by Angel Payne
I jerked as he closed fingers around my wrist.
I twisted against his grip. But not before letting his heat permeate into me for a couple of seconds.
Two of the best seconds of my life.
Followed by four of the worst.
The four it took me to summon four determined syllables to my lips.
“Now we’re really done.”
Chapter Six
‡
“So the Prince of Earthly Perfection didn’t let you feel up his codpiece before you left?”
Dammit, Ezra.
I glared at my laptop camera while swallowing a mouthful of rich Arcadian nectar—the same gulp the shithead had timed his cute comment to. No way was I giving him the satisfaction of spewing a drop. Besides, I’d already changed into my beloved Hamilton sleep shirt, purchased at the Richard Rodgers in New York after waiting three hours for tickets. Nothing got spilled on this shirt.
As soon as the fruity alcohol was down, I let my most annoying giggle fly, again right into the camera. “You’re a goof—and now, apparently, a lush as well.”
In the video call frame dominating my monitor, Ez toasted me with his fresh martini. Two olives dangled from the glass’s brim, speared with penis-shaped cocktail picks. “Hey, it’s happy hour somewhere in the world.”
“Like here?”
“That works.”
Actually, it was well past happy hour in Arcadia. The curtain of stars over the ocean, dancing between moonlit clouds, was an epic reminder of the fact. I gazed out into the firmament—I wasn’t into Biblical descriptions but this one was true—and struggled not to let it knock me off my chair. Wasn’t like I teetered in dorky third-rate patio furniture either. The Cimarrons knew how to treat their guests with style. Even here in the Palais’ guest wing, the rooms were like beachfront apartments, complete with patios outfitted with the same stuff as five-star resorts.
“It’s so beautiful here, Ez.” I swiveled the laptop outward. “Can you see this sky? The clouds…they even have shades of purple…”
“Shit.”
I yanked the screen back around. “Shit…what?”
He didn’t answer for a long moment, tapping and clicking like a hacker who’d gotten into the Pentagon’s mainframe. “Purple skies? That means heavy rain, honey. Maybe even a hurricane.”
“Saint Paul wept.” I gave in to a full eye roll. “Are you serious? I know all about rain, Ez.” Sort of. “I’m not going to melt if a little water falls from the sky.”
“But they don’t call them hurricanes in the Mediterranean,” he went on, continuing with the click-and-type. “And when I was tracking the weather for the region this morning, there was a blip off to your west…”
“Whoa. Back up, bucky. You were tracking the weather for the Mediterranean?”
“Duh.” A fast pssshh. “As a favor to your mom. Like I do for all your trips.”
“Oh my God.”
“Come on. You totally know this, right?”
Groan. Head plant into a hand. “If she’s GPS’ing my phone too, I don’t want to know about it.”
He hadn’t heard me. His deeper glower said so, directed at the other stuff he’d been pulling up on his computer. “Uhhh, Luce?” he uttered slowly. “You packed protein bars, right? Like you always do for a trip? How many do you have left?”
“All right,” I ordered. “Stop. This is getting as bad as your cavalcade of apologies.”
That refocused him. “Which I meant, dammit. Every single one.”
“All of which were ridiculous.” As he pulled in a breath for a retort, I flashed up a firm hand. “It’s over, Ez. Does it suck that I had to fly all the way here to find that out? Of course. But sometimes, things happen for good reasons. Ambyr Stratiss was the wild card none of us was informed about.” And, if I was honest, probably a blessing in disguise. Though Ez didn’t have to know the fine print about it, even a “working relationship” with Shiraz Cimarron would’ve been stickier than juggling gummy bears. “If Love’s First Kiss still wants this gig after looking at her ‘idea book’,” I went on, “then God freakin’ speed to them. We’ll watch the train wreck and be thankful it isn’t ours.”
Ezra sighed. Grabbed a penis and teethed the olive off its tip. “Fine. You’re right.”
Cheeky grin. “Of course I am.”
“Still doesn’t stop me from being sorry. Again.”
