“All right then, Lizzy,” I say, forcing an upbeat tone as I clap my hands. “What next? More hiking? Or home for a private, vineyard-side wine tasting? I know it’s not the most popular varietal, but the royal winemaker made a hell of a Gewurztraminer last year.”
“Is more hiking okay?” she asks, her shoulders hunching closer to her ears. “Am I crazy to choose hiking over drinking?”
“Not at all.” I shake my head. “I just don’t want to wear you out before dinner. My mother and brothers are usually fairly well behaved, but they’re awfully excited that you’re here. You might need a nap to prepare for the interrogation. They will want to know everything about you. Absolutely everything.”
“I probably should nap,” she says with a sigh, “but it’s just so beautiful out here.” She turns to gaze out across the softly rolling hills where vineyards, fruit trees, and farmhouses dot the landscape of the most beautiful place on earth. I’ve always felt that way—this yellow mud flows through my veins—but I like that she seems to appreciate the humble perfection almost as much as I do.
She turns back to me, her nose wrinkled and a mischievous light in her eyes. “I just want to keep exploring, you know?”
Oh, I do know.
I spent my childhood slipping away from my nannies and security detail and running wild through these hills. It became such a problem that my mother broke down and bought me a smartphone so my guards would have an easier time tracking me down after I ran off.
But this isn’t something I expected to hear from a woman famous for staying locked up in her tower all day. I don’t know the older gentleman I hired to be my eyes and ears in Rinderland all that well, but I don’t see that he has any reason to lie to me.
And these are the things he swore to me were true about Elizabeth Rochat ’s situation:
Elizabeth is a shy, frail woman who rarely leaves the house.
The former King and Queen of Rinderland are hopelessly eccentric oddballs who have never adjusted to “normal” life and phoned in the care of their offspring to such a degree that it’s amazing the triplets survived infancy.
The three girls were raised and educated by a series of bargain-basement nannies, one of whom still lives on the property and raises edible insects that are one of the family’s primary sources of income. (Also odd as hell, leaving little wonder why Elizabeth prefers to stay in her tower, away from it all.)
Elizabeth makes a fair wage designing lingerie, but not enough to support two dependent parents or fund the care and upkeep of a massive aging estate.
The Rochats’ only other significant source of income comes from the eco-retreat that Sabrina, Elizabeth’s twin, built on the mountain behind the family castle and leads during the mild summer months.
Eco-retreats…
Complete with hiking and camping and all kinds of adventuring through the Alpine foothills.
It hits me like a bucket of ice water tossed in my face, making me feel like the world’s biggest, dumbest royal fool.
Holy shit, and fuck me up the ass with my pointiest crown.
I should have seen through her the moment she faced me down on the tarmac with defiance in her eyes. Or at the very least when she was orgasming over the roses in the garden.
Elizabeth never expressed an interest in flowers—not a single time during the hours and hours of awkward conversations we’ve had through the years—but I bet a woman who spends her life teaching happy campers about plants would get pretty turned on by a rare rose breed. And then there’s her robust health, her love for hiking, her vanishing stutter, her way with words, and the fact that I’m actually attracted to this woman when there’s never been the slightest flicker of erotic feeling for my fiancée.
But this woman?
This woman I would like to press up against a tree and kiss until she’s soft and pliant in my arms. Until she’s breathing fast and begging me to touch her, take her—right here on the hilltop with the beauty of my kingdom spiraling out around us.
But of course, I won’t.
Because not only is she not going to be my wife, she’s not even the woman I’m engaged to marry.
She’s a fucking imposter, and it seems I’m not the only one running a con game.
The thought makes me smile.
“Does the grin mean you want to keep exploring, too?” she asks, laughing as her brow furrows. She reaches out to touch my arm. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fabulous,” I say honestly.
I am fabulous. Playing chess with a worthy opponent is so much preferable to torturing an innocent woman with my bad behavior.
In fact, this might end up being fun.
“You seemed awfully far away for a minute there,” she murmurs.