The Playboy Prince (Piacere Princes, Book One) (25 page)

“Thank you again for all of your hard work,” Salvadore murmured as he guided Chesapeake toward the car that would drive her home. “I believe we’re on for another engagement next week.”

“I’m looking forward to it. I’ll send over some metrics regarding our outing today, so we can tweak the next one if need be…” She trailed off, her eyes over his shoulder.
 

Salvy turned, then tensed at the sight of his cousin Luca striding their direction with more purpose than necessary.
 

“Sally!” his cousin called. Younger than Nico but fifteen months older than Salvy, Luca had always treated him like a little kid.
 

“Luca,” he responded, wishing there was a way to send Chesapeake on her way before his cousin said something disgusting, insulting, accusing, or some combination of both.
 

Nope.

“And who is this?” his cousin asked, blue eyes on Salvy’s companion. Unlike the leer he’d used to greet Magdalena the other day, this glance was perfunctory. Dismissive.
 

Chesapeake was pretty—maybe more than that, if she put some effort into it—but not the sort of woman to turn Luca’s head. His lack of interest would have had more to do with her care for the well-being of strangers than her looks, Salvy suspected.

“Chesapeake Falco, this is my cousin, Prince Luca Piacere.”

“Charmed,” she replied, making it clear she was nothing of the sort.

He waved a hand, as if wishing he could erase her from his sight by a mere thought. “The do-gooder. I’d heard Nico talked you into carting the hopeless cause around Cielo.”

Salvy felt Chesapeake bristle at his side and reached out a hand, laying it on her arm. “Trust me, arguing with him isn’t worth it. He doesn’t have a soul.”

“Oh, come, cousin, that’s not strictly true.”

“You’ve got a black soul, more like it,” his companion grumbled.
 

Luca acted as if he hadn’t heard. “I wanted to discuss this nonsensical ball of yours, and the intended outcome.”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” Salvy turned, steering Chesapeake toward her car in the vain hope of getting her out of here.
 

The sense of foreboding swirling in the air suggested Luca had more to say, and Salvy preferred the woman he had to spend hours with over the coming weeks not to hear whatever he was going to suggest.

“The crown is my business, and you’re not worthy of it.” Luca moved to cut them off, his angry gaze raking Salvy’s face. “Banging the help, really? Is that the sort of behavior that my dear uncle was talking about when he asked you to grow up or commit yourself to God? Somehow, I doubt it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Salvy ground his teeth together. His heart pounded and he ignored the plain look of curiosity on Chesapeake’s face.

“Everyone knows you’re fucking Magdalena. And that dress? I have to say, that was a surprise. What was your plan, exactly? Dress up a plain commoner and slip her past the King at the ball? Keep defiling a good, honest woman on the side while you marry some poof?”

“You need to shut your mouth, Luca.”

“Or what, Salvadore? I promise, you’ll find me harder to beat than you did when we were children.”

“I wouldn’t mind having a go, if you keep talking about Magdalena that way.”

“Oh, dear. Could it be that my cousin has finally fallen for a woman?” Luca’s expression hardened, his blue eyes laughing and mean. “The wrong woman, of course. Because you fuck up everything, and you’ve never done a damn thing to prove that you deserve to lead this country, even as a worthless second son.”

Salvy’s fist flew without permission, smashing into his cousin’s jaw. Luca stumbled backward but didn’t fall, taking a moment to blink away stars and rub his chin before giving Salvadore a conniving grin. “You never did have any self-control. This time, it’s going to come back to haunt you. Remember…no one can have everything. Least of all you.”

Luca turned and left. Salvy cursed and shook his hand out, the joints in his fingers throbbing and red. When he made eye contact with Chesapeake, she shook her head.

“Men are all the same,” she sighed. “But honestly, I would have clocked him, too. What a waste of space.”

“On that we can agree.” He guided her into the waiting car, eager to be alone. He needed to get into the kitchen and find some ice for his hand so the swelling didn’t get too bad. Explaining the injury to Magdalena wouldn’t go over too well. She wouldn’t be even as mildly amused as Chesapeake.

The woman paused halfway in the backseat of the car, one leg still connected to the drive. “You know, there are things in this life more important than women and money. But love? That’s tricky.”

She withdrew without giving him a chance to respond, not that he would know what to say, anyway.
 

Salvy shut the door behind her and rapped the roof twice with his good hand, cuing the driver to go. He watched the car pull out of the drive, then spun and headed into the house in search of that ice. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t get the confrontation with Luca, then the advice from Chesapeake, out of his head.
 

Did the people of Cielo really want to love him, and would do so regardless of his following through at the ball? Would Luca follow through on his threats to use Salvy’s relationship with Maggie to force him out of line for the crown?
 

Was what he felt for Magdalena love? And if it was…what was he willing to give up to find out?

He couldn’t please his father and himself. He couldn’t be a good prince, the kind of leader Magdalena believed he could be—hell, the kind she
encouraged
him to be—and stay with her.
 

He couldn’t choose her over his family, or he would, in the long run, ruin them both.
 

Chapter Twenty

Magdalena

“Yes, final fittings in three days,” Maggie said into the phone, holding up a finger to the tailor waiting impatiently to finish his question. “I need both you and Elisa here for about an hour. Thanks, Your Highness.”

It was still strange to address Nico and Salvadore by their titles, but it was proper, especially in front of her staff. Their staff. Whatever.
 

“Okay, what’s the problem?”

The tailor in front of her went on about the pregnant maid who would need seams let out of her serving garb before the big day, then about an order of fabrics that was delayed.