“Gaaaahhh,”
“I’m a Jewish queen, darling. Guilt is my fifth food group.”
“I thought that was Twix bars.”
“You’re right. Okay, guilt is sixth.”
“You might be scooting it to seven if you could taste this nectar stuff.” I giggled, grateful for the excuse to let out some nerves. “Damn, these Arcadians make good shit.” I swished, sipped, and sniffed the fruit drink again. Wait. Was that supposed to be swish, sniff, sip? And did that even apply to this stuff? And wasn’t spit somewhere in there too? Oh hell no. This stuff was too good.
“Hmmph,” Ez countered. “That supposed to make everything all better? A bottle of comp’ed booze, after you dropped everything and flew halfway across the world, only to find out the gig has already been taken by one of the brides?”
“Shit.” Sharp lean forward. “You want to cut that quiche in half, mister? That’s not public knowledge yet.”
“Quiche, schmeesh.” He stabbed a finger at the camera. “Those royal-boy putzes could do with a little egg on their fancy faces. Once it’s smashed in good, we’ll make them lick it off each other. And we’ll watch.”
I slammed my glass down. “I’m not sure whether to be horrified or intrigued.”
“Why not both?”
Another long laugh. “Done!” Broke out into applause. “Oh, I like feisty Ez way better than guilt complex Ez.”
He waggled tawny brows. “How about horny and curious Ez?”
“Huh?”
“Think a little guilt would make me forget the codpiece question?”
Groan. Yet another laugh. “Freaking hell.”
“Come oooonnn.” He pushed his begging knuckles at his camera, turning them into weird, pale flesh mounds on my end. “I’m living vicariously through you, okay? I’ve been a good boy lately. Haven’t even glanced at any boys.”
I narrowed my stare. “Not even any girls?”
He narrowed his. “I’m not a saint, Luce.”
“Because you don’t even believe in saints?”
“Beside the fucking point?” He shifted, shoulders hunching, as he pushed closer to his camera. “Admit it, woman. I see it, deep in those Bambi brown eyes of yours. You looked, didn’t you? You looked long as you damn well could at Shiraz Cimarron’s family jewels, in those moments when he wasn’t looking…”
“Shut. Up.” But my quirking lips undermined the words, inciting his victory whoop.
“Aha! I’m right!”
He was. But if he thought I was ever going to go there with him, the smarty-pants had an ice water bath coming to him.
“The finer points of His Highness’s physique are not a subject you get to know about when I’m talking to you from a wi-fi network called Palais One.”
He curled a small grin. “So there were finer points?”
“Hmmm.” I ran a finger along the rim of my glass. It was a cross between a standard wine goblet and a champagne flute, resulting in a little finger-and-glass song that was strangely melodic. “Maybe. Just a few.”
More than a few. Oh God. So many more.
But he wasn’t going to see that, even after I didn’t have the wi-fi as an excuse. As long as I kept the Bambi peepers averted, I’d make good on that vow—for now. And later? I had a whole night’s sleep then a day’s worth of travel to develop the answer to that.
Who the hell was I kidding?
Answer? What answer?
There was no “answer” but one.
I had to wash that man right outta my hair, dammit.
And my memories.
And my f
antasies.
All the decadent, dangerous fantasies he’d been filling since I left his office this afternoon…
Decadent because I allowed them to consume nearly every sense I possessed. Smelling him again, dark fruits and spicy skin. Touching him again, strength and energy and force. Hearing him again, baritone growl dropped to an intimate tone.
And in seeing him again, inviting the danger.
Because in my mind’s eye, he was still as perfect as the last moment I’d seen him: in that last, hesitating second before I’d left his office.
I’d succeeded in stepping away from him, even turning and making it nearly all the way to the door, before stopping to consider the silliness of my melodramatic exit.
I should’ve let the theatrics stand.
Not that the professional replacement made it to my lips. My only chance to pull off a bad-ass combo of Scarlett O’Hara and Olivia Pope, torched by the blue blaze of his gaze, the towering inferno of his stance, the burning force of his attention.
