The Prince She Kissed in Paris, page 1
Awareness prickled over her skin. A sharp inhale brought about a scent of pine mixed with a masculine scent that painted a vivid image of a handsome smile and brown eyes crinkled at the corners.
“Hello.”
Squaring her shoulders, Madeline turned and laced her fingers together as she faced Prince Nicholai.
“Your Highness.”
He looked incredible. Dressed in a navy suit with a silver tie, his hair combed back from his face, he looked every inch the austere royal. His face was smoothed into an expressionless mask that made his sharp features look more like a statue than those of a living person.
Something inside her chest twisted. She missed the carefree smile he’d given her on the rooftops of Paris, the naked emotion in his eyes when they’d met in the alcove. On those occasions, she’d seen the man behind the crown.
Now, though...now he looked distant. Unreachable. Untouchable.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for reading my debut with Harlequin Romance, The Prince She Kissed in Paris! I had so much fun writing Nicholai and Madeline’s story. I loved kicking off their romance in Paris since I traveled there with my husband a few years ago. On our last night, we sprinted across the Pont d’Iéna (Jena Bridge) and made it to the halfway point just in time to see the Eiffel Tower light up in all its sparkling glory. My husband, like Nicholai, wasn’t impressed when I first told him about it, but told me afterward it was more of a highlight than he’d expected!
I also loved incorporating research on Croatia’s Dalmatian Coast into the creation of the fictional country of Kelna. The palace was inspired by Diocletian’s Palace in Split, Croatia. The historic charm of Kelna’s capital city, Lepa Plavi, mirrors that of Dubrovnik, a Croatian city crowned the “Pearl of the Adriatic” and famous among Game of Thrones fans as the filming site for King’s Landing.
I hope you enjoy this sweet royal romance and join me again later for Princess Eviana Adamović’s love story. Happy reading!
Scarlett
The Prince She Kissed in Paris
Scarlett Clarke
Scarlett Clarke’s interest in romance can be traced back to her love of Nancy Drew books, when she tried to solve the mysteries of her favorite detective while rereading the romantic chapters with Ned Nickerson. She’s thrilled to now be writing romances of her own. Scarlett lives in, and loves, her hometown of Kansas City. By day she works in public relations and wrangles two toddlers, two cats and a dog. By night she writes romance and tries to steal a few moments with her firefighter hubby.
The Prince She Kissed in Paris
is Scarlett Clarke’s debut title for Harlequin.
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.
My husband, John, my mom, Lori Beth, and my dad, Martin. My kids, Jack and Hannah. Teddy, Joe, Katelyn, Laura, Justin and Sara. My brother Nate, my sister-in-law Kelsey, and Papa Jim. My family and friends around the country (my St. Louis and Portland in-laws, Aunt Julie, Madi, Christina, my brother DJ, nieces Kyrstan and Samantha, Ayme, Ashley and Mama Donna). My Thursday critiquers: Dyann, Dennis, Cathy, Dora, Tenaya, Kristy, Nora, Claire, Goldie, Rod, Jan and Ed. My teachers: Dr. Anne Farmer, Mrs. Flory, Ms. Austin, Mrs. Young, Mrs. Schrock and Mrs. Long. Melodie, Stephanie, Kimberly and Dee Dee, and my Lakeland ladies, Marta, Ashley and Rachael. And to Steve, who will never read this book, and his wife, Lisa, who has excellent taste.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EPILOGUE
EXCERPT FROM BOUND BY THEIR LISBON LEGACY BY ELLA HAYES
CHAPTER ONE
PRINCE NICHOLAI ADAMOVIĆ braced his arm against the balcony doorframe as the wrought iron beams of the Eiffel Tower lit up with hundreds of sparkling white lights. The display no doubt dazzled the hordes of tourists who, despite the late hour, would be thronging the Pont d’léna and surrounding streets to snap the perfect picture.
He’d seen it plenty of times, had frequently dismissed it as nothing more than a cheap trick to attract visitors and romantics.
But tonight, he, too, watched the show.
When would he have the freedom to be in his own hotel room alone again? Without security guards or press or his family lurking about?
Or worse, a wife.
The lights performed one last dance before settling into a steady golden glow. A beacon for all of Paris to look to. One of hope, history and love.
He snorted. Love was for books, movies and the occasional lucky sap who stumbled upon their soulmate. For people like him, love was not always an option. Especially when the law of his country required that he have a wedding ring on his finger before accepting the crown.
A cold fist tightened around his heart. It wasn’t enough that he would lose his father and take over the ruling of a country growing far faster than anyone had anticipated. No, he also had to tie himself to someone he didn’t love. All because of an archaic decree.
He quelled his anger as he turned away from the window and crossed the room of his luxurious penthouse suite to the bar. One of the benefits of this night alone was being able to indulge in a glass of bourbon without raising eyebrows. He wasn’t anywhere close to the level of the President of the United States or the King of England. Hell, there were actors and actresses more recognized by the general public than he was.
