by Angel Payne
Crista and the page locked gazes. I sensed some serious subterfuge eye rolls on both their parts. “Yes, Miss Stratiss?”
“Ambyr.” The woman stepped forward, brushing a strand of her dark, sex goddess hair away. “Remember, darling? It is simply Ambyr, since we shall be working so closely together on the wedding.”
The wedding?
I breathed deeply, calling logic to my aid. Nobody had a lock on this thing yet, even this slice of peppermint candy. Nothing confirmed that better than the smile Crista clearly plastered to her lips while turning to the woman. “What can I do for you, Miss Stratiss?”
If the snip threw her off, Miss Ambyr Stratiss didn’t show it. Instead she pivoted to face me, swooping an assessing stare down to the tips of my basic black flats. My head responded at once—stand down, baby girl; fleas like her just want under your skin—but dammit, my head was never a match for my instinct.
Fleas are only eliminated if they bleed.
“I shall need these assembled into a proper binder.” Ambyr quirked her pale-lipsticked mouth at me while swooshing the stack of papers into Crista’s chest. In my peripheral, I recognized wedding color boards and image sheets similar to a fourth-grade science fair project. “There are six categories, color-coded. The binder tabs should correspond. After it is all comprised, make a matching binder for His Highness Shiraz.”
Crista took the papers with a resigned sigh, as if knowing an argument would get her nowhere. Once she did, Ambyr adjusted the stylish cream tote on her shoulder, cocked her head the same direction, and traveled her gaze over my face and hair.
Finally, with another little hitch of her mouth, she issued, “Karsivoir en Arcadia, Miss…”
“Fava.” I extended a hand. She offered hers in return, princess style, manicured fingernails dropped forward. Before I hooked around and forced her to go palm-to-palm, I locked her in with my gaze. “Lucina Fava, from Expectation Inc.”
“Ahhh.” She jerked her hand away as soon as I let up on the pressure. “Yes, of course. One of the two American firms bidding on the wedding.” Her manicured eyebrows rose then lowered. “You are from the team out of California?”
“Yes.” I forced pleasantness into it. While physically nothing like Dolores Umbridge, she gave me the same hivey feeling as that fictional bitch on wheels. “Near Los Angeles.”
“Ahhh, yes. The Crystal Award winners. The wedding designers to the stars.”
“Yes on the first, no on the second.” Light laugh. “Not yet, at least. But it has a nice ring to it.”
“Hmm. I suppose it does.” Yep. Umbridge. Which technically wasn’t fair—I’d just met the woman—though there was something unnerving about a person with a peach silk voice and emerald-hard eyes. “Though you are still a smaller organization than Love’s True Kiss, yes?”
Screw unnerving. Infuriating was the new word—especially as she curled one side of her mouth as if to add, I know even more tidbits about you, but I’m storing the ammunition.
She’d landed the first round, that was for damn sure—though Ez and I had hopes LTK had gotten a little lax since landing the Court-Santelle gig, and had slacked on their proposal.
Hopes. And more than a few prayers.
Prayers I repeated while studying Ambyr’s face a little harder. Who was this priss who had me reinforcing my mental fences with electric wire?
“That’s true,” I finally conceded, finishing with a self-deprecating smile. “But Love’s True Kiss has also been around longer than us—which is perfectly fine, if clients want something less innovative for their big day.”
It wasn’t an argument I pulled out often—innovative was often the exact opposite of what people wanted in their wedding day—but the glint in Ambyr’s eyes proved I’d aimed my own guns right. “Well played, Miss Fava,” she murmured, turning Umbridge into Cleoptra inside two seconds. “Too bad you will not have more time in Arcadia.” She swished a toe back and forth on the tile, making me notice her expensive shoes. Pointy toes. Completely flat. “I think I would have liked you.”
She turned, but I stopped her by clearing my throat. “Sorry,” I drawled as she swiveled her gaze back over. “What planning company did you say you’re with?”
Her lips twitched. She raked the hard green gaze over me again. “Because I did not say.”