Oh, God.
His attention.
Another movie moment, surely one I must have imagined. An unfulfilled thing from my teen dreams, where the hottest guy in school suddenly notices the girl with pink hair and braces in the corner. Only now it was worse, because the teen dream came with grown-up desires. I’d instantly envisioned all that heat and fury directed over me…then into me. I was nude for him. Pinned by him. Opened for him. Pounded by him…
Pound.
“Luce?”
Pound.
“Luce!”
Pound.
“What?” I snapped it, unwilling to admit I’d tuned out in favor of a naked Shiraz Cimarron fantasy.
“You tell me what.”
“Huh?”
It fell from me just as another pound echoed through the room—coming from the door across the room, leading to the Palais’ interior hallway.
“Did you order room service or something?” Ez pried.
Twisted lips. “It’s a Palais, Ez, not a hotel.”
He matched every inch of my bratty. “Then who’s at your door?”
Before rising, I flung him a middle finger. Our version of “BRB” was more fun than the usual. Besides, the knocks had stopped. Whoever it was had likely realized they’d gone to the wrong room and—
As soon as I pulled open the door, my breath was a new brushfire in my throat.
No. Worse.
Or better, depending on how I chose to look at the situation.
Right now, I couldn’t not look.
Holy, deep-fried shit. Shiraz Cimarron rocked the hell out of a suit and tie, but blazed new definition into jeans and a black T-shirt. As in dark-angel-in-mortal-clothes time. As in dear-God-give-me-back-my-tongue time.
As in, I wasn’t about to get back my voice anytime soon, so I hoped he still had his.
For a moment, that seemed an impossibility too. He was half-turned from the door, as if he’d decided against pounding on the portal a fifth time—turning his first full look at me into a bumbling experience for us both.
Bumbling…
and
too
damn
hot.
How else could I interpret the scorching sweep of his stare down over my legs, even studying the neon yellow flowers on my bright blue toes? What was I supposed to think as he slowly, slowly climbed that study back up, an undeniable visual caress, nipping its way into every curve of my body before locking again on my face? And what the hell was I supposed to do in return, besides scope him out just as shamelessly?
“Bon aksam.”
And what the hell was I supposed to say?
“Uhhh…hi.” Smooth, Luce. “I mean, bon aksam…back at you. I mean, good evening.” Groan. Thank God the sound wasn’t literal, though it seemed the only verbal diarrhea could restrain. “What’re you—why are you—”
“I need to talk.” He looked stunned again, as if what tumbled out wasn’t what he’d planned, before composing himself and barreling forward. Two steps into the room, he about-faced and stomped back over to the portal. “I mean, we should talk. I—” Did a flush actually steal up the line of his jaw? “May I come in…please?” More words that were obviously strange for him. “I shall not take long.”
“Uhhh. Sure.” I stepped back, tamping another insane urge to giggle. “Yeah, come in.” More efforts not to giggle—making me remember Ezra, waiting in the Skype chat out on the patio. “Shit.”
Shiraz spun around, eyes bugged like I’d pantsed him. It was kind of adorable. “What?”
“Sorry,” I muttered. “One sec. Really. Hold on.”
By that point, I’d gotten back to the patio—and as I expected, Ezra’s eagerly grinning face. “Holy shitballs,” he hissed. “Is it him? Has Princey Perfection come to visit your beaudoir, mademoiselle?”
I’d never glared with more meaning. “I’ll reconnect with you later, Ez.”
“Wait! Come on.”
“Later.”
“Wait! No! Not without letting me glance at the royal jewels!”
I slammed the device shut. He’d get the idea. We could pick things up later, like when during my trip to the airport in the morning. It’d be about two a.m. in Los Angeles. Perfect.
I scooped up the laptop, glad for something to do with my nervous hands, especially because Shiraz was back to his usual demeanor. Completely controlled. Quietly concentrated.
Utterly gorgeous.
His focus cycled around the room, taking in the surroundings like he’d never been to this wing before. I wondered if that were the truth, until he spoke again.
