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Then he’d stalked to her, and with each step, she’d withdrawn into herself to ward off his incursion. But damn him, he’d kept coming, invading her senses, snatching her responses from her self-control’s white-knuckled grip. Then he’d spoken. Teased. Taunted. Pushed and pulled. Until the last anchor of her restraint snapped like an overextended string. She could swear she’d heard that final twang echo throughout her body. And she’d let him have it.

It was as if she’d let him have exactly what he’d been wishing for. The pleasure flashing across his face singed her, the tension roiling through his body resounded inside hers, spiking when every verbal slash hit home. It was as if she were chafing the exact spot he needed scratched, the very nerve cluster he wanted stimulated.

Who knew he was into S-M. The verbal kind. Maybe the physical, too. No wonder her “yes, Leandro” persona had been so…peripheral to him.

She thought she’d expended all her angst in that tirade. But with Leandro all but licking his lips for an encore, another was coming on.

“Now, to elaborate on what I said as I first came in…” She stopped. Her voice sounded as it once had at the end of the stamina-testing ecstasy sessions he’d exposed her to. She gulped. “Even if you redeem yourself in some huge way, I think it’ll remain inexcusable that you’re playing games when your kingdom’s future is at stake…”

“Former kingdom.”

His indolent words thrilled behind her breastbone. “What?”

He leaned closer. Sucked whatever air was left from the universe. “I’m an American now.”

She grimaced. “Oh, please.”

Mockery intensified the emerald of his eyes. “Want to see my passport?”

She waved. “You’ll always be Castaldinian.”

The wings of his dense, perfectly formed eyebrows rose in mock interest. “Really? A whole kingdom disagreed for eight years. I don’t have one official tie to the place.”

“Like it or not, you are one.”

He turned his lip down in a perfect parody of a petulant little boy. Yeah. Sure. As if. “I have no say?”

She shook her head. “None.”

“I wonder how you have worked this out.”

“You don’t have a say in your genes, do you? Same thing.”

“Oh, but we do rise above our programming.”

“And you transcended your Castaldinian origins?”

“I was actually culled out of the Castaldinian pool. But I’ve adapted well to life as another species, thank you for caring.”

“Oh, please.”

He leaned back, the seat dipping under his shifting weight, exacerbating her imbalance. He spread his daunting body in a pretense of relaxation, giving her a more complete demonstration of his upgrades. And her effect on him. “You know, the way you keep saying ‘please’…anyone would think you’re inviting more ‘juvenile, infringing, lascivious allusions.’”

His words had the effect of quick-drying concrete. “Okay. It seems we won’t get anything of any value said or done before we indulge your need to harp about the past and drag out the sordid details. Fine. Go ahead. Get it out of your system.”

His gaze seemed to scald her body, to scrape it naked.

“There are…things I can’t get out of my system. Certainly not by…talking. As for other baggage from that phase in my life, don’t worry about it. I channeled any lingering resentment into my work. Whatever remains, I take care of with extreme sports. And punching bags.”

“And turning your back on your kingdom when it needs you.”

A laugh cracked out of his depths, loaded with astonishment and amusement. And virility. “That would be a great outlet. If I were into an eye for an eye.”

“Only it would be a limb—or a life, or even a nation’s worth of either—for an eye, in this situation.”

A chuckle rumbled in his chest, revving up the itchy feeling in hers to an ache. “You think I’m that vital? Very inconsistent of you, when you already said how inconsequential I am.”

“That was a personal opinion,” she mumbled, furious with herself, with him, at the responses he kept yanking from her.

His gaze grew more baiting as he rubbed a languid hand over his chest, drawing her stare to the beauty and power of the first, the breadth and hardness of the second. “Off the record, eh?”

She did her level best to present him with her neutral look. “Do make it on. Your head must be swollen from all the butt-kissing you get. Consider my opinion a deflating agent.”

His laughter boomed again. Her heart ricocheted in her rib cage. “Ah, Phoebe, I’m having my head measured first thing in the morning.” He sobered a bit, his grin becoming an X-rated health hazard. “So why try to convince such an irredeemable egomaniac to take the reins of a kingdom?”

She swallowed. “I’m an emissary, as you said. I’m not here to put forward my convictions but rather my employer’s case.”