But that was all about to change with the construction of Kelna’s first major port that would welcome ships from across the world. Multibillion dollar companies were courting his country, pouring money into building new roads, bridges and other infrastructure that would benefit Kelna’s people for decades. The media had started to take notice, requesting interviews and snapping the occasional picture of Nicholai, his sister, Eviana, and his father.
King Ivan Adamović of Kelna. A benevolent ruler loved by his children, respected by his staff and revered by his people. The kind of king one wished could rule forever.
He stared down into the amber liquid in his glass. What would the tabloids do if they knew the truth? That if the doctors were right, the Prince of Kelna would be king before the year was out?
He took his first sip, savored the slow burn down his throat. He’d accepted his fate to be king from an early age. He just hadn’t expected it this soon. He’d bought into the myth all children wanted to believe about their parents: that they would always be there. Ivan hadn’t always been around the way other fathers could be. He was a man who firmly believed in duty. But Nicholai had never doubted he had his father’s love and, equally important to him, his father’s trust.
He would rule. He had to.
Even if the thought of sitting on his father’s throne, of wandering the palace halls knowing he would never again hear the booming laugh or smell the musky scent of cigars smuggled past the royal physician, twisted his chest into knots so tight it hurt.
And, he thought grimly as he wandered back to the window, he wouldn’t have the outlets he did now to deal with the loss. The limited freedoms he currently enjoyed would vanish. Nights like this, where his security team slept next door instead of standing guard in the halls and concerns about paparazzi were minimal, would disappear.
His fingers tightened around his glass. A picture of him on his private balcony, brows drawn together, lips pressed into a thin line, had made it onto the front of one Italian publication that favored dramatic headlines and excessive punctuation.
“Kelna’s Bachelor Prince!” the title had screamed. According to an “inside source,” the Prince was currently unattached but “open to finding someone to share his life and the throne with.” The resulting furor, and the number of single women suddenly vying for his attention, had become irritating at best.
Eviana had found it amusing. Nicholai had not, especially when he’d discovered how news of the palace’s search had reached the media. A trusted palace aide, Franjo, had let a photographer into the palace under the guise of taking photos of one of the royal art collections. Two months later and the slash of betrayal still cut deep. Nicholai was a private person by nature. Letting his guard down was not something he did easily. That he had relaxed around Franjo, even considered the man a friend and had shared with him that he was contemplating marriage, had made him feel like a fool.
Never mind that Franjo had done it for a mere five thousand euros. All to cover a gambling debt. Had he just come to Nicholai, Nicholai would have helped him.
Neither here nor there.
It was done. It had taught him a valuable lesson. The more Kelna grew, the less he could trust outsiders.
Thankfully, the architecture firm he was meeting with tomorrow had been arranged and vouched for by his father, one of the few people he trusted without reservation. It would be his last event before traveling home to Kelna. With money pouring in, work had already begun on essential projects like schools and bridge renovations.
For one of the few projects that benefited the royal family, a new ballroom, Ivan had requested bringing in an outside organization from the States. Nicholai preferred keeping things within the country. But Ivan had made a good case for it, pointing out that a firm with no ties to Kelna could bring a fresh perspective and help incorporate elements that would appeal to the swell of tourists they were anticipating in the next couple of years. That the lead architect of the firm was an old university friend of Ivan’s, one he trusted to be discreet, had helped sway both Nicholai and his sister.
That and an ironclad confidentiality contract. No more gossipy speculation about his love life. No more lurid headlines and photographs of him with various women dredged up from the past, with reporters venturing guesses as to who his lucky future bride might be.
If only they knew the truth. He wasn’t just open to finding someone. He had to.
Shortly after his father’s diagnosis, the prime minister had approached him. Dario Horvat had served for years. He was someone both Ivan and Nicholai could count on, even if his views tended to be even more traditional than the King’s. So when Dario had told him about the Marriage Law, an antiquated law that hadn’t been enacted in over two hundred years, Nicholai’s initial shock had quickly given way to anger. He’d just found out it would be a miracle if his father made it to next summer. Learning he had to marry within a year of ascending the throne or he’d lose the crown was the last thing he’d needed to hear.
But Dario had persisted. The last five kings had all ascended the throne well into their fifties and sixties, decades into their marriages. Nicholai would be the first king under the age of forty since before the Napoleonic Wars had decimated Europe.
“Your family is respected, Your Highness,” Dario had told him. “Imagine the turmoil Kelna would experience if they lost two kings in one year amidst so much change.”
Phrased like that, there had been no point in arguing. The law itself was kept quiet. The last thing Nicholai or the palace needed was a bevy of women suddenly vying for the spot of future queen and possibly bringing the wrong kind of attention to Kelna. Marriage would calm some of the concerns and elevate him in the eyes of the traditionalists. It would also give the country something else to focus on besides the loss of their beloved king. A new princess, a royal wedding and above all, signs that despite Ivan’s passing, the line would continue. The throne would be secure.
