Unmasking the Maverick Prince

by Kristi Gold

  KRISTI GOLD

  has always believed that love has remarkable healing powers and feels very fortunate to be able to weave stories of romance and commitment. As a bestselling author and a Romance Writers of America RITA® Award finalist, she’s learned that although accolades are wonderful, the most cherished rewards come from personal stories shared by readers.

  You can reach Kristi at KGOLDAUTHOR@aol.com, through her website at www.kristigold.com or snail-mail at PO Box 9070, Waco, Texas, 76714, USA. (Please include an SAE with return postage for a response.)

  THE ROYAL WAGER

  KRISTI GOLD

  WWW.MILLSANDBOON.CO.UK

  To the Ditzy Chix, the greatest group of authors

  on earth, for their wonderful camaraderie. And

  to the Chix-a-Dees, a fantastic group of

  romance readers whose commitment to the

  genre never ceases to amaze me.

  Thanks to you all for your continued support.

  Prologue

  Tomorrow morning, Mitchell Edward Warner III planned to get the hell out of Harvard and return to the Oklahoma cattle ranch where he’d spent every summer since his birth. The place where he’d been taught to ride a horse and rope a steer without breaking too many bones. Where at fifteen, he’d fumbled his way through sex with a country girl down by the creek, high on adrenaline and teenage lust, as well as the prospect of getting caught. By the summer of his eighteenth year, he’d gotten pretty damn good at all three.

  But he’d never been any good at being what his father wanted him to be—the heir apparent of a dynasty spanning four generations of high-powered politicians. He’d made the decision to shun his legacy, first by rejecting the preferred Texas alma mater in favor of an Ivy League school, and then going further against tradition by choosing business over law. He refused to enter the world of partisan politics and social-climbing suck-ups where both his father and betrayal reigned supreme.

  The hoots and hollers filtering in from outside made Mitch long for a freedom that still wasn’t quite within his reach. Instead, he was hidden away with two friends, Marc DeLoria and Dharr Halim, in their shared apartment. An unlikely trio to most observers, but they had one very important thing in common—unwelcome attention from the press because of family ties. Tonight was no different from the rest. Sons of kings and senators had a hard time remaining invisible.

  While the post-graduation party raged outside, Mitch claimed his favorite spot on the floor with his back to the wall, appropriate since at times he felt that way in a very real sense. He tossed aside the ranching magazine he’d pretended to be reading and picked up the champagne bottle to refill his glass, wishing it were a beer. “We’ve already toasted our success. Now I suggest we toast a long bachelorhood.” He topped off Dharr’s and Marc’s drinks, replaced the bottle in the bucket and then held up his glass.

  Dharr raised his flute. “I would most definitely toast to that.”

  Marc hesitated, champagne in hand, and after a few moments said, “I prefer to propose a wager.”

  Dharr and Mitch glanced at each other before turning their attention back to Marc. “What kind of wager, DeLoria?” Mitch asked.

  “Well, since we’ve all agreed that we’re not ready for marriage in the immediate future, if ever, I suggest we hold ourselves to those terms by wagering we’ll all be unmarried on our tenth reunion.”

  “And if we are not?” Dharr asked.

  “We’ll be forced to give away our most prized possession.”

  Oh, hell. Mitch could only think of one thing, something he valued more than any material object he had ever owned, and he’d owned plenty. “Give away my gelding? That would be tough.”

  Dharr looked even less enthusiastic when he glanced at the painting hanging above Mitch’s head. “I suppose that would be my Modigliani, and I must admit that giving away the nude would cause me great suffering.”

  “That’s the point, gentlemen,” Marc said. “The wager would mean nothing if the possessions were meaningless.”

  Mitch found it kind of strange that Marc hadn’t mentioned anything he would be willing to give away. “Okay, DeLoria. What’s it going to be for you?”

  “The Corvette.”

  Damn, that vehicle was legendary, and Mitch had a hard time believing Marc would actually part with it. “You’d give up the love mobile?”

  “Of course not. I won’t lose.”

