Blazing Bedtime Anthology

by Leslie Kelly

  “I have an important mission for you. A secret mission.”

  “I am grateful for your confidence in me, Majesty.”

  “You have undoubtedly heard that my son, Prince Ruprecht, is out on the continent, sowing his oats before his coronation.”

  Olivia nodded once. Everyone knew that the gay prince had gone off for one last romp before assuming the mantle of king. All of Grand Falls hoped that during his travels, he’d find a princess to wed. He had proved very picky about choosing a bride.

  “Well,” the queen said, “it’s not true.”

  Though startled, Olivia managed to avoid showing it.

  “In fact, the prince has…left. Without our blessing.”

  “Left, Your Majesty? Do you mean he has, er, run away?” It was a ridiculous way to put it since the prince was a man of nearly thirty years. Though, to be honest, he didn’t act much like a man. Well, not the way Olivia thought a real man should act.

  “Yes,” the woman admitted. “Call it what you want. He got it in his head to go over there before taking his place as king.”

  Over there. Olivia sucked in a surprised breath. Usually, the other place was only spoken of in whispers or cautionary bedtime stories to children. Be good, or you’ll be sent over there to work in a fast food restaurant! Whatever that was.

  Just to be sure, she asked, “You mean, Earth?”

  “Yes, of course I mean Earth!”

  Earth, the flipside of reality. The darker reflection of her own world.

  Earth, whose inhabitants believed everything about Elatyria was simply a fairy tale, a bedtime story—as if they were amusing, insignificant and to be laughed at.

  She’d been there. She didn’t like it.

  “His note promised he would be back well in time for his coronation, on his birthday, but I haven’t heard one single word from him in months.”

  A note. Great Athena’s ghost, the future king had left a note and traipsed away like a moody little princess. “I see.”

  The queen stopped pacing. Her frown dropped her jowls almost down to her shoulders. “I blame that awful Penelope Mayfair!”

  That would be Queen Penelope, newly arrived and crowned head of the neighboring kingdom of Riverdale. She’d been raised on the Earth side, from what Olivia understood.

  “She filled Ruprecht’s head with silly prattle of some city with a golden bridge and a parade of people who love rainbows!”

  “That is where he went? To this city with a golden bridge?”

  “Yes. It’s in a place called California.” The queen came closer, to within a few steps. Without warning, she reached out and grabbed Olivia’s chin, lifting Olivia’s face to look her in the eye. “You must go find him. And bring him back here.”

  “Majesty, what if the prince doesn’t wish to return?”

  “Then toss him in a sack and bring him anyway!”

  Olivia swallowed. Lay violent hands on a member of the royal family? On the kind old king’s son and heir? It went against all her training. Not to mention her loyalty to the late monarch.

  The queen dropped her hand, but not her stare. “Captain—Olivia—you care for my son, don’t you? You were practically raised together, after all.”

  That much was true, even though she’d never had much use for the prince. He’d been a whiny crybaby whom she’d called Rupie when they were children. “Of course, Majesty.”

  “And you wouldn’t want to see him lose the throne.”

  “Surely it wouldn’t come to that!”

  The queen put her hands together and nodded, appearing pious and sincere. “It could and it will. The law of the land decrees it. If Ruprecht is not crowned in two weeks, the title passes to one of his cousins from a faraway kingdom. The new king would likely bring his entire court here, dismissing this one.”

  The queen didn’t have to say it, her threat hung in the air. If Ruprecht lost the crown, and a new ruler arrived, the Vanderbroooks—Olivia’s parents and siblings—would lose their positions as favored courtiers, friends of the royal family. Marriage prospects would disappear, as would her brother Basil’s chance to study enough to become a wise man or royal advisor.

  The Vanderbrooks could become destitute.

  “I understand, Your Majesty,” she said, meaning it.

  “You’ll bring him back by any means necessary?”

  She hesitated, then nodded once. “I will do as you command.”

