unusual, it’s true.”

“You’ve never done so before. You’ve never dared.” He tilted his head slightly as he gazed at her, not understanding why everything was different when nothing was. He could see that she was exactly the same as she always was, down to that single freckle centered on her left cheekbone that he wasn’t even aware he’d noticed before now. “Again, has some tragedy befallen you? Were you hit over the head?” He did nothing to hide the warning or the menace in his voice. “You do not appear to be yourself.”

But if he thought he’d managed to discomfit her, he saw in the next moment that was not to be. The flush faded from her porcelain cheeks, and all she did was smile at him again. With that maddeningly enigmatic curve of her lips.

Lips, he noticed with entirely too much of his body, that were remarkably lush.

This was insupportable.

“I am desolated to disappoint you,” she murmured as the plane began to move, bumping gently along the tarmac. “But there was no tragedy.” Something glinted in her green gaze, though her smile never dimmed. “Though I must confess in the spirit of full disclosure that I was thinking of quitting.”

Achilles only watched her idly, as if she hadn’t just said that. Because she couldn’t possibly have just said that.

“I beg your pardon,” he said after a moment passed and there was still that spike of something dark and furious in his chest. “I must have misheard you. You do not mean that you plan to quit this job. That you wish to leave me.”

It was not lost on him that he’d phrased that in a way that should have horrified him. Maybe it would at some point. But today what slapped at him was that his assistant spoke of quitting without a single hint of anything like uncertainty on her face.

And he found he couldn’t tolerate that.

“I’m considering it,” she said. Still smiling. Unaware of her own danger or the dark thing rolling in him, reminding him of how easy it was to wake that monster that slept in him. How disastrously easy.

But Achilles laughed then, understanding finally catching up with him. “If this is an attempt to wrangle more money out of me, Miss Monette, I cannot say that I admire the strategy. You’re perfectly well compensated as is. Overcompensated, one might say.”

“Might one? Perhaps.” She looked unmoved. “Then again, perhaps your rivals have noticed exactly how much you rely on me. Perhaps I’ve decided that I want more than being at the beck and call of a billionaire. Much less standing in as your favorite bit of target practice.”

“It cannot possibly have bothered you that I lost my temper earlier.”

Her smile was bland. “If you say it cannot, then I’m sure you must be right.”

“I lose my temper all the time. It’s never bothered you before. It’s part of your job to not be bothered, in point of fact.”

“I’m certain that’s it.” Her enigmatic smile seemed to deepen. “I must be the one who isn’t any good at her job.”

He had the most insane notion then. It was something about the cool challenge in her gaze, as if they were equals. As if she had every right to call him on whatever she pleased. He had no idea why he wanted to reach across the little space between their chairs and put his hands on her. Test her skin to see if it was as soft as it looked. Taste that lush mouth—

What the hell was happening to him?

Achilles shook his head, as much to clear it as anything else. “If this is your version of a negotiation, you should rethink your approach. You know perfectly well that there’s entirely too much going on right now.”

“Some might think that this is the perfect time, then, to talk about things like compensation and temper tantrums,” Natalie replied, her voice as even and unbothered as ever. There was no reason that should make him grit his teeth. “After all, when one is expected to work twenty-two hours a day and is shouted at for her trouble, one’s thoughts automatically turn to what one lacks. It’s human nature.”

“You lack nothing. You have no time to spend the money I pay you because you’re too busy traveling the world—which I also pay for.”

“If only I had more than two hours a day to enjoy these piles of money.”

“People would kill for the opportunity to spend even five minutes in my presence,” he reminded her. “Or have you forgotten who I am?”

“Come now.” She shook her head at him, and he had the astonishing sense that she was trying to chastise him. Him. “It would not kill you to be more polite, would it?”

Polite.

His own assistant had just lectured him on his manners.

To say that he was reeling hardly began to scratch the surface of Achilles’s reaction.

But then she smiled, and that reaction got more complicated. “I got on the plane anyway. I decided not to quit today.” Achilles could not possibly have missed her emphasis on that final word. “You’re welcome.”

And something began to build inside him at that. Something huge, dark, almost overwhelming. He was very much afraid it was rage.

But that, he refused. No matter what. Achilles left his demons behind him a long time ago, and he wasn’t going back. He refused.

“If you would like to leave, Miss Monette, I will not stop you,” he assured her coldly. “I cannot begin to imagine what has led you to imagine I would try. I do not beg. I could fill your position with a snap of my fingers. I might yet, simply because this conversation is intolerable.”

The assistant he’d thought he knew would have swallowed hard at that, then looked away. She would have smoothed her hands over her skirt and apologized as she did it. She had riled him only a few times over the years, and she’d talked her way out of it in exactly that way. He gazed at her expectantly.

But today, Natalie only sat there with distractingly perfect posture and gazed back at him with a certain serene confidence that made him want to...mess her up. Get his hands in that unremarkable ponytail and feel the texture of all that gleaming copper. Or beneath her snowy-white blouse. Or better yet, up beneath that skirt of hers.

He was so furious he wasn’t nearly as appalled at himself as he should have been.

“I think we both know perfectly well that while you could snap your fingers and summon crowds of candidates for my position, you’d have a very hard time filling it to your satisfaction,” she said with a certainty that...gnawed at him. “Perhaps we could dispense with the threats. You need me.”

He would sooner have her leap forward and plunge a knife into his chest.

“I need no one,” he rasped out. “And nothing.”

His suddenly mysterious assistant only inclined her head, which he realized was no response at all. As if she was merely patronizing him—a notion that made every muscle in his body clench tight.

“You should worry less about your replacement and more about your job,” Achilles gritted out. “I have no idea what makes you think you can speak to me with such disrespect.”

“It is not disrespectful to speak frankly, surely,” she said. Her expression didn’t change, but her green gaze was grave—very much, he thought with dawning incredulity, as if she’d expected better of him.

