Chapter 2

“Where do I drop you?” the enigmatic stranger asked tightly.

I could feel the tension in the car mounting with the distance between. I could tell he—the driver—was seething mad. Angry at me, apparently.

“Em, … 215 Redburn Street,” I said, thinking there was no point in not revealing exactly where I lived. I had nothing of value there, and the stranger already had me in his car. There was no longer any point in subterfuge.

“Why were you walking? Why weren’t you using the Monk’s late night shuttle to get home?”

Right! He also already knew where I worked. The Monk was emblazoned across my not bountiful chest, in scarlet, no less, on a material that shimmered. Yep, everyone knew where I worked, especially those bunch of drunks I had only just left behind.

“I didn’t know about the shuttle. It was my first day at work,” I muttered unhappily with a soft shrug. “But how do you know about it?” I turned to my savior and looked in askance at him.

The lights from the dashboard did nothing but cast a greenish hue to an already shadowy profile as if I needed more reason to be fearful of this stranger, but then, the street lights leaped in to cast a glow of clear light across him, throwing his features into stark relief and drawing my attention irrevocably to the attire he had on.

The red, hooded cape.

This man was one of the Monks.

“You’re one of the Monks!” I breathed out, breathlessly.

The man turned to face me. I made out his aristocratic features. He looked like money. I took a tentative whiff of the air and confirmed instantly that he smelled of it too.

“I am not one of the Monks. I am the Monk,” he said shortly. “The Monks are simply a front; it has but only one owner.”

I stared on, visually entrapped by the glimpses of his profile lit by the street lights we kept passing by. If the dimly lit profile were anything to go by, the man sitting right beside me was exquisite. Perhaps dying at his hands wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all. In fact, anything at his hands would be great! But while I could tell he was handsome beyond reason, I couldn’t quite place him. His face looked familiar yet was not. Perhaps with better lighting… Then, at my continued puzzled demeanor, he went on to question me further, “Don’t you know who I am?”

I stared once more at his profile, trying to make him out in the near dark, but then, I shook my head. I sighed and said, “Sorry, but I don’t think I do.”

I didn’t miss the smile of satisfaction that spread across his obscure features. “Well, then that is just as well.”

I sat back awkwardly after that as the silence continued for a while. I never realized just how many traffic lights there were from the club and all the way to my rental. But I did so now, almost counting them all, even as we pulled to a stop in front of another red light.

“Do they all have to be red?” I blurted out abruptly, unable to contain myself. I felt an inexplicable urge to escape his presence. Not merely because he still could very well turn out to be psychotic killer, but the rising tension in the car, either imagined or otherwise, was becoming unbearable. I shifted uncomfortably when he did not respond. Not even a flicker of recognition went across his face. It was as if I hadn’t spoken, or he was deep in thoughts of his own.

I was tired and feeling a lot block headed for the lack of sleep. I was not my rational self at all. So when I turned to my side and stared rudely at him, I didn’t think anything of it other than to appease my own need to try and identify exactly just who he was. I doubted curiosity would kill the cat in this instance, or I would’ve been dead or on my way to being dead already.

I stared openly at his profile, trying to make him out in the flickering light of the dashboard. I could tell instantly that the man was drop-dead gorgeous, but other than that, I couldn’t say anything more. My surreptitiously sideways glances of earlier had not been helping matters. I had to take the bull by its horns and face my rescuer head on. This was not an opportunity to be missed. He was the Monk, so he had to be famous, and he was sitting here within reach of me. I should’ve been able to recognize whom he really was. He certainly expected me to. The car was cast in shadows still, but the streetlights lit across his lips, and I found those lifted in a sardonic smirk. There was an odd familiarity to their tilt. I had seen him before. And I wasn’t one to blatantly ogle a man. At least not with him knowing it. So if I had noticed and recognized such an intimate detail of his appearance, I had to have seen him in person. Face to face. Up close and personal.

And that, I could tell, happened approximately next to never.

I could tell he was beginning to find humor in my situation. He was no longer angry, just lazily amused. I wasn’t exactly happy with this reaction either. Being angry felt more appropriate, especially considering the situation I had been in.

“Who are you?” I asked again, giving up with a huff, as my fuzzy brain refused to cooperate.

