Heir Untamed - By Danielle Bourdon Page 0,75

that she was grateful. She didn't know what she would say to any of them.

Returning the second day from the kitchens, where she'd filched a simple sandwich and a piece of fruit, Chey opened her door and was just about to step across the threshold when a folded note on the floor grabbed her attention.

Bending down, she picked it up and opened it.

Meet me at the old castle at five.

This was the first she'd heard from Sander, too, since that fateful day. She wasn't sure how she felt about seeing him again. A part of her was still quite angry. Another part wanted to have it out, to hash the details away from the castle and prying eyes and ears.

Smoothing her thumb across the slanting script, she folded the paper and pushed it into the pocket of her jeans.

The clock on the fireplace mantel told her she had three hours to wait. In the meantime, she took a shower and chose a fresh pair of jeans to pull on. Because the weather was so frigid, she donned an ivory sweater with a thick collar and sleeves to her wrist. Taking a long coat from the closet, she laid it over the bed. She dried her hair until every ounce of dampness was gone then added a few curls, a light layer of make up, and a dab of perfume on her throat.

Checking the window, she noted the sky was still the color of iron, overcast though the snow had finally stopped falling. She wondered if the road to the old castle would be impassable. Collecting a flashlight and a few tissues for her nose, she stuffed those into the pocket of her coat. Her phone went along with them.

At four-thirty, she headed down to the truck parked just outside the bailey walls. It took her five minutes to scrape snow and ice off the hood and another five to defrost the windows.

Climbing inside, she turned up the heat and drove toward the road. Pleased to find it already plowed, she rumbled along at a sedate pace, music set low, thoughts on the meeting ahead. Now was the time to decide what she was going to say. What she was going to do.

What was she going to do?

Sander had played her. Maybe not for a fool, but he'd played her nevertheless. The lies stacked up against his favor and omitting that he was next in line to the throne was as bad as lying about it.

On the subject of thrones—the King and Queen would never allow them to date if they knew. Which might also have been a reason why Sander kept their tryst hidden. The best she could hope for long term with Sander was to be his sometime mistress. As his duties stacked up and he took over ruling the country, he would have less and less time. Not that she would willingly be some married man's mistress anyway.

The more she thought about the position she was in, the angrier she became.

All of this could have been avoided. Sander wasn't the only one to blame. She should have—done something. Asked more questions. Checked his background. Chey barked a little laugh at the thought.

“Hello, you've just tackled me onto the ground, and you're kind of hot, and we might some day have sex, so will you submit to a background check so I can make sure you're not really the heir to the throne? That would be terrible if I fell for you--” Chey stomped the brakes when that last sarcastic sentence came out. The truck fishtailed and came to a stop sideways in the road. She sat forward, hands gripping the wheel. She hadn't fallen for Sander—had she? Was it possible in a week? Had it only been a week?

Sitting back, stunned at the thought she might be falling for him, Chey took a moment to just breathe. That would be a disaster, especially considering all the cons she'd listed in her mind. Too many cons, not enough pros.

No, whatever glimmer this was had to be stifled. Before she really did fall in love and wound up with a shattered heart. The heir apparent was not a man she had the luxury of loving.

Putting the truck in gear, she eased back onto the road and started for the old castle. At least now she knew what kind of conversation she was going to have when she got there.

. . .

The headlights cut through the growing gloom, illuminating the facade