Read Honeymoon With a Prince (Royal Scandals) for Free Online Page B

provided him that useful skill.   But this…this was different than the mind-over-matter methods he’d used to get through the physical punishment of basic training or sweltering days spent navigating bug-infested African jungles.
    In his memory, Giulia's wine cellar was cozy, warm, seductive.   A hidden corner of the world he could explore at leisure and the perfect spot to bring a date in hopes of enjoying a romantic first kiss.   Tonight, however, the room seemed claustrophobic.   Almost as if the ceiling were coming down on top of him and the walls forcing the air from his lungs.   It’d taken all his military training to remain calm and remind himself that he was in no danger.   He was in the safest of all safe havens.
    What in the world caused his body to rebel that way?   If there was one thing he prided himself on, it was his control.   He resented holding it by such a narrow thread.
    “This is phenomenal,” Kelly murmured as she savored a bite of her ravioli.   “Giulia is incredibly talented.”
    “Says the woman who hesitated before accepting my invitation.”   He leaned back in his chair and swirled his wine, then took a long, satisfying sip.    
    “I’ve always been told to be careful around strangers,” she replied, “but this is exactly what I wanted to see here in Sarcaccia.   Not only the touristy stuff.   Thank you.”
    “It’s my pleasure.”   The answer came by rote as he studied the woman across the table.   There was something different about Kelly.   She might not know his identity as a member of the royal family, but she seemed to know him .   She’d noticed his discomfort in the wine cellar when even Giulia and Guillermo, who’d known him from birth, had not.  
    Of course, now he wondered if others noticed the last time he’d experienced that same sensation.  
    As with the visit to the cellar, the deep-seated feeling of dread had caught him off-guard.   In fact, he’d been in a fantastic mood when it’d occurred.   He’d just deplaned, having arrived home from Africa with his unit, and was waiting in the massive line at immigration, passport in hand.   The guys around him were quietly discussing what they planned to do first when they exited the airport.   Some only wanted to sleep in their own beds, others waxed poetic about wives and girlfriends, and more than a few wanted to hit up Sarcaccia’s bars and nightclubs for a night of celebration.   Massimo was explaining to one of his friends that he was obligated to attend a family dinner—and that he’d much prefer meeting the men at a bar—when the line began to move.   He bent to shift his duffel bag forward and, predictably, was bumped from behind.   Without warning, the overwhelming sensation of being crushed to death made his stomach heave and his lungs squeeze in protest.   He’d swallowed hard and looked side to side at the snaking line in an effort to quash the sudden wave of nausea that enveloped him, but that only made the sensation worse.
    The line ceased its forward movement, yet the noise around him increased as passengers from another flight crowded into the immigration hall.   A few rows behind him, a child began whining in Spanish about the wait while an infant started to cry.   The sound became palpable, pushing against his temples.   He sucked a deep breath through his nostrils, schooling himself to keep his expression as neutral as possible, acutely aware he was the only one experiencing the horror of suffocation.  
    It’s in your imagination , he’d repeated to himself over and over.   It’s not real.
    Then, dear God, he felt his breath catch.   Once, twice.   He knew that within minutes he’d vomit.   Between the security threat and the medical threat, there’d be a scene, one likely to be reported once his identity became known to those outside his unit.   His breath caught a third time and he swallowed back a wave of nausea even as cold sweat pricked the surface