  “Nor will I,” Dharr said. “Ten years will be adequate before I am forced to adhere to an arranged marriage in order to produce an heir.”

  “No problem for me,” Mitch said, and it wasn’t. “I’m going to avoid marriage at all costs.”

  Again Dharr held up his glass. “Then we are all agreed?”

  Mitch touched his flute to Dharr’s. “Agreed.”

  Marc did the same. “Let the wager begin.”

  Mitch smiled, the first sincere one in days. Team players to the end.

  Without a doubt, Mitch would beat them all. Marc was too damn fond of women not to get caught in someone’s trap. Dharr would probably buckle under his father’s pressure and marry the woman chosen for him. Which left Mitch to do what he did best—stand on his own.

  He figured the press would eventually get tired of stalking him if he didn’t give them anything to talk about. He would blend into the real world in a single-stoplight town where people didn’t look at him like he were some kind of a god. He’d get rid of every suit he’d ever owned, spend his days in jeans and chaps and his nights in the local bar, with women who didn’t expect anything but a few turns on the dance floor and an occasional good time after closing.

  And if he was lucky, he’d finally be left alone to live his life as he pleased, however he pleased, and finally walk into a place without being noticed.

  One

  Nine years later.

  When he strode through the doors with all the self-assurance of a living legend, Victoria Barnett almost dropped her plastic cup of cheap chardonnay into her lap.

  The pair of Wranglers washed out in places too difficult to ignore, the denim shirt pushed up at the sleeves revealing tanned forearms covered by a veneer of dark hair and the black Resistol tipped low on his brow gave the appearance that he was any hard-working, testosterone-laden cowboy searching for a way to spend a Friday night—probably between the sheets.

  But he wasn’t just any cowboy. He was Quail Run’s favored son, the next best thing to American royalty, and Tori’s possible ticket to a pay raise and promotion.

  The journalist in her reacted with excitement at the prospect of obtaining the story of the decade. The woman in her reacted with heat to his diamond-blue eyes assessing the crowd with guarded interest as he worked his way to the jam-packed bar.

  A few men acknowledged his presence with a casual, “Hey, Mitch,” as if his appearance in this dusty down-home dive was a common occurrence. More than a few women eyed him as if he were the answer to their wildest dreams.

  Tori couldn’t imagine why a man of his caliber would frequent a place like Sadler’s Bar and Grill, or choose to reside in this unforgiving southern Oklahoma town. Had it not been for her best friend’s upcoming wedding, Tori would never have returned to Quail Run, where she’d grown up in hand-me-downs and a hard-luck shack. Poor little Tori, whose mama hadn’t bothered to marry her dad—not that he’d bothered to ask.

  But for the first time in two days, she was glad she had come back. And if luck prevailed, Mitch Warner would give her exactly what she needed.

  “You really should give it a whirl, Tori.”

  Tori turned to her right and gave her attention to Stella Moore, the reason for her presence in the local bar—a final girlfriend get-together be
fore Stella married Bobby Lehman tomorrow night. “Give what a whirl?”

  Stella nodded toward the small stage at the front of the dance floor where some bearded, beer-bellied deejay wearing a T-shirt that read Bite Me was setting up for karaoke. “You should sing. You know you want to.”

  “Just do it, Tori,” Janie Young said with an added nudge in Tori’s left side. “Plainie Janie” as she’d been known in school. But with her waist-length blond hair, perfectly made-up green eyes and lithe five-foot, eleven-inch frame, Tori concluded that Janie couldn’t lay claim to being plain now. On the contrary, her chosen career involved gracing the runways from New York to Paris as a renowned model known simply as Jada.

  “One of you can sing,” Tori said. “I’d rather sit here and finish my wine.” Even if it was really bad wine.

  “Come on, Tori,” Stella cajoled. “You had the best voice in the high school choir. Show it off.”

  A hot blush crawled up Tori’s throat and settled on her cheeks. “That’s not saying all that much, considering there were only ten of us in the choir.”