  The queen smiled beneficently. “Ahh, good. I expect you to be off immediately.” But before she swept away, she added, “Oh, and Captain, I assume I needn’t warn you not to be swayed from your duty by my son? He is a very handsome man.”

  “Never,” she swore, hearing her own vehemence. She’d seen the prince traipse through the tulips one too many times when they were young to ever think of him as anything but a silly boy.

  The queen lifted a haughty brow. “Indeed?”

  Knowing the queen’s vanity about her son’s looks, she added, “I simply mean, my training allows for no thought of such things. Those interests have long been driven out of me.”

  That was true. She’d made her choice when she’d turned twenty. Celibacy and devotion to duty had ruled her life for eight years, even if others in her troop weren’t as rigid about their vows.

  Not Olivia. No man had ever tempted her to stray.

  And she doubted she ever would. But if she ever were tempted, it certainly wouldn’t be by a silly fop like the prince.

  * * *

  CONSIDERING HE PLAYED LEAD guitar and was the front-man singer for a popular weekend rock band, Rafe Cabot had heard more than his fair share of pickup lines. Women had told him they wanted to polish his long, hard microphone. Or asked him to pluck their strings. They’d offered to let him practice his licks on their thighs. And he had been told more times than he could count that he and some female could make beautiful music together.

  Snooty legal types who wouldn’t give him the time of day if they saw him at his regular job as a carpenter threw their panties on stage when he sang. Old and young, single and married, they did crazy stuff to get the attention of a man they saw as hot and easy.

  Being hot was part of the rocker mystique. No matter what a guy looked like, if he had a guitar, chicks went for him. That would explain why elderly grandpas from big-name groups still got panties—thongs, not Depends—thrown at them, too.

  Being easy, though, he wouldn’t cop to. Been there, done that, had his fun and now it was over. When the show ended, he would go home to sleep—alone—focused on the carpentry jobs he had lined up for next week, not the sex he could be getting over the weekend.

  Still, the come-ons were part of the gig. He knew it, every band member knew it. A couple of the guys were young enough to hit whatever got pitched to them, but Rafe was far enough along that he never even picked up the bat. No harm, no foul.

  Thing was, lately, he’d been getting pitches from some unusual sources. Really unusual. In the one way Rafe definitely didn’t swing.

  “Oooh, a group of hot ones just sat down at the far right table,” said Adam, their bass player, who was peering out from the back room of the popular club. Snickering, he added, “Of course, they’re dudes. Anyone wanna bet who they came to see?”

  Their drummer, Jeremy, piped in. “Watch what you use to wipe the sweat off your face tonight, Rafe. You might get a pair of boxers tossed at ya instead of silk panties.”

  “Screw you guys.”

  The others laughed, knowing Rafe had been worrying about his new fan base. Lately, it seemed like his most enthusiastic groupies came with very different equipment in their pants.

  He was no homophobe. He’d lived in San Francisco, for God’s sake. Hell, he’d voted against Prop 8.

  But…seriously? This was getting ridiculous. Somehow, he had become the flavor-of-the-month for the type of clientele who usually hung out in bars where guys danced with guys.

  Gig after gig, the audience grew a bit more mixed. Where they used
to stand on stage and look out at a sea of estrogen, now they saw groups of men who applauded as loudly as the women. And between sets, a lot of them hit Rafe with some of the same pickup lines he’d been hearing from females all these years.

  A few times, he’d been sorely tempted to hit them back.

  “Gotta ask, dude, what happened?” Jeremy asked. “When did you become gay-bait? Is there something you’re not telling us?”

  “Screw you twice,” he muttered.

  “It’s been a long time since we’ve seen you with a woman. If you’ve switched sides…”

  “I haven’t,” Rafe snarled. “Just because I don’t pick up a different woman after every show doesn’t mean I’ve stopped liking them.” Forcing his annoyance away, he said, “I think I have a look-alike somewhere in the city. These guys have been calling me by the wrong name. Ralphie, Roofie, something like that.”

  “Sounds a lot like Rafe to me,” Jeremy said.