He’d always known he would marry. Had hoped there would be affection, perhaps even love involved. He thought he’d have more time to find someone on his own.
But he didn’t. Such was the nature of duty.
Even now, Dario and a select group of trusted advisors were compiling a list of prospective candidates for him to review when he returned to Kelna. A strategic process. One that would identify women compatible with both the Prince and country. In the coming months, they’d find a way for him to discreetly meet the candidates and see if one would do the role of queen justice.
He glanced down at his watch. Ten minutes past eleven. The meeting was scheduled for nine o’clock in the morning. Sleep had eluded him since the doctor had given him Ivan’s updated prognosis. On the nights he did manage to fall asleep, he usually woke an hour or two later, his mind racing.
But he at least needed to try. He tossed back a generous gulp of bourbon and started to turn away when a movement on the roof caught his eye.
There. Beneath the light of the Paris moon, a woman sat on the roof of the east wing of the hotel, her back to him. Dark blond hair tumbled halfway down her back. Intrigued, he watched as she turned her head to look at the Eiffel Tower and smiled slightly as she raised what looked like a bottle of wine in a toast before taking a long drink.
His amusement vanished as she turned and scooted closer to the edge of the roof.
God, no. She was going to jump.
He grabbed the handle of his balcony door, then cursed as he remembered his security team had insisted on installing new locks that remained bolted during his stay. His head jerked up in time to see the woman move again. His heart shot into his throat. He didn’t have time to call for help. He grabbed the key out of the desk drawer and unlocked the door, running out onto the balcony just in time to see the woman brace her hands on the roof’s edge.
“Stop!”
His command was lost to the sounds of traffic below and a brisk spring wind that flung his words into the night. With a quick glance at the roof a dozen feet below, he pulled himself onto the balcony railing, uttered a quick prayer and leaped. For a breathless moment, there was nothing but the air rushing past him. He landed with a jarring thud that made his teeth rattle in his skull.
Get up. Get to her.
He rolled to his feet and sprinted across the rooftop.
“Stop! Ne saute pas!”
The woman’s head snapped up. She turned, her eyes growing wide as she saw Nicholai barreling toward her. She pushed to her feet, the city at her back, and raised the wine bottle up over her head.
“Don’t come any closer! I’m armed!”
He stopped, holding up his hands as his gaze darted between her and the roof’s edge. She was slender, a good foot shorter than he was. If he could just get close enough to pull her away, he could probably subdue her and summon someone on the ground below for help.
“I’m not going to hurt you—”
“I can see you still moving. I’m not that tipsy.”
The snarky tone surprised him.
“I just want to help you.”
“Help me?” The woman glared at him, fierceness radiating off her small frame in palpable waves that, had the situation not been so dire, would have made him smile. “Help me how? By shoving me off a roof?”
“Stopping you from jumping off a roof.”
“Stop me from...” Her voice trailed off as she stared at him like he’d sprouted horns. And then she did the last thing he expected.
She threw her head back and laughed.
* * *
Dealing with a crazy hulk of a man had not been in Madeline Delvine’s plans when she’d sneaked out onto the roof of the hotel that night.
A very handsome, very irritated-looking hulk of a man she acknowledged as her laughter subsided and he continued to glower at her. With her fingers still wrapped around the neck of the wine bottle, she started to step back and put a little more distance between herself and her unexpected visitor.
His eyes widened.
“Stop!”
Before she could blink, he darted forward with a speed she hadn’t anticipated, wrapping his strong arms around her waist and yanking her forward. Their legs tangled and he stumbled, falling backward and pulling her down with him. The bottle slipped from her fingers, hit the roof with a clink and rolled away. She landed hard on his chest.
A broad, muscular chest.
“What are you doing?” she snapped. She braced her hands on his shoulders, intending to push herself away. But her traitorous fingers just curled into the white material of his shirt as a scent that reminded her of wild woodlands wrapped around her.
Her breath hitched. She looked up to see the man watching her intensely.
Wow.
In the chaos of the moment, she hadn’t got a good look at him. But now, as her eyes roamed over his face, she realized what a travesty it was that someone who was probably drunk was also incredibly attractive. Dark, wavy hair had been swept back from his forehead, a couple stray wisps curling on his neck. She could only guess at the color of his eyes—green, perhaps?—beneath thick brows currently drawn together in a frown. His strong nose reminded her of a Greek statue, the square jaw softened by the tiniest dimple in the middle of his chin.
The man wasn’t just attractive. He was devastatingly handsome.
“You can let go of me now.”
Her voice came out husky and breathy. The man’s frown deepened as he moved his hands from her waist to her arms, anchoring her against him.
“No. I’m going to call 112 and have the emergency services send someone over—”
“Hey!” she snapped.
