by Mia Carson
“My mother was English, so I was raised a native-speaker. I learned French more as a second language. My accent sort of fell away between the two, I guess. Every now and then it comes out,” he said with a half shrug.
“Like when?”
The Jeep slowed to a stop, idling in the road, waiting for him to choose a left or right turn. Olivia looked both directions before meeting his eyes. He was staring at her.
“Usually when I’m very passionate about something.”
She swallowed hard as he looked away and turned to the right. Olivia was so focused on his face and his words that she hardly noticed when the trees disappeared and the Jeep came to a stop again. The wind blew a bit harder, messing up her hair. He unbuckled and hopped out, nodding to the other direction when she questioned him.
“Look for yourself, princess.”
Olivia turned and gasped. Hands moving on their own, she unbuckled her seatbelt and hopped down from the Jeep, her flats crunching in the stones and sand. They had driven to the top of a cliff that overlooked what must be the entire island. It stretched out before her in beautiful shades of bright cerise and chartreuse, coral and amethyst, and every shade in between. Each house that popped up here and there was colored, standing out from the fauna around it as they led to the heart of the island.
A large stone structure jutted up in the center of the island, but it didn’t look cold. Instead, the stone was sand in color and beautiful as it stood sentient over the city. The building wasn’t terrifyingly large as she’d feared, but it fit the island and blended into the natural beauty as if some giant had built the castle out of sand. She turned a bit and felt her heart leap at the sight. There was the ocean she’d been longing to see, with its white beaches catching each wave. This high up, she could hear them come in one after the other, crashing like thunder in the distance. She could only imagine what it would be like down there, feeling that water wash over her feet and smelling the crisp salt on her skin.
“You like the view?” Olivia jumped. She’d forgotten she was not alone. Quincy stood beside her, hands on his hips. “Have you not seen the ocean before?”
“Not until today. It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
“Of course. Now then, I’m afraid we must head into the city, but I promise your feet will be in that sand. Come,” he promised and held out his hand. Olivia took it without thinking, and both of them paused. His hand tightened around hers for a breath before he let go and cleared his throat.
They strode back to the Jeep in silence, and Olivia tried to keep her eyes off the man who was going to become her stepbrother.
Chapter 2
After driving Olivia to the palace, Quincy let the servants show her to her new room. She still wore that dreamy look on her face, and he felt himself growing fond of this woman very quickly. He’d noticed her straining to see the ocean while he drove and had thought she’d enjoy the view from the cliff. He didn’t realize how much he’d enjoy seeing such a look on her face.
Quincy tossed the Jeep keys to the valet and went inside as well. His rooms were down the hall from Olivia’s. His parents had always hoped for more children to fill them, but they’d been unlucky in that area. Quincy was an only child and had been alone with his father since his mother passed away when he was ten, a dark time. Quincy had turned into a bit of a rebel, and his father retreated into himself—until Melinda suddenly appeared in his life. Quincy still remembered seeing his father’s face after the first day he’d spent with that woman. He hadn’t seen a look like that in the king’s eyes for years, and that woman had done it in one afternoon.
When they’d first been introduced, Quincy had meant to tell Melinda how thankful he was that she’d appeared in their lives, but he’d never got the chance.
“Ah, sir, there you are,” Pascal, his personal servant and friend, said as Quincy entered his grand rooms. “I trust the ladies of the palace are settling in nicely?”
“Guess so. The soon-to-be princess is down the hall,” he told him as he stretched, grabbed a fresh mango from the bowl on the nearby table, and headed out to his balcony. It overlooked the courtyard of the palace and the central fountain made of glass tiles that caught the sunlight. Palm trees swayed gently in the island breeze, and the scent of the fresh blooms hit his nose. His gaze slid to another balcony to the right of his and at an angle. Olivia’s balcony. Sadly, her doors were closed, as were the curtains.
“Something the matter, sir?”
“Hmm? Oh no, nothing. Just wondering what this summer will be like.”
Pascal stood beside him, frowning. “Planning how to ruin your father’s parties?”
“No, actually, just wondering about this Olivia, is all.”
“Soon-to-be Princess Olivia. I think they’ll add a nice appeal to the palace. Bring some life back into it,” Pascal nodded. “Add a feminine touch.”
Quincy frowned. “I happen to like it just being us men.”
His servant raised a brow and straightened. “That’s not what your face says, sir.”
“And what does my face say?”
“That you are dying to talk with that woman again. But first, your father has requested you meet him in his study. He would like to go over what is expected of you the next few months.”
Quincy groaned. He hated when his father held his little meetings. As if the crown prince didn’t already know what to do. He just didn’t want to do it. There was a difference. His father was worried about the wedding plans, and the last thing Quincy would do was ruin his father’s happiness. Drive him insane as all good sons should, yes, but not ruin the wedding.
He ate the rest of his mango and walked out of his room. He passed several more servants in the halls. They stopped and bowed their heads as he passed, and he smiled and greeted each and every one by name. He’d been taught to do that since he could talk. He might be a rebel, but he did not go so far as to mistreat the household. Never piss off the person who did your laundry or made your bed. That was just asking for trouble.