He didn’t respond.

And then, we were already pulling up outside my block. I turned back to unbuckle my belt and to mutter a tired but heartfelt gratitude. “Thank you. Thank you for saving me.”

But when I tried to open the door, I found that it wouldn’t budge. That I was invariably locked in. I turned to face him in dawning horror. He could be a mere sadist, wanting to torment his victim with glimpses of freedom before moving in on the kill.

His deep, husky laugh rang out in the dark confines of the car. It didn’t exactly sound eerie but was instead a melody that appealed to me. I leaned in closer, wanting to fully capture it, my fear momentarily forgotten in his mirth of laughter at my expense.

“I only wanted you to thank me properly first,” he said softly once he settled back to open amusement. He clearly saw the morbid directions my thoughts had wandered on and found it blatantly funny. He patted a long index finger to his cheek and said with an irresistible smirk. “With a kiss.”

I found myself blushing to the roots of my hair in a mixture of embarrassment and surprising longing. It could have been his choice of exotic scent that lured me in or his captivating smile or even his blatant good looks, but whatever it was, I actually wanted to do just that. To press my lips to him. And not necessarily on his rugged cheek either. But I wasn’t usually given to emotions such as this, but this … stranger apparently brought out the worst in me. And that made me resistant.

I hesitated, more than a little irked that he would hold me hostage for a kiss. I mean, I didn’t even know his name; I shouldn’t have to kiss him. But he had rescued me, and I did owe him one, so I leaned in reluctantly, and then, ignoring his obvious amusement over my reluctance, I pressed my lips to his heavily bristled cheek and sprang back with a cry.

“Ouch!”

His chuckle turned hearty again. “It’s almost five a.m. The morning bristle is unavoidable, but I can give you a softer perch for your lips,” he said before turning obligingly to offer me his smirking lips.

I let my hand fall away from my aching lips and blew out an angry huff. I wanted out, and I wanted it now!

I folded my arms across my chest and stared out front, straight ahead, refusing to look at him. I had never tried it before, never ever having the need to chastise an overgrown and highly inflated ego before, but I had heard that the silent treatment worked best.

He leaned over the seat, bringing his face in closer, and I took a rushed breath in at his proximity.

“Or I could give you a kiss instead,” he murmured before his soft lips slid across my cheek in a kiss that left me flushed and shaken. I resisted the urge to press my hands to my heated cheek. I turned to look at him and saw that the shadows were no more. I caught a glimpse of his face in the light before he drew back swiftly into the darkness. But what I saw made my breath catch again.

The door clicked open, and I scrambled out the door with my mind still spinning. It was only when I had both feet planted inside my building, and I was busy pounding up the stairs to my shared unit, that I noticed my feet were bare. I had, at some point during that ride home, kicked off those damn stilettos in relief.

I couldn’t care less about it for now. I would simply claim the heel broke on my trip home, and I would get a new pair. That was if I still had a job. Even that wasn’t a surety anymore. Not when it was the owner himself who turned out to be my savior. My mind tossed about restlessly in endless possibilities. But I craved nothing but sleep for now, so I slipped quietly into my room. Pulling off my clothes that I carelessly flung aside, I fell onto my bed clad only in my underwear and drew up my doona about me. The blanket was thick but worn and all the more comfortable for it. Curling myself instantly into a ball, I wrapped my limbs about my pillow and clutched it tightly to my chest.

But exhausted as I was, sleep strangely evaded me. My thoughts revolved ceaselessly on the aristocratic face of my rescuer this night. A face I now not only recognized but had revered along with the masses of his screaming fans.

Being a bastard these days did not bear such a stigma as it used to, but that did not stop Julian St. John from becoming a household name. Sadly enough, the paparazzi loved the man. And it wasn’t all his picture-perfect good looks that they were after. As the unacknowledged son, born out of wedlock, with a blue-blooded mother descended from the present monarchy of the Netherlands, Julian St. John had been shunned by the aristocrats but accepted into the warm bosom folds of his Italian mafia father and his extended family. He was not in line to any throne; he was not even an acknowledged royal. Instead, he was a sad secret that, while publicly known, was never truly acknowledged. In short, he was a paparazzi’s delight. And delight they did in stealing random pictures and broadcasting his entire life for the world to see. Still, the fearsome nature of his birth father did much subside the interest in his growing years.

