Now he was here, in a London medical office, as if summoned from my most desperate dreams and worst nightmares combined.
He turned when I entered, and the full force of his attention washed over me with startling intensity. Those blue eyes I'd memorized in agonizing detail swept over me, and for just a moment—before he could stop himself—I saw something raw and hungry flicker across his face. Then the professional mask slammed into place, but not before I caught the way his hands had clenched at his sides, the slight intake of breath that suggested my presence affected him more than he wanted to admit.
"Your Highness," he said, his voice carefully neutral as he gave me a brief nod. But there was a roughness to it, as if saying my title instead of my name caused him physical pain.
I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. Extensive numbness I'd cultivated over six months crumbled in an instant, leaving me raw and exposed and utterly unprepared for the tsunami of emotion crashing over me.
Love. Rage. Humiliation. Desperate, treacherous hope.
Entertainment, his voice whispered in my memory. Good sex. Nothing more.
Dr. Harrison cleared his throat diplomatically. "Perhaps I should give you two some privacy for this discussion. The consultation with Queen Sophia went well, and she's resting comfortably in my private office." He moved toward the door with practiced discretion. "I'll check on her in a few minutes."
The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving us alone in the sudden silence.
James's composure faltered the moment we were alone, his professional mask slipping just enough for me to see the man beneath—exhausted, hollow-eyed, as if he'd been fighting his own demons for months.
"You look..." he started, then stopped himself, jaw clenching as he fought whatever words had been about to escape. "How are you?"
The question was too loaded, too personal for the professional distance he was trying to maintain. I could see him struggling against the urge to ask what he really wanted to know—if I'd been sleeping, if I'd been eating, if I'd thought about him even half as much as he'd obviously been thinking about me.
"I'm fine," I lied, my voice steadier than I felt. "What are you doing here, James?"
He flinched slightly at my use of his first name, as if I'd touched a nerve he'd tried to deaden. "Your mother contacted me. Through... mutual connections."
"Mutual connections?"
"My brother Spencer," he said reluctantly. "She reached out to him two weeks ago, requesting my assistance with a security matter."
The pieces began falling into place. "This isn't about her MS at all, is it?"
"No." His voice was rough now, the careful neutrality slipping. "It's about the Kozlov family. They've been making contact, applying pressure."
My blood ran cold. "What kind of pressure?"
James moved closer, his body language shifting from professional to protective without him seeming to realise it. "They have photographs, Evangeline. Of us. In Sicily."
The words hit me like ice water. "Photographs of what?"
"Everything." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper, and I could see him fighting the urge to reach for me."The barn. That afternoon when we..." He stopped, swallowing hard. "They're explicit enough to destroy your reputation if published."
I sank into the nearest chair, my legs giving out. "How?"
"Long-range camera. Professional surveillance. Someone was paid very well to document our every move." His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "They've been sitting on them for months, waiting for the right moment to make their demands."
"What demands?"
"Marriage." The word came out like a curse. "They want you to marry Prince Dmitri Volkov. Their way of having an inside man in the Bellavistan royal family."
Understanding crashed over me like a wave. "Dmitri. The man Mother's been pushing me toward. That's not a coincidence."
"No. The Kozlovs have been planning this for months. Dmitri is their nephew, their path to influence over the Belavistan crown." James's voice turned savage. "They've been blackmailing your mother, using these photographs to force her to encourage the match."
"Mother knew. She's known for weeks that you and I..." I couldn't finish the sentence, the betrayal too fresh and raw.
"You’re mother contacted me because she was running out of options. Dmitri's been applying more pressure, and the Kozlovs are threatening to release the photographs if she doesn't deliver you within the month."
“Deliver me! So now I’m a piece of furniture custom ordered for the Kozlov family.