“Even if you suspect he’s senile and is turning the kingdom over to the one person who’ll drive it into the sea?”

“King Benedetto isn’t senile by a long shot.”

“How else do you explain his change of heart?”

“I am sure he has his reasons.”

“So he hasn’t shared them with you? You’re the little foot solider with need-to-know info you’ll never need to know?”

“One thing I do know is that his heart has always been with you. I believe having to cut you off nearly cut it out.”

He threw his awesome head back with a hoot of delight. “I didn’t see that coming.”

Her throat constricted as the rain-straight silk of his hair cascaded back to frame his head to maximum effect. “What?”

“Appealing to the insecure little boy inside me who craves his hero’s approval, his validation.”

God help her, she actually snorted. “The day I believe there’s an insecure little boy inside you is the day I believe I’ll sprout wings if I cluck hard enough.”

His laughter was louder this time, lasted longer. Spread more damage. “Ah, Phoebe, you know me too well. How about the vindictive little boy inside me, then? Who wants to see the object of his hero worship groveling, admitting how much he’s wronged him, and how the guilt of his transgressions has never given him a moment’s peace?”

She stilled. His eyes lost the crinkle of amusement as he stared back at her. And she saw it.

A groan escaped her. “I don’t believe I’m saying this, but I don’t think there’s a vindictive little boy inside you, either. Whatever you have in there, I think it’s still just…just…”

“Angry? Affronted?” he offered, mock helpfully.

“Stunned.”

He went totally still. His stare lengthened. Until she was sure he’d burned a hole between her eyes.

Suddenly he was surrounding her. All her nerves gave way at once. She melted back into the couch. He followed her, still not touching her. She felt as if he’d licked her all over, with fire. When he was inches away from her lips, he rumbled, “Didn’t you notice that you haven’t done any negotiating so far?”

Each word jolted through her, coating her lungs with his scent, his potency. “If—if I’ve learned anything as a negotiator,” she gasped, “it’s how to know for certain when my…opponent has no intention whatsoever…under any persuasion…to negotiate.”

Another inch disappeared. “I’m your opponent now?”

“You’re worse. An opponent I can handle. You’re…you’re…”

“I’m…what?” He obliterated half of the last inch.

Her hand went up. To keep him away? All she knew was that her hand met the convergence of silk and steel and searing heat and stuck there like a pin to a magnet.

“Phoebe…”

Her ears rang with her name, the very sound of wonder, of hunger, with the racket of doors slamming shut in her mind. All existence was his lips. Almost there. On hers. At last. Please.

She couldn’t breathe, so she breathed him. He smelled so much better than air. Felt so much more vital. Necessary…

No. No. He wasn’t. She’d let him be that once, and…No.

She twisted away, feeling as if she’d wrenched back from a precipice. Her heart hammered inside her; her lungs burned. Somewhere an auxiliary power source kicked in, yanked her up to her feet.

Her gaze slammed around. Where is the damn door?

“Signorina?”

She swung around blindly, seeking the voice. So welcome. As always. Ernesto. Her ally. Her solace. Her secret-keeper.

He was standing at the door, holding a laden silver tray.

She took a step toward him. The second was harder. The third was too hard to finish, as if Leandro’s influence was pulling her back. Ernesto looked past her, at his master, no doubt, and gave a grudging nod. To her he gave a bolstering look. Then he retreated.

She opened her mouth to cry for him to come back, and Leandro’s drawl lodged between her shoulder blades.

“Forgetting something, Phoebe? Your mission?”

Without turning to him, she gritted words out through her teeth. “You let me come here just to settle a score, to show me it was never anything but a wild goose chase. Just as well. You’re not salvation material. In fact, you would probably be the worst thing that could happen to Castaldini right now.”

She suddenly felt as if he’d let her go. She surged forward. As it had that last time she’d been here, the door seemed to recede…

“Phoebe.”

His murmur hit her with the force of a gunshot.

“Tomorrow night. It’s still up to you.”

She felt as if she were drowning in the bass reaches of his croon. “Wh—what are you talking about now?”

Silence. Until she started to shake. Then she almost fell to her knees when he whispered, “It’s still up to you to convince me. Why I should give…anyone…a second chance.”

