Playboy Prince, Single Dad (Love Is Priceless Book 4) Page 7

  Tomas exits through a back door I hadn’t noticed, presumably heading for the deeper recesses of the house. Slowly, I pull my things toward me, arranging them back in my bag, wishing it was as easy to arrange my thoughts and feelings.

  Am I really going to do this? Am I seriously planning on staying here and working for Tomas, of all people? Tomas, who has lived rent-free in my thoughts for the better part of three months? Tomas, who has awakened me to a desire to love and be loved, while simultaneously making me feel serious doubt that such a thing could ever happen for me?

  You don’t have to stay, I remind myself. You’re at perfect liberty to catch the next plane back to New York.

  No. I do have to stay. I promised Dolores, and she’s counting on me. “Our best employee,” she called me. What kind of employee would I be if I let my personal life get in the way of doing my job? That would be amateur.

  Besides, the agency would probably lose Tomas as a client—he isn’t going to wait all the time it would take for Dolores to find someone else willing to relocate to Luxembourg. He isn’t going to pay for a second plane ticket to bring someone out here. This house is all the evidence I need to know that he’s a man who’s used to getting what he wants at all times. And look at the way the rest of his employees treat him—calling him “the master,” calling Lara “the little miss.”

  No, now that I’m here, I need to forget the chemistry that existed between us in New York. I need to forget, if I can, that we ever met before today. I need to forget about the world in which we had a potential future, in which sparks flew and made me feel alive. That world was never real anyway. It was something I dreamed up for myself, a fantasy I allowed myself to believe in because I wanted it to be fact. But it never was.

  He never cared for me. If he had, he would have texted me back.

  God! How am I going to come to his house every day? How am I going to look him in the eye? How am I going to put the humiliation I suffered at his hands out of my mind? And how…how am I going to force myself to ignore that spark? Everything else might have been invented, a reckless fantasy, but I know what I feel when I feel it. We do have chemistry. There is something there, and every time he looks into my eyes or stands too close to me, I’m going to feel it.

  My bag fully packed, I head through the door I came in. I’m not sure I’m going to be able to find my way out of this colossal house, but I know that if I can find that marble staircase, it will lead me to the front door.

  Fortunately, it proves easy to find. The house may be large, but its layout is simple. The second-floor hallway is shaped like a giant square. I think I take the long way around by mistake, but eventually I end up back at the staircase, looking down at the foyer.

  Lara comes running in, not through the big oak front doors, but from a side door that might lead to the outside or to another room. She has grass stains on the knees of her tights and her hair clip has come loose, and for the first time since setting foot in this house, I feel like smiling. Her father may be ungodly rich—and possibly a jerk, although the jury’s still out on that—but Lara is just another little girl, just like the dozens of others I’ve worked with. There’s something deeply comforting about seeing her disheveled from play like this. I feel a rush of affection for her.

  She sees me coming down the stairs and runs over. “Come back soon?” she asks, taking my hand in both of hers and swinging it back and forth. “English!”

  There really is nothing I love more than an eager student.

  “Very soon,” I agree, smiling. I kneel down at her feet. “Can you write me a list of all the English words you know?” I mime writing, then glance up at Anne just to make sure someone’s getting the message. Anne smiles and nods.

  Lara mimics my hand gesture, says “English” again, and nods enthusiastically.

  “I’ll see you soon,” I say with a smile, knowing I’m lost. This little girl has captured my heart completely. As crazy as it might be, as difficult as I know I’ll find it, I’m going to stay here and be her tutor. What else can I do?

  “Karl is waiting to take you back to your hotel,” Anne tells me. “Mr. von Meyer has your contact information?”

  “Yes, he does.”

  It occurs to me, briefly, to wonder if he’ll neglect to contact me this time too. What would I do if he did? He’s the one who’s supposed to pay for my ticket back to New York when the time comes. I shake the thought away. He might stand me up, but I saw how he looked at Lara. He would never take away something she was this excited about.

  Karl is waiting for me by the car. I get into the backseat and lean my head against the window, gazing out at the countryside as it rolls by. I guess Karl can tell that I don’t feel like talking, because he doesn’t ask me any questions, and after a while I allow my eyes to drift closed.

  Back in my hotel room, I can’t sleep a wink. I sit in front of my computer late into the night instead, with a bottle of soda and a package of cookies open beside me. Either it’s standard practice to keep the rooms at this hotel stocked with complimentary food and beverages, or else Tomas went the extra mile for my sake.

  Honestly, I don’t think I want to know which.

  Now that I have his last name, I can do the obsessive research I never got a chance to do after he ghosted me before. I know it’s not a good idea—what am I hoping to find? What could possibly make me feel better about our current situation? But I don’t know how I could possibly hope to resist.

  Tomas von Meyer.

  I start on social media channels, but to my surprise, I find nothing. If he’s on here, he’s going by an alias, and there’s very little chance I’ll ever figure that out. More likely he’s not on at all. I have no idea how prevalent the use of these channels is in Luxembourg, but I do know he’s a single father and very successful in whatever business he practices. When is he supposed to spend time goofing around on social media?