In the three seconds it took me to rein in my what-the-hell, the woman pivoted, tossed a winsome look at Crista, then made her way toward the bridge, finishing with a breezy, “Tell my sweet prince I shall see him this evening.”
My sweet prince?
“Because you did not tell him a thousand times yourself?” Crista muttered as Ambyr strolled out of sight. Another soft snicker from the page. I remained guarded, though that was tough when Crista tacked on, “Salpu merde.”
I cocked my head. “Do I want to know what that means?”
“Probably not,” the page answered. “But it rhymes with wilthy witch.”
I pressed my lips to keep from fully snickering—though the humor wasn’t such a hit with Crista. “Now I need to fit this project into the day somehow.” She sent a baleful stare at the pile of papers still clutched against her chest. Ambyr had left her with no other choice about preventing the sheaf from spilling everywhere. No way could I let her continue to struggle, so I grabbed about half the load and slid it onto her desk. “Merderim,” she murmured, dropping back into her chair.
I directed a sympathetic smile down at her. “Likely none of my business, but what is all this?” Besides the dream wedding scrapbook of an eight-year-old.
The secretary looked ready to laugh. Then cry. “Is it not obvious?” Swept a hand at the haphazard pile. “Miss Stratiss’s approach for the royal wedding day.”
“Approach?” The page, lowering into a U-shaped chair, thrusted a pout. “You mean her royal party wet dream?”
Crista snickered.
I couldn’t get over the feeling of being throat punched.
“I don’t understand,” I stammered. “Is she another bidder on the event?” And if so, why hadn’t Ez and I been filled in, after being told the selection had been narrowed to two companies? We’d suspected the news about Love’s First Kiss—if we were in a toe-to-toe bidding war, it was usually with them—but Ambyr and her art fair project were an unexpected twist.
“Miss Fava, désonnum. My deepest apologies.” Crista held up one of Ambyr’s pages. Was that actually a piece of colored construction paper? “This is not Miss Stratiss’s ‘bid’ on the wedding.” As she plopped the paper down, her forehead furrowed. “It is…”
“Her treatise for true love?” the page prompted.
“Her manifesto for matrimony?” Crista giggled at her own take on the theme.
“Her swag of sensuality?”
“Her…foof before the fucking?”
They both slammed hands to their mouths like mortified nuns.
“Hey, it’s all right.” I kicked up one side of my mouth. “If you can’t say it you can’t do it, right?” I made a ta-da with my hands, freezing the smile until they recognized the line. Come on, everyone knew Risky Business. Annnd maybe not. It was probably a blessing in disguise, especially because I still wasn’t set straight about Ambyr’s…what? Creative arts display? Wanna-be coffee table book? Helpful suggestions?
“So what the heck is all this?” I picked up another page, and was immediately sorry for it. Dying doves bright pink for the conclusion of the ceremony? An eight-course reception dinner on Plexiglass platforms over the ocean, lighted in the same hue? “Is Ambyr a local vendor?”
Of course. That had to be it. Ambyr owned local supply stores and was hoping for a big score once the overall coordination bid was awarded to Expectation (because I refused to think any differently), In that case, bitch on wheels or not, I was glad the woman had stopped by. Local suppliers would be our saviors for this. I’d just have to talk her out of the pink birds idea…
“No.” Crista answered my question with a tight, careful expr
ession. “Miss Stratiss is not a vendor.”
Dammit.
I managed to keep that one silent. Barely.
“This is Ambyr’s version of a few…guidelines,” she followed up.
“Guidelines?”
“Yes. For either you or the representative from Love’s True Kiss.”
“Why?”
A skirmish flickered across the woman’s features. Clearly, she wasn’t sure how much to reveal to me—if anything at all. I kept my own expression neutral and friendly—and, hopefully, trustworthy.
Crista leaned forward. A very good sign. Finally, she murmured, “The queen mother and king father, Xaria and Ardent, have voiced their desire that the wedding be a triple ceremony.”
