Princess in the Iron Mask - By Victoria Parker Page 0,3

a place she was only willing to visit in her imagination during moments of agonising loneliness. If only to reassure herself she was better off on her own.

‘Yes,’ he said, with a cool remoteness that made her shudder and remember all at once. For her childhood years had been made up of her parents’ haughty detachment and hostile impatience.

It was their impatience that had condemned her, because Claudia had been an enigma no doctor could diagnose. Their detachment had sentenced her to extradition because she was an embarrassment—she’d been swept off to England, placed under the care of tutors, governesses and an army of paediatric specialists while her so-called loving parents forgot she’d ever existed.

They had betrayed her in the most unforgivable way.

The ache in her chest crawled up her throat and she squeezed her eyes shut.

It didn’t take a brainiac to decipher their message. This man said it all. They wanted something and this time they were deadly serious. Just fight, Claudia. You’ve done it before and you can do it again.

She just wasn’t entirely sure she had the strength.

Exhaustion pulsed through her weak leg muscles and her hand shot out to grip the edge of the desk as she begged her body to stand tall. Come on, Claudia, fight. They don’t need you. They didn’t want the imperfect child you were. Don’t give them the chance to hurt you again.

Memories gushed like a riptide, flooding her psyche with such speed they threatened to break through the dam and obliterate her every defence.

Within the blink of an eye Claudia’s day veered from bad to apocalyptic.

* * *

Lucas recognised shock when he saw it, and for the first time in his adult life the same emotion coursed through his veins, hot and unfathomable. While it blanched her exquisite flawless face, and widened her huge cat-like amber eyes, it completely severed his vocal cords from his brain.

Sans hideous spectacles, with wispy damp ebony curls framing her oval face, Claudia Thyssen was much like her mother. But where Marysse Verbault was strength personified, her daughter appeared almost...frail. The sight of her bending forward, her small hand pushing into her flat stomach, resurrected a dark tonnage of guilt that sat on his chest like an armoured tank.

Vulnerable. Undoubtedly timid. Traits he associated with the cold sweat of nightmares.

Yet his internal reaction to this woman was the complete opposite of chilling. The instant thrash of desire was so strong it knifed him in the gut.

She radiated supreme intellect, and Lucas would be the first to admit he preferred his women to be like uncomplicated candy. Covered from neck to calf in a frumpy lab coat, Claudia was more geek than glamour puss. So why did the mere sight of her raise his body temperature, thicken his blood?

Lucas frowned as his lethargic pulse slowed his every reaction and his mentally prepared speech drifted to the melamine floor in tatters.

Dios, why the bland exterior? She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Even the Queen’s striking beauty paled in comparison to her second-born.

‘Well, Mr Garcia,’ she said, her voice firming together with her backbone, until she stood at her full height and he was almost bowled over by her stature and regal bearing. ‘If my parents sent you, no doubt you have a message for me.’ Her tone—now cold enough to reawaken the memory of frostbite—delivered the final blow. ‘Consider it delivered.’

And if that wasn’t a sharp swift kick out through the door, he didn’t know what was.

What the...?

Realisation hit him square between the eyes, easing the tightness in his chest. Her façade was an illusion. An ingenious cloaking device to ensure she was hidden within a society who knew nothing of her real identity. For her resemblance to the Verbault line was astounding.

Grateful for the reminder of the real reason he was here, and of how beauty was only skin-deep, Lucas clenched his fists until spears of pain lanced up his forearms. Needing the dull ache winding through his body to regain control.

‘You would be correct on the first count,’ he said. ‘Your parents have many things to say to you.’ They were so anxious they had written countless letters over the last two months, begging for her return to Arunthia. Letters she had ignored. ‘But this time, I assure you, their words will be spoken.’

Had she honestly thought she could ignore her family for ever? He’d been astounded to learn of her defiance. Such blatant disregard for her parents and the country