Achilles could only stare back at her in arrogant astonishment. Was he now to suffer the indignity of being judged by his own assistant? And why was it she seemed wholly uncowed by his amazement?

“Unless you plan to utilize a parachute, it would appear you are stuck right here in your distasteful position for the next few hours,” Achilles growled at her when he thought he could speak without shouting. Shouting was too easy. And obscured his actual feelings. “I’d suggest you use the time to rethink your current attitude.”

He didn’t care for the brilliant smile she aimed at him then, as if she was attempting to encourage him with it. Him. He particularly didn’t like the way it seemed too bright, as if it was lighting him up from the inside out.

“What a kind offer, Mr. Casilieris,” she said in that self-possessed voice of hers that was driving him mad. “I will keep it in mind.”

The plane took off then, somersaulting into the London sky. Achilles let gravity press him back against the seat and considered the evidence before him. He had worked with this woman for five years, and she had never spoken to him like that before. Ever. He hardly knew what to make of it.

But then, there was a great deal he didn’t know what to do with, suddenly. The way his heart pounded against his ribs as if he was in a real temper, when he was not the sort of man who lost control. Of his temper or anything else. He expected nothing less than perfection from himself, first and foremost. And temper made him think of those long-ago days of his youth, and his stepfather’s hovel of a house, victim to every stray whim and temper and fist until he’d given himself over to all that rage and fury inside him and become little better than an animal himself—

Why was he allowing himself to think of such things? His youth was off-limits, even in his own head. What the hell was happening?

Achilles didn’t like that Natalie affected him. But what made him suspicious was that she’d never affected him before. He’d approved when she started to wear those glasses and put her hair up, to make herself less of a target for the less scrupulous men he dealt with who thought they could get to him through expressing their interest in her. But he hadn’t needed her to downplay her looks because he was entranced by her. He hadn’t been.

So what had changed today?

What had emboldened her and, worse, allowed her to get under his skin?

He kept circling back to that bathroom in the airport and the fact she’d walked out of it a different person from the one who’d walked in.

Of course, she wasn’t a different person. Did he imagine the real Natalie had suffered a body snatching? Did he imagine there was some elaborate hoax afoot?

The idea was absurd. But he couldn’t seem to get past it. The plane hit its cruising altitude, and he moved from his chair to the leather couch that took pride of place in the center of the cabin that was set up like one of his high-end hotel rooms. He sat back with his laptop and pretended to be looking through his email when he was watching Natalie instead. Looking for clues.

She wasn’t moving around the plane with her usual focus and energy. He thought she seemed tentative. Uncertain—and this despite the fact she seemed to walk taller than before. As if she’d changed her very posture in that bathroom. But who did something like that?

A different person would have different posture.

It was crazy. He knew that. And Achilles knew further that he always went a little too intense when he was closing a deal, so it shouldn’t have surprised him that he was willing to consider the insane option today. Part of being the sort of unexpected, out-of-the-box thinker he’d always been was allowing his mad little flights of fancy. He never knew where they might lead.

He indulged himself as Natalie sat and started to look through her own bag as if she’d never seen it before. He pulled up the picture of her he kept in his files for security purposes and did an image search on it, because why not.

Achilles was prepared to discover a few photos of random celebrities she resembled, maybe. And then he’d have to face the fact that his favorite assistant might have gone off the deep end. She was right that replacing her would be hard—but it wouldn’t be impossible. He hadn’t overestimated his appeal—and that of his wildly successful company—to pretty much anyone and everyone. He was swamped with applicants daily, and he didn’t even have an open position.

But then none of that mattered because his image search hit gold.

There were pages and pages of pictures. All of his assistant—except it wasn’t her. He knew it from the exquisitely bespoke gowns she wore. He knew it from the jewels that flowed around her neck and covered her hands, drawing attention to things like the perfect manicure she had today—when the Natalie he knew almost never had time to care for her nails like that. And every picture he clicked on identified the woman in them not as Natalie Monette, assistant to Achilles Casilieris, but Her Royal Highness, Princess Valentina of Murin.

Achilles didn’t have much use for royals, or really anyone with inherited wealth, when he’d had to go to so much trouble to amass his own. He’d never been to the tiny Mediterranean kingdom of Murin, mostly because he didn’t have a yacht to dock there during a sparkling summer of endless lounging and, further, didn’t need to take advantage of the country’s famously friendly approach to taxes. But he recognized King Geoffrey of Murin on sight, and he certainly recognized the Murinese royal family’s coat of arms.

It had been splashed all over the private jet he’d seen on the same tarmac as his back in London.

There was madness, Achilles thought then, and then there was a con job that no one would ever suspect—because who could imagine that the person standing in front of them, looking like someone they already knew, was actually someone else?

If he wasn’t mistaken—and he knew he wasn’t, because there were too many things about his assistant today that didn’t make sense, and Achilles was no great believer in coincidence—Princess Valentina of Murin was trying to run a con.

On him.

Which meant a great many things. First, that his actual assistant was very likely pretending to be the princess somewhere, leaving him and her job in the hands of someone she had to know would fail to live up to Achilles’s high standards. That suggested that second, she really wasn’t all that happy in her position, as this princess had dared to throw in his face in a way he doubted Natalie ever would have. But it also suggested that third, Natalie had effectively given her notice.

Achilles didn’t like any of that. At all. But the fourth thing that occurred to him was that clearly, neither this princess nor his missing assistant expected their little switch to be noticed. Natalie, who should have known better, must honestly have believed that he wouldn’t notice an imposter in her place. Or she hadn’t cared much if he did.

That was enraging, on some level. Insulting.

But Achilles smiled as Valentina settled herself across the coffee table from him, with a certain inbred grace that whispered of palaces and comportment classes and a lifetime of genteel manners.

Because she thought she was tricking him.

Which meant he could trick her instead. A prospect his body responded to with great enthusiasm as he studied her, this woman who looked like an underling whom a man in his position could never have touched out of ethical considerations—but wasn’t.

