Royal Heir (Westerly Billionaire #3)(51)

“I did not say that.”

“You did. Once in the car to Phillip. And again to me when I carried you up to my bed. Some men might be intimidated, but I’m confident I can deliver.”

She groaned again. “I’m too hungover to come up with a good comeback for that, but I want you to imagine that I did, and it was a zinger.”

He placed a hand over his heart. “It cut me to the bone. Left me a humbled man.”

Rachelle wasn’t sure she wanted him humbled. Part of his charm was his confidence and the realization that he was a man who might never be tamed. And yet, he’d stayed and watched over her. “Are we at your family’s riverfront home?”

“A.k.a. what I’d imagined would be a sex den last night.”

“You’ll live.” She moved to sit up but felt nauseated when she did.

“Will you?”

“The jury is still out on that.”

Magnus picked up the phone beside him and made a short call. Despite the time of night, he requested a continental breakfast as well as an assortment of juices—and a Moody Tuesday.

“What is that?”

“It’s a hangover cure from my college days. Steadman kept the recipe for emergencies, although I haven’t needed it in years. Age has taught me that sampling a wine does not require downing the glass.”

“I don’t think I can keep anything down.”

“You will try.”

“Is that a royal command?”

His eyebrows arched. “Do you respond to those? If so, I definitely won’t waste them getting you to try something that will have you feeling better within an hour.”

Still flirting, still hot for her, and Magnus didn’t appear at all upset with how the night had gone. Was this the real Magnus? “I really liked your aunt and uncle. They were surprisingly down-to-earth and funny.”

“They liked you, too. Very much.”

A light knock on the door announced the arrival of a member of his house staff with a silver serving tray. “Your Royal Highness,” the woman said. “Would you like it near the bed?”

“Yes, thank you,” Magnus said. “You may place it beside her.”

Rachelle pulled herself into a seated position. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Westerly,” the woman said before quickly departing.

In place of a tall Bloody Mary, as Rachelle had expected, there was a short tumbler of dark liquid on ice. She picked the glass up, sniffed the contents, and made a face. It smelled like alcohol but looked like mud. “What is it?”

“Fernet-Branca. The Italians swear by it as a hangover cure. Some put it over espresso, but I find that adding crème de menthe lessens the bitterness.”

Her stomach churned just looking at it. “I’ll stick to water.”

“Playing it safe? You disappoint me, little Rachelle.”

She chose a piece of bread with honey and bit into it. Delicious. “I’ve never eaten dirt, but I know I won’t like it.”

He walked over to the bed and moved the tray so he could sit beside her. “Once you give in to fear, you’ve decided exactly how small your life will remain.”

If he weren’t so absolutely gorgeous, even more so in his disheveled state, he would have been easier to be irritated with. As it was, her body was doing a wild scramble to decide if it could ignite with passion even while still uncomfortably ill. “Peer pressure only works on children.”

He lifted the glass to his own lips. “No pressure, merely an educated suggestion. You’ll hate the taste if you’ve never had it. It’s bitter. Revolting. Not a drink for the meek. But if you dare more than a sip, it will warm its way through you.” He took a generous gulp of it. “Much as you’re doing to me.”

Swoon.

He held the beverage out to her, and she accepted it. How could she not after that?

Wait. “It’s bitter and revolting but will grow on me, just like I’m bitter and nasty but growing on you?”

He chuckled. “Perhaps I worded that poorly. At first it doesn’t seem to your taste, but the more you get to know it, the more difficult it is to imagine a time before it.”

“Is that actually better?”

“Drink, Rachelle.”

Her first sip had her gagging in disgust. Bitter medicine. Thick. Oily. With just a hint of mint as a reprieve. She almost replaced the glass, but he was watching her closely. To prove something to herself as well as to him, she downed the rest of the glass.

The initial shock of it was followed by a lingering taste similar to licorice. She expected her stomach to refuse it, but oddly enough it didn’t. There was a punch to it, but not like she remembered from her one and only whiskey shot.

“So?” he asked.

“I don’t think I’m going to throw it up,” she said, because that truly had been her fear a moment earlier.

He laughed. “Eat your honey toast and finish your water. You’ll feel better.”

Rachelle lifted a piece of toast to her mouth, then stopped. “Do you phrase everything as an order?”

“Do you always fight for control, even when something is for your own benefit?”

“I don’t know.” She looked at the bread, then back to him. “My mother blamed the end of her marriage to my father on how controlling his mother was. Delinda had all the money, and she held that power over my father. Not over us, though, because my mother thought we were better off without the money.”