  Janie frowned. “Don’t put yourself down. You know you’re talented. Besides, it’ll be good practice before you sing at the wedding tomorrow night.”

  Tori grabbed a lock of hair and twirled it round and round her finger, a nervous habit she’d begun at the age of three, when she’d finally acquired some hair, according to her mom. Back when her mom still remembered all the little milestones in her daughter’s life, before she’d forgotten her only child’s name. Back when her mom was still around.

  Pushing away the sadness, Tori said, “It’s been a long time since I’ve sung in public.” A long time since she’d had anything to sing about.

  Brianne McIntyre returned to the table from the restroom, her red curls bouncing in time with her exuberant stride, completing the “Fearsome Foursome,” as they’d labeled themselves during their youth. Another of the prodigal daughters who rarely returned home, Brianne resided in Houston where she was currently attending her third college and studying nursing, still undecided on what she wanted to be when she grew up.

  Something sinister was stirring, Tori decided, when her friends displayed some fairly devious smiles. “What are you three up to now?”

  Stella rested a hand on her belly, slightly swollen from the pregnancy that had been the reason for the hurry-up wedding. “Nothing at all, Tori. We’re just here to have some fun.”

  Stella’s assertions did nothing to silence the suspicion running at full steam in Tori’s head.

  Janie leaned forward and grinned. “Don’t look now, girls, but Mitch Warner’s sitting at a table on the other side of the dance floor.”

  Tori didn’t dare look again. Not unless she wanted to be totally obvious in her admiration. “I know. I saw him come in.”

  Janie, however, opted to be obvious and fairly drooled after turning back to the group. “Oh my gosh, what I wouldn’t do to that man if I had the chance. He’s hotter than an Oklahoma sidewalk in August.”

  So was Tori, thanks to Mitch Warner, even it was October, not August, and forty degrees outside. “He’s okay.”

  “Okay?” Stella’s hazel eyes went almost as wide as the round table where they were seated. “He’s drop-dead gorgeous. And last week, Bobby told me he and Mary Alice Marshall finally broke up. She’s going to marry Brady the banker.”

  Brianne wrinkled her freckled nose. “I still can’t believe he was dating her. Everyone knows she’s slept with every cowboy under thirty in this town.”

  All three of them, Tori thought wryly.

  Stella shook her head, sending her dark curls into a dance as she sent Brianne a warning look that wasn’t lost on Tori. “No one knows that for sure, Brianne. People here are too judgmental for their own good.”

  Tori considered that to be a colossal understatement. The town’s residents had said the same thing about her own mother many times, which was probably the reason for Stella’s scolding. Or maybe Stella’s unplanned pregnancy had sent the rumor mill back into full swing.

  “The way I understand it, she and Mitch did the deed the first time one summer over fifteen years ago,” Janie said in a conspiratorial whisper. “They’ve been on and off, literally, since he came back here to live.”

  Tori had heard about Mitch’s and Mary Alice’s extracurricular activities when she’d still been living in Quail Run, but she’d been too young to care. Five years her senior, Mitch Warner had been the elusive, enigmatic rich boy who’d only come to town during the summer. And she’d only caught a glimpse of him a time or two when she’d been riding her bike and seen the limousine drive past on the way to his maternal grandfather’s ranch. During those times, she’d found the car much more fascinating than him.

  Besides, boys like Mitch Warner hadn’t been interested in Tori Barnett, who’d lived on the wrong side of the social dividing line. Even though she could have spent her days ostracized from the mainstream and hanging her head in shame, she hadn’t. Instead, she’d graduated valedictorian, worked her way through college and now struggled to establish herself at the Dallas women’s magazine, where she currently served as a staff reporter.

  An interview with a revered United States senator’s reclusive son could propel her career to unknown heights, and provide much-needed money. She might even be able to pay off the bills she’d incurred when her mother had been in the hospital. If Mitch Warner cooperated.

  “Yoo-hoo, are you in there, Victoria?”

  Tori snapped to and stared blankly at Janie. “I was just thinking.”