She wasn’t his employee. He didn’t pay her salary, and she wasn’t bound to obey him in anything if she didn’t feel like it.

But she had no idea that he knew that.

Achilles almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

“Let’s get started,” he murmured, as if they’d exchanged no harsh words. He watched confusion move over her face in a blink, then disappear, because she was a royal princess and she was used to concealing her reactions. He planned to have fun with that. The possibilities were endless, and seemed to roll through him like heat. “We have so much work to do, Miss Monette. I hardly know where to begin.”

CHAPTER TWO

BY THE TIME they landed in New York, Princess Valentina of Murin was second-guessing her spontaneous, impulsive decision to switch places with the perfect stranger she’d found wearing her face in the airport lounge.

Achilles Casilieris could make anyone second-guess anything, she suspected.

“You do not appear to be paying attention,” he said silkily from beside her, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. And who she was. And every dream she’d ever had since she was a girl—that was how disconcerting this man was, even lounging there beside her in the back of a luxury car doing nothing more alarming than sitting.

“I am hanging on your every word,” she assured him as calmly as she could, and then she repeated his last three sentences back to him.

But she had no idea what he was talking about. Repeating conversations she wasn’t really listening to was a skill she’d learned in the palace a long, long time ago. It came in handy at many a royal gathering. And in many longwinded lectures from her father and his staff.

You have thrown yourself into deep, deep water, she told herself now, as if that wasn’t entirely too apparent already. As if it hadn’t already occurred to her that she’d better learn how to swim, and fast.

Achilles Casilieris was a problem.

Valentina knew powerful men. Men who ruled countries. Men who came from centuries upon centuries of power and consequence and wielded it with the offhanded superiority of those who had never imagined not ruling all they surveyed.

But Achilles was in an entirely different league.

He took over the whole of the backseat of the car that had waited for them on the tarmac in the bright and sunny afternoon, looking roomy and spacious from the outside. He’d insisted she sit next to him on the plush backseat that should have been more than able to fit two people with room to spare. And yet Valentina felt crowded, as if he was pressing up against her when he wasn’t. Achilles wasn’t touching her, but still, she was entirely too aware of him.

He took up all the air. He’d done it on his plane, too.

She had the hectic notion, connected to that knot beneath her breastbone that was preventing her from taking anything like a deep breath, that it wasn’t the enclosed space that was the issue. That he would have this same effect anywhere. All that brooding ruthlessness he didn’t bother to contain—or maybe he couldn’t contain even if he’d wanted to—seemed to hum around him like a kind of force field that both repelled and compelled at once.

If she was honest, the little glimpse she’d had of him in the airport had been the same—she’d just ignored it.

Valentina had been too busy racing into the lounge so she could have a few precious seconds alone. No staff. No guards. No cameras. Just her perched on the top of a closed toilet seat, shut away from the world, breathing. Letting her face do what it liked. Thinking of absolutely nothing. Not her duty. Not her father’s expectations.

Certainly not her bloodless engagement to Prince Rodolfo of Tissely, a man she’d tuned out within moments of their first meeting. Or their impending wedding in two months’ time, which she could feel bearing down on her like a thick hand around her throat every time she let herself think about it. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to do her duty and marry the Crown Prince of Tissely. She’d been promised in marriage to her father’s allies since the day she was born. It was that she’d never given a great deal of thought to what it was she wanted, because want had never been an option available to her.

And it had suddenly occurred to her at her latest wedding dress fitting there in London that she was running out of time.

Soon she would be married to a man in what was really more of a corporate merger of two great European brands, the houses of Tissely and Murin. She’d be expected to produce the necessary heirs to continue the line. She would take her place in the great sweep of her family’s storied history, unite two ancient kingdoms, and in so doing fulfill her purpose in life. The end.

The end, she’d thought in that bathroom stall, high-end and luxurious but still, a bathroom stall. My life fulfilled at twenty-seven.

Valentina was a woman who’d been given everything, including a healthy understanding of how lucky she was. She didn’t often indulge herself with thoughts of what was and wasn’t fair when there was no doubt she was among the most fortunate people alive.

But the thing was, it still didn’t seem fair. No matter how hard she tried not to think about it that way.

She would do what she had to do, of course. She always had and always would, but for that single moment, locked away in a bathroom stall where no one could see her and no one would ever know, she basked in the sheer, dizzying unfairness of it all.

Then she’d pulled herself together, stepped out and had been prepared to march onto her plane and head back to the life that had been plotted out for her since the day she arrived on the planet.

Only to find her twin standing at the sinks.

Her identical twin—though that was, of course, impossible.

“What is this?” the other woman had asked when they’d faced each other, looking something close to scared. Or unnerved, anyway. “How...?”

Valentina had been fascinated. She’d been unable to keep herself from studying this woman who appeared to be wearing her body as well as her face. She was dressed in a sleek pencil skirt and low heels, which showed legs that Valentina recognized all too well, having last seen them in her own mirror. “I’m Valentina.”

“Natalie.”

She’d repeated that name in her head like it was a magic spell. She didn’t know why she felt as if it was.

But then, running into her double in a London bathroom seemed something close enough to magic to count. Right then when she’d been indulging her self-pity about the unchangeable course of her own life, the universe had presented her with a glimpse of what else could be. If she was someone else.

An identical someone else.

They had the same face. The same legs, as she’d already noted. The same coppery hair that her double wore up in a serviceable ponytail and the same nose Valentina could trace directly to her maternal grandmother. What were the chances, she’d wondered then, that they weren’t related?

And didn’t that raise all kinds of interesting questions?

“You’re that princess,” Natalie had said, a bit haltingly.

But if Valentina was a princess, and if they were related as they surely had to be...

“I suspect you might be, too,” she’d said gently.

“We can’t possibly be related. I’m a glorified secretary who never really had a home. You’re a royal princess. Presumably your lineage dates back to the Roman Conquest.”