A few bodyguards stood outside his father’s study and opened the door for their prince as he approached. “Father,” he said, bowing his head. “You wished to speak with me?”
“Ah, yes, come in. Have a seat, Quin.”
Quincy moved to sit in front of his father’s grand, hand-carved desk. It had been at the palace for generations and was as old as the place itself. Quincy had always admired it, just like he admired the man who sat behind it. Well, most days. His father stared at several papers laid out before him, mumbling under his breath.
“Kings do not mumble,” Quincy said, earning a glare from his father.
“And princes do not tell their kings what not to do,” he said, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. “Nearly finished.” Quincy leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, slouching. “I can still see you. Sit up straight before you hurt your back.”
“I don’t know… I’m quite comfortable.”
His father’s pen scratched across the heavy paper as he signed it. He pressed a button on his desk. A moment later, a door to the right side opened and the king’s second in command, Marcel, appeared.
“My Prince, Quincy,” he said, bowing his head to him, then the king. “The announcement is signed and ready?”
“Yes, but hold onto it for a moment, please. I must confer with the prince on several matters.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” Marcel said. He exited the same way he entered.
As the door closed, Quincy’s eyes narrowed as he turned to his father. “Confer with me on what?”
“The wedding.”
“Your wedding? I think you want to speak with your future wife on those matters, Father. I’m afraid I don’t know the first thing about place settings or flower arrangements.”
His father sighed as he got to his feet. “I meant your wedding, Quin.”
Quincy sat up as he stared at his father. “I thought we’d been through
this. I’m not ready.”
“That is not for you to decide anymore,” Lamont informed him. “Quin, you are twenty-three, the perfect marrying age. There are plenty of suitable bachelorettes ready for you to take their hands, many of whom are daughters of very powerful and very wealthy parents.”
“I thought it was the twenty-first century. Why do I still have to have an arranged marriage?”
“The year doesn’t matter when you’re royalty. This is your duty, and I expect you to do it.”
Quincy crossed his arms tightly over his chest, flashing the tattoos his father disapproved of, especially the one on his hand of a skull with tropical flowers coming out and beneath it. “And if I refuse?”
Lamont leaned on his desk, making sure he looked his son in the eye. “Then you will not only fail your king and country, but you will shame the memory of your mother. Quin, I love you, son, but it’s time to step up and become the prince you must be for our country.”
“By marrying someone I don’t like?”
“I have selected a few for you to look at. You have met all of them at least once,” Lamont commented and reached into his desk drawer. He pulled out several folders and handed them over. “I expect you to make a decision and invite that woman to my wedding in three months.”
Quincy stared up at him, wide-eyed. “Seriously?”
“Yes. I am no longer at an age to have children, and neither is Melinda. For this line to carry on, you must marry and bear sons. I’m sorry, but this is what it means to be a prince. Now then, to other business.”
“Sure, just like that,” Quincy snapped as he tucked the folders under his arm and stood. “I know what my duties are, Father. I will see to it that Olivia is given a rundown of what is expected of her. Will you force her into marriage as well?”
Lamont didn’t speak but handed over another sheet of paper. “This is the list of events over the next few months. You both are expected to attend. Show her what she will be required to do.” His father sat back down at his desk and started to read over more papers, leaving his son to stand there.
“Anything else, Your Highness?”
“Yes. You are to be an example to Olivia of how royalty behaves. Do not disappoint me. You think I’m being hard on you now? I can be much worse. Now go. You have business to attend to.”
Quincy bowed his head reluctantly, turned, and left his father to deal with other issues. The folders under his arm burned against his side. He wanted to throw them out and never look at them, but he knew that wouldn’t solve the problem. His father would hound him about it until he picked someone, and if he didn’t, the king would just step in and do it for him.
He should feel lucky he was at least being given an option—not that it made him feel any better. There was nothing to do now but head back to his rooms and start perusing the files of the selected women.
His steps slowed as a much better idea crossed his mind. He wanted to get to know this soon-to-be sister of his, and what better time than now? He hurried to his rooms, set the folders down, and headed down the hall to check in on Olivia. There was just something about her… When their hands touched, a bit of electricity shot between them. He wanted to know all about this woman and what made her tick. What set her off so he could find new ways to drive her crazy. Anything to distract him from finding a future wife.
When he reached her door, he found it open and peered inside. “Knock, knock?”
“Yes?” She came out from the bathroom and paused when she saw him. Immediately, she sank into a curtsy, dropping the makeup bag in her hands.
“You don’t have to do that with me,” he told her with a smile. “Only if we’re in public, really.”
“Sorry,” she mumbled and bent down to pick up the mess. He hurried over to help her, letting his hand brush over hers once again and smirking when the same electric shock went through him. Olivia flinched, and he knew she’d felt it too. “I’m still new to this, you know.”