So Julian St. John had therefore grown up in relative obscurity, on the fringes of the aristocracies of Europe, and lived with his common but underworld-connected father’s side of the family. Julius St. John, hailed from a bloodline as thick as Julian’s mother’s pedigree. Only his father’s side was steeped in blood money—not royalty. The popular version of the tale was that the notorious son to the then mafia king, Julius St. John’s attractive good looks had caught the attention of a Princess to the Netherland’s monarchy. Nine months later, and an infant Julian was deposited on the doorstep of the mafia king with all the aplomb that usually escorted a royal. But that was the extent to his royal privileges.

Then, one day, Julian struck gold on the stock exchange, and with his already notorious background, that spun him back out into public limelight. And when he cashed in his first billion, the fame from that alone had catapulted him right into the hearts of every money-grubbing female in the world, the aristocrats notwithstanding. But Julian played both ends of his genetic heritage to his advantage. At over thirty, he was well versed with the workings of the world and was even known to be capable of tweaking happenings to suit his preferences.

It was on the face of the BRW rich list that Julian St. John first stared out at me off the cover of that glossy magazine. The lengthy five-paged article on that spread spoke of his life story with too much detail. With a face already that unforgettable and a background to match, it was no wonder he was on the hearts and minds of every female the globe over.

The Dark Prince was his more popular moniker, coined happily by the press as they diligently tagged after him, photographing and documenting his every move. While the Dark Prince was not loved by the royals, he was adored by the public. His plight was championed by the people for him and, mostly, simply because of his devastating good looks. And the added fact, like a true rags-to-riches story, Julian St. John—shunned by his royal peerage—defied conventions and became a self-made billionaire, all by the means of simple, shrewd investing. Propped by the funding from his shadier cousins on his father’s Italian family line, Julian took it all a step further. In a steady and continued application of business smarts and immense good fortunes, his venture capital in start-ups took him from borrowed millions to owning billions. The man was really beyond famous, and I had been the recipient of his kiss on my cheek.

Somehow, that little moist brush of his lips eclipsed even his rescue of my person from potentially mortal danger.

Thinking of that danger helped me put things back into perspective. Julian was my rescuer and employer, and nothing more. I owed him my gratitude for saving my life, and nothing more. We were worlds apart, moved in different circles, and had absolutely nothing in common. Delving over his magnificent deep-blue eyes and blonde-streaked, brown hair was not going to change any of that. Besides, I was a bona fide adult. I could do more than drink; I could vote. I was responsible for my own living regardless, and my making googly eyes at my boss was one sure way toward losing that living. My eyes slammed shut on that last thought, and my mind shortly followed suit. Exhaustion over a weary day, filled with emotional upheaval, sent me drifting immediately off into oblivion. I slept through most of the day and was still feeling exhausted when I woke just in time to grab a quick bite and then head on back out into the working world.

It happened that I was not kicked out of my job. I did however get a new supervisor—my roommate, Sally. I was happy over her promotion even if I had not exactly been ecstatic over my old supervisor Claire’s dismissal. I felt that, somehow, I was to be blame for that. I knew she hadn’t intentionally forgotten to inform me of the late shuttle bus available for staff. It had been the hectic night that overrode her better judgement, but The Monk’s management had been adamant that her dismissal was irrevocable. She had a job, and she failed to carry out a primary duty—that of ensuring the safety of her team members—so she was let go from her position. The guilt from that rode with me for most of the entire week. I did, however, eventually get over it. It was management’s decision. It was out of my hands.

But naturally, my thoughts pondered over much of what happened that first night at The Monk over the rest of the week. It was also not unexpected that most of those thoughts had lingered over a certain Dark Prince. The thrill of that was not about to fade away anytime soon. And a drool-worthy one at that, and drool I did. Plenty.

But the occasional reality checks would jolt me back into perspective. The Monk was a bloody bastard prince after all—a freaking blue blood. Not someone a person like me had any business losing sleep over. I shook away my infatuation as best I could, so it was a sore point with me that he chose only the second week of my time at The Monk to make a reappearance.