“Give or take a few centuries.” Valentina tried to imagine having a job like that. Or any job. A secretary, glorified or otherwise, who reported to work for someone else and actually did things with her time that weren’t directly related to being a symbol. She couldn’t really wrap her head around it, or being effectively without a home, either, having been a part of Murin since her birth. As much Murin as its beaches and hills, its monuments and its palace. She might as well have been a park. “Depending which branch of the family you mean, of course.”

“I was under the impression that people with lineages that could lead to thrones and crown jewels tended to keep better track of their members,” Natalie had said, her tone just dry enough to make Valentina decide that given the right circumstances—meaning anywhere that wasn’t a toilet—she’d rather like her doppelganger.

And she knew what the other woman had been asking.

“Conspiracy theorists claim my mother was killed and her death hushed up. Senior palace officials have assured me my whole life that no, she merely left to preserve her mental health, and is rumored to be in residence in a hospital devoted to such things somewhere. All I know is that I haven’t seen her since shortly after I was born. According to my father, she preferred anonymity to the joys of motherhood.”

And she waited for Natalie to give her an explanation in turn. To laugh, perhaps, and then tell her that she’d been raised by two perfectly normal parents in a happily normal somewhere else, filled with golden retrievers and school buses and pumpkin-spiced coffee drinks and whatever else normal people took for granted that Valentina only read about.

But instead, this woman wearing Valentina’s face had looked stricken. “I’ve never met my father,” she’d whispered. “My mother’s always told me she has no idea who he was. And she bounces from one affair to the next pretty quickly, so I came to terms with the fact it was possible she really, truly didn’t know.”

And Valentina had laughed, because what else could she do? She’d spent her whole life wishing she’d had more of a family than her chilly father. Oh, she loved him, she did, but he was so excruciatingly proper. So worried about appearances. His version of a hug was a well-meaning critique on her latest public appearance. Love to her father was maintaining and bolstering the family’s reputation across the ages. She’d always wanted a sister to share in the bolstering. A brother. A mother. Someone.

But she hadn’t had anyone. And now she had a stranger who looked just like her.

“My father is many things,” she’d told Natalie. It was too soon to say our father. And who knew? Maybe they were cousins. Or maybe this was a fluke. No matter that little jolt of recognition inside her, as if she’d been meant to know this woman. As if this was a reunion. “Including His Royal Majesty, King Geoffrey of Murin. What he is not now, nor has ever been, I imagine, is forgettable.”

Natalie had shaken her head. “You underestimate my mother’s commitment to amnesia. She’s made it a life choice instead of a malady. On some level I admire it.”

“My mother was the noblewoman Frederica de Burgh, from a very old Murinese family.” Valentina watched Natalie closely as she spoke, looking for any hint of...anything, really, in her gaze. “Promised to my father at birth, raised by nuns and kept deliberately sheltered, and then widely held to be unequal to the task of becoming queen. Mentally. But that’s the story they would tell, isn’t it, to explain why she disappeared? What’s your mother’s name?”

Natalie sighed and swung her shoulder bag onto the counter. Valentina had the impression that she’d really, truly wanted not to answer. But she had. “She calls herself Erica.”

And there it was. Valentina supposed it could be a coincidence that Erica was a shortened form of Frederica. But how many coincidences were likely when they resulted in two women who’d never met—who never should have met—who happened to be mirror images?

If there was something in her that turned over at the notion that her mother had, in fact, had a maternal impulse after all—just not for Valentina—well, this wasn’t the time to think about that. It might never be the time to think about that. She’d spent twenty-seven years trying her best not to think about that.

She changed the subject before she lost her composure completely and started asking questions she knew she shouldn’t.

“I saw Achilles Casilieris, out there in the lounge,” she’d said instead. The notorious billionaire had been there on her way in, brooding in a corner of the lounge and scowling at the paper he’d been reading. “He looks even more fearsome in person. You can almost see all that brash command and dizzying wealth ooze from his pores, can’t you?”

“He’s my boss,” Natalie had said, sounding amused—if rather darkly. “If he was really oozing anything, anywhere, it would be my job to provide first aid until actual medical personnel could come handle it. At which point he would bite my head off for wasting his precious time by not curing him instantly.”

Valentina had been flooded with a rash of follow-up questions. Was the biting off of heads normal? Was it fun to work for a man who sounded half-feral? Most important, did Natalie like her life or merely suffer through it?

But then her mobile started buzzing in her clutch. She’d forgotten about ferocious billionaires and thought about things she knew too much about, like the daredevil prince she was bound to marry soon, instead, because their fathers had agreed regardless of whether either one of them liked it. She’d checked the mobile’s display to be sure, but wasn’t surprised to find she’d guessed correctly. Lucky her, she’d had another meeting with her husband-to-be in Murin that very afternoon. She’d expected it to go the way all their meetings so far had gone. Prince Rodolfo, beloved the world over for his good looks and devil-may-care attitude, would talk. She would listen without really listening. She’d long since concluded that foretold a very happy royal marriage.

“My fiancé,” she’d explained, meeting Natalie’s gaze again. “Or his chief of staff, to be more precise.”

“Congratulations,” Natalie murmured.

“Thank you, I’m very lucky.” Valentina’s mouth curved, though her tone was far more dry than Natalie’s had been. “Everyone says so. Prince Rodolfo is objectively attractive. Not all princes can make that claim, but the tabloids have exulted over his abs since he was a teenager. Just as they have salivated over his impressive dating history, which has involved a selection of models and actresses from at least four continents and did not cease in any noticeable way upon our engagement last fall.”

“Your Prince Charming sounds...charming,” Natalie had said.

Valentina raised one shoulder, then dropped it. “His theory is that he remains free until our marriage, and then will be free once again following the necessary birth of his heir. More discreetly, I can only hope. Meanwhile, I am beside myself with joy that I must take my place at his side in two short months. Of course.”

