was like digging for mines in the dark.
Statuesque, sanguine, Princess Claudine Verbault had finally taken her rightful place. The sight of which Lucas knew was his cue to leave. Yet his designer-clad feet were as if suctioned to the silver-toned marble as he hauled air into his tight lungs, clenched every hard muscle in his body until his bones ached.
That he’d lasted one hour and thirty-three minutes without manhandling her out of the room was a miracle in itself. And what the hell was Henri doing, throwing Philippe Carone at her every chance he got? The business magnate just happened to be one of the most eligible bachelors in Europe. And if the sleaze-bag danced with Claudia one more time—if he looked at Claudia one more time, stripping the tight sheath from her body with his marauding eyes—Lucas would launch the man across the room.
Thrusting his fingers to his throat, he yanked at the stiff collar.
Madre de Dios, surely Henri was not contemplating such a match? After everything she’d been through? Hadn’t she paid enough of a price to Arunthia? To lose her parents, her home, while so tender and vulnerable.
Lucas closed his eyes, took a deep breath, infusing his brain with some sense. No, he was wrong, Henri wouldn’t ask such a thing of her.
But Dios—Carone? The man wasn’t much taller than she was. How could he possibly protect her? Lucas could do a better job with his eyes shut! What the hell had ever made him think otherwise? No longer was he fourteen years old. No longer did he doubt his own strength. Claudia had trusted him with her life—curled her naked body into his. Even after he’d told her the truth of his past she’d cared not. Still she’d trusted implicitly. Still she had wanted to be held. And he’d walked away. Focused on duty. Rammed her responsibilities down her pretty throat. And if Henri were serious about Carone she would be strangled by duty until the day she died. Lucas had never considered happiness important. Until her. Until now.
On the far side of the room he saw Carone set his sights and begin walking towards her.
Excusing himself from the cluster of foreign dignitaries, Lucas swerved through the crowd, eyes locked on Claudia, his arms begging to pick her up, take her away. If he didn’t feel so damn sick he would laugh at the irony.
She turned, as if sensing him, eyes filling with an instant of warmth before veiling, cooling—a look he did not care for.
‘Good evening, Your Royal Highness,’ he said, with a formal nod. ‘You look exquisite.’
‘Thank you, Lucas, you don’t look too bad yourself.’ She forced a smile and his stomach hollowed...then shot to the floor when Carone sidled up beside her and Claudia offered the other man a sincere warm slide of her lips.
‘This dance is mine, Carone,’ he growled. ‘Excuse us.’
Lucas slid a protective hand over the base of Claudia’s spine, curled his fingers up around her waist and felt her muscles stiffen beneath his touch. He thrust away the sliver of panic; he’d wanted professional and now he was getting it.
‘I have a better idea,’ he said, tightening his fingers as they walked towards the dance floor—and took a swift unheeded side-step through the double doors leading on to the terrace beyond and the privacy of a star-studded sky. The chilly nip of the air did a miserable job of lowering his temperature.
‘Are you sure this is such a good idea?’ she asked, quickly sliding from his hold.
The loss of contact did abominable things to his mind-set. Lucas closed the doors, drowning out the noise with a satisfying click, and swivelled back to face her, taking a good swift kick to the guts as he drank her in.
All glamorous sophistication, she stood by the wrought-iron railings, pearly teeth gnawing at her rouged lip, top-to-toe in gold satin which hugged and caressed every voluptuous curve. His palms itched to indulge. Stroke. Cosset. Dios, would the craving ever cease?
He balled his hands. ‘Claudia...’ he managed, before wondering what the hell to say.
The lines of strain eased from her brow as her mouth tilted knowingly. ‘Thank you for the gift.’
‘You’re very welcome,’ he said, still loath to admit, even to himself, why he’d sent it. So she would feel his possessive touch around her beautiful wrists. A touch she’d discarded within minutes. ‘You didn’t seem to need them for too long.’ Which was a good thing, he assured himself, ignoring the twinge in