Three

Phoebe’s gaze swept over the extravagance surrounding her.

To her right, sunshine soaked in vibrant color filtered through a ten-foot-wide stained-glass window, transferring its tinted image to the pristine white marble floor. All around it clear, eight-foot-tall windows nestled among silk-covered walls, framing glimpses of Central Park and staining the open-plan space with sunset’s copper. Among the opulence of the French-chateaux style of décor and furniture, the hand-painted piano caught her eye, its French countryside scenery depiction a poetry of precision. Out of sight, in the bowels of the suite occupying nearly the entire eighteenth floor of the hotel, lay five bedrooms, five and a half bathrooms, two living rooms, a dining room, a powder room and a sauna. The attractions included three marble fireplaces, a terrace and a two-thousand-bottle wine cellar. Amenities included the services of a secretary/butler and the hotel’s chefs.

In a nutshell, all the excess that fifteen grand a night could buy.

This was the upgrade Leandro had insisted she stay in, substituting the suite Castaldini had reserved for her for the Presidential Suite, which was evidently at his disposal year-round.

She’d failed to get him to let her stay in an accommodation made for a normal human being. The kind who had one body, necessitating one bed and one bathroom.

But that wasn’t her biggest problem. Not when she, Phoebe Alexander, negotiator extraordinaire, had walked into a situation that had all the potential of diverting the course of a whole kingdom’s history and had handled it with all the finesse of a bull in a china shop full of red dishes.

In another nutshell, she’d messed up. And she hadn’t even realized it. Not during the process of messing up, anyway.

She’d walked away from that disaster of a meeting thinking she’d held up under Leandro’s power, that although it had been a premeditated, mouse-torturing session run by a master feline, she hadn’t let him get away with it without landing a few blows of her own.

She must owe that delusion to overexposure to him. He’d always nullified her insight, neutralized her logic. But with his evolution from one-of-a-kind male into force of nature, he’d metamorphosed her into her mirror image, the reverse of her hard-earned, calm and cool persona. Blunt, rash, reckless. Inflammatory.

Instead of delivering levelheaded arguments, she’d let herself be provoked and antagonized. Her verbal missiles had only turned him into the opposite of the younger man who’d taken life and himself too seriously, who’d been too consumed by the drive to reach greater success to have—or at least to make use of—a sense of humor.

The new Leandro had reveled in being crossed and criticized, had turned everything—starting with himself—into fodder for repartee. He’d also been blatant about the resurrection of his attraction. Everything he’d said and done had loosened her self-restraint even more.

Not that that excused what she’d done. The depth of un-professionalism she’d sunk to was appalling. Not only had she not tried to fulfill her mission, she’d done her best to sabotage it. Even his reminder that she hadn’t done any negotiating hadn’t jogged sense into her malfunctioning brain. One minute later, she’d run out, essentially saying what’s the point and good riddance.

But he’d had the final word.

It’s still up to you to convince me. Why I should give…anyone a second chance.

Two sentences that delivered volumes. She’d botched her shot at appealing to him. She’d walked away without garnering a new crown prince for Castaldini, or at least a regent and savior. In his benevolence, he was offering her a replay. Or was it a retrial?

Whichever it was, his charity, should she play her cards right this time, might even extend to her. Awesome.

The arena for this second and final parley was no neutral ground, of course. She’d never had a say in the timing or venue of their encounters, and he wasn’t letting her start now. An official beggar wasn’t any higher up the ranks than an unofficial paramour.

His decree? Dinner. Tonight. At another trap of his choice.

She got to jump through his hoops one more time. Yay her.

Ernesto had come to her hotel this morning bearing advice. And dresses.

His advice she’d accepted without a murmur. He recommended that she keep on doing what she’d done so far. She had no problem with that. She probably could do nothing else. Seeing Leandro again had damaged something inside her, the equivalent of brakes in a car.

What she had a problem with was the dresses. And his second piece of advice, dress to the nines.

“I’m sure as hell not giving Leandro license to get more personal than he already has, Ernesto,” she’d protested. “And that’s what I’d be giving him if I wear any of these—these…” She’d flung a hand in the direction of the haute couture creations crowding a wheeled clothes rack. “He’d take one look at me and think I’m getting personal, shoving feminine wiles into the equation when I’ve failed to do my job any other way.”