Natalie had laughed, and the sound had made Valentina’s stomach flip. Because it sounded like her. It sounded exactly like her.

“It’s going to be a terrific couple of months all around, then,” her mirror image was saying. “Mr. Casilieris is in rare form. He’s putting together a particularly dramatic deal and it’s not going his way and he...isn’t used to that. So that’s me working twenty-two-hour days instead of my usual twenty for the foreseeable future, which is even more fun when he’s cranky and snarling.”

“It can’t possibly be worse than having to smile politely while your future husband lectures you about the absurd expectation of fidelity in what is essentially an arranged marriage for hours on end. The absurdity is that he might be expected to curb his impulses for a year or so, in case you wondered. The expectations for me apparently involve quietly and chastely finding fulfillment in philanthropic works, like his sainted absentee mother, who everyone knows manufactured a supposed health crisis so she could live out her days in peaceful seclusion. It’s easy to be philanthropically fulfilled while living in isolation in Bavaria.”

Natalie had smiled. “Try biting your tongue while your famously short-tempered boss rages at you for no reason, for the hundredth time in an hour, because he pays you to stand there and take it without wilting or crying or selling whingeing stories about him to the press.”

Valentina had returned that smile. “Or the hours and hours of grim palace-vetted prewedding press interviews in the company of a pack of advisers who will censor everything I say and inevitably make me sound like a bit of animated treacle, as out of touch with reality as the average overly sweet dessert.”

“Speaking of treats, I also have to deal with the board of directors Mr. Casilieris treats like irritating schoolchildren, his packs of furious ex-lovers each with her own vendetta, all his terrified employees who need to be coached through meetings with him and treated for PTSD after, and every last member of his staff in every one of his households, who like me to be the one to ask him the questions they know will set him off on one of his scorch-the-earth rages.” Natalie had moved closer then, and lowered her voice. “I was thinking of quitting, to be honest. Today.”

“I can’t quit, I’m afraid,” Valentina had said. Regretfully.

But she’d wished she could. She’d wished she could just...walk away and not have to live up to anyone’s expectations. And not have to marry a man whom she barely knew. And not have to resign herself to a version of the same life so many of her ancestors had lived. Maybe that was where the idea had come from. Blood was blood, after all. And this woman clearly shared her blood. What if...?

“I have a better idea,” she’d said, and then she’d tossed it out there before she could think better of it. “Let’s switch places. For a month, say. Six weeks at the most. Just for a little break.”

“That’s crazy,” Natalie said at once, and she was right. Of course she was right.

“Insane,” Valentina had agreed. “But you might find royal protocol exciting! And I’ve always wanted to do the things everyone else in the world does. Like go to a real job.”

“People can’t switch places.” Natalie had frowned. “And certainly not with a princess.”

“You could think about whether or not you really want to quit,” Valentina pointed out, trying to sweeten the deal. “It would be a lovely holiday for you. Where will Achilles Casilieris be in six weeks’ time?”

“He’s never gone from London for too long,” Natalie had said, as if she was considering it.

Valentina had smiled. “Then in six weeks we’ll meet in London. We’ll text in the meantime with all the necessary details about our lives, and on the appointed day we’ll just meet up and switch back and no one will ever be the wiser. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

“It would never work,” Natalie had replied. Which wasn’t exactly a no. “No one will ever believe I’m you.”

Valentina waved a hand, encompassing the pair of them. “How would anyone know the difference? I can barely tell myself.”

“People will take one look at me and know I’m not you. You look like a princess.”

“You, too, can look like a princess,” Valentina assured her. Then smiled. “This princess, anyway. You already do.”

“You’re elegant. Poised. You’ve had years of training, presumably. How to be a diplomat. How to be polite in every possible situation. Which fork to use at dinner, for God’s sake.”

“Achilles Casilieris is one of the wealthiest men alive,” Valentina had pointed out. “He dines with as many kings as I do. I suspect that as his personal assistant, Natalie, you have, too. And have likely learned how to navigate the cutlery.”

“No one will believe it,” Natalie had insisted. But she’d sounded a bit as if she was wavering.

Valentina tugged off the ring on her left hand and placed it down on the counter between them. It made an audible clink against the marble surface, as well it should, given it was one of the crown jewels of the kingdom of Tissely.

“Try it on. I dare you. It’s an heirloom from Prince Rodolfo’s extensive treasury of such items, dating back to the dawn of time, more or less.” She smiled. “If it doesn’t fit we’ll never speak of switching places again.”

But the ring had fit her double as if it had been made especially for her.

And after that, switching clothes was easy. Valentina found herself in front of the bathroom mirror, dressed like a billionaire’s assistant, when Natalie walked out of the stall behind her in her own shift dress and the heels her favorite shoe designer had made just for her. It was like looking in a mirror, but one that walked and looked unsteady on her feet and was wearing her hair differently.

Valentina couldn’t tell if she was disconcerted or excited. Both, maybe.

She’d eyed Natalie. “Will your glasses give me a headache, do you suppose?”

But Natalie had pulled them from her face and handed them over. “They’re clear glass. I was getting a little too much attention from some of the men Mr. Casilieris works with, and it annoyed him. I didn’t want to lose my job, so I started wearing my hair up and these glasses. It worked like a charm.”

“I refuse to believe men are so idiotic.”

Natalie had grinned as Valentina took the glasses and slid them onto her nose. “The men we’re talking about weren’t exactly paying me attention because they found me enthralling. It was a diversionary tactic during negotiations, and yes, you’d be surprised how many men fail to see a woman who looks smart.”

She’d freed her hair from its utilitarian ponytail and shook it out, then handed the stretchy elastic to Valentina. It took Valentina a moment to re-create the ponytail on her own head, and then it was done.

And it really was like magic.

“This is crazy,” Natalie had whispered.

