Maisey Yates - Princess From the Shadows

She’d already done it once without a man in the picture.

“Great. We can talk more then,” she said, wondering if any amount of talking would ever make the situation seem normal.

After spending a couple of hours getting Luca settled and conked out in his new room, Carlotta went back to her room and selected a nice dress from her collection of, admittedly, out-of-date clothing.

Clothes just didn’t matter when you hardly ever went anywhere and certainly never went on dates. As Queen of Santa Christobel she would need new clothing….

Oh. Madre di dio . She was going to be the Queen of Santa Christobel. She had sort of been stuck on being Rodriguez’s wife. On what it would mean to marry him and share his bed, and have his baby, and uproot her son from his home in Italy. She hadn’t even gotten to the queen bit.

She tugged the dress off the hanger and sat on the bed in nothing but her bra and panties, the plush, silken comforter billowing around her, enveloping her. She clutched the rust-colored dress to her chest and breathed in deeply, trying to stop the room from spinning.

This was not her life.

And what is? Self-imposed exile in Italy? Living it up, aren’t you, Carlotta?

She had known she’d have to get back into the swing of things eventually. Start living life beyond the four walls of her home. She hadn’t really intended on doing it in such a grand way.

Life had seemed … still, for the past five years. No, not still. Because Luca always changed. Every day there was something new and exciting for him, and she lived it, loved it. Loved him. But for her … there had been nothing. It had been like being wrapped in a cocoon. Now she was torn from it, and she doubted she’d had any grand transformation.

She didn’t know if she was ready for this. And she didn’t really have anyone to talk to. Normally she would call Sophia but since she was currently shacked up with Ash in India and Carlotta was now engaged to the man she’d been intended to marry …

Well, she deserved to be dragged into it, all things considered.

Carlotta took her phone out of her purse and tapped the icon on the screen for text messaging. She’d sent Sophia a blistering message when she’d found out she’d run off with Ash. Now, well, she couldn’t really blame her younger sister. This was … it was overwhelming. Maybe if Ash had been standing by with a private plane she would have run off with him too. Though she wouldn’t have hopped into bed with him.

Hope you’re having a blast in India. BTW, I’m marrying the fiancé you ditched. Good choice, he’s an ass.

She hit Send on the message, then tapped the screen again, a smile curving her lips. She hit the New Message icon.

He’s also a total stud. So that’s some consolation.

This time when she hit Send, her smile was smug. She hoped Sophia was happy, whatever she was doing. Well, she had a fair idea of what her sister was doing, since she’d been caught in Ash’s bed on his private plane.

Sophia was the one person who didn’t seem completely ashamed of her and Luca. But while she wished her sister a lifetime of happiness, and if that included a torrid affair with Ash, fine with her, she deserved a little goading, all things considered.

Her phone pinged and she picked it back up. New message from Sophia.

At least our father will be pleased to have both of us marrying fellow royals.

Married? She’d just thought Sophia was sleeping with him. Well, then things really had worked out in her father’s favor. One daughter to a maharaja, the other, the one who’d been mired in total disgrace, married off to a prince.

She typed in another quick message. Congrats, Soph. Love ya.

She snorted and tossed the phone onto the bed. Yes, this was all working out great for Eduardo Santina. Hopefully it would work out even half as well for her.

There was a sharp knock on her door and she scrambled from the bed, stepping into the dress and contorting her arm so that she could tug the zipper up. “Just a second.”

She got it midway up, then reached over her shoulder and grabbed it from above, tugging it up the rest of the way. She looked in the mirror and pulled on the neckline, trying to make sure everything was in its proper place. Her figure was a bit fuller since her pregnancy and sometimes she wasn’t quite sure what to make of her new curves.

Not that they were pin-up worthy or anything. But at least she could fill out the top of her dress now, with a little cleavage.

She wondered what Rodriguez would think. If he would check her out. That made her cheeks feel hot. She tried to find some hold on her control, tried to keep in command of her body’s reaction.

This is what happens when you give in. When you’re weak .

That was what her father had shouted at her the day she’d told him she was pregnant. The day she’d told him who the father of her baby was through heartbroken sobs. It was so easy to feel the shame, the sick, crawling feeling of dirt on her skin, as she confessed the truth about Gabriel.

She was determined never to be weak again.

“Ready,” she said, turning away from her reflection, redirecting her thoughts.

The door swung open and Rodriguez was there, leaning against the frame. He didn’t look last season, not even close.

His crisp, white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a wedge of golden brown skin and just a little bit of dark chest hair. His dark hair was disheveled. He looked like a man who’d just come from his lover’s bed.

She wrinkled her nose. She’d been upstairs for a couple of hours, it was entirely possible that he’d …

“So, how was your evening?” she asked, stepping past him, out into the corridor.

“Fine. I had some work to see to.”

“Great.”

“You?”

“Luca seems settled in. I don’t know if he really understands that we’re staying here. But then, I guess that makes two of us.”

“Three,” he said, walking ahead of her, taking the stairs two at a time. She followed as quickly as her kitten heels would allow.

“You don’t feel at home here?”

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at the painted ceiling. “I never have.”

“You could … redecorate.”

A short laugh escaped his lips and he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his dark slacks. “That’s almost like suggesting I paint over the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling. I mean, not quite, but as far as Santa Christobel and our history is concerned, it is.”

“Well, that would be a bad idea then.”

“Very likely.”

He paused and turned to her, placing his hand on her lower back. She felt the heat of his touch blaze through her, like fire had ignited in her bloodstream, moving through her like a reckless spark on dry tinder.

Was she so desperate for a man’s touch that such a simple thing could turn her on so quickly? Well, clearly she was. A man she didn’t even know, a man she wasn’t sure she liked. She truly was no better now than she’d been six years ago. It was still there, that reckless passion. The one she’d worked so hard to shove down deep, to lock away forever. It was a sobering, gutting realization.

“This way,” he said, unaware of the turmoil his hand on her back had caused.

She kept her shoulders straight, tried to keep it so his hand only touched the fabric of her dress and didn’t press it down so that it came into contact with her back again. Because that had been far too disturbing.

The dining room was as opulent and formal as the rest of the house, the sprawling ceiling mural continuing through, with scenes of a massive feast painted just above the long, expansive table.

“Cozy,” she said.