“I am the world’s leading expert on Leandro,” Ernesto had said patiently. “I project a very favorable reaction.”

“Favorable in what way?” she’d groaned. “I want his ‘favor’ in only one way, and that isn’t obtained by dressing up like a Mata Hari. In case he is giving my diplomatic mission a real second chance, I may end up insulting him by implying a dress can sway him in such a matter. And even if it could, you’re barking up the wrong tree. A swanky getup does not make a femme fatale. If you think feminine wiles will come to my rescue under fire, think again. I came off the cosmic assembly line without them.”

“You don’t need wiles,” Ernesto had insisted. “You need only yourself. The dress is to suit the setting where he is holding this next session of…negotiations. Trust me now, cara mia.”

That had silenced her. He’d meant she’d never trusted him before, with the reason she’d ended things with Leandro. To him, it must have looked like she’d walked out on Leandro in his darkest hour. And she’d never been able to defend herself. The only way to do that was attack Leandro, the man Ernesto regarded so highly and loved like a son. She wouldn’t risk tainting that regard, that love. Not when he was a far bigger part of Leandro’s life, and losing Ernesto’s esteem would be a far graver injury to Leandro than to her.

Not that she’d lost it. Even without the truth, Ernesto had remained kind and caring. He’d contacted her regularly, always tried to visit her when her job had taken her back to the States. He’d even come to congratulate her on her engagement to Armando, which had been announced on a day that he’d been in Castaldini.

At her continued silence, Ernesto had sighed. “Va bene, Phoebe. I don’t presume to have an opinion on what went wrong between you and Leandro. And since neither of you chose to confide in me or seek my counsel, I haven’t been able to do more than remain neutral, as his right-hand and as your friend.

“But as a friend, I have to point out a few things. No matter what you think of your initial encounter with Leandro, you got much farther than anyone before you.You obtained something other than outright refusal.You did luck out, and it was because of who you are, and what you and Leandro once shared. No matter what you think of him, or feel toward him, he is powerful beyond your dreams. And Castaldini does need him, one way or another. King Benedetto was right to send you, even if he has no idea how right or why. So whether or not you approve of the situation, or of Leandro’s intentions and methods, you are the only one who has a chance to turn his position around.”

And with that, he’d left her. To her fate, it seemed.

He believed she had a chance to turn Leandro’s position around? What she had was the feeling that she was sinking in quicksand, and any move would make her sink faster.

And you know what? What the hell.

Stressing wouldn’t reverse the swiftness of the plunge. The sooner she was submerged and done with it, the better.

She got up, crossed the three-thousand-square-foot reception area to the bedroom she’d selected at random. She walked through to the bathroom full of marble and gold fixtures and showered as if her life depended on it, scrubbing till her skin felt raw. She dried off and plopped down on the capitonné dressing stool across the room, staring at the designer collection laid out on the frilly king-size bed.

After battling the need to hop into the most austere outfit she had with her, she decided to bow to Ernesto’s judgment. And when something wild and wanton seethed inside her, demanding that she go all out and wear one of the most outrageous and shameless creations, she restrained it, kicking and hissing, and chose the most understated dress she could find. She was not going to Leandro’s torment session in blaring red or gold, declaring without words that she was indeed sizzling for far more than juvenile, infringing, lascivious allusions.

After dragging on her chosen dress, she inspected the result. Hmm. Probably dressed only to the fours or fives. They’d all have to live with that.

Half an hour later, she was waiting for Ernesto to escort her to his master, trying to ignore the buzz that was escalating inside her at the thought of seeing said master again. To give herself something to do, she reexamined her reflection in the gilded full-length mirror in the suite’s foyer.

With the heels and freshly styled hair, probably sixes or sevens.

Appropriate. She was at them, too. And she had herself to thank for that. Instead of having one confrontation be the end of it, here she was, through her own idiocy forced to see him again, to hopefully get the result she should have gotten the first time. Or not. He might be…hell, he was stringing her along, to fulfill an objective that probably had nothing to do with Castaldini and everything to do with that still overwhelming attraction that had seared away her resolutions and intentions. She could only let him steer her and everything wherever he pleased. She’d deal with it when she found out where that was.

