‘The Crown Prince.’
‘Whoever came into this room.’
‘I came in here,’ he said.
No, he hadn’t—but she kept her opinion to herself.
‘You doubt it?’ he asked, watching her face, her too-expressive eyes.
She couldn’t lie. He’d know.
‘I doubt nothing—I can feel it.’
‘You’re going to marry me,’ she pushed. ‘Won’t you have to come to my room? Won’t we share a bed? Or will I share a bed with him?’
‘You’ll share a bed with me, qalbi,’ he promised, and moved towards her, towering over her with his scent, his heat. He stroked a finger across her cheek. ‘The King.’
His scent was the same, but his presence...
‘What if I don’t want the King?’ she asked boldly. ‘What if I want the man on the plane...the man who came to my bedroom this morning?’
His wandering finger stopped its delicate tracing of her cheek to move to her chin. ‘The King is all you will have, Lottie.’ He tilted her face upwards, his eyes obsidian, boring into her. ‘Because I am the King.’
He turned on his heel and didn’t look back once as he closed the door behind him.
Lottie didn’t want the King.
She wanted him.
Hadn’t she always?
Collecting her shawl and sketchpad, she felt emotion hum through her. Because if all he could give her was a king, she’d be a queen-in-waiting he’d never expected.
And she knew just the woman to help her.