It was his car that pulled up beside me just as I got off the bus to work. Only it was not the Bentley but a Bugatti. I was a little early today, and it was only a short walk from the bus stand to The Monk. So when the Bugatti ferrying Julian pulled alongside me, I didn’t initially think anything of it. But when the car did not budge from its ridiculous crawl beside me, I turned to face its driver.

“Julian,” I said awkwardly in greeting. I wasn’t really sure how to address him. I didn’t exactly attend a finishing school, of all things. And my scope of learning certainly didn’t cover meeting with royalty even if he was a bastard one with an Italian mob for his legitimate family. But I knew enough—that with either genetic backgrounds, he didn’t, as a rule, walk on the same plane as the rest of us mere mortals. But here was the Monk, out and about and ready to mingle with the likes of me.

“Get in,” he said shortly.

As before, he was gruff and impatient. I understood his anger before but not now. I got in anyway, and when he floored past the club, I didn’t question him. I simply sat in silence beside him, watching the city traffic lights blink past as the powerful engine ate up the distance, taking us both out of city limits. I pulled out my phone about then and busily texted Sally that I would be running late and hoped she would not be too riled up when I finally got there … if at all.

We had been driving for twenty minutes before he finally spoke. “I didn’t mean to take this ride. I was angry,” he said with a sigh.

“With me?” I felt stupid asking but needed to be sure anyway.

His chuckle was weak, but he said, “No, not you. A deal went sour, and Mother is calling me to return home.”

Mother? As in the royalty? I did a small mental yelp at that, going blank for a spastic moment before promptly recalling that line of familial bonding was closed to him. Or was it? Shaking my head inwardly, I determined he must be talking about his stepmother. It was not as if I could ask him either way—not without overturning a whole can of worms in the process. I tuned back into what Julian was saying.

“She thinks it’s her responsibility, you see, to arrange for this little reunion where she sets out hocking me off to the daughters of her closest friends,” he murmured grimly, his hands flexing to tighten over the steering.

I coughed back a surprised laugh at that. Definitely not royalty. Or she would not have stooped so low as to actually set about doing that.

“What she can’t seem to understand is I don’t want to be a part of that world or cater to her whims in matching me to whomever is her favorite of the month. I disappeared half-way across the world for just that reason. To keep away from that life and to carve out my own.”

“So what you’re really saying is that you … you ran away from your stepmother and your father’s kind of life?” I smirked at him. I couldn’t help the grin that tugged at my lips. This just didn’t go with his ruthless, I-am-the-boss-of-the-world image he wore on his sleeves. It made him instead terribly human.

“You find it funny, do you?” He grunted, unamused. “Well, I hate it,” he added aggressively. “I go only because of my dad. It’s what he expects. I am not sure if you know this, but my dad is Italian, and Italians are big on family.”

I did know that. I knew also that the mafias were especially so.

He paused to pull over to the side of the road. He turned then to face me. “I refused to be reduced to that…” he trailed off, clearly at a loss for words. “I refuse to be nothing more than a means to an end. Especially not to boost whatever plans of stepmother’s to her own ends. Yet … yet, I am still expected to run back at their summons. Can you explain to me why? Why should I even comply?”

Now, I was as earnest as the next fan in obsessing over the Dark Prince’s real life. So I was rather well versed with his stepmother. Of at least with what she appeared to be made out to be on print. It was clear to me she saw herself as a Queen. A royal by association, as mother to the Dark Prince, heir to his father’s underworld fiefdom. She certainly wore all the airs that came with that self-proclaimed title with the complete lack of grace that was only to be expected from her elk of the human race. What Julian’s dad had seen in her, I could never understand.

I shook my head sympathetically at Julian. But he wasn’t having that. It was not sympathy he sought but answers.

He stared earnestly into my face then, having tossed a question that was as complicated as the universe onto my lap to unravel. I was no Einstein. So I mutely shook my head at him then shrugged my shoulders as an added measure before I turned to look out the window. Wasn’t it enough he was born to a pedigree lineage, to amazingly great looks, to a bank balance that rivalled whole countries? Did he really need to have a happy family too?

On him, that would seem almost paltry. I, on the other hand, could do with some family. Any at all would’ve been great.

