by Angel Payne
I steeled myself for the same behavior after he turned around, but my lifted chin and challenging gaze had him instantly backing off. Outwardly, at least.
“My valet is bringing fresh clothes.” He barely let up on the grump factor. “As soon as he is here, I will most definitely not be your problem anymore.”
What the hell?
I told him as much with my glower—and the surge to my own feet. Good thing I obeyed the instinct, since he spun and started stomping toward the kitchenette. I caught him before he got there, spinning him back around by an elbow.
“Hey,” I spat.
“What?”
“What do you mean, what?” Loud thwacks punctuated me. The lightweight curtains, snapped in by the wind. “Why are you pulling the prince of pricks act?”
He jerked all the way around. Pushed back at me, looming now. Dear hell. Had I already forgotten how much he dwarfed me? “The prince of what?”
“You heard me.” Yeah, but that didn’t mean he comprehended me. European university didn’t include automatic enrollment in American trash talk. On the other hand, I hadn’t known a single word he’d spoken on the phone—but I’d understood. “I’m trying to be cordial here. No, wait. I’m even being nice, dammit, and—”
“Nice?”
I would’ve laughed at his confusion, if it wasn’t so effing real. “Nice,” I flung. “It’s a little expression we have in the real world. It means to be pleasant with one another, especially after episodes of mutually satisfying sexual fun. What?” I challenged at the glare intimating I’d all but barfed on him. “You didn’t have fun?”
“Fun.” He spat it while stepping back, pushing hands down his thighs—wiping away the barf. “Fun. Certainly. Yes. That is exactly what happened. Fun. A grand, galloping lot of fun.”
As he rattled it all off, I watched him carefully. At first, the natural burnish of his skin prevented detection of his flush—and the insight I gained from it.
Oh, my God.
His flinch made me realize I’d blurted it aloud too. The color cranked in my own cheeks. Was it possible? Was Ezra’s crazy claim really true? Could this male of jaw-dropping beauty, who’d been created by heaven to tempt all who saw him into hell, whose every damn step made a woman ache to be fucked by him, truly be a virgin? Because he sure as hell was acting like one now.
“Shiraz—”
He silenced me by raising a hand. A commanding, obey-me-now, very non-virginal hand.
What the hell did that mean? And what the hell did that make me?
His effing yo-yo, of course.
I hated yo-yos.
“The subject is finished, Lucina. And soon, your problem will be, as well.”
Annnnd here came the butt-hurt virgin again.
Meaning the yo-yo should’ve taken her cue and bounced clear.
Instead, I was already yanked back up and reeled back in, my temper in the palm of his hand.
“Baby Jesus in a high chair.” I rushed across the room, hands shooting up, not stopping until I’d landed a solid shove to the center of his chest. And yeah, I reveled in his backward stumble (though dammit, he made that all ballroom graceful too) before adding a seething snap. “Are you even serious right now?”
His lips parted. His chest pumped. “As ‘serious’ as you.”
“No.” I jabbed a finger. “No fucking way do you get to air quote me, prince of pricks. Nor do you get to make me the bad guy here, just because you can’t deal with what just happened between us.”
“Oh, I know what happened,” he snarled. “You made it abundantly clear. Fun. We had fun. Rah-rah-woo, take the pom-poms too, this shit is bananas, ladies and fellas.”
For the record, he melted me in about a million new ways. Holy crap, the power of an exotic accent on a bunch of hip-hop.
But for the record, part two, he enraged me more. I felt the enamel scraping off my teeth as I clenched them.
“It was fun because we can’t make it more.” And just like that, as I raised hands to touch him with gentler intent, my wrath dissolved. As the heartbeat under my fingers strengthened, I even tried to smile. “If we could, we’d call it what it was, okay?”
He formed a hand over one of mine. Pressed it harder against his sternum. “And what would we call it?”
Wider smile, brought on by the quickening of my own pulse. “Awesome,” I supplied. “Not even that. Incredible. Maybe even…epic.”