  It makes me feel small. He doesn’t have time for the silly things I do with my free time. He’s more serious than I am. More adult than I am. No wonder he’d rather employ me than date me.

  I move away from the social media sites and type his name into a search window, wondering if this will bring anything up. Maybe he’s been in the news, especially if, as Anne told me, he’s one of the wealthiest men in Luxembourg. Someone like that must have had occasion to make the papers, right?

  “Playboy Prince Tomas von Meyer Spotted Stepping Out With Supermodel Nadja Fisher.”

  What? I frown and click on the link. It takes me to what’s clearly a tabloid article. A banner at the top of the page reads Heiliger Strohsack!, which my bare-bones German is enough to tell me is an expression of incredulity akin to Holy Smokes! The rest of the page is largely taken up with a photo of Tomas and an unfamiliar, ludicrously attractive woman leaning into each other as they cross the street.

  “Real estate billionaire and descendant of Luxembourg’s royal line Tomas von Meyer is at it again,” the article reads. “This month’s romantic conquest is German supermodel and fashion influencer Nadja Fisher. Fisher joins a growing list of high-profile women seen out and about with the Playboy Prince.”

  I feel a buzzing between my ears as I stare at the picture of Tomas and the gorgeous woman in the photo with him. The Playboy Prince. This is what he meant when he said he’d been called a prince before. He was referring to this article, or, more likely, other articles like this one. I get the idea this sort of thing is a pattern.

  And he has royal ancestors. Of course he does.

  I’ve never been so humiliated in my life. The man I’ve had a crush on for the past three months is a billionaire, descended from royalty, accustomed to dating supermodels. Of course he was never serious about me! He must have thought I was so silly when I texted him back after our coffee date. Not that it was even a date.

  I’m so ridiculous. How could I have built this up so much in my mind? I can’t believe I actually thought we had a special connection.

  Even though
I know it’s not a good idea, I type his name into an image search. I don’t know what I’m hoping to see, exactly—maybe pictures of him at ribbon cuttings or something. Maybe pictures of buildings he’s invested in. Maybe even this hotel. If he earned his money in real estate, there must be some kind of photo record, right?

  Maybe there’s even a picture of him participating in a royal ceremony of some kind. I don’t know how closely connected he is to the royal family of Luxembourg, but it’s clearly close enough that people know about it and talk about it. It’s close enough that they refer to him as prince.

  But there are no pictures like that. In fact, as I scroll down the page, I’m increasingly horrified to see that every picture of Tomas is like the one in the tabloid article I read. There’s only one difference—one crucial difference—between them.

  They all feature different women.

  Of course, all the women are gorgeous. I don’t recognize them, but I can see that they’re all probably supermodels or actresses or something along those lines. Their beauty is on another level.

  In every picture, Tomas is smiling or laughing, his green eyes sparkling in that way that I thought was special the first time I saw it. In every picture, he’s holding the woman by the hand, or has wrapped his arm around her waist, or is leaning over to whisper in her ear.

  Unbelievable.

  Isobel was right. Without ever having met him, she was completely right about him. He was never worth my time. He’s a player. He’s the kind of man who probably has a list of his conquests somewhere, who probably takes pride in boasting about all the beautiful women he’s bedded.

  And that was probably what he wanted with me, I realize, feeling sick. I thought he cared about me, but I would have been just another notch on his bedpost. Hell, he probably would have expected me to be flattered to be included in the same company with all these supermodels. He would have slept with me, ghosted me, and then expected me to take it as a compliment.

  I slam my computer shut. Looking at this is going to drive me crazy. It doesn’t matter now. What happened with Tomas is behind me. It doesn’t matter what his intentions were, and it doesn’t matter that I almost fell for them. We both agreed today that we were going to put it behind us, that we would be nothing more than employee and employer. I don’t need to complicate it by picking over the past with a fine-toothed comb. He wasn’t serious about me then, and he isn’t interested in me romantically now.

  I need to keep my focus where it belongs: on Lara. She deserves that.

  I put my soda and cookies away and change into my pajamas. I’m feeling jet-lagged and wide awake—it’s a hell of a lot later here than it is in New York—but I know I need to get to bed. I need to start resetting my internal clock so that I’ll be capable of waking up at a decent hour in the morning. I’d like to be able to get out of the hotel tomorrow and explore Luxembourg a little, and unfamiliar cities always feel safest early in the day.

  But once I get into bed, I find I can’t sleep. It’s rare for me to have trouble falling asleep, but tonight a million thoughts are whirring through my mind like an annoying song on replay. What did Tomas want with me that day in New York? Was he really just hoping to add me to his roster of conquests? And if so, why me? I’m no supermodel. I’ve always been happy with my appearance, but compared to the girls in the tabloids with him, I’m very ordinary looking. There are thousands of women just like me in New York, and I’m sure Tomas could have had any of them.

  He’s probably never been rejected before.

  The voice in my head is Isobel’s, and it occurs to me that it’s probably right. I hadn’t thought of my turning down his request to come up to my apartment as a rejection, per se—I would have gone out with him again if he’d asked for that, I think. But now I wonder if any woman has ever denied him anything before. I remember his brief look of surprise when I told him I wanted to end the night.