  “I’m telling you, it’s all some big screw-up.”

  One he wanted to rectify ASAP. Whoever this guy was, he must look a lot like him. Rafe heard his name at almost every show.

  “You ready?” the club manager asked. “Line’s out the door!”

  Adam smiled broadly. “Would you say the crowd has more X chromosomes or Y?”

  Rafe glared at his friend. “One more crack and I’m gone.”

  Chuckling, the other man held up a hand, palm out. “Sorry.”

  Determined to ignore everything but the music, Rafe returned to the stage. Applause washed over him, the heat of the lights melting his irritation. Hitting the strings hard, he pounded out his troubles in an edgy rhythm, losing himself in the beat. He kept looking over the heads of the audience, not making eye contact.

  At least, until his eyes landed on her.

  The blonde stood by the bar, her back ramrod straight. Looking neither left nor right, she concentrated strictly on the stage, so intently focused, she didn’t even seem to be on the same planet as the noisy crowd that surrounded her.

  Actually, that wasn’t quite true. She wasn’t looking at the stage. The woman was concentrating solely on him.

  Every time he glanced her way, he found her staring at him. But not the way most women stared. This one was not wearing anything that could be described as a come-and-get-me smile. The expression on her beautiful face would more correctly be described as give-me-what-I-want-or-I’ll-hurt-you.

  Despite her scowl, some straight men in the place gave it a shot, anyway. Three or four had approached her. Whatever she said to them made them scurry away, thoroughly intimidated.

  Rafe, however, didn’t feel intimidated. In fact, for the first time in his adult life, he felt on the verge of getting a hard-on in the middle of a performance.

  Because, hot damn, she was amazing.

  “Dude, check out Xena the warrior princess in the back,” muttered Adam when they finished the song.

  “Way ahead of ya,” Rafe admitted.

  Adam had nailed it. Other than being blond-haired instead of brunette, the stranger had that whole bad-ass persona down to a T. And it wasn’t just the attitude. She was dressed exactly like the woman who’d starred in every one of his teenage Lucy Lawless fantasies.

  Along with all that attitude, she wore black leather, top to bottom. Though, to be honest, there wasn’t a whole lot covering the top. Or the bottom.

  People in San Francisco were always a little out there in their dress, but this woman could start a new fashion trend. If the women in town thought they could look as hot as her, they’d be getting their own leather halter tops and short, matching skirts.

  Her flat, knee-length boots laced all the way up the front, hugging slim legs. Personally, he’d prefer them to be spike-heeled, but that was his only complaint.

  With the clothes, her long blond hair hanging well past her shoulders—a gold headband resting on top of it—and that gleam of danger in her eyes, she was impossible to ignore. Every man and woman in the bar, gay or straight, had checked her out.

  “Dibs,” Adam said.

  “Forget it.” Rafe met the blonde’s stare again. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m the one she’s interested in.”

  “Aww, come on, you can have your pick from all those other tables.” The way Adam wagged his eyebrows said he was talking about certain tables. The ones filled with guys.

  “She’s mine,” he snapped as he plunged into the next tune.

  Rafe didn’t know why he was suddenly ready to jump back into the easy-sex game he had long since left behind him. Maybe because the band members’ joshing had gotten under his skin? Or because he was starting to worry he was doing something to attract the male attention he’d been getting?

  Nah. It was her. Just her. It had been a long time since he’d looked across a crowded room and seen a woman who stole his breath. She not only did that, she practically stopped his heart.

  He suspected she could start it again with a single touch.

  Working two jobs, Rafe didn’t have much time for relationships. His last one, with a sad divorcée who’d hired him to renovate her kitchen and kept him on to heal her broken heart, had ended in a major dumping. He’d been the dumpee. She’d decided her attorney was a better prospect than her carpenter.

  Same old story. He was a sucker for a woman in need and had gotten involved even when he’d known it was a bad idea.