“Oh.” His gaze flared as he drew out the word. “Epic?”
I thumped him with my free hand. “But we don’t get to run with that. Not in this lifetime.”
He inhaled sharply. Nodded with just as much determination. “You are right.”
“So why are you crying in your damn cereal?” I turned my hand over, clasping it into his. Used the hold to slide my body closer to his. There were only a few more minutes I could be this tawdry and no way would they be wasted. “Where I come from, cereal isn’t wasted. You eat it even if you cry in it.”
More thunder rolled in his chest as he settled me tighter against it. “That does not sound appetizing.”
“Isn’t,” I concurred, basking in the new warmth of his gaze. “Unless you’re talking about Frosted Cheerios. But then, it’s a moot point. Who would cry with Frosted Cheerios in front of them?”
“Who would cry with you in front of them?”
Fucking. Sigh.
Letting go of his hand so I could wrap mine around his neck, I raised on tiptoes, lifted my head, and let desire drive the rest.
And him.
Shit, he was a good driver. Our deep, wet, lingering, longing kiss went on and on and on—and I let myself rejoice in every surrendering, quivering, perfect moment of it.
And yeah, let myself moan softly in protest when he tenderly tugged away—but not too far. It was simple to slide my other hand from his chest to his cheek, now raspy with incoming stubble. The contrast of the sharp hairs with his sleek beauty had me dealing with a new clench in my sex, especially with this renewed pressure against his. When his cock answered with a pulse of its own, I knew the faucets needed a crank to cold again.
But not yet.
Just one more moment…
“I’m glad you came.” Tiny quirk of lips, to show him how thoroughly I meant the double entendre.
His own, swollen from our contact, parted to show his white, perfect teeth. “I am glad too.”
I released a little sigh.
As he pulled in a resigned breath.
It was all we needed to draw back together again. Bound. Magnetized.
Our lips never met.
Rapid raps at the door accompanied another blast of wind.
We dragged apart, each swearing in our own language.
“Probably Adym.” Shiraz clawed a hand through his hair, not helping my battle to lay one last smack on him. “My valet. With fresh clothes.”
“Yeah.” Under normal circumstances, I’d add a quip to that about how “valet” meant only one thing in LA, and it usually meant getting a whole car instead of new pants. But nothing about me felt normal right now. My body, my senses, and sure as hell not my mind.
So much for thinking I’d get a minute of sleep in the cloud bed tonight.
And thank God I always carried replacement batteries for SAMM.
And thank God, times two, I was able to sneak in a full breath before Shiraz yanked open the door.
Because it wasn’t Adym who’d knocked.
Unless Adym was a superior drag queen, and had transformed himself into a perfect fusion of Tinkerbell and Morticia, complete with the wide lemur stare.
“Crista.” Shiraz’s own confusion drenched the tone. “Where is—”
“Adym paged me, Your Highness.” The woman wasn’t slow. Her gaze worked fast, instantly absorbing our mutual fresh-fucked hair, kiss-swollen lips, and—oh yeah—the dark spot at the front of Shiraz’s jeans. If I thought she’d missed it, the woman’s fresh blush set me straight. “He is frantic, trying to help
with locking down the apartments in the royal wing.”
If Shiraz noticed the same thing, he gave no indication. He faced her fully, not a hint of apology on his face, accepting the wad of clothes she thrust out. “Lock down?” he demanded. “From what?” His face hardened. “Is there a fresh threat from Kavill?”
“Fuck.” While I kept it mostly beneath my breath, my fear was real. Rune Kavill was a nasty swipe of smegma. He’d been all but gutted by Samsyn Cimarron’s own hand, a story nearly as legend as the US SEALs’ takedown of Bin Laden, doubling the shock of his survival. Suggestions abounded across the globe that he’d made a pact with the devil, a story not difficult to believe.
“No, Your Highness.” The new care in Crista’s voice wasn’t hard to interpret. I used the same tone when trying to explain to a bride that ninety percent chance of rain meant inside ceremony options needed to be considered. “We are locking down because of the storm.”