But his anger was, in a way, justified. He’d bought his own freedom from the farce that was his bloodlines, opting to neither turn toward his mother’s more prestigious pedigree or his father’s shadier disrepute, by earning his own billions. But still, family was family, and like it or not, he was the Dark Prince.

I couldn’t actually say that, though. I didn’t think he’d appreciate it.

Instead, I said, totally out of the topic and entirely irrelevant, “I have a stepmother of my own,” I announced my own woes. “She has invited me for a family reunion holiday. She has planned this exotic family vacation to some parts of Europe. I have never been to Europe. But then, I have never met my Dad’s new family either, and he has been married for a good five years already. Do you think I should go?”

I turned to look at him then, and he stared back at me. The silence continued as we pondered through our own problems, but then, he said, “Let’s get you back, shall we?”

He ignited the silent engine and spun us about to start our journey back. We made only one stop along the way, and that was for him to don his red cloak, and then, we were on our way again. Closing in on the club, we noted the massive crowd lolling outside trying to get in. He pulled over by the entrance, and finding no jockey on hand, he tossed his keys to me and said shortly, “Park it.”

Then, he was gone, hood up and escorted in by the bouncers amidst the roaring of the crowd. I felt them push against the car, and I rocked along with it, instinctively pressing on the lock to latch all four doors to seal it shut. Then, I nimbly climbed over into the driver’s seat and stared in awe at the powerful machine he had entrusted to me.

I stared a moment at the keys in my hand, thinking he really should have asked first … if I could drive at all. The key was not really a key at all, but a device to lock and unlock the car. This baby ran on highly electronic gadgets, and that meant no keys at all. I slid a caressing finger over the dashboard and settled it onto the nub that read quite simply as start. The ignition lit, and the engine reared to life. Its quiet, expensive purr slid over my skin to ripple down my spine in a sublime caress.

I should volunteer to be his permanent driver. Especially, if I got to drive machines like this one. But something told me he preferred having that satisfaction all to himself.

I pulled the car out onto the road and proceeded to crawl away slowly. The massive power in the engines were restrained by my feet pressed securely on the breaks—a position I was not letting up on anytime soon. Not when along with the lavish ride came the risk of it being an expensive one. I couldn’t afford to have it nudged let alone crashed outright into a pillar or something. I drove around the club to the back then eased it down the tightly curving corners to the underground parking. I searched for the spot earmarked for the owner of this particular car and found it conveniently enough, right by the entrance.

Sliding the car in, I pulled up short just before hitting into the wall in front. With supreme confidence over my inherent mastery of highly specialized mechanical beast, I tapped off the ignition and climbed elegantly out of the car, sliding first one stilettos clad foot and then the other before I allowed the natural momentum of my body to swing out on it.

I pressed the lock to secure it shut and made my way toward the lifts, tossing the keys up and catching them out of the air once then twice along the way.

I made it up safely, straight into mayhem. The place was exploding in sights and sounds that night. The chant was on for the Monks. I cringed and pushed past the crowds ‘til I got to the valet parking desk. There, I passed the key over to the attendant who eyed me up in surprise. I shrugged my shoulders then hurried off to find Sally. It was time I got on to work earning my keep.

****

I was finishing off with wiping clean the spills on the floor when Sally cornered me.

“What were you doing with the keys to a Bugatti?”

The grapevines were obviously rabid at work.

“Nothing,” I muttered, giving her a blank stare.

Sally lifted a brow, giving me that ‘I am not buying it’ look.

“The Monk tossed it at me, okay? I just assumed he wanted me to hand it over to the valet,” I managed with only a minor embellishment of the truth.

“Hmm, … okay, girl. If you say so. Ray and I will see you out back when you’re done. Don’t be too long about it,” said Sally before moving off to start piling up chairs on tables.

I continued with the mop up. The cleaners would be in during the day to get the rest of the job done, but we still had to make sure the worst of it was wiped clean before we left for the night. It was the part of my job that I hated most. Still, the pay was good, and I kept reminding myself of that. It was a mantra that kept me on the job for the next half an hour. There were more spills to clean. Not all the spills were of the liquor variety. Puke was splattered across one place too many.

