promises he couldn’t keep.
Considering the fact that in three weeks the eyes of the world would be upon this country as he and Stella cemented ties between Akathinia and Carnelia, he had his work cut out for him.
CHAPTER SIX
K OSTAS STOOD LEANING against the blacked-out windows of the Bentley, jacket discarded, a dusk-driven breeze stealing across his skin. His oxygen-deprived brain had craved fresh air as he waited for Stella to appear for their dinner engagement, too many weeks of conference rooms and endless bickering about election minutiae clouding his brain. That and the seemingly endless pushback he was receiving on the hotel developments he was negotiating for the east coast of Carnelia.
It was enough to make a man question his sanity for attempting to take on this almost impossible job.
Tonight, however, would be enjoyable. With his wedding just a week away, he and Stella were joining Tassos Andropoulos, his best friend and best man, for dinner at a tiny, low-key restaurant in the city to discuss last-minute details. It was an establishment he knew well, whose proprietor would keep their presence hush-hush, a necessity considering the anticipation for his nuptials had reached a fever pitch. The madness descending over Carnelia was something he would be happy to see the back of.
The foreign media, scheduled to arrive this week to cover the lead-up to the wedding, were salivating over the celebrity-packed guest list, as were the people of Carnelia, who hadn’t seen such an influx of famous visitors since the wedding of his grandmother Queen Cliantha. Their enthusiasm was heightened by the weeklong festivities scheduled around the ceremony, which included two days of national holidays to celebrate. He thanked the high heavens the only thing he had to do was show up.
Pulling in another deep breath of the clean, quiet air, he focused his attention on the entrance to the castle and his fiancée’s imminent appearance, rather than the insanity to come. Punctuality was not one of Stella’s virtues, but since she had so many others, he was willing to overlook it.
She had been picture-perfect in an appearance at the annual fig festival, winning over the farmers with her wit and charm as they served as the judges of the cake-baking competition featuring the star fruit, then doing the same at an official state dinner for the Italian prime minister as Carnelia officially reopened relations with that country.
Unfortunately, for his goal of creating a manageable stasis for his own relationship, the cool, composed Stella who had presented herself on those public occasions had been the same one to greet him every morning in the two weeks since their confrontation in the conservatory. He seemed to be an object of suspicion, to be avoided, while she wrapped her head around their relationship. He hoped the tiny but noticeable thawing in her manner toward him meant they were headed in the right direction.
His introspection came to a halt as Stella exited the front doors and came down the stairs in a cloud of exotic, sophisticated perfume. He was a fan of the scent as well as the dress she wore—a formfitting, knee-length cocktail number embroidered with some type of flower he couldn’t identify.
“Sorry,” she murmured, coming to a halt in front of him, the careful smile that seemed to be her de facto response to him of late pasted on her lips.
“No, you aren’t,” he said easily, shifting away from the car, “or you’d be on time.”
Oh. Those blue eyes sharpened. It’s going to be that kind of night?
It’s been that kind of fortnight.
Her lashes lowered in that reining in of emotion he was coming to hate.
“We should go,” he murmured, sliding his fingers around the handle of the car door and opening it. She walked past him, sinking her bottom into the seat, then swinging those incredible legs of hers inside. His palm grazed the curve of her hip as he bent to tuck her in, the brief touch of his
Considering the fact that in three weeks the eyes of the world would be upon this country as he and Stella cemented ties between Akathinia and Carnelia, he had his work cut out for him.
CHAPTER SIX
K OSTAS STOOD LEANING against the blacked-out windows of the Bentley, jacket discarded, a dusk-driven breeze stealing across his skin. His oxygen-deprived brain had craved fresh air as he waited for Stella to appear for their dinner engagement, too many weeks of conference rooms and endless bickering about election minutiae clouding his brain. That and the seemingly endless pushback he was receiving on the hotel developments he was negotiating for the east coast of Carnelia.
It was enough to make a man question his sanity for attempting to take on this almost impossible job.
Tonight, however, would be enjoyable. With his wedding just a week away, he and Stella were joining Tassos Andropoulos, his best friend and best man, for dinner at a tiny, low-key restaurant in the city to discuss last-minute details. It was an establishment he knew well, whose proprietor would keep their presence hush-hush, a necessity considering the anticipation for his nuptials had reached a fever pitch. The madness descending over Carnelia was something he would be happy to see the back of.
The foreign media, scheduled to arrive this week to cover the lead-up to the wedding, were salivating over the celebrity-packed guest list, as were the people of Carnelia, who hadn’t seen such an influx of famous visitors since the wedding of his grandmother Queen Cliantha. Their enthusiasm was heightened by the weeklong festivities scheduled around the ceremony, which included two days of national holidays to celebrate. He thanked the high heavens the only thing he had to do was show up.
Pulling in another deep breath of the clean, quiet air, he focused his attention on the entrance to the castle and his fiancée’s imminent appearance, rather than the insanity to come. Punctuality was not one of Stella’s virtues, but since she had so many others, he was willing to overlook it.
She had been picture-perfect in an appearance at the annual fig festival, winning over the farmers with her wit and charm as they served as the judges of the cake-baking competition featuring the star fruit, then doing the same at an official state dinner for the Italian prime minister as Carnelia officially reopened relations with that country.
Unfortunately, for his goal of creating a manageable stasis for his own relationship, the cool, composed Stella who had presented herself on those public occasions had been the same one to greet him every morning in the two weeks since their confrontation in the conservatory. He seemed to be an object of suspicion, to be avoided, while she wrapped her head around their relationship. He hoped the tiny but noticeable thawing in her manner toward him meant they were headed in the right direction.
His introspection came to a halt as Stella exited the front doors and came down the stairs in a cloud of exotic, sophisticated perfume. He was a fan of the scent as well as the dress she wore—a formfitting, knee-length cocktail number embroidered with some type of flower he couldn’t identify.
“Sorry,” she murmured, coming to a halt in front of him, the careful smile that seemed to be her de facto response to him of late pasted on her lips.
“No, you aren’t,” he said easily, shifting away from the car, “or you’d be on time.”
Oh. Those blue eyes sharpened. It’s going to be that kind of night?
It’s been that kind of fortnight.
Her lashes lowered in that reining in of emotion he was coming to hate.
“We should go,” he murmured, sliding his fingers around the handle of the car door and opening it. She walked past him, sinking her bottom into the seat, then swinging those incredible legs of hers inside. His palm grazed the curve of her hip as he bent to tuck her in, the brief touch of his
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