“A triple…” I probably looked as knocked-for-six as I felt. A swift recovery was helped by the thousand details lining up in my head.
After two hundred years of self-separation from the modern world, Arcadia was still struggling for a place on the international stage.
The Cimarrons’ ability to get there had been hit hard lately, courtesy of a sadistic terrorist named Rune Kavill. Princess Brooke had been kidnapped. The Grand Sancti Bridge had been blown in half.
Weddings injected joy into a kingdom and stability into a global image.
Two weddings would accomplish that with double speed.
Three weddings would make this country the talk of the globe for weeks. And the darling of international banks for weeks after that.
Three weddings…of three sons.
“Of course.” No more bafflement. Exactly the opposite. My new stare down to Crista said as much. “A triple ceremony, With Shiraz as the third groom.” I paused for just two seconds before barreling on, “Only the man has no bride.”
The furrows had vanished from Crista’s forehead. Favoring Morticia over Tinkerbell, she murmured, “Not anyone close.”
I pulled in a deep breath as full comprehension set in.
“Except for Ambyr Stratiss.”
Ding ding ding. Crista’s tight smile relayed that much, before she explained, “She and His Highness met in the Arcadian version of—how do you say it?—high school? Yes? After that, as our country began opening up to the outside world, her father was sent to Finland a few times for business training at Aalto, and she accompanied him.”
“At His Highness’s request?” I had no idea why that concept gave me the squeebs.
“Oh, no.” or why the vehemence of her answer felt so nice.
Squeebs aside, perhaps Miss Noble had just given me insight as to why the world’s jury was out on the prince’s sexual experience—or lack of it. Had he truly been “studying” all those years, if Ambyr Stratiss was jetting over for secret booty calls? And if that was the case, did she take those assignations as her God-given right to become his bride now?
Sheeeeez.
God help Shiraz Cimarron.
It resounded in my head like gongs—until the tolls were interrupted by the big arched door opening again, and a man appeared in the portal.
No. Not a man.
A freaking god.
The moment was literally like something from a movie—though hell if I could remember which one—not like it mattered, since I barely remembered my own name. For that matter, did I have a pulse? Or limbs? Even those weren’t conscious thoughts, more like meaningless wonderings far beyond the wild race of my bloodstream, pushing a deafening din into my ears.
Yet the next second, the world went still again.
So still, I couldn’t even breathe in it. Couldn’t feel or comprehend anything, except him. Everything about him…
The luxurious rustle of his suit. The way he pushed air from a straight, narrow nose that flared just enough at the bottom. The way he advanced, steady and sure, moving like some computer-created creature of power and mystery—then the gleam of sunlight from above as he stopped, igniting the ocean blue depths into pure cyan fire.
Perfection.
Perfection.
Dear freaking God, perfection.
Yep. That about did it for describing Shiraz Cimarron.
In more ways than Ez’s photos or the gossip tabloids could ever show.
Photos, even videos, couldn’t encompass this. All of this. The command of his stature. The force of his presence. The blend of his smooth yet rugged beauty. The effortless intensity with which he wielded it all, as if he already sensed even the air’s gratitude for touching him, then swore its fealty wouldn’t be in vain.
As soon as our stares met, his posture straightened. How tall was he? And did that even matter? The man could’ve been three-foot-three and filled that pinstripe suit with the same muscled grace. His substance was that potent, that lethal to any carbon-based life form within twenty feet of him. One quick glance at Crista and the court page, who’d both gone all shuffling feet and batting eyes, proved the theory clearly enough.
Lucky wenches. At least they could still move. I stood like a dorky doe in the headlights, all too aware my stare had bugged-out, my mouth was an awful O, and I swayed like a willow in a hot, hormonal hurricane.
God help Shiraz Cimarron?
No.
God help me.