And if that new, reckless entity that had been awakened inside her told her that she couldn’t wait to go wherever he led, she smacked it silent. Been there, done that.

Never wanted to be there, or do that, again.

Leandro glowered at his watch.

Late. Three…four minutes. And he had a feeling those minutes would soon be accompanied by many more.

Was it her doing, or Ernesto’s? Which of them wanted to keep him human by denying the gratification of his every whim?

Both, probably. And both, damn them, pegged him right. Knew they were the only two people alive he’d let cross him.

A huff exploded from him. Cross him? How about walk all over him? Ernesto knew he could get away with anything. And Phoebe…

Oh, yes. She knew, too.

She knew what she’d been doing last night. She’d parried and attacked until he was at critical mass. Then she’d hit him with what he would have never seen coming. One word. One insight. One verdict. Stunned.

She’d known, when he hadn’t known himself. Not until she’d uttered her analysis.

He was still stunned. And it wasn’t because his king, his people, had gone so far as to exile him, but that it had gone so wrong between him and Phoebe.

He’d once been so certain of her, had plans. Goals. To be named the most worthy, the next king. Then to offer it all to her, his name and future and the controlling shares of his heart.

Be my queen had hovered on his tongue from that first night he’d claimed her, been claimed by her, burning for the moment he could utter the demand.

Ernesto, the one man he trusted, the man who’d raised him after his parents’ deaths, had urged him not to let her occupy his focus as he campaigned for the crown. But he hadn’t been capable of listening, had writhed in impatience until he could rush back to her, join with her, melt in her.

And it had cost him. His enemies had capitalized on his distraction, had hit where he hadn’t anticipated, forced him into retaliations that had grown more uncalculated. They hadn’t guessed to what they’d owed their growing advantage, but they’d used his dwindling finesse against him. And he’d been in the throes of all-consuming hunger for the first time, hadn’t even noticed the damage until it was too late.

It had ended in an injury he couldn’t have anticipated, a dishonor and a deprivation that had felt worse than a death sentence. Fury and frustration had almost finished him those first days. Only one thing had made him hang on to his sanity, had stopped the spiral of retaliation he’d embarked on. Phoebe. He wouldn’t care that his country had disgraced and shunned him, or even if the whole world deserted him. He had her.

He’d waited for her to contact him, to pledge that he did have her, but she didn’t. And each day of silence became a tentacle of suspicion spreading through his thoughts and memories.

He’d been eager to make her his princess, to claim her, but he’d done everything to keep their relationship secret. It hadn’t been official, but it had been made clear to him that the crown came with the woman all those in power wanted as queen attached: Clarissa, the king’s daughter. That was why he hadn’t proposed to Phoebe. If he had, worthy or not, the council would have found a way to deny him the crown. He’d intended to take it, then enforce her as his queen. But they’d denied him the crown anyway.

And her continued silence had started to wear another guise. Self-interest. Could she have been so amenable to secrecy not because she realized the risks of exposure, but because she’d been hedging her bets in case their relationship didn’t lead where she’d hoped? Wallowing in their clandestine affair while keeping her virginal image? Did her silence mean she’d thought it time to drop him now that he’d never be king of Castaldini, wasn’t even a prince anymore? She didn’t even think him worth a phone call? Not even one of consolation, for old times’ sake?

Driven over the edge by the malignancy of doubt, he’d succumbed, reached out to her. But he’d been so damaged by her lack of communication, he’d later wondered if he hadn’t steered their reunion to that mutilating end. He’d spent the next five years tortured by the memory of their last time together, dissecting her every word and expression until he almost went mad. He’d found himself constantly dialing half her number before hurling the phone away.

The only thing that had saved his sanity was launching himself into his work as if possessed, catapulting himself from the roster of prosperous businessmen to the top of the food chain of world-shapers.

And every step of the way he felt sundered down the middle, as if he were missing his other half. He told himself over and over she wasn’t that. But he never succeeded in convincing his heart.

