How to Catch a Queen (Runaway Royals #1) - Alyssa Cole Page 0,24

scarf, and used her wide-toothed comb to carefully unwrap her hair so it lay long and sleek down her back.

What if he wants something else? Her face went hot.

No. He’d likely be accompanied by the royal guard or advisors who always flanked him.

She stared at her reflection, then swiped on some lip gloss and tossed a mint into her mouth. Just in case.

When she finally pulled the door open, he was alone.

She lowered her gaze to his shoes, as Musoke had told her was respectful, in part to hide the confusion she was sure was apparent in her eyes. If she were his wife in more than name, she’d make a joke about the strappy leather uncle-style slippers he was wearing. Instead she said, “How may I help you, Husband?”

“You can let me in, for starters,” he said brusquely.

If she were his wife in more than name, she’d remind him to watch his tone.

“Of course,” she said, trying to remember that though it chafed more and more, in the long game meek and mild was the easiest way into a powerful man’s graces. More flies with honey than vinegar, and all that.

She stepped aside and felt the pull of his heat as he passed her, was wrapped in the enticingly spicy scent of his cologne.

There was silence after she closed the door, and when she straightened and turned she saw that he had slipped off his shoes and crossed the room to the inner sitting area, with its thick carpeting and old expensive furniture. He stood in front of the settee and looked at her with impatience in his gaze, and she realized he was waiting for her. She hurried over, slightly annoyed.

When he settled his bulk into the chair and she took her place across the wicker-based coffee table from him, she couldn’t help but notice the way his trousers molded to his thighs, revealing as much as his royal robes usually did. That naturally led to cataloging how big each of the hands resting on his knees were—and what they would feel like against her body. He shifted in his seat, spreading his legs to get more comfortable, and Shanti felt the frustrating heat of a blush rising to her face. She’d wanted her husband from the first time she’d seen him, and even her anger didn’t change that.

He was studying her, that divot between his brows so deep she was sure it was where he stored the worries he refused to confide in her.

“How did you know I wasn’t someone changing my voice?” he asked. It was strange hearing his booming voice in her usually quiet chamber.

“Er . . .” Shanti squinted at him. “And what if you were?”

“Then you could have let a stranger in.”

“I’m not worried about strangers. I trust in Kenyatta’s ability and if anyone gets past her, I will handle them. I’m more concerned about what I can do to help you now that you’ve decided to grace me with your presence.”

He didn’t say anything, just continued to look at her. It was then that she noticed it—his gaze wasn’t exactly a furnace, but something had struck heat into the banked coals she’d seen over the last few months.

“Should I call for tea? Wine?” she asked, ignoring the flutter in her belly caused by this man who’d done nothing to deserve the gift of her desire for him.

“No.” He rolled his shoulders as if preparing to say something difficult. “Are you well, Wife?”

It was the question he always asked, but his gaze was so direct that it threw her off. She nodded, which seemed a little less like a lie.

“I heard you were ill,” he said gruffly.

“I’m feeling better,” she replied. And since when do you care? she thought, trying and failing to prevent herself from feeling any kind of hope at his newfound interest in her well-being.

“Lumu said your illness might be related to your work in the archives. Maybe it’s too much for you,” he said, as though he hadn’t heard her. “I know you were accustomed to a different way of life in Thesolo. There’s too much dust in the archives—maybe you’re allergic. If you want to stop working, I’ll—”

“You’ll do nothing,” she said, a bit of vinegar lapping at the edges of her honeyed tone. “I lived on my family’s ancestral farm until my parents moved to the capital to pursue more opportunity for me. I still go back to the homestead whenever I’m able to. I’m not allergic