Chapter Three
‡
“Crista.” Sheez. Even his voice was flawless. And yeah, I could tell after one word. The exotic flair of his accent flowed like aural velvet, a baritone mixed with a growl, masculine magic flowing from lips so sensual, they nearly belonged on a woman. “Has Ms. Stratiss departed?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
He exhaled. “Good. Then before Miss Fava arrives, I need to look over the ledgers for—”
His next breath entered him audibly.
As he turned his head, fully looking at me.
No. Through me.
Seriously, I had to have a giant hole in the back of my head now. Undoubtedly, brilliant blue light spilled from it, taking every synapse in my brain along for the dump. That wasn’t right, either. The hole had to be in the front, because all those neurons and memories and thoughts and dreams were now funneled at him…surrendering to him…completely and utterly willing about it.
What the hell?
No. He didn’t get to do this. Nobody did. Not anymore.
Get a grip. Get composed. Get clear.
I timed my breaths to the words, forcing my mouth to stay shut until it was time for wow-the-client roll call.
You’ve got this.
You’ve got this.
I’d rehearsed this presentation so many times, I could do it in my sleep. This man—prince—reality-bending force of nature—whatever the hell he was—wasn’t going to take that from me. The big girl panties would have to be lined with lead for the next hour.
“Surprise,” I told him with fake cheer. “Miss Fava, at your service.” I pushed out my hand once more. “Don’t you hate it when those damn Americans are annoyingly early?”
Shut. Up.
Shut. Up.
I rambled when I was nervous. I also made lame attempts to become the new siren of sleek and snarky. Massive fail on both fronts, judging by the man’s expression. He was nowhere near smitten by my sleek, nor captivated by my snark.
Well, shit.
What the hell was he close to?
Reading people was an invaluable trait in what I did—and I was good at it—but right now, he’d rendered me a babe in the emotional forest. His forest, in which he alone knew the way. I could do nothing but stumble along, following his lead. In certain circumstances, that might be an epic turn-on.
In this case?
No way.
Or so I tried telling myself.
“I am far from annoyed, Miss Fava.”
Deeper into the forest, lured by that exotic, velvet voice. Into the shadows, both mysterious and glamorous, of his alluring energy…
I shivered. Fought the chill by trying to be funny again. “Oh, give me time, Your Highness.”
He let his hand slip from mine.
New tremo
rs. Visible now. Thankfully, he didn’t notice. His stare was fixed to the empty space between us, his features pursing. He seemed troubled. Or confused. Or both.
Did that mean he’d felt it too? The energy between our palms, the awareness between our fingers? Had he felt them, noticed them—or was this how he affected everyone he met? Wouldn’t be a surprise, though it’d force me to chomp crow after throwing shade at the reporters who’d been here for junkets and returned with wet spots for the remaining Cimarron bachelor.
Holy shit. It all made so much sense now.
He made sense now.
What the hell did that mean?
I had no idea—only to admit that somehow, even as aroused as I was, I felt…
In the right place.
At the right time.
Standing in front of the right man.
Who gazed back at me with unprecedented, unflinching, knowingness. As if his instincts acknowledged the exact same thing.
Trouble.
Trouble.
In giant, lethal vats of the stuff.
It wasn’t just his beauty. Hell, I came from the land of gorgeous men. They made me lattes in the morning and margaritas at happy hour. Loaded up on sprouts next to me in the produce section. Had their own gyms on the beaches. None of them made me feel like this. Reminding myself to breathe with every inch they moved. Doubting my ability to walk a straight line after being beckoned into their office. Forcing myself not to fixate on their impossibly long, elegant fingers…
Somehow, I managed breathing and walking. At once. Whoa.
My success was fleeting.
Even the man’s office turned me on. Probably because it seemed so much like him. Old-world class met modern-day strength in the form of a large, semi-circle desk crafted in dark wood, embellished at the front with an art deco version of the Arcadian crest. The chair behind the desk was basic and functional, though the five chairs facing the front of it were expensive pieces of dark brown leather. The floor was polished Travertine tile, covered mostly by a plush ivory rug.
Just gazing at it all made me throb a little more.
Hell.
And wonder what my naked body would feel like against all of it.
