Prologue: The Other
Elizabeth

How was this happening?

“Yes, just there,” the photographer instructed, as
his assistant moved her an inch to her right. And again.

Elizabeth went reluctantly, feeling like an
awkward teenager who’d missed the day on royal etiquette.

The tall, balding man in the dark suit behind the
camera continued. “Make haste, Dorren.”

The assistant named Dorren closed the distance
between Elizabeth and the tiny woman next to her. Another Elizabeth.

Beth smiled nervously at her; Dorren’s placement
had brought her close enough to feel the woman’s blue silk dress. The
silver-haired lady smiled up at her kindly. The diamonds on her head caught the
light from the elegant chandelier above.

“Lovely, we’re there. On three.
One . . . two. . . .” Beth turned to the
camera. She held her smile, trying not to look disbelieving. “Three.” The
shutter clicked. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

With a wave of his hand, the photographer instructed
Dorren to bring in the next group.

Prologue: In Africa

Connor gazed out at the yellow grasslands as two
giraffes wandered onto the field. The sky had turned a light crimson with hints
of lavender as the sun began to rise.

He’d left Ireland a month ago. Left Lara. This
trip had been as interesting as all the others. The freedom of going from
country to country, being known only as the Irishman who cared about the
histories and people he met, who appreciated the items they valued—instead of
Connor Bannon, Irish bleedin’ noble.

Here, he needed only a guide and not the security
fleet his life sometimes required outside of Dingle.

It was usually a relief to travel the continent,
falling into this local legend or that, sometimes finding a piece his European
collectors would value, and sometimes walking away with only a grand story to
tell.

But now there was Lara.

He’d taken to watching the sunrise and the sunset
every day, seeing her lovely face in the sky, in the way the wind swept through
the ancient trees, in the way the colors changed.

He’d left Ireland knowing that this trip would be
different. He had his own demons to slay. Keanan’s blood to battle. And it
hadn’t been easy—he was still in the middle of it.

Every time he thought about the maggot who’d
nearly taken Elizabeth away, the bile rose up and the hatred threatened to
consume him. He’d followed her wishes and had him placed in a hospital instead
of a prison, but the anger . . . it still lived inside him.
Gradually, he learned to work through it. To let his mother’s compassion and
empathy wash over him. To choose kindness instead of revenge.

Still, he would watch Stephen carefully. And never
take Lara’s safety for granted again.

She was all that mattered. He’d spent his time
thinking about how they’d left things. Wondering if they would ever be on the
same page. Wondering if he’d be able to break through that cool wall of hers.
The one that kept her just out of reach, hidden away. She’d turned into a
different person during their months together, but he knew she saw their relationship
as something other—an escape from
reality, something destined to meet a fateful end.

But Connor thought differently of fate. Ever since
that encounter all those years ago. . . .

Moving forward, his strategy would be extreme—a
gamble. But one he would take. He needed to know. Cutting his trip short was
the only way.

He considered his plan again and again. The
realities of melding two very different worlds together, of integrating her
into his insane life, was a problem for another day.

First, he’d have to break the wall
down . . . and it wouldn’t be pretty.

Chapter 1: Tuesday

“Cheers.” Beth nodded to the cashier. Grabbing her
strawberries with cream and picking up her shoulder bag, she moved to sit at a
table in the outdoor square adjacent to the Covent Garden Market.

It was cool for mid-May in London. A rare spring.

The sun shone without the awful humidity. 

She speared a strawberry and popped it into her
mouth, delighting in the sweet, tangy blend of flavors. English strawberries
were the best. Literally, the best.

She’d never tasted a bad strawberry in
England—every single one was at least one hundred times better than any other
strawberry she’d ever tasted in her life.

She opened the flap of her bag to extract the
photos she’d just developed.

Digital photography had many perks—the instant
gratification, the instant feedback, the freedom to play in post—but she found
she still liked to hold the memories in her hands.

It had been weeks since she’d developed a new
batch.

The first photo was taken at McGann’s Pub in
Doolin. The small band played at the front of the main room. Smiling faces
looked on.

She scanned the rest of the pictures, remembering
her month-long trek across Ireland. She’d gone everywhere, visiting pubs,
tourist attractions, even hostels. While she no longer felt capable of enjoying
a good night’s sleep in a room full of bunk beds, she enjoyed dropping in
during the evenings.

The most interesting people stayed in hostels.
She’d met twenty-somethings from Sweden, thirty-somethings from Australia, and
even forty-somethings from Belgium.

Nights were often spent around a fire pit or a
dimly lit common area, everyone contributing something to drink, and someone
always traveling with a guitar.

There was nothing so wonderful as firelight and
the warm sounds of an acoustic guitar with new friends. Those moments always
felt endless, like gifts from the Universe. No matter your age, those nights
always made you feel sixteen again. The world was full of promise, and life
could be anything at all. They were perfect.

Well, almost perfect. There had been one thing
missing.

She resumed her examination of the stack of
photos, finding one of Connor she’d had printed again. Her latest editing
software provided a myriad of digital effects which she’d only just started to
explore. The vintage rose-colored effect didn’t print well, but Connor was
beautiful.

It was a photo she found herself gravitating
towards time and again: the black and white photograph of Connor in bed,
shirtless. His ripped model physique looked photoshopped. A white sheet came up
just below the cut of his hips. One arm was bent behind him to support his
head. The other lay at his side, the Celtic Cross tattoo on full display.

He had been sleeping. She’d wanted to take the
picture with his eyes closed, but at the final moment he’d opened them. The
resulting look was primal.

A second later he’d seized her by the waist in one
lithe movement, and thrown her down onto the bed.

The memory flushed her cheeks and pulled at
something inside of her. Spearing another strawberry, she placed the
photographs back into her bag and took a lungful of London air. 

“Elizabeth?” a deep male voice said from behind
her. The British accent was thick and refined at the same time, typical of the
posh London set. “Elizabeth Lara?”

Beth turned just as the man reached her side. She
looked up into the green-gray eyes and handsome face of Wes Cartwright. His
expertly coiffed dark hair came to his ears, his shoulders were broader than
she remembered, and his full lips invited admiration. He belonged on a catwalk.

She was stunned to see him.

“Wes?!” She shook her head in disbelief, standing
up quickly and flinging her arms around his neck. He swept her up into his
arms; her feet dangled several inches above the ground.

They both laughed. She used his arms to steady
herself as he set her down.

His simple white T-shirt hugged him well. “What
are you doing here?” she blurted out.

He narrowed his eyes. “Me? I live here. This is where you last saw me, or have you
forgotten?”

As she looked up into his gorgeous face, she
remembered how young they’d been.

Twenty-one.

Spending the entire summer traipsing around
London, the group of them. They’d been such good friends. But as was so often
the case, they’d lost touch.

She tried not to think about how it was all her
fault. How she’d allowed the law to wipe all of her meaningful friendships
away. The fissure in her chest ached momentarily. Losing her friends was a
wound she’d hoped to heal during her time in
London . . . she just hadn’t decided on her approach.