LITMIR.BIZ

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type?” she pressed.

      “Female covers it.”

      She fought against rolling her eyes. Instead, she made a very officious note on her clipboard. Then treated him to a smile. “A female philanthropist. Hymen not required.”

      “In fact, I would prefer that there were no hymen present at all,” he said. “I’m not a patient man. I’d rather not have to instruct a woman on how to please me.”

      “Indeed,” she said flatly. And she managed to hold back: that rules me out handily then.

      As if she would ever, in a million years, with flying pigs in the sky, consider being Gunnar’s bride.

      He turned away from her, his broad back filling her vision. His muscles moved in very interesting ways and she attempted to study the ceiling, rather than his skin.

      But it was hard, because his skin was so much more compelling.

      And he began to move around the room. He opened up a dresser, pulled out a T-shirt, and shrugged it over his body.

      Something about the flex of those muscles caused an answering flex between her thighs, and she did her best to ignore it.

      Her emotions were so very charged in his presence, always. And it was her preference to play off the heat as anger. And to pretend that there was no other layer to it.

      That there was no part of her—not even a tiny part—that wished to bite down on that insolent mouth of his.

      And then bite his chest.

      And then lick it.

      No. No part of her at all.

      She forced a smile. “Anything else?”

      “No. I believe that covers it.”

      “Then I shall begin putting out inquiries, Your Highness. And very soon, I will have found a wife for you.”

      “It may also bear mentioning,” he said, “That I am the owner of my own multibillion-dollar company.”

      Latika froze. “You… You’re what?”

      “Yes. I suppose it’s about time that came out.”

      “How… How did you keep that a secret?”

      “No one is looking for that bit of dirt. Honestly, it isn’t dirt. Why would anyone care? My company has a name, obviously, and my name is buried beneath it. But the only thing anyone is ever interested in is who I’m sleeping with. Not the fact that I am the CEO of a multibillion-dollar corporation that deals in green building.”

      “I…”

      “It’s part of revamping my reputation, Latika. These things must be made public. I assume you’re the person to speak to about the press release regarding that as well.”

      “I will take care of it,” she said, blinking.

      “See that you do.”

      Those blue eyes caught hers and held for a moment, and Latika did her best not to pay attention to the slight shift she felt in her stomach. Did her best to ignore the fact that suddenly the air felt a little bit thicker.

      And she really tried not to examine what any of this new information—that he was not going into any of this kicking and screaming, that he had an endeavor that went somewhere beyond gambling and whoring—made her feel.

      She was much more comfortable when she disdained Gunnar.

      Anything else was unacceptable.

      Prince Gunnar von Bjornland had settled into debauchery for far too long. He was at an end with it.

      It had been one thing to engage in it when his father was living, and indeed it was something that he had enjoyed.

      To throw in the face of his father, even as the old man attempted to sabotage Astrid. Their father was a relic of the highest order. A man who had not been able to fathom that a woman could possibly do a good job of running the country, regardless of the fact that there were many examples that proved they could, and just fine thank you.

      No, his father had never gotten over the fact that his heir was a woman. And the fact that his only son had refused to take his side and engage in a coup, overthrowing his twin had been something that the old man could not accept even in the end.

      Gunnar had never risen to his father’s bait, and to the contrary, had taken a perverse kind of delight in behaving in every way that Astrid did not.

      As his sister had lived a serious and contemplative life, dedicating herself to service, Gunnar had waged an all-out war against propriety.

      He had taken every sacred tradition and broken it at least once, had taken delight in running roughshod over deeply revered customs, and in general putting Bjornland on the world stage in the context of his behavior.

      He had imagined that if nothing else he would be a rather colorful footnote in history.

      But of course, it had never been enough for his mind. Hence the secret business endeavor.

      But now that Astrid was Queen, and now that various and sundry accusations were being thrown at him as the narrative around his country shifted, he could see that it was time for a change.

      This latest debacle had only served to highlight it.

      A woman had come forward alleging that he was the father of her child. And no matter that Gunnar had never seen the woman before, there had also been a seed of doubt in him. He always used protection. But condoms weren’t entirely reliable, and he’d had to concede that there was a possibility the child could be his, no matter that he was always as responsible as a man could be while being indiscriminate.

      The headlines had been scathing, the very fact that a paternity test had been conducted had been cause for scorn among the people.

      And now the conversation had become that Astrid could not control her wayward brother. That her own brother despised every value held dear by the country. And when that had been aimed at his father, Gunnar had been happy enough.

      But his entire reason for his behavior, his entire reason for being, had been to protect Astrid. Astrid was a strong woman, and always had been, but there had been a war waging beneath the surface of the polished exterior of the palace that she’d had no idea existed.

      A war that Gunnar had been on the frontlines of.

      He had always protected her. And if protecting his sister now demanded he behave differently, so he would.

      And if it meant employing the use of his sister’s delectable, and irritating, assistant, then he would do so.

      Latika might be delectable, but she was also as stiff as a plank of wood and no less bland.

      She was beautiful. There was no argument to be had about that.

      In fact, she was uncommonly lovely, and he had always found it a strange thing that a woman of such brilliant beauty be relegated to such a beige sort of job.

      Though, he imagined a great many people would not find being personal assistant to a queen a beige sort of job. But in his world it certainly was.

      A woman like her should be wrapped in silk, should be in jewels.

      She should spend hours soaking in perfumed baths, readying herself for a lover.

      She should not spend hours contemplating the merit of clipboards. Though, he had a feeling that was how she spent much of her time.

      Her beauty was, in the end, a terrible farce anyway. She looked like a woman built for such things, with her generous mouth and beautiful curves, but she was through and through a woman of practicality and severity.

      And he did his very best not to think about how much he would like to test that severity.

      He did his very best not to think about

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