I would be leaving work with Sally and Ray, so I didn’t have to book in the shuttle bus and was, therefore, unsurprised to not find it waiting for me at the curb. I did, however, find a sleek black car parked there, engine running. Waiting.

Sally emerged after me with Ray coming out in the rear. She drew to an abrupt halt at the sight of car. She turned to face me with a sly look, lifting her brow at me mockingly. I flushed red in embarrassment, giving her a slight shrug, acknowledging her silent chastisement. She’d caught me out at a lie. But knowing that I’d been found out just made it all the more easier for me to approach the silent Bugatti perched out front, at the staff’s side exit.

Waiting. For me, it seemed.

The door flew open as I neared it, and as always, the peremptory voice rang out, “Get in!”

I turned back to the curious-looking Sally and said, “I won’t be needing that lift back.”

Her sly wink of understanding stayed with me for a good while after I had buckled in and was being driven off. Julian was in another state of barely restrained temper. He pumped the pedals and drew us both swiftly away from the city at speeds that were dangerously close to drawing the notice of the authorities. I ran a caressing hand down the dashboard before me. I was fond of this car even if he wasn’t. “Would you mind letting up on the pedal? This car deserves more than what you have to offer,” I muttered shortly.

His explosive laugh reflected his shock in the dim shadows of the car.

I stared at him unperturbed, and finally, he pulled over by the side of the road.

“I have decided to go,” he began where he left off as if continuing from our discussion earlier. I winced for him in the dark as I realized he had been holding on to his anger all this while. Apparently, the many hours between our last conversations hadn’t served its purpose in helping him lay matters to rest.

I sighed and decided to take my fate in my hands and just run with it. “Go where?” I asked, pretending I didn’t understand. That I had entirely forgotten our earlier discussion. As if that were even possible.

But he was either ignoring what I said, or he just didn’t care, for he continued on as if I hadn’t spoken at all. “You were right. I shouldn’t shirk away from my duties. My father deserves to have me there. It is to him I owe my loyalty, not my scheming stepmother and her dubious claims to me, shamelessly trying to pull my strings, milking me for all I am worth.”

“Do you do this often then?” I asked abruptly, not even sure he would answer. He seemed a little bent on having his little rant—his own one-sided conversion and rhetorical questions.

“What!” he barked, surprising me.

“Do you have conversations like this with just random perfect strangers?”

There was a moment’s reflective silence, but then, he responded.

“No. This is an awkward first,” he said. His glimmering smile shone white in the darkness for a moment before it banked out altogether.

I sighed. Then, thought through my own problems.

“I think I am going to do it, too,” I muttered. “Visit my dad’s family, that is.” I could do incoherent in my dialogue as well.

His short snort conveyed his thoughts on that.

“Sorry,” he offered an apology to my frown that sounded anything but contrite. “I have many acquaintances who, like you, have had new families entrusted upon them, and not one of them has fared the better for it,” he explained cynically, clearly opting to completely disregard his own vast experiences on the matter. But I was not to be dissuaded.

Still, I shook my head. I really did not want my deliberately banked fears voiced out loud. They were bad enough haunting in the backs of my mind.

“I could be the odd one out in this. Your only friend who has a happy ending with her step family,” I said defiantly.

“So you’re my friend?” he enquired softly.

I shrugged.

“I am not your enemy,” I retorted noncommittally. I didn’t think I could be an enemy with the son of a Mafia King. Certainly not with a gorgeous-looking one at that.

“So tell me more about your new family,” said Julian.

“They’re hardly new anymore. Five years old, in fact. And the truth is I know absolutely nothing about them at all. They’re European, though,” I said, pointing out a common ground with the Dark Prince.

That drew no response, and really, why should it? There were endless Europeans around the world. I continued, “So my dad, Michael Marshall, married my stepmum, Fleur Nicklaus, a week after my mum died of skin cancer. I have not spoken to my dad since, and naturally, I have not met my stepmother or her two sons and two daughters from other marriages. My dad is her third husband, and before you ask, she did not murder her previous husbands. They are still alive and kicking,” I muttered then added an assurance as an afterthought, “I googled them.”

Fleur Metl Nicklaus Marshall had certainly had a very fulfilling life. Three successions of husbands and a career too. If one could call being my Dad’s PA a career. But she had been just that in all those years between husband two and my dad, number three.

