Honeymoon With a Prince (Royal Scandals) (38 page)

Hell yes
.
 
Two more steps, then another two, and he was at her side.
 
His pulse quickened, but the suffocating sensation wasn’t as intense as in the wine cellar or as when he’d left the banquet.
 
He managed an offhanded, “Don’t want to step on anything I shouldn’t.”
 

“Grab that end of the drawer, then.
 
Press the mechanism to the side and it’ll come all the way out.”

He crouched and did as she asked, then helped her lower the drawer to the floor.
 
She gestured to indicate the bureau’s exposed interior.
 
“Reach in there.
 
At the back, you’ll feel a wooden rectangle that seems out of place.
 
Wiggle it side to side.”

It took a few seconds, but he found the protruding spot at the back of the case.
 
When he pushed it to one side, then the other, the back panel fell into his hands.
 
He knelt further to look into the dark space, but quickly righted himself as a wave of nausea caught him by surprise.
 
He swallowed it back, determined not to let Kelly see.
 

“That’s unreal,” he managed at the same time her hand wrapped around his forearm.

“You’re not okay.
 
Come on.
 
Let’s go back to the living room.”

“I’m fine.”
 
At her resolute look, he sat down on the floor and forced a smile.
 
“
Now
I’m fine.”

“Are you claustrophobic?”
 
The question wasn’t accusing or pitying, but matter-of-fact.
 

“No.”
 
He ran his tongue over his teeth, wanting to explain, yet knowing it would forever change the dynamic between them.
 
When Kelly remained quiet, he conceded, “Not officially.”

One of her dark eyebrows arched.
 
“Wasn’t aware one could be officially claustrophobic.
 
Is there a certificate involved?
 
Or a secret government stamp?”

That eased the wrenching of his gut.
 
“No, I don’t think so.”

“In that case, your unofficial secret is safe with me.”
 
She gave his arm a quick squeeze, then withdrew her hand.
 
“Does your family know?”

“Nothing
to
know.
 
It doesn’t serve a purpose.”

Kelly sat beside him on the floor.
 
She crossed her legs in front of her, taking care to tuck her skirt around her knees.
 
With that easy motion, she made the closet feel intimate rather than oppressive.
 
It reminded him of the nights he spent chatting or playing cards with fellow soldiers when they’d shared a small tent in Africa.
 
Then, he’d never felt imprisoned.
 
On the contrary, he’d felt free.
 

“Maybe the purpose is to make you feel better,” she said.
 
“To know you’re not alone, that another human being is taking note of what you’re experiencing.”

“Now you’re a closet designer
and
a therapist?”

Amusement caused her to roll her eyes.
 
“Not in my wildest dreams.
 
If I were, I wouldn’t have to explain to my former assistant that I need her to go through my financial paperwork so I can recoup money lost to a former fiancé.”

“How’s that going?”
 
He should’ve asked her days ago, but never found the right opening.
 
When he’d been alone in bed at night, in those last moments before falling asleep, he’d wondered if the strain was keeping her awake or if the problem was being settled.

“It’s progressing.
 
She found all the documents I need to prove the money in the account came directly from the sale of my business, and I hired a lawyer to contact Ted and explain ever-so-firmly that the money is rightfully mine, that we had an understanding to that effect, and that he needs to return it or face legal action.
 
Now I’m just waiting for Ted’s response.
 
I’m hopeful he’ll return the money and leave it at that.”

“Good for you, especially on hiring a lawyer to rattle his cage.”

“You’re the one who gave me the idea.”
 
Her upper body tilted toward his, then she bumped his shoulder and grinned.
 
“It helped me to talk through the issue with you.
 
Even if it was embarrassing.
 
So maybe
you
were
my
therapist.”

“A prince and a therapist?
 
I don’t think so.”
 

He slid a sideways glance at her only to discover she was doing the same.
 
Their eyes held and an understanding passed between them.
 
They’d each been hurt.
 
They each prized their independence.
 
They each found their ways to cope and move forward.

“The injury to my back and shoulder occurred when I was in a small space,” he admitted, keeping his voice low and even.
 
“I assume that’s why the closet makes me uncomfortable.
 
It’ll fade in time.”

“That explains a bit.”
 
When he didn’t elaborate, she asked, “It’s new, isn’t it?
 
The discomfort.
 
You felt it in Giulia’s wine cellar and it surprised you.”

“Yes.”
 
The woman was astute.
 
“But now I know what to expect.
 
I think that’s half the battle.”

“What’s the other half?”

He shrugged.
 
“Like I said, time.
 
I’m expected to be around crowds and that often involves tight spaces.
 
But the more I do it, the faster I’ll adapt.”
 
He hadn’t thought of it in those terms until he said it aloud to Kelly, but as the words left his mouth, he knew them to be true.
 

“Somewhat like a kid eating broccoli,” she said.
 
“On the first bite, it’s bitter.
 
They reject it.
 
But the more they’re exposed to it, the sooner their taste buds adapt.”

If broccoli burned and choked, he supposed.
 
But the comparison was apt.
 
The experience at the airport caught him off guard, when he’d had the overwhelming urge to burst through security.
 
At Giulia’s, he’d again been caught off guard, but he’d managed to rationalize his way through it, get out of the cellar, and beat his overactive senses into submission.

He’d been fine at the parade.
 