“The…storm?” It blurted out of me as facts began rushing at me—and making more sense. The wind, gusting in angrier bursts. The crash of the waves outside, seeming more and more violent. And now, the eerie cast of clouds over the sea, visible because of the lightning flashing between them. “Wait. Don’t you guys get stuff like this all the time?” Okay, it was about as lame as I could get, but a habitat as green as this needed lots of rain. A girl from ever-brown Southern California should know.
My answer came clearly enough through the new intensity in Shiraz’s gaze, stabbed out the window like a steel blade. “Rain?” he returned. “Yes. But not—this.”
“Not what?” More of the lame—but his trepidation started freaking me out.
“What is the status?” He directed the command at Crista as if I hadn’t spoken. At the same time, accepted a smart pad she offered, its screen filled with an image. A map of the Mediterranean, with Arcadia’s location marked by a red inverted teardrop. I actually felt my eyes widen at the thick white sworl off to its right. Yeah, I was a native Cali girl, but had planned enough weddings on the East Coast to know what that image meant.
“The upgrade is expected within the hour,” Crista answered him softly.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
“The upgrade to what?” I interjected.
Crista looked over, her gaze seeming rueful. She bit her lower lip before explaining, “The storm. The Mediterranean Weather Service shall likely declare it a medicane soon.”
“A medi what?”
“A medicane.” Shiraz pulled his focus from the sea back to me, his mouth now a firm line, his cheekbones stark with tension. “Our version of a hurricane. And it is tracking directly for us.”
Chapter Ten
‡
I’d be a rich woman if I got a dollar every time someone called me crazy for living in a state known for earthquakes. In the moments after a six-plus shaker on the Richter scale, I had a tendency to believe them.
Not anymore.
That wasn’t crazy.
This was crazy.
Crista’s prediction had come true. Shiraz had barely finished changing into his new jeans when his phone buzzed with text after text. As he’d paused to answer them all, fingers flying over the keys, I’d jammed into a cotton hoodie, a pair of leggings, and my trusty Doc Martens—though the outfit might as well have been a Spicy Cheeto costume, judging by Shiraz’s stunned reaction.
“What are you doing?” he’d barked.
“You think I’m staying up here?” I’d swung a hand at the room—and its sweeping fourth floor view. “With a freaking hurricane on the way?” As if on cue, the wind had whipped the cushions free from the deck chairs and toppled over my remaining nectar. Gah. That had made it personal.
I was willing to release the grudge when Shiraz conceded, “Valid point.” But reclaimed it twice as hard when he continued, “Gather your valuables, then. I shall escort you to the Palais shelter before joining Samsyn and the emergency task force.”
“The hell you will.”
Crista’s bugged eyes alerted me about that faux pas before her boss’s glare had kicked in. Not that I cared. He was no longer a potential client, or even a hot and memorable (really memorable) fling. In short, I was free to faux pas all over his stubborn ass—maybe a good thing when a man needed help with getting shitloads of people to safety in a short amount of time and refused to see the help being freely offered.
“The matter is not up for discussion, Miss Fava.”
“Damn straight it isn’t.” He wanted to play know-it-all dictator? I could match that game. “You need people who know how to move large amounts of other people. Guess what I’ve been damn good at for the last year and a half?”
For a second, he’d looked like I whacked him with a two-by-four. “You…wish to assist with our evacuations?”
His shock had been so genuine, it yanked at a weird place in my chest. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“Yes.” Such tender sincerity. “And I will not allow it.”
Concluded by utter asshole-ness.
Yeah, he had me torqued enough to be inventing new words.
Even now, a handful of hours later, I had yet another fresh one.
Prickitude.
As I sat with Crista somewhere in the Palais’ underground with a hundred court employees and their families, there was plenty of time to compose the whole dictionary listing for it too.
Prickitude
1: Attitude affected by that of being a prick, shown by overbearing disposition, churlish ways, and disregard for logical sources of assistance in dire emergencies.
2: The state of being such a prick, all common sense is ignored.