“We’re a lot alike, you and I,” he said, eerily echoing my earlier thoughts on that point. “Only, my outlook to life is not as perverse as yours.”

That, I took an exception to. His wicked grin met my affronted look.

“You and I both have stepmothers,” I said agreeably, voicing out the only common ground we had, refusing to acknowledge his palpable hit on my outlook of life. He was right on that; I did have strange views on things. I saw my dad and men, in general, as the villains and did my best to gloss over my world with false humor. Julian thought the world of his Dad, and he saw his world as a challenge to be overcome. On thinking it through, we were really worlds apart on every other count, each of us responding to a similar circumstance very differently.

“But you have known yours since you were a child,” I stated instead, trying to look for some differences between us that wouldn’t paint the picture of my own so bleak a shade.

“She is the only mother I have ever known,” he admitted reluctantly.

“And your birth-mother?” I decided now was as good a time as any to get some inside on that particular popular theory. “Didn’t you know her too?”

“I never met her,” he said unsatisfactorily.

I gritted my teeth and pushed on further. “Who was she?”

That was quite literally the million-dollar question of this century. Who was it that sired the Dark Prince? Was he really a blue-blooded royal? Or was that just another unrefuted fabrication by an overheated press?

His chuckle was as dark as the lifting shadows that still surrounded us.

“I wouldn’t know. I never met her,” he repeated darkly before turning to lift me a sardonic brow, clearly daring me to pursue that line of questioning.

Contrary to popular belief, I wasn’t one given into despair over setbacks. But that didn’t mean I had a death wish either. And the topic of Julian’s genetic mother was dangerous enough to invoke either. So I gave a false high-pitched laugh and turned away, effectively ending that particular conversation.

I looked out at the passing scenery contemplatively. I didn’t even realize that the Dark Prince hadn’t responded, lost as I was in my own thoughts. Julian, too, was sunk in his own. I thought it strange that the two of us could carry on such random disjointed conversations of an intimate nature without any apparent awkwardness.

We drove on mostly in silence, but occasionally, he would speak, revealing something about his parents or his sister, and then, I would relate some faint recollection of my childhood and my mother. I wasn’t sure, but I think we drove around aimlessly with the Prince simply taking whichever path triggered his interest, but it was all too soon that we were doubling back.

The eighteen-wheeler Mack truck, rumbling along the road, nearing the city limits was quite possibly the last to make the trip that night. All night shifts were finally coming to an end. Soon, the daily grind of commuters heading to work would be all that filled these streets. Strangely enough, I was not in the least bit sleepy. Perhaps I was finally getting attuned to all these late nights. Or perhaps it was just being in the presence of Julian that invigorated me. It wouldn’t do to form an attachment—at least nothing beyond your average stalkerish obsession. He was a prince after all. That much, at least, was his due.

“So you’re an economist?”

I paused at that. How did he know? Had I included that in my resume? Did he have me checked out? Unable to ask him any of this, I merely nodded miserably in response. “I would be if I could get a damn job. But they all require in-built experience. I don’t see how that’s even possible,” I grumped unhappily.

“You want me to pull a few strings?” he offered generously. I pondered that for a moment but then shook my head. I didn’t want to be indebted to him. He was already a billionaire, the heir to the Italian Mafia’s fiefdom, and a hero in rescuing me. I didn’t need him pulling strings to make him even more than I could handle. Not that what he was wasn’t already a sensory overload in itself. Eyeing him now, I could see, even in the dark, he was heart-meltingly handsome. It was a good thing; I just wasn’t as susceptible as most of my species would be. But then, I had good reasons to maintain my higher-than-average level of skepticism. It would take a lot to turn my head. What, with having received a childhood immunization to the affliction and all. In this regard, I actually did have something to thank my absent father for.

“No, I’d like to try a bit more on my own. I am sure I will soon secure something. I have The Monk for now. I am comfortable enough,” I said simply. I made ends meet, and as my expenses were low, I was also able to set some aside.

“Well, you know where to find me if you need me,” he said.

“Likewise,” I replied earnestly to his amused chuckle. I could see why he thought he would have no need for me, but I had not been the one who had been waiting outside The Monk for him—in a Bugatti.