  I bet they haven’t. I bet he always gets what he wants.

  And suddenly, something far more sinister occurs to me.

  What if he did know who he was hiring? It makes more sense than the story he told me, doesn’t it? What if he knew I’d be the one coming from America? What if he contacted my agency and somehow found out they would be sending me?

  I can only think of one reason why he would do that. One reason why he would bring me here under false pretenses and not let me know.

  He can’t stand the fact that I rejected him. He’s going to try to close the deal.

  Everything that happened between us today suddenly takes on an ugly cast. The way he looked into my eyes, let his fingers brush mine, and then oh-so-earnestly told me that we had to keep things professional. A man like that knows the effect he has on women! He did it on purpose. He wanted to ignite my passion for him again so that when he came to me later with some story about how he couldn’t resist me any longer, I would fall for it.

  Well, that’s not going to happen, I think to myself, rolling over and punching my pillow into a new shape. I’m not going to fall for his games. I’m onto him now. He’s going to get exactly what he asked for—we’re going to keep things professional for Lara’s sake.

  The thought of Lara gives me pause. Could the devoted father I saw today really be capable of seducing his daughter’s tutor? Whatever else I thought of him, I honestly believed him when he said he wanted the best for her.

  But how great a judge of what’s best for her can he be if he’s always out with all these different women?

  He’s a good father. That doesn’t mean he’s not a jerk to everyone else.

  Chapter 8

  Emma

  I’m not sure when I fell asleep, exactly, but I wake to a call from Anne, asking whether I can come over at two o’clock to begin my lessons with Lara. I agree, and at a quarter to two, Karl is waiting outside the hotel to drive me to the manor.

  Lara runs up to me as soon as I come in the door and presses a folded piece of paper into my hand. I unfold it and see that she’s handwritten a very neat list of about two hundred English words. I imagine she knows significantly more than this, based on my experience doing this exercise with other students. Most of them don’t realize going into their study with me how much they really know. Still, it’s a very promising beginning. There’s a good foundation here to build on.

  In the library, I unpack my books again and ask her to pick two: one for us to read aloud together during our tutoring sessions and another for her to read on her own. Once she’s made her choices, I hand her one of the journals I brought.

  “Write in this every day in English,” I tell her, then hold up a second. “And I’ll write in this one. Every day we’ll trade and write back to each other.” I open her journal and show her where I’ve gotten us started with a basic message:

  “Hi, Lara! I can’t wait to study English with you!”

  “It’s okay to ask Anne or your dad for help if you get stuck when I’m not here,” I say. “And you can use this dictionary.” I pull out my final resource, a children’s German to English dictionary. “Let’s look up a word together,” I say, handing it to her.

  She thinks for a minute and then flips the book open and pushes it toward me.

  “Bibliothek.”

  Library. I should have guessed.

  “You really like it in here, don’t you?” I say.

  She grins in response.

  “Okay,” I say, picking up the book she chose for us to read together. “Let’s get started.”

  As the days go by, Lara proves to be an eager and wonderful student, one of the best I’ve ever had. She’s always excited when I arrive, always running to greet me in the foyer with her journal open in her hand, waving it up at me, ready to show me the writing she’s done. Her mind is like a steel trap. She improves incredibly quickly, picking up every new vocabulary word and grammar tip I offer her with an ease that’s like nothing I’ve seen before.

  Part of it is simply her natural smarts—she’s one of the brightest
children I’ve ever worked with. But I think a significant portion of her success is also due to the fact that her father and her housekeeper both speak English fluently. She’s picked up a great deal of it secondhand, without even realizing she knows it. I almost hate to take credit for her amazing progress. But on the other hand, if they’d ever spoken English directly to her, she’d probably be fluent herself by now.

  I enjoy working with Lara, but I dread the end of our lessons, because every day as we’re packing up, Tomas appears in the library. The last thing I want is to see him or talk to him, but communicating with the parents of my students is an important part of the job, and I know it has to be done.

  Tomas is always highly professional with me during our conversations.

  “How did she do today?” he asks me as I’m packing the supplies away after our fifth session together.

  “She’s coming along amazingly well,” I tell him truthfully. “Do you ever speak English with her at home?”

  “No, she’s more comfortable in German.”

  “I think you should,” I say. “Her progress will really start to break through if she has the chance to practice outside of her lessons.”

  He nods. “That’s good advice. Thank you.”

  I can’t stand it. He’s excruciatingly formal. I know we agreed to keep things professional, but it’s as if we’d never had a conversation about our personal lives at all. It’s hard to believe that this man has looked at my photography, that he’s bought me coffee, and held my hand, that he’s looked at me in a way that made me feel like the most important woman on earth.

  Still, whenever he looks at me or stands too close, I feel as if I’ve swallowed a live wire. And maybe I’m crazy—I’m definitely crazy—but it seems like he might feel something, too. There are long pauses in our conversations, as if he’s searching for the words to say something he doesn’t know how to express. If that’s the case, he always stops short of saying what’s on his mind. The words always go unsaid.