Roman smirked, turning to lean against the fountain, taking care to leave a good foot and a half of space between them. It had been a long time since he had been this conscious of a woman’s presence.
‘You seem like quite the man of mystery, Mr Lazarov,’ she said, turning to look at him briefly. ‘Best friends with a sheikh...founder of an international security firm.’
‘You’ve been researching me?’
‘I only found out your name twenty minutes ago,’ she said honestly. ‘Does the Sheikh always fly you in for such favours?’
‘No, he does not.’ Roman felt the corner of his mouth tilt at her mocking. It had been a long time since a woman had been so obviously unimpressed by him. ‘I have my own means of transportation for such occasions.’
‘Let me guess—something small and powerful with tinted windows?’
‘It is black.’ His lips twisted with amusement at her jibe. ‘But my yacht is hardly small. No tinted windows—I much prefer the light.’
Her gaze wandered, the smile fading from her lips as she looked away from him. ‘A playboy’s yacht...of course.’
‘These things have not magically fallen into my lap, I assure you. I have worked hard for the lifestyle I enjoy.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean...’ She turned her face back towards him quickly. ‘I envy you, that’s all.’
He raised a brow, wondering not for the first time what on earth was going on inside her head. ‘There is an entire fleet of vessels moored in the harbour with the royal crest on their hulls. You’re telling me you couldn’t just choose one at will?’
‘I spent years learning how to sail at school. But I have yet to go on a single trip by myself,’ she said, looking up and meeting his eyes for a long moment. ‘It’s strange...’ she began, before shaking her head and turning her face away. ‘I’ve spoken more frankly with you today—a complete stranger—than I have with anyone in a long time.’
Roman did not know how to respond to that statement. He swallowed hard, looking ahead to where a group of housemaids walked and chatted their way across the second-floor balconies. When he finally looked back the Princess had moved from beside him.
He stood up, looking around him for a sign of where she had gone, only to see a glimpse of pale yellow silk disappearing through the archway that led to the royal apartments.
He took a step forward, then caught himself.
She was where she belonged—surrounded by guards and staff.
It was time for him to get back to his own life.
* * *
The afternoon sun was hot on his neck when Roman finally walked out onto the deck of his yacht the next day. In his line of work he was no stranger to going to sleep as the sun rose, but his restless night had little to do with work. Being handcuffed in a room by himself had given him far too much time with his own thoughts. A dangerous pastime for a man with a past like his.
Nursing a strong black coffee, he slid on dark sunglasses and sank down into a hammock chair. They would set sail for the isla soon enough, and he would be glad to see the back of this kingdom and all its upper-class pomp.
He surveyed the busy harbour of Puerto Reina, Monteverre’s main port. Tourists and locals peppered the busy marble promenade that fronted the harbour—the Queen’s Balcony, he had been told it was called. A glittering golden crown insignia was emblazoned over every sign in the town, as though the people might somehow otherwise forget that it was the crown that held the power.
Never had he met a man more blinded by his own power than His Majesty, King Fabian. Khal had insisted on them meeting two nights previously, so that the three men could discuss the situation of the Princess’s security—Khal was notoriously meticulous when it came to bodyguards and security measures.
It had been clear from the outset that Roman would be treated like the commoner he was, so he had made the choice to leave, rather than sit and be spoken down to. His tolerance levels only stretched so far. It seemed His Majesty still harboured some ill will, as made apparent by the gap of five hours between the time he had been informed of the incident at the palace and the time at which he’d authorised Roman’s release.
Roman’s fists clenched by his sides. He was no stranger to dealing with self-important asses—he’d made a care
er of protecting arrogant fools with more money than sense. But it was hard to stay professionally disengaged when one of the asses in question was your best friend. Khal had never treated him as ‘lesser’—he knew better. But he had not so much as made a phone call to apologise for his oversight.
His friend knew, more than anyone, what time locked in a room could do to him.
Roman tilted his head up to the sun and closed his eyes. He was not in a locked room right now. He was on his own very expensive yacht, which would be out in open water just as soon as it was refuelled. He exhaled slowly, visualising the clear blue waters of Isla Arista, his own private haven.
Moments passed before his visualisation was interrupted by a loud car horn. He opened one eye and sighed as he saw a sleek black limousine edging its way through the crowds on the main street, flanked by four Monteverrian policemen on Vespas.
The Sheikh of Zayyar did not simply take a taxi, he supposed dryly as he reached forward to drain the last of his coffee and then tilted his head back to the sunshine. When he finally looked up again Khal was standing a foot away, his face a mask of cool fury.
‘It was nice of you to finally come to my rescue, bratik.’ Roman raised a brow from his perch on the deckchair, but made no move to stand and greet his oldest friend.