God! I love this car!

I couldn’t keep from running a surreptitiously caressing hand down its leather seats.

“So … when are you leaving?” I asked abruptly, referring back to our original conversation of him grumbling about attending an event in his homeland. His stepmother’s attempt at match-making—the very notion was an absurdity in itself. Women had to be leaping out at him from behind every bush. All he had to do was to reach out to niftily field one for himself. There was surely no other man in lesser need of match-making than Julian St. John.

It was strange but, he seemed to have no problems in leaping back in the exchange of conversations, connecting the two together, and forming the appropriate response.

“Tomorrow. My flight leaves tomorrow night,” he said softly. I could tell he was not happy. And I realized I was not either.

“What about you? When do you leave?” he asked conversationally.

“Next month,” I said softly. I felt strangely alone already, knowing he would be gone for the whole month. Even though I had been pretending otherwise, I had been thinking about him constantly ever since we first met. He had been occupying a good deal of my thoughts, and now, he would be gone. There would be no waiting, no pondering over when I would next see him because I would know that he was gone—gone back to his home country, to the intricate weave of family that was the Italian mafia.

I couldn’t help the sigh that left me.

His hand reached out to cover mine, jolting me out of my reverie. I jerked around to peer at him in the dark, but his hand was now gone, leaving me feeling bereft and strangely at lost.

He pulled up before my block and switched off the engine.

“So tell me about your boyfriend. Will he mind my kidnapping you, on and off, for a little heart to heart?”

That startled a laugh out of me. “I don’t do boyfriends. No love for me. I am an atheist when it comes to the whole concept of love,” I declared simply, grinning tiredly up at him.

“Ah, because of your father,” he murmured with sudden understanding, and I simply nodded. There was no use denying the obvious.

He shifted in his seat then reached for some music.

I sat there with him, watching his hand reach out to tap the radio on and then fiddle with the stations. He had long, slender fingers that matched his long, lean frame. I had been avidly researching him this past week, and having seen him in the twilight earlier, I could certify that he was every bit as handsome in person as he was on screen. His rugged beauty was strangely unique to only him. There was his sun-streaked hair, longish and carelessly worn, not resembling in the least the neat cut I had been expecting of royals. His eyes were a rich hue of deep blues, and framed as they were in dark long lashes. He was a pin-up picture to hold a place behind the doors of most pining teenagers. Sadly, I was no different. There was the one picture that I had gone out of my way to get a print out of. A picture that sat even now in my wallet. Shirtless and dripping wet, Julian was mouth-wateringly beautiful.

I shivered now, thinking of that picture. “I should go,” I said meekly, feeling my cheeks flame up with my inappropriate thoughts of him.

“This is a good song,” he said softly.

The music that flooded the car was every bit as seductive as the man sitting beside me. His masculine appeal already ridiculously heightened by the deep shadows within the car was now compounded by the entrancing sounds coming out of well-tuned acoustics. I found myself gripping my hands together tightly as the saxophone belted out a jazzy tune that had been perked up to a modern beat. It sounded absolutely delicious—a contemporary instrumental beefed up with deep rhythmic bass. I hadn’t realized how the build-up in sexual tension was working me over until the music and company worked its magic over me. Strain after strain played through, and I was drawn to the thrills and depths of the changing melody ‘til the bass fell silent, and the beats faded away. Then, I unclenched my teeth and made a little mewling sound of distress.

I needed to get out of this car. Now.

“Shhh,” he whispered huskily, showing that he was similarly as affected. “This next song is even better.”

I almost bit out a whimper as the amazing sound system of the Bugatti took on an epic symphony of music that swept out of its speakers and all but echoed within the confines of the car so movingly that it rocked my world with it. My eyes slid shut, and I was transported. We drifted through two more songs after that ‘til I felt emotionally wrung out and put to dry. Then, the door clicked open. Without a word, I got out to stand on shaking legs and shook as I walked slowly to my door. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. Not without wanting to drag him out for a kiss and then some. But I doubted that I could have achieved that even if I wanted to. I was suddenly exhausted. Not only had I been up all night, but listening to those songs with that amazing sound system had been an experience that could only be described as orgasmic.