“Yes, I do know, which is why I’m here.” They stood together, and she quietly thanked him for his help. “I’m to show you the ins and outs of being a royal member of this family. Starting now.”
She glanced at the bed, and he followed her gaze to her half-unpacked suitcase. “Now?”
“Of course,” he said and saw the fight within her shimmering sea-blue eyes—just like the waves, turning darker for a moment before she sighed.
“Should I change? I just got comfortable. Thought I’d be able to relax my first night here.”
He took a step back, scratching his chin as he circled her. She’d changed out of the conservative black skirt and blouse into something that fit her perfectly and brought up a dozen questions he had about her. Her jeans were rough around the edges, torn here and there and covered with paint. So many colors he couldn’t even count them all. Her top was also dabbed with paint splotches, turning her black tank top into a piece of art itself.
Before, the blouse had hidden most of her curves, but he was able to see just what type of woman she was. The painted denim hugged her hips and thighs, and the tank showed him the outline of her chest… not large, but a decent size nonetheless. Her skin was tanned, too. Not naturally like his, but from days spent outside in the Midwestern sun.
“So is that a yes change or no change?” she asked, clearing her throat as he came back around the front and looked her up and down again.
“I think you can have one night to settle in. The king will understand,” he said finally. “Shall I help you unpack? Why didn’t you have your servants do it for you?’
“I sent them away,” she told him and padded barefoot to her suitcase on the bed.
“And why would you do that? They’re always so helpful.”
She laughed. “A bit too helpful. I don’t need strange people touching my underwear.”
He shrugged and went to the bed, plopping down on it as she started to pull more clothes out. Their eyes met, and she shook her head at him. “What? Don’t you like having a prince in your bed?”
“On my bed,” she corrected as her eyes darted over his body and back to the suitcase. “Whatever. I’m a guest in your home, so you can do what you want.” He watched her pull out a few more pairs of jeans and tanks along with a canvas bag she tried to tuck out of the way, but he asked what it was. “Nothing really. Just something I have to do for my classes.”
“Ah, school. And what are you studying?” She looked hesitant and muttered under her breath. “Rule number one. A prince or princess does not mutter or mumble,” he informed her, trying to sound as snobbish as possible. “Come on, it can’t be that bad. Tell me. How else am I supposed to get to know my future stepsister?”
He could tell she still wasn’t sure and was about to give up when she handed him a sketchbook that she had pulled from the bottom of her suitcase. He took it and sat up, flipping through the pages. He had to stop and really look at each sketch.
“What? Not to your liking?”
Quincy shook his head. “These are incredible,” he whispered, stunned by her artistry. “You did all of these?”
She nodded and sat beside him. Quincy stared at each sketch for at least a minute, taking in every little detail from the landscapes to the drawings of houses and a bustling street. There were several of people, one he recognized as Melinda, her mother. The images of flowers, the way she could shadow so well, made Quincy feel as if he could never see anything to compare them to. But as he flipped through, the images became a bit darker, a bit sadder, until he came to the last page and she tried to quickly pull it away.
“Don’t look at that one.”
“Why not?” he asked and stood so he was out of her reach.
“Just don’t.” She tried to grab it, but he moved too fast and stared down at the last image.
It was a self-portrait, but the woman standing before him and the woman in the image were two very different people. He was so stunned by the sadness in her eyes that
he forgot to hold onto the sketchbook. She snatched it out of his hands and put it back in her suitcase, underneath everything else still in there.
“What happened?” he asked her quietly.
She tucked her hair behind her ears and shrugged. “Nothing really. Just went through a bit of a dark period in my life. Doesn’t everyone?”
“I guess so. I’m just glad you’re a happier person now.” As he said it he wanted to take back the words. They sounded lame. “Do you just sketch or do you paint too?” he said to change the subject.
“I do. Guess you could figure that part out pretty easily.”
“Nope, not at all.”
She laughed as she glanced down at her clothes. “New place. Needed something to remind me of home I guess. I wasn’t planning on leaving my room in this, don’t worry.”
He held up his hands. “Do you see me complaining? You’re talking to the man with more tattoos than his father knows about.”
“Do they mean something?”
“Some of them do, but others… I just thought they looked cool.” He rolled up his sleeves more so she could see them all. On his left arm was a twisted vine with thorns and roses, but it was far from colorful. It was dark. He, like Olivia, had gone through his own dark period, and that vine had represented everything he hated about his life. On his right arm was a sparrow sitting on a skull with flowers all around it, inside it, and leaving a trail up to his elbow. The skull matched the one on his hand, a set he had done at the same time.
Olivia reached out and her fingers trailed over the intricate designs. Quincy stiffened at her touch, not because it wasn’t welcome, but because he didn’t want it to stop. Having her near him made his gut flutter, and his heartbeat speed up more than it ever had in the presence of a woman before.
“They are very well done.”
“You have any tattoos?” he asked as she stepped back. He caught a flash of something in her eyes, but it was gone so quickly, he wasn’t sure if he’d actually seen it or not.