“We have to switch places now,” Valentina said softly, hearing the rough patch in her own voice. “I’ve always wanted to be...someone else. Someone normal. Just for a little while.”

And she’d gotten exactly what she’d wanted, hadn’t she?

“I am distressed, Miss Monette, that I cannot manage to secure your attention for more than a moment or two,” Achilles said then, slamming Valentina back into this car he dominated so easily when all he was doing was sitting there.

Sitting there, filling up the world without even trying.

He was devastating. There was no other possible word that could describe him. His black hair was close-cropped to his head, which only served to highlight his strong, intensely masculine features. She’d had hours on the plane to study him as she’d repeatedly failed to do the things he’d expected of her, and she still couldn’t really get her head around why it was that he was so...affecting. He shouldn’t have been. Dark hair. Dark eyes that tended toward gold when his temper washed over him, which he’d so far made no attempt to hide. A strong nose that reminded her of ancient statues she’d seen in famous museums. That lean, hard body of his that wasn’t made of marble or bronze but seemed to suggest both as he used it so effortlessly. A predator packed into a dark suit that seemed molded to him, whispering suggestions of a lethal warrior when all he was doing was taking phone calls with a five-hundred-thousand-dollar watch on one wrist that he didn’t flash about, because he was Achilles Casilieris. He didn’t need flash.

Achilles was something else.

It was the power that seemed to emanate from him, even when he was doing nothing but sitting quietly. It was the fierce hit of his intelligence, that brooding, unmistakable cleverness that seemed to wrap around him like a cloud. It was something in the way he looked at her, as if he saw too much and too deeply and no matter that Valentina’s unreadable game face was the envy of Europe. Besides all that, there was something untamed about him. Fierce.

Something about him left her breathless. Entirely too close to reeling.

“Do you require a gold star every time you make a statement?” she asked, careful not to look at him. It was too hard to look away. She’d discovered that on the plane ride from London—and he was a lot closer now. So close she was sure she could feel the heat of his body from where she sat. “I’ll be certain to make a note to celebrate you more often. Sir.”

Valentina didn’t know what she was doing. In Natalie’s job, certainly, but also with this man in general. She’d learned one thing about powerful people—particularly men—and it was that they did not enjoy being challenged. Under any circumstances. What made her think Achilles would go against type and magically handle this well?

But she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

And the fact that she had never been one to challenge much of anything before hardly signified. Or maybe that was why she felt so unfettered, she thought. Because this wasn’t her life. This wasn’t her remote father and his endless expectations for the behavior of his only child. This was a strange little bit of role-playing that allowed her to be someone other than Princess Valentina for a moment. A few weeks, that was all. Why not challenge Achilles while she was at it? Especially if no one else ever did?

She could feel his gaze on the side of her face, that brooding dark gold, and she braced herself. Then made sure her expression was nothing but serene as she turned to face him.

It didn’t matter. There was no minimizing this man. She could feel the hit of him—like a fist—deep in her belly. And then lower.

“Are you certain you were not hit in the head?” Achilles asked, his dark voice faintly rough with the hint of his native Greek. “Perhaps in the bathroom at the airport? I fear that such places can often suffer from slippery floors. Deadly traps for the unwary.”

“It was only a bathroom,” she replied airily. “It wasn’t slippery or otherwise notable in any way.”

“Are you sure?” And something in his voice and his hard gaze prickled into her then. Making her chest feel tighter.

Valentina did not want to talk about the bathroom, much less anything that had happened there. And there was something in his gaze that worried her—but that was insane. He couldn’t have any idea that she’d run into her own twin. How could he? Valentina had been unaware that there was the faintest possibility she might have a twin until today.

Which made her think about her father and his many, many lectures about his only child in a new, unfortunate light. But Valentina thrust that aside. That was something to worry about when she was a princess again. That was a problem she could take up when she was back in Murin Castle.

Here, now, she was a secretary. An executive assistant, no more and no less.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Casilieris.” She let her smile deepen and ignored the little hum of...something deep inside her when his gaze seemed to catch fire. “Are you trying to tell me that you need a bathroom? Should I ask the driver to stop the car right here in the middle of the George Washington Bridge?”

She expected him to get angry again. Surely that was what had been going on before, back in London before the plane had taken off. She’d seen temper all over that fierce, hard face of his and gleaming hot in his gaze. More than that, she’d felt it inside her. As if the things he felt echoed within her, winding her into knots. She felt something a whole lot like a chill inch its way down her spine at that notion.

But Achilles only smiled. And that was far more dangerous than merely devastating.

“Miss Monette,” he said and shook his head, as if she amused him, when she could see that the thing that moved over that ruthless face of his was far too intense to be simple amusement. “I had no idea that beneath your officious exterior you’ve been hiding a comedienne all this time. For five years you’ve worked at my side and never let so much as a hint of this whimsical side of your personality out into the open. Whatever could have changed?”

He knows. The little voice inside her was certain—and terrified.

But it was impossible. Valentina knew it was impossible, so she made herself smile and relax against the leather seat as if she’d never in her life been so at her ease. Very much as if she was not within scant inches of a very large, very powerful, very intense male who was eyeing her the way gigantic lions and tigers and jaguars eyed their food. When they were playing with it.

She’d watched enough documentaries and made enough state visits to African countries to know firsthand.

“Perhaps I’ve always been this amusing,” she suggested, managing to tamp down her hysteria about oversize felines, none of which was particularly helpful at the moment. “Perhaps you’ve only recently allowed yourself to truly listen to me.”