He sought news of her like he did sustenance. He found out the results of her every law-school exam, each report of her sister’s improvement before she did. He made a deal with himself. In case she’d rejected him because he’d asked her to give up “responsibilities and aspirations” he had no right to, when she’d fulfilled those things, he would again demand that she join him in exile. She’d have no reason to say no then, if what they’d shared had been real.

When her sister’s health and marriage had stabilized and she’d obtained her law degree and was about to begin a new phase in her life, he’d sent Ernesto to her again, with a note. All he could bring himself to write. I do need you. Still.

The five words felt like an exposure of his soul with no guarantee that he wasn’t jeopardizing what was left of it.

He dreaded her response. He shouldn’t have worried.

There had been none. In lieu of a response, she’d announced her betrothal to his cousin Armando. That very day. And he’d had to face it once and for all.

She had been after a royal title, like her sister. He’d been her best ticket once. Armando was her new one.

The obliteration of hope, of belief in her, in what they’d shared, had extinguished his humanity for a while, he supposed.

But he’d lived on, risen higher. And the days passed. Then she broke it off with Armando. Almost a year ago. And all his convictions had dissipated again. He went back to feeling like he was constantly holding his breath. He refused to ponder what for.

Then she’d walked back into his life last night.

And he’d admitted it. She was what for. Whatever she was, whatever she felt, her hold on him was unbroken. Maybe even unbreakable.

Just as he’d succumbed, reached for her, and she’d seemed on the verge of surrender, she’d pulled back. She’d left him doubled over from frustration and walked away. Again. This time telling him, in so many eloquent words, good riddance.

It had to be a ploy. What else could it be when she’d run away without gaining any response concerning her mission, proving it wasn’t her objective after all? What other explanation could there be for dangling herself in front of him only to snatch herself away? What else could she want, except for him to give chase?

As she’d walked out, it had come to him. The reason that had been missing from his life. And his plan had formed…

“A spendthrift as well as a man who muddies professional situations with personal vendettas. I’m scratching my head here wondering how you became a mogul and a billionaire.”

Phoebe.

Announcing her arrival with another lash of provocation.

He closed his eyes, suffering his body’s reaction in resignation now.

A groan still escaped as he turned to face her. She was framed in the entrance of the restaurant/nightclub, swathed in the stark light he’d had trained there. Wrapped in an invention designed to blow all his valves, a creation of gray-silver that seemed to have been spun from the luminous seas of her eyes, with the flawlessness of her neck and shoulders shown to distressing advantage by an off-shoulder neckline and a chunky, relaxed wave of raven gossamer brushing just above a hint of a cleavage, she could have stepped out of a black-and-white silver screen classic. With the only splash of color spread across the elegance of her cheekbones and the dewiness of her lips, she seemed like…like…

He didn’t know. The feeling crowded inside him, yet couldn’t be translated into words.

But what did he need words for, when he had actions?

He moved just as she did. As if by agreement, they kept a dozen feet between them, moving parallel to each other, mirroring each other’s steps, seeming to fall into the choreography of a memorized dance. They’d always moved to the same internal beat, as if aware of every impulse powering the other’s body. Blood pressure inched upward into that danger zone he was discovering he relished, was getting addicted to.

She glided up the walkway’s curve to the table he’d had set for them, overlooking the dance floor on one side and the blazing Manhattan skyline on the other.

He reached the table the same moment she did, placed his hands palms down on the wine-red silk tablecloth, leaned toward her. “What have I done now to deserve a demotion from simply worthless to seriously wasteful and wretchedly unprofessional?”

She placed a tiny tasseled bag on the table, titled her face at him. “What haven’t you done? First that fifteen-grand-a-night suite, and now this, an exclusive New York night spot where becoming a member carries a hundred-grand price tag and a single visit costs a few grand per person. I won’t even guess what you had to pay for an exclusive night for two. It would probably amount to a developing country’s monthly budget, and I might get sick.”

He cocked his head at her, exhilaration thrumming through his nerve endings. “I’m impressed. Your knowledge of the particulars and costs of high-end living around here is pretty comprehensive.”

“Glad you’re impressed. I’m not. Depressed is more like it.”

He could believe that. In the past, her thorough disinterest in material things had been another quality he’d admired about her. And she’d walked out on him when he’d been almost a billionaire.