3: Movement led by Prince Shiraz Cimarron, Kingdom of Arcadia.
I was tempted to add a picture along with the mental heading but wasn’t ready to take the edge off my rage—a given if I envisioned even part of the man’s face. Or hair. Or shoulders. Or chest. Or other body parts I’d only felt through clothing but sure as hell could fill in the blanks on…
“Dammit.” I spat it to no one in particular, keeping my voice low out of respect for the small kids playing nearby. The group was a secret blessing to my nerves with their sense of wide-eyed adventure. To them, the storm surge was an excuse for potential puddle stomping, the wind howling through the Palais tunnels a new beast to befriend. Their delight was oddly calming—to an extent. I was too stressed to relax all the way.
Hanging on to my anger also meant I didn’t have to face my fear.
That a storm raged so hard above us, I could hear its effects through layers of solid stone.
That said storm was going to blow over the whole damn castle, entombing us beneath it.
Worse, that the ramparts wouldn’t hold against the surge and we’d drown.
And I’d be helpless to do anything about it.
I didn’t do helplessness very well.
Who the hell was I kidding?
I didn’t do it at all.
So why was I subjecting myself to it now?
“Because you’re crazy?”
Like I said before…
My mumble inspired an empathetic look from Crista, her wide eyes even more pronounced with her hair yanked away from her face. Tendrils of the stuff were webbed across her cheeks and neck, as she gazed at the kids too. “Crazy,” she echoed, her voice wistful. “That is a funny word. I believe I like it.”
I leaned my head against the tunnel wall. We sat next to each other on the damp stone floor, our phones side-by-side between us. A lot of good that did, since the thick walls and rain soup all but ensured we wouldn’t have decent signals for a while. “It’s a sturdy one,” I returned. “Serves a variety of uses.”
“Especially when a male of a certain royal family drives one to pull her hair out?”
I snickered but stopped, turning my side-eye into an astonished stare. “Holy shit. Crista.” Barely held back from face-palming myself.
“Holy shit what?”
Despite how adorable as she was, blu
rting the profanity through her formal accent, my shock was unfazed. “You have a jones for him, don’t you?”
“A what?” Then the context slammed her. “Wait. For who? For…His Highness?”
“I’m sorry. I should have realized sooner. And oh my God, you’re the only one who knows what I did to him! I mean, not what I did to him—I mean, with him—but not even in that way—”
“Oh, dear Creator.” She giggled softly. “No. No, Lucy. He is my—how do you say it?—my direct employer. My…”
“Boss?”
“Yes. My boss.” She jerked another inch upright, face twisting with the squick factor. “I mean, His Highness Shiraz is certainly lovely to gaze upon and has that Cimarron air that makes everyone nervous and fidgety…”
Nervous. Fidgety. Not exactly the two words I would’ve picked, but they sure did apply. “But…?” I prompted into the clear pause she provided.
“But,” she repeated, before sheepishly shrugging. “I mean…well…”
“Ew?” I finally supplied.
“Yes.” She beamed. “Ew.” Tilted her head, murmuring the word one more time beneath her breath. “I like that American word too.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her it wasn’t really a word. Didn’t matter anyway, especially with the issue I still attempted drilling down on. “So if Shiraz is an ‘ew’, and you can’t be referring to Evrest or Samsyn…”
Her face turned ashen. “No! They are also fine men but—” Her nose crinkled. “They are taken and mated and—” A rapid shake of her head became a shudder. “Just…no.”
I scrunched my brows. I was tired but not that tired. She’d brought up “that Cimarron air” as if she’d had firsthand experience with the subject, but—
Wait.
A flash hit. Part of my first conversation with Shiraz.
A pair of my father’s finest advisors…were joined by my cousin…
“Tytan.” The memory helped fill it in. As soon as the name left my lips, Crista’s gaze flew everywhere, and her lips kneaded each other to a pulp. “Hmmm. Tytan,” I repeated knowingly. “Your own maddening Cimarron, hmmm?”