  Brianne presented a wily grin. “About Mitch Warner?”

  As a matter of fact. Tori finger-combed her bangs, surprised they weren’t cemented to her forehead because of the perspiration gathering there. “Just thinking about work.”

  Stella blew a raspberry between her full lips. “Stop thinking about work, and try to enjoy yourself. I am, even if I can’t have anything fun to drink.”

  Reminded of her own drink, Tori took a quick swallow of the less-than-palatable wine. “Okay, I promise I’ll have some fun. But I’m not going to sing.”

  “Our first singer tonight is Tori Barnett, one of Quail Run’s own, so let’s give her a big Sadler welcome back!”

  Tori sent her friends a bitter look and didn’t bother to budge, even when the deejay called her name again.

  “Get up there, Victoria May,” Janie insisted, followed by several patrons chanting, “Tori! To-ri!”

  Making a total fool of herself in front of her friends was the very last thing Tori wanted at the moment. And more important, making a fool of herself in front of Mitch Warner wouldn’t help her cause. But she hadn’t forgotten how to sing, so she might as well meet the challenge head-on.

  After all, what was the worst thing that could happen?

  Tori confronted the worst thing when she stepped up on the stage, took her place behind the microphone and realized her brain had gone back to the table.

  She knew the Patsy Cline song by heart, but this would be a nightmare, not a sweet dream, if she couldn’t choke out the words now lodged in her throat, because Mitch Warner—kicked back in the chair, a beer wrapped in his large hands and the full extent of his blue, blue eyes and jet-black hair revealed because he’d removed his hat—had chosen that very moment to smile at her.

  Tori felt naked under his perusal, totally exposed and definitely warm. As the song’s intro began a second time, she had only one thought. If she couldn’t sing in front of him, she’d never have the nerve to ask him for an interview.

  That alone drove her to close her eyes and open her mouth to perform in public for the first time in years. She might have momentarily forgotten the lyrics, but she would never forget that Harvard cowboy’s perfect smile.

  Mitch Warner had never seen an angel dressed in black leather.

  That’s exactly how she sounded, this woman named Tori—like an angel. But she looked like a passport to sin. It wasn’t her voice that made him imag
ine her beneath him, naked, her long legs wrapped around his waist, her silky brown hair brushing over his chest as they took a slow trip to heaven. And he’d probably go straight to hell in a handbasket if he decided to act on that fantasy. But as his gaze tracked the snug leather pants that showcased her curves and her breasts that rose beneath the form-fitting red turtleneck sweater with each breath she took, Mitch engaged in a battle below his belt buckle that he wasn’t sure he could win.

  When he’d entered the bar, he’d planned to stay only long enough to meet his foreman and rescue him from an all-day drinking binge in honor of the end of his bachelorhood. He didn’t care for crowds or socializing except when necessary. Trust wasn’t something that came easily for him. He never knew when some member of the press might be lurking in the shadows, waiting to catch him doing something that might be deemed newsworthy. For that reason, he was reluctant to talk to strangers.

  But tonight…. Well, tonight he might make an exception with this stranger named Tori. Bobby could find another ride home since Mitch planned to meet the woman responsible for his current predicament. Whatever happened after that was anyone’s guess.

  He gave his full attention to Tori, who was now singing the final chorus. It was all Mitch could do to keep his boots firmly planted on the floor when she smiled, tossed a long lock of hair over her shoulder and then left the stage. He hadn’t done this in a long time, but he remembered enough to know that appearing too eager would most likely turn her off.

  He waited for two more singers to finish—if you could call drunken geezers, who couldn’t carry a tune in a front-end loader, singers. A slow ballad now played on the jukebox, providing the opportunity to have Tori polish his belt buckle. Damn, he didn’t need to think about that. Otherwise he’d have to remain seated indefinitely.

  After finishing the last of his beer, Mitch replaced his hat, stood and worked his way across the dance floor crowded with mostly married couples, since the town still held true to a strict moral code. And those who ignored the code maintained rooms by the hour at the Quail Run Court.