  Rafe had tried to avoid doing that again by sleeping with a different groupie every weekend. But, feeling too much like a user, he couldn’t continue. Sharing a night of sex and nothing else was fine for some women—but not others. Problem was, he could never be absolutely certain which type was trying to pick him up.

  He just didn’t like hurting anyone. Maybe because of his own protective tendencies toward women—starting with the one who’d raised him, alone, after his father had walked out. So he’d decided to steer clear of any kind of entanglements, sexual or emotional, and focus on work and the band for a while.

  He’d done okay with that. Until tonight. Until her.

  Throughout the evening, he continued to steal glances at the blonde. Judging by the full glasses on the bar, she had fulfilled the two drink minimum—or, more likely, some hopeful guy had fulfilled it for her—but hadn’t touched either one. She wasn’t drinking, wasn’t talking, wasn’t dancing, wasn’t smiling.

  All she did was watch. And she only watched him.

  Finally, near the end of the night, he glanced over and saw she was on the move. She made her way through the crowd; a tap on a shoulder or a word and people melted out of her way. She would have no problem getting up to the small stage, and he’d take anything she might like to throw at him. Including herself.

  But, he suddenly realized, she wasn’t coming toward the stage. Instead, she was heading for the door. And without a single look back in his direction, she walked right out of it.

  “Dude, harsh,” Adam said as they segued into one last song.

  Harsh indeed. Talk about misreading a woman. He’d apparently been way off base, seeing attraction when it hadn’t been there.

  After they finished the song, Adam said, “Don’t feel bad. She probably wasn’t that hot up close, anyway.”

  Not hot? The woman should come with a Fire Hazard sign around her neck and a smoke alarm taped to her thigh.

  One long, luscious thigh.

  He’d wanted her. She’d left. And the night suddenly seemed a whole lot emptier. “Do me a favor,” Rafe said as the crowd swooped in. “Let me get outta here. I’m not up for this tonight.”

  Despite his joking and smart-ass attitude, Adam was a good friend and he knew when Rafe had reached his limit. Waving, he said, “Go on. We’ll pack up your stuff and get it into the van.”

  Normally, Rafe wouldn’t have left without his Fender, but he just had to go. He couldn’t deal with dudes coming on to him, not now, after he’d been desperately interested in a woman and she had walked away without as much as a hello.

  M
aking his way out, he heard his bandmates covering for him, giving him a chance to leave without having somebody go outside to cut him off. Mentally thanking them, he stepped into the San Francisco night, breathing deeply of the cool air—salty, a little grimy. Still, even a back alley with a Dumpster smelled better than the hot, sweaty club filled with wall-to-wall people and the reek of spilled beer.

  Sidestepping around Adam’s van, he turned to walk home. Rafe lived downtown, in a converted loft, which he’d bought as a cheap ruin and spent two years renovating. He’d walked these streets at night a hundred times, without ever feeling a hint of worry.

  But now, for some reason, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He slowed, glancing from side to side, certain he wasn’t alone, though he couldn’t define why. Maybe a sound, a movement through the air; something had put him on alert.

  With reason.

  Without warning, a shape came at him from the darkness. He lifted a hand to defend himself but the figure moved like black lightning, shoving him against the brick wall of the building and pinning him there with a forearm across his throat.

  Shocked, Rafe tried to struggle, but immediately stopped when he heard a voice. A female voice. A sexy female voice.

  “Okay, handsome,” she said, “fun’s over. You’re mine.”

  CHAPTER 2

  OLIVIA HADN’T PLANNED to physically accost the prince. After arriving in this loud, noxious city and tracking him down, using a miniature portrait someone had finally recognized, she had intended merely to talk to him. Reminding him of what he stood to lose should have been enough to convince him to return with her.

  The prince might be lazy, vain and a bit silly, but he’d never seemed entirely stupid. As little as he might like his mother, or the responsibilities that came with a royal title, he most definitely liked the perks. Good clothes, good wine, gold by the barrel. No bedbugs or lice to worry about, front-row seats to any show playing at the palace. Oh, and a few palaces.

  Not a bad life if you were into that sort of thing.