“I greatly enjoy listening to you,” Achilles replied. There was a laziness in the way he sat there, sprawled out in the backseat of his car, that dark gold gaze on hers. A certain laziness, yes—but Valentina didn’t believe it for a second. “I particularly enjoy listening to you when you are doing your job perfectly. Because you know how much I admire perfection. I insist on it, in fact. Which is why I cannot understand why you failed to provide it today.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

But she knew what he meant. She’d been on the plane and she’d been the one to fail repeatedly to do what was clearly her job. She’d hung up on one conference call and failed entirely to connect another. She’d expected him to explode—if she was honest, there was a part of her that wanted him to explode, in the way that anyone might want to poke and poke and poke at some kind of blister to see if it would pop. But he hadn’t popped. He hadn’t lost his temper at all, despite the fact that it had been very clear to Valentina very quickly that she was a complete and utter disaster at doing whatever it was that Natalie did.

When Achilles had stared at her in amazement, however, she hadn’t made any excuses. She’d only gazed right back, serenely, as if she’d meant to do whatever utterly incorrect thing it was. As if it was all some kind of strategy.

She could admit that she hadn’t really thought the job part through. She been so busy fantasizing herself into some kind of normal life that it had never occurred to her that, normal or not, a life was still a whole life. She had no idea how to live any way but the way she’d been living for almost thirty years. How remarkably condescending, she’d thought up there on Achilles Casilieris’s jet, that she’d imagined she could simply step into a job—especially one as demanding as this appeared to be—and do it merely because she’d decided it was her chance at something “normal.”

Valentina had found the entire experience humbling, if she was honest, and it had been only a few hours since she’d switched places with Natalie in London. Who knew what else awaited her?

But Achilles was still sprawled there beside her, that unnerving look of his making her skin feel too small for her bones.

“Natalie, Natalie,” he murmured, and Valentina told herself it was a good thing he’d used that name. It wasn’t her name, and she needed the reminder. This wasn’t about her. It wasn’t her job to advocate for Natalie when the other woman might not wish for her to do anything like that. She was on a fast track to losing Natalie her job, and then what? Valentina didn’t have to worry about her employment prospects, but she had no idea what the market was like for billionaire’s assistants.

But maybe there was a part of her that already knew that there was no way Natalie Monette was a stranger to her. Certainly not on the genetic level. And that had implications she wasn’t prepared to examine just yet, but she did know that the woman who was in all likelihood her long-lost identical twin did not have to work for Achilles Casilieris unless she wanted to.

How arrogant of you, a voice inside her said quietly. Her Royal Highness, making unilateral decisions for others’ lives without their input.

The voice sounded a little too much like her father’s.

“That is my name,” Valentina said to Achilles, in case there had been any doubt. Perhaps with a little too much force.

But she had the strangest notion that he was...tasting the name as he said it. As if he’d never said it before. Did he call Natalie by her first name? Valentina rather thought not, given that he’d called her Miss Monette when she’d met him—but that was neither here nor there, she told herself. And no matter that she was a woman who happened to know the power of titles. She had many of her own. And her life was marked by those who used the different versions of her titles, not to mention the few who actually called her by her first name.

“I cannot tolerate this behavior,” he said, but it wasn’t in that same infuriated tone he’d used earlier. If anything, he sounded almost...indulgent. But surely that was impossible. “It borders on open rebellion, and I cannot have that. This is not a democracy, I’m afraid. This is a dictatorship. If I want your opinion, I’ll tell you what it is.”

There was no reason her heart should have been kicking at her like that, her pulse so loud in her ears she was sure he must be able to hear it himself.

“What an interesting way to foster employee loyalty,” she murmured. “Really more of a scorch-the-earth approach. Do you find it gets you the results you want?”

“I do not need to breed employee loyalty,” Achilles told her, sounding even lazier than before, those dark eyes of his on hers. “People are loyal to me or they are fired. You seem to have forgotten reality today, Natalie. Allow me to remind you that I pay you so much money that I own your loyalty, just as I own everything else.”

“Perhaps,” and her voice was a little too rough then. A little too shaky, when what could this possibly have to do with her? She was a visitor. Natalie’s loyalty was no concern of hers. “I have no wish to be owned. Does anyone? I think you’ll find that they do not.”

Achilles shrugged. “Whether you wish it or do not, that is how it is.”

“That is why I was considering quitting,” she heard herself say. And she was no longer looking at him. That was still far too dangerous, too disconcerting. She found herself staring down at her hands, folded in her lap. She could feel that she was frowning, when she learned a long, long time ago never to show her feelings in public. “It’s all very well and good for you, of course. I imagine it’s quite pleasant to have minions. But for me, there’s more to life than blind loyalty. There’s more to life than work.” She blinked back a strange heat. “I may not have experienced it myself, but I know there must be.”

“And what do you think is out there?” He shifted in the seat beside her, but Valentina still refused to look back at him, no matter how she seemed almost physically compelled to do just that. “What do you think you’re missing? Is it worth what you are throwing away here today, with this aggressive attitude and the childish pretense that you don’t know your own job?”

“It’s only those who are bored of the world, or jaded, who are so certain no one else could possibly wish to see it.”

“No one is keeping you from roaming about the planet at will,” he told her in a low voice. Too low. So low it danced along her skin and seemed to insinuate itself beneath her flesh. “But you seem to wish to burn down the world you know in order to see the one you don’t. That is not what I would call wise. Would you?”

Valentina didn’t understand why his words seemed to beat beneath her own skin. But she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. And her eyes seemed entirely too full, almost scratchy, with an emotion she couldn’t begin to name.

She was aware of too many things. Of the car as it slid through the Manhattan streets. Of Achilles himself, too big and too masculine in the seat beside her, and much too close besides. And most of all, that oddly weighted thing within her, rolling around and around until she couldn’t tell the difference between sensation and reaction.

And him right there in the middle of it, confusing her all the more.

CHAPTER THREE

ACHILLES DIDN’T SAY another word, and that was worse. It left Valentina to sit there with her own thoughts in a whirl and nothing to temper them. It left no barrier between that compelling, intent look in his curiously dark eyes and her.

Valentina had no experience with men. Her father had insisted that she grow up as sheltered as possible from public life, so that she could enjoy what little privacy was afforded to a European princess before she turned eighteen. She’d attended carefully selected boarding schools run strictly and deliberately, but that hadn’t prevented her classmates from involving themselves in all kinds of dramatic situations. Even then, Valentina had kept herself apart.