“Let’s wait until two days before to get the final measurements on the maid, and not worry about her until then. As far as the fabric, let me make a few calls.”

The work was keeping her busy, but it couldn’t totally keep her mind off the looming deadline her father faced. In a few short days they would indeed be homeless, if he gave in to the pressure. Even though she’d asked him to wait, to see whether she could do anything about it, she was starting to think that had been only lip service.

You could ask Salvadore directly if anything could be done.

Maggie sighed, hanging up the phone from the shipping company that had lost their fabric. Even though she’d told Salvy about what she and her father—and other people across the country—were facing, she hadn’t come right out and asked if there was anything he could do. It seemed unfair, to take advantage of their friendship. Or whatever it was now. He’d said he would talk to the King but had not brought it up again, which should signal to her that the subject was closed.

Except people were hurting. She knew that he cared, deep down, even if he didn’t have any practice acting on those feelings. She knew he was capable of so much more than he gave. Perhaps this could be the moment he proved what she believed to his people.

The thought made her chest swell with pride. It would be a beautiful moment, to have the subjects of Cielo look at Prince Salvadore and see what she had always seen. A strong, caring man with good instincts, love for his family and country and charm to spare.
 

A text buzzed on her phone, and since it was still in her hand, she took a moment to look down. Her heart thudded when she saw it was from Barty.

They’re calling the fire at Matrigna foul play. They know there was a break-in. Brigida is freaking out that they’re going to find out about her keys and she’ll get fired. Or worse.

Maggie’s mouth was dry as she quickly typed back.
They can’t know who it was, and we were careful. Tell her to calm down.

Maybe the police had no way of figuring out who, exactly, broke into that office, but the person who somehow had the ability to get information on half the country might be able to find out. Her stomach hurt just thinking about what would become of her, and her father, then.

The rest of the evening passed quickly. Preparations were paying off and with a staff of twenty, counting her, working fifteen hours a day, they would be ready for the ball, which took place in less than a week now. The past ten days had been, oddly, some of the best of her life.
 

It didn’t seem right to be enjoying herself so much while her father was dying, while the future they’d worked so hard for was crumbling, but when she was with Salvy all of the shit fell away.

Speaking of Salvy…

Maggie looked down at her watch and then stretched. It was after midnight, and the last of the others had left twenty minutes ago. Now that she’d stopped working, her stomach grumbled and she thought she’d grab a sandwich from the kitchen before making the dark trek to Salvadore’s door. She didn’t want to waste any time eating once she arrived, and since it had been over twenty-four hours since they’d seen each other, she guessed that he wouldn’t either.

Her body got hot thinking about what they would do instead, and her steps quickened on their way to the kitchen. Anna, the head chef, made a mean chicken salad. Maggie’s mouth watered thinking that there might be a container left in the fridge.

She stopped in her tracks at the sight of Salvadore at the large prep island, a spoonful of Froot Loops halfway to his mouth.

He gave her a tired smile. “Busted.”

Maggie laughed, feeling tension fall off her neck and shoulders like flakes of rust. “Your secret is safe with me.”

All of his secrets were safe with her, but what about hers with him? Could a man in his position even make promises to keep secrets, when the press lived to splash his life all over the tabloids?

She pushed away the worry and headed for the fridge, but Salvy beat her there with three big steps. He leaned down and pulled her lips to his, giving her a lingering kiss that only pushed the heat in her blood between her thighs.
 

“Are you looking for food?” he asked after pulling away. “I would have fed you.”

“I was hoping for other kinds of sustenance from you.” She winked, a heady sense of power tickling her stomach at the immediate lust that sparked in his eyes. “And something other than cereal and toast.”

“Well, then, by all means, let’s get you fed. What sounds good?”

“I can make my own sandwich, Salvadore.”

“Yes, I know. But you’re dead on your feet and I need you to have boundless energy later tonight. So, please. Allow me to very selfishly make you dinner.”

Maggie held up her hands in surrender and headed to the stool next to the one he’d been using. His Froot Loops were getting soggy, but they were disgusting to start with, so it probably didn’t matter.
 

“What kind of sandwich?” he asked, his voice muffled by the contents of the fridge as he rummaged.
 

“Chicken salad, of course. Like I would choose anything else when I know Anna made a big tub of that magic stuff.”

“You are a woman of exceptional taste.” He shot her a sly smile. “But we already knew that.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Salvy. I would choose that chicken salad over you six days of the week.”

“And the seventh?”

“I mean, a woman has needs.”

Their friendly, familiar banter relaxed her further. It had been days since she’d let herself wonder what he really saw in her, or how she measured up to all of the other women in his life. Since she’d let herself go down the road to the fantasy that she knew was only hers—that a way existed in which they could be together.
 

It was hopeless, she knew that, but her heart was in this now. The ball would break her, regardless, so she didn’t see the harm in daydreaming now and then.

“Here you go, m’lady.” Salvy slid a plate in front of her and settled back onto his stool. He scooped up another spoonful of cereal, seemingly unconcerned with its soggy state.
 

Her plate contained the chicken salad on a fluffy, fresh croissant, a scattering of potato chips—sweet potato, her favorite—and a pile of pineapple and strawberries. Magdalena dug in and they ate quietly together for a couple of minutes.
 

The television suspended from the ceiling was on and even though the sound was off, a news story caught her eye. It was Salvadore and the woman he’d told her about, the one working for Cielo’s aid organizations overseas. They stood at a podium in front of a crowd of press, and along the bottom of the screen ran a caption: Prince Salvadore Piacere Dodges Questions about Local Mistress.