Free Princess by Gaelen Foley Page B

political maneuverings and his own ship-and-trade firm had served in building his massive fortune. Even lesser known was that, with his father’s death, he had become Count Darius Santiago, with vast holdings and vineyards in Andalusia.
    Not even the king knew of this. The one thing Julia had been unable to learn was why Darius refused to claim his title.
    She only knew that when he was her husband, she would force him to. Otherwise, well, what would people say? she thought. La Divine Julia, marrying a commoner?
    At a sound down the hall, she peeked around the corner and saw the door to his room open. He came out. She ducked back, spying on him as he glanced one way down the hall, then the other, his movements graceful and silent as a wild panther’s. Julia crept forward again and watched.
    Staring at him from halfway down the hall, she could feel his riveting magnetism. His jet-black hair gleamed in the dim glow of the wall sconces. Her gaze ran hungrily over him.
    God, she missed him in her bed. As a lover, he had the hands of a guitarist and the soul of a poet. She had once known every inch of his hard, gorgeous body, but his attitude toward her had changed perceptibly after Her Royal Perfection had walked in on them making love that day in the music room. Since then, his gallantry toward her had seemed rather forced, Julia thought with a touch of anxiety. Sometimes he even seemed to be avoiding her.
    Down the hall, Darius opened the door wider and led Serafina out of his room.
    Instantly, the tug of desire in the pit of Julia’s stomach turned to a knot of animosity. She clenched her jaw to hear them joking together, and to see how Serafina’s radiant beauty caught fire when she gazed at him, her fresh cheeks flushed and pink, though the girl was haughty and cool with every other male.
    Julia clenched her fist tightly again, noting the way his dark, velvety eyes followed the young girl’s every move.
    Nauseating.
    They took undisguised joy in one another, and her blood boiled to witness it. Bitterly, she marveled that they had come out of his bedroom at all.
    But no, no! Miss Perfect-on-her-Pedestal was as pure as the driven snow.
    Anatole would see to that, she thought wryly.
    The stunning pair moved off down the intersecting hall, both raven-haired and beautiful of form, like matched horses. Silently, Julia watched them go. When they were out of sight, she turned away, folding her arms tightly over her chest.
    So long as Princess Perfect was near, she knew she could not compete for Darius’s attention, not really. Hell, she could be in bed with him only to realize he was thinking of that girl. It had happened before. She had no choice but to bide her time until Anatole returned to take Serafina away.
    Unconsciously, Julia’s rouged lips curved into a cold smile when she thought of the Russian prince. How amusing! The famous war hero had traveled all the way from Russia to woo the princess, and had stayed until the betrothal and alliance were drawn up, but Julia had quickly found that the bride-groom was as vulnerable to temptation as any man.
    Shoving away from the wall to prowl silently down the hall, Julia recalled with smug pleasure the minor vengeance she had taken on Serafina, just for spite. Likewise on the battlefield, Anatole, the great, golden brute, had been every inch the conqueror in bed.
    When Darius and Serafina came to the king’s privy council chamber, he opened the door for her. She brushed by Darius into the oak-paneled room and found that her father had not yet arrived to meet them.
    She swayed nonchalantly toward one of the two leather-bound chairs before the massive desk and plopped down into it, swinging her legs over one side, lightly kicking her feet. Darius shut the door and strolled toward her, hands in his coat pockets.
    “Your Highness?”
    She examined the tips of her tresses for split ends, mentally rehearsing her strategy to make Papa assign Darius to her. “Would you quit calling