Page 79 of Royally Matched
But my initial lack of faith in his driving skills was not the only reason for my tension. When hereached out and touched the skin of my arm, it felt like he was crossing an unspoken line, a line neither of us should even get close to, let alone pass. That one, simple touch sent scorching heat coursing through me, making my heart leap in the very way I have been so afraid of. As he pulled his hand away, I had to resist the urge to reach out and hold it in mine, the touch of my skin against his reassuring andwonderful.
Of course I didn’t. It wouldn’t be right. I might not feel even the smallest of sparks for the man who’s meant to be my Mr. Perfect these past weeks, but that doesn’t mean I should act on my feelings for Marco.
No. I’m better than this. I’ve spent my entire life concealing my true feelings. I’m practiced. Expert. I can resist a man like Marco Revera with his sparkling eyes, his sexy grin, his easy-going nature, and his manly body.
But oh, my, what a body.
His burly, rugged presence fills the space between us, making my car feel much smaller than it is. His broad shoulders brush lightly against mine as he turns the wheel, each movement effortless yet commanding. His forearms flex as his hands grip the steering wheel, his muscles rippling beneath his skin, strong and capable.
I close my eyes and turn my head away, choosing instead to count the fields as we pass them, the church steeples indicating small towns in the distance.
I purposefully chose to find a man by using my spreadsheet to avoid the messiness of love. To avoid the fleeting nature of attraction and the damage it can do. As I watch Marco concentrate on driving, I know he’s absolutely everything I’ve worked so hard to avoid, everything that can open my heart and leave me vulnerable.
It was Reynold Maben who last had such an effect on me. The man I loved and lost. We had met when I was at Cambridge, an innocent and unworldly 19-year-old, freshout of Ledonia. He had all the swagger and confidence of a man used to getting his way, and I found it impossible to resist his charms. Like Marco, he too worked with his hands. He was a sculptor, learning his craft. I was drawn to him in a way I’d never been drawn to a man before, and we spent two wonderful years together, in love.
Until we weren’t.
Well, to be more precise, until he wasn’t anymore. For me, it came completely out of the blue. We had spent the weekend with friends in one of my family’s country homes. We’d laughed as we cooked together, hiked the hills, and made out under a willow at the side of a lake. And then, on the way back to Villadorata, after we dropped off one of his friends from art school to catch the train back to Britain, a pretty woman called Jilly, he told me he was in love with her and that we were over.
I can still feel the ice-cold desolation that spread through my veins that day, creating an iron wall that I wrapped around my heart. I resolved then and there never to allow myself to let my guard down, to allow someone to touch me in the way he had. My poor heart couldn’t cope with being broken again.
It was then that the media gave me the cruel moniker, the Pitiful Princess. But you know what? They were right. I was pitiful. I’d had my heart broken and with it, a little part of me had died, gone forever.
Or at least that’s what I thought until I met Marco. Despite my defenses, despite my determination not to let it happen again, he has ignited a fire within me I’ve found impossible to put out, no matter how much I know I need to.
We pass field upon field, finally leaving the flatlands as we reach the foothills to the mountain range where our destination is located. It’s verdant and lush, and as I lookacross the landscape I can see church steeples in the distance, indicating a small town or village lies there.
“How wonderful it must be to live in one of these small villages in this beautiful landscape,” I say as I gaze out the window.
They’re the first words either of us have uttered since he apologized for touching me, and they sound odd in the small space in the car.
“Would you like to live in one of those small villages? I would have expected you would prefer to live at the palace.”
“Don’t get me wrong, life in the palace is more than comfortable, but—” I stop, worried I’ll come across far too “poor little rich girl” for him.
“Tell me,” he says, his voice softer than before.
“I don’t want to sound like a spoiled brat. I know I was born into a life of privilege and wealth, and I’ll never want for anything material. It’s just that my life is… dictated, I suppose. Does that make sense?”
“You were born into a job in which you need to act and look a certain way. You didn’t have any choice.”
His words resonate with me. He gets it. He getsme.
I should have known he would.
“You’re right. I didn’t have a choice. Not that I don’t love it, because I do.”
“What do you love about it?”
“The balls and the grand state events and all those things are all very well, but what I really love about the job is feeling like I’m making a difference in people’s lives. I remember having a conversation with Maddie about it when she first became a princess. She told me she felt like she’d finally found her purpose in life, that being a patron of hospitals and various charities meant she could extract real meaning in a way she’d never been able to in herprevious life. Even though I wasn’t a nine-to-five office worker in Texas like she was, I knew exactly what she meant.”
“Is that why you want to be queen?”
His words hit me in the solar plexus.
I know I could ask him where he got such a silly notion because, of course, I’ll never be queen. But I don’t. There’s something about Marco that makes me feel safe, makes me feel as though I can show him my true self.
So instead, I look down at my hands and reply, “It’s a little more complicated than that.”