He’d even been fine at the banquet until faced with an unexpected fire inches from his face, and that a short time after discussing the very warlord responsible for his injuries.

“Please tell me that’s a look of amusement on your face, and not offense at the broccoli analogy.
 
What you’re experiencing is much more…that is, I didn’t intend to minimize—”

He cut off Kelly’s apology a shake of his head.
 
“Definitely amusement.
 
I meant ‘adapt’ in the sense of gaining the experience necessary to fight the sensation, but I’ll keep the broccoli analogy in mind if there’s a next time.”
 
Who knew…it might work.
 
It was certainly a more pacifist approach.

He reached for Kelly’s hand and held it.
 
The contact brought a sexual charge that reverberated to his core.
 
Oddly, it also brought him a deep sense of contentment.
 
Despite the way it affected him, he expected her to pull away and claim the need to maintain a sense of professionalism.
 

She didn’t.
 

Chapter Twenty-Two

Kelly’s fingers flexed in Massimo’s.
 
“Tell me what happened.”

The small muscles of his jaw jumped as he considered her request.
 
She’d stated it as calmly as possible, giving Massimo the ability to beg off if he wanted, but she knew he wouldn’t.
 
He’d likely needed to talk from the moment he’d suffered the horrible injury, yet was too proud, too strong, and too stubborn a man to admit it.
 
Even so, she sensed he had other reasons he’d kept the details to himself, reasons that went beyond his own needs. It would help him to let another human being share his burden.

Yet she wasn’t certain she had the inner strength to hear it.
 
Discussing an event so personal while in the confines of the man’s walk-in closet would draw her deeper into his life than she wanted to go.
 
Given that her confidence was still healing from the slicing and dicing she’d endured with Ted, the last thing she needed was another reason to care for Massimo and another opportunity for her emotional wounds to bleed anew.

Massimo may have kissed her tonight—and oh, how it nearly brought her to her knees—and he may be holding her hand now in the quiet of the night, but those actions were born from primal need, not love or affection.
 
He’d made that crystal clear when he’d hired her.

“Have you heard of Matambe?”
 

She thought for a moment.
 
“That sounds familiar, but I don’t know why.
 
Is it a place you were stationed?”

“Matambe is a man…if one can call him that.
 
There were a lot of other names my unit and I used for him.
 
None of them suitable for use outside of combat.”

“I can imagine.”
 
Her uncle, a former Marine, was constantly chastised by his parents for using salty language when he’d returned home.
 

“Actually, I hope you can’t.”
 
His wry expression indicated her imagination wasn’t nearly depraved enough.
 
“Matambe is an African warlord.
 
There are some who believe he’s a god.
 
Others believe he’s a demon, come from the mouth of hell to visit devastation on those who are less than honorable.
 
He plays up both those local beliefs to his own advantage.”
 

Massimo glanced at the ceiling, but didn’t seem to see it as he spoke.
 
“To most of the world, Matambe is a power-hungry monster with no conscience when it comes to getting what he wants.
 
Theft, torture, rape, blackmail, murder.
 
It’s all in his repertoire.”

“I saw a documentary about warlords who prey upon isolated or poor villages a few years ago.
 
Probably why Matambe sounds familiar to me.
 
They’re definitely not the good guys.”

“No.
 
And Matambe is one of the most powerful and violent.”
 

His hand tightened fractionally over hers.
 
She sensed he was building toward the difficult part of his story and choosing his words with care.

“On my last assignment, I was part of a multinational force charged with hunting down Matambe.
 
It was a challenging task.
 
He knows the territory like the back of his hand and can move quickly, day or night.
 
He and his army travel across borders and through rough terrain as if it’s nothing.
 
His deputies act as lookouts to keep pursuers off their track.
 
He raids the villages for supplies and forces the inhabitants to reveal the whereabouts of any forces who are hunting for him.
 
He’s out before an alarm can be raised.”

Massimo released her hand with a quick pat and stood.
 
The necklace slid from his knee, landing with a dull thud on the floor, but he didn’t appear to notice.
 

“At times, my unit provided security for food and medical supplies being sent to villages in Matambe’s known territory.
 
One afternoon, twelve of us helped a village hide a shipment of donated food and medical supplies in an underground bunker they’d built to conceal their necessities from warlords or other vagrants.
 
Some of the supplies we left out in the village so anyone who might’ve seen the supply trucks and conducted a raid would think they’d gotten it.
 
Unfortunately, Matambe’s men learned about the shipment and alerted him.
 
At sunset, he came.”

“You were still there?”

Massimo paced the closet.
 
It wasn’t a panicked or nervous walk.
 
Rather, he seemed to think better while in motion.
 
“Nine of my men had already left.
 
I was there with two others finishing up.
 
We never expected an attack so soon.
 
Frankly, we were hoping there wouldn’t be an attack at all, since we’d been careful to keep the supply truck on as discreet a route as possible.
 
We were vastly outmanned and outgunned.
 
We had no choice but to retreat.
 
If we were seen helping out in the village—particularly helping hide supplies—it would’ve been devastating for the residents.
 
Matambe’s men would have tortured and killed them to the last man, woman, and child make a statement about what happens to those who consort with their enemies.
 
The villagers were expected to get supplies from whatever charitable organizations they could and immediately turn them over to Matambe.
 
Of course, if they’d done that, they’d have eventually starved to death. Keeping them fed and safe was what made them loyal to
us
.”