“Do you like the accommodations?” He leaned against the back of the couch while stabbing his focus back into me. “These suites have been newly refurbished.”
I looked around too. The room, still only illuminated by recessed lighting, was still a panorama of Mediterranean luxury. Gold fixtures and marble-topped tables were mixed perfectly with furniture in rich woods, upholstered in luxurious tapestries. Across the room, cloudlike curtains slung back to reveal the grand production of a bed in the next room.
“They’re awesome.” I picked at invisible lint on the hem of my T-shirt. “I feel like Sara Crewe on Christmas morning.”
His dark brows pushed together. “Who?”
“Character from an old movie,” I explained during my trek to the wide work desk. “The Little Princess. Nineteen thirty-nine. Shirley Temple. The ninety-five remake isn’t worth discussing. It’s about a little girl forced to work for her boarding school after her father is assumed dead in the war. She and her scullery maid friend wake up on Christmas morning to find their dumpy attic turned into a luxurious palace. At first, they think they’re dreaming.”
“Is that how you feel?” he returned. “Like this is a dream?”
I sat at the desk. After plugging my laptop into the charging port, I quipped, “Pretty much from the moment I got here.”
He barely moved. Even his eyebrows stayed where they were. “A good dream or a bad dream?”
I shrugged. “Little of both, if you want the truth.”
His answer came faster than I expected. “Truth is not something I ‘want’, Miss Fava.” His shoulders squared. “It is something I require.”
“Then why are we talking about dreams at all?”
Again with the barely moving thing. “Dreams cannot be truth, as well?”
I was glad to be sitting. Gave me a perfect excuse to glance down, fiddling with the laptop’s cord, so he wouldn’t see the smart-ass “truth” tempting the corners of my lips. “Depends on who you ask,” I murmured. And that was the truth. This was his taco stand. If the prince wanted all the salsa jars filled with “truth”, I was happy to oblige for the next twelve or so hours. After that, I was done with Señor Cimarron’s hot sauce forever.
He shifted, pushing away from the couch. I swallowed, battling not to notice. Not as easy as it sounded, especially as the air glued itself to him like groupies on a rock star
, and he inhabited that outfit better than most million-dollar models. His stride, sure and elegant, would’ve silenced a whole room at Fashion Week—another nearly impossible feat. I knew. I’d been to Fashion Week.
And now, wished I was there again.
And not for the bling-and-beyond goodie bags or the free shoes.
For the crowd.
An extra hundred people in the room suddenly seemed like a damn good idea, if only for the sake of veering his course a little. Maybe a lot. He continued to remind me of a muscled musician—on his way to smash a guitar to pieces.
I wetted my lips. Wondered if my lungs would pulverize my ribs. Fought to keep my heart from climbing into my throat—but more than that, to keep that incessant throb from resonating in the folds between my legs.
I failed on every account.
Especially as he rounded the desk, pulled out the chair then swiveled it around, pointing me directly toward him. Locked me further into place by gripping the furniture’s arms with both hands. Tighter still, as he leaned in…filling every molecule of air around me.
“Hey.” It sounded pissed but that was because of my fear—and arousal. Like I was going to break all that out for him. “What the hell are you—”
“Truth.” He growled it this time, grinding on it twice as hard as before. “I require it, Lucina.”
I concealed a shiver. Barely. “I understand. Now back off.”
He didn’t move. Let his nostrils flare as his gaze went heavy, studying me from forehead to chin. “Do you want me to…back off?”
Shit, shit, shit.
There he went again, slathering my California slang in his exotic accent, until I could barely remember the point I’d been trying to make. But dammit, I sure as hell remembered his.
The truth.
He’d demanded it.
And, whack-a-doodle as it sounded, would probably know if I futzed even the tiniest detail on the “getting it” part. I didn’t know how I recognized that. I simply did.
It’d be kind of hot—maybe more than “kind of”—in a man I stood half a chance of being pursued by. But this was a damn prince of a whole kingdom, a whole separate world, determined to become that country’s new hero by proposing to another woman.