Your mother’s defection was a stain on the throne, her father always told her. It is upon us to render it clean and whole again.

Valentina had been far too terrified of staining Murin any further to risk a scandal. She’d concentrated on her studies and her friends and left the teenage rebellions to others. And once out of school, she’d been thrust unceremoniously into the spotlight. She’d been an ambassador for her kingdom wherever she went, and more than that, she’d always known that she was promised to the Crown Prince of Tissely. Any scandals she embroiled herself in would haunt two kingdoms.

She’d never seen the point.

And along the way she’d started to take a certain pride in the fact that she was saving herself for her predetermined marriage. It was the one thing that was hers to give on her wedding night that had nothing to do with her father or her kingdom.

Is it pride that’s kept you chaste—or is it control? a little voice inside her asked then, and the way it kicked in her, Valentina suspected she wouldn’t care for the answer. She ignored it.

But the point was, she had no idea how to handle men. Not on any kind of intimate level. These past few hours, in fact, were the longest she’d ever spent alone in the company of a man. It simply didn’t happen when she was herself. There were always attendants and aides swarming around Princess Valentina. Always.

She told herself that was why she was having such trouble catching her breath. It was the novelty—that was all. It certainly wasn’t him.

Still, it was almost a relief when the car pulled up in front of a quietly elegant building on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, perched there with a commanding view of Central Park, and came to a stop.

The late-afternoon breeze washed over her when she stepped from the car, smelling improbably of flowers in the urban sprawl of New York City. But Valentina decided to take it as a blessing.

Achilles remained silent as he escorted her into the building. He only raised his chin in the barest of responses to the greeting that came his way from the doormen in the shiny, obviously upscale lobby, and then he led her into a private elevator located toward the back and behind another set of security guards. It was a gleaming, shining thing that he operated with a key. And it was blessedly without any mirrors.

Valentina wasn’t entirely sure whom she’d see if she looked at her own reflection just then.

There were too many things she didn’t understand churning inside her, and she hadn’t the slightest idea what she was doing here. What on earth she hoped to gain from this odd little lark across the planet, literally in another woman’s shoes.

A break, she reminded herself sternly. A vacation. A little holiday away from all the duties and responsibilities of Princess Valentina, which was more important now than ever. She would give herself over to her single-greatest responsibility in a matter of weeks. She would marry Prince Rodolfo and make both of their fathers and all of their subjects very, very happy.

And a brief escape had sounded like bliss for that split second back there in London—and it still did, when she thought about what waited for her. The terribly appropriate royal marriage. The endlessly public yet circumspect life of a modern queen. The glare of all that attention that she and any children she bore could expect no matter where they went or what they did, yet she could never comment upon lest she seem ungrateful or entitled.

Hers was to wave and smile—that was all. She was marrying a man she hardly knew who would expect the marital version of the same. This was a little breather before the reality of all that. This was a tiny bit of space between her circumscribed life at her father’s side and more of the same at her husband’s.

She couldn’t allow the brooding, unreadable man beside her to ruin it, no matter how unnerving his dark gold gaze was. No matter what fires it kicked up inside her that she hardly dared name.

The elevator doors slid open, delivering them straight into the sumptuous front hall of an exquisitely decorated penthouse. Valentina followed Achilles as he strode deep inside, not bothering to spare her a glance as he moved. She was glad that he walked ahead of her, which allowed her to look around so she could get her bearings without seeming to do so. Because, of course, Natalie would already know her way around this place.

She took in the high ceilings and abundant windows all around. The sweeping stairs that led up toward at least two more floors. The mix of art deco and a deep coziness that suggested this penthouse was more than just a showcase; Achilles actually lived here.

Valentina told herself—sternly—that there was no earthly reason that notion should make her shiver.

She was absurdly grateful when a housekeeper appeared, clucking at Achilles in what it took Valentina longer than it should have to realize was Greek. A language she could converse in, though she would never consider herself anything like fluent. Still, it took her only a very few moments to understand that whatever the danger Achilles exuded and however ruthless the swath he cut through the entire world with a single glance, this woman thought he was wonderful.

She beamed at him.

It would not do to let that get to her, Valentina warned herself as something warm seemed to roll its way through her, pooling in the strangest places. She should not draw any conclusions about a man who was renowned for his fierceness in all things and yet let a housekeeper treat him like family.

The woman declared she would feed him no matter if he was hungry or not, lest he get skinny and weak, and bustled back in the direction of what Valentina assumed was the kitchen.

“You’re looking around as if you are lost,” Achilles murmured, when Valentina didn’t think she’d been looking around at all. “When you have spent more time in this penthouse over the last five years than I have.”

Valentina hated the fact that she started a bit when she realized his attention was focused on her again. And that he was speaking in English, which seemed to make him sound that much more knowing.

Or possibly even mocking, unless she was very much mistaken.

“Mr. Casilieris,” she said, lacing her voice with gentle reprove, “I work for you. I don’t understand why you appear to be quite so interested in what you think is happening inside my head today. Especially when you are so mistaken.”

“Am I?”

“Entirely.” She raised her brows at him. “If I could suggest that we concentrate more on matters of business than fictional representations of what might or might not be going on inside my mind, I think we might be more productive.”

“As productive as we were on the flight over?” His voice was a lazy sort of lash, as amused as it was on target.

Valentina only smiled, hoping she looked enigmatic and strategic rather than at a loss.

“Are you lost?” she asked him after a moment, because neither one of them had moved from the great entry that bled into the spacious living room, then soared up two stories, a quiet testament to his wealth and power.

“Careful, Miss Monette,” Achilles said with a certain dark precision. “As delightful as I have found today’s descent into insubordination, I have a limit. It would be in your best interests not to push me there too quickly.”

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