Into Her Fantasies -- A Contemporary Romance: The Cimarrons: Royals of Arcadia Island (The Cimarron Series Book 3)

by Angel Payne

  I crouched lower over my phone. “I don’t think anyone on this island owns a trench coat, Ez.”

  “Holy. Shit.”

  Pissy huff. Really pissy. “Seriously? This? After sending me a thousand gawk-and-stalk pictures of the man before I left LA? After all the wet codpiece jokes once I was here?”

  He sighed. Muttered dismally, “At least you waited until after Expectation was dead on the vine anyway.”

  “Stop,” I bit out. “We’re not dead.” Burrowed my toes into the sand, drawing strength from the grainy warmth against my toes. “Not yet.”

  “Sure. Because you stand a chance of landing that wedding contract now, after grabbing Shiraz’s cherry for your fruit bowl?”

  “After you kept telling me to push the bowl at him?”

  “Because that’s the kind of shit I always say—and then you always ignore.”

  “You’re going with that one too?”

  “Sounds better than ‘I couldn’t resist his gorgeous Arcadian cock, Ez.’”

  I swung my gaze toward the water. Silently asked the sea for even a fraction of its azure serenity, but my fury was too intense. “Was that fucking necessary?”

  Ezra grunted. “Was fucking him necessary?”

  “Maybe it was.” I knocked the side of my fist into the tree, bracing for more of his tirade. When it didn’t come, and the line was only filled with his weird, sad silence, I braced even harder. Even got a little afraid.

  “Luce?”

  I let my butt slide down the palm. Plunked into the sand, hitting with heavy resignation. “Yeah?”

  “You’re not even sorry for it, are you?”

  I inhaled. Exhaled. Let him hear both breaths. Gazed again toward the water. Identified at once with a massive knot of kelp, newly dumped on the shore. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

  I’d do it again with all my heartbeats.

  With every fiber of the body only Shiraz awakened so well. Every neuron of the mind he challenged. Every part of the soul he just…knew.

  “I was really afraid of that,” Ez muttered.

  I jabbed a foot deeper into the sand. Huffed defensively. “Untwist the knickers, bucky. My eyes are wide open here.”

  “Yeah. Along with other things.”

  “Okay, stop.” I pushed back to my feet, needing to pace. “Why are you doing this?”

  “What?”

  “Dragging this down. Turning it into a bunch of slut jokes.” No way was I backing off on the conviction. I refused to banter about Shiraz—about the magic I’d shared with him—as if he were simply another great fuck.

  “Sorry, Luce.” His mutter was an incision of accusation. “I had no idea you hated it so much in my little gutter.”

  “Dammit, Ez.” I turned and walked deeper into the shade of the palm grove. The seven stares behind me were a tangible weight down my spine. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. I just—” Gave in to a heated huff. Another plunk down, this time using a fallen tree as a seat. “He’s just—”

  “I know.”

  His voice, thick with compassion, buzz-sawed my composure. “No,” I snapped past thick tears, “you don’t know. How could you know, when I don’t even know?”

  Ezra sighed. Just like before, it was omniscience and sorrow blended into a weird oneness. “I just do, Betty Stepford. I just do.”

  I broke into a growl—which sounded dorky through my tears.

  “I’m sorry I smutted it all up. He’s a good guy. In a different stratosphere.”

  I sniffed. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Your heart did.”

  And Ez had been listening. Because, damn him, that’s what he listened to when my mouth was being too damn stupid for common sense.

  “Well, my heart needs to shut up,” I muttered.

  “Wouldn’t matter,” Ez contested. “Because Prince Hottie-McHottie has already made the case for himself, loud and clear.”

  “Huh?” I jerked up my head, probably looking like an ostrich who’d been forced into the sun. Good analogy, since Ez’s laugh suffused the line with his special kind of warmth.

  “Shiraz really didn’t tell you, did he?”

  “Contrary to what you’re probably thinking, I haven’t seen the man in nearly thirty-six hours.” Which had been about thirty-five hours too long—but Ez didn’t need to know that. He was having too much fun with his I’ve-got-a-secret hum, anyhow.

  “Well,” he finally dove in with dramatic relish, “it seems his Highness carved out at least a little time in his schedule last night to find some kind of working phone line on Arcadia—then use it to call both your mom and me.”

  Stunned silences seemed to be the new trend. I took a crack at it now myself, letting my mouth pop wide as my head ostrich-cocked. “He…”

  “Called us,” Ez repeated.

  “Why?” No pretense on that. I was genuinely curious about the answer. Though it seemed obvious, I needed to hear it.

  “Well, he didn’t take time to shoot the shit, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “Of course not.” Now I fibbed. I was wondering. Why would Shiraz hassle to find a satellite line, since those had been the only functioning communication modes on the island until an hour ago, then burn the valuable time for two calls to the US?

  “He was pretty straightforward.” Ez hummed again. “I was pretty bummed about that. Melted cheese on a breadstick, girl. That man’s voice.”

  “Tangent for a different time.” I gave it enough humor to let him know it was a promise. At some point in the future, long after I could talk about Shiraz’s voice without fighting the instant pressure between my thighs, we’d have that discussion. For now, I had to stick to the facts. Strictly the facts. “Just tell me what he said to you and Mom.”

  “Practically the same thing.” He emulated my matter-of-fact tone. “Like I said, he didn’t linger. Just explained cell service was still down across the island, but he knew we’d be worried about your safety. He assured us you were secure and well, and said that as soon as safe transport off the island is available, he’ll personally make sure you’re on it. Errr…Luce? You still with me?”

  His hail was founded on my thick silence, spent in a tangle worthy of a dozen seaweed balls. As soon as safe transport off the island is available. How long would that be? And why did I both dread and anticipate the answer?

  More importantly, why did it feel important that I avoided Shiraz until then?

  Our goodbye of yesterday morning had been a perfect way to wrap things up. A few hours of solid sleep. Another hot, heated trip to fuck-me-like-there’s-no-tomorrow land. A passionate kiss that never strayed into melancholy, since he had a country to run and I had a life to unstick from the Hold button. Or was it still on Play, with me longing to loop the scene over and over?

  And weren’t they the same damn thing?

  “Yeah.” I uttered it with dawning comprehension, though Ez took it as his response, as well.

  “So…” he started again. “Guess you’re having a little more island fun whether you like it or not, darling.”

  Soft laugh. Ezra knew how to drag me out of my head, even if I went kicking and screaming. “I’m actually helping with the clean-up. You’d be stunned what this thing did in just a few hours.”

  “Oy,” he muttered, before audibly brightening. “Hey! Did you get to ride in one of those cool motorized raft things?”

  Spurting giggle. “No.”

  “See any cars in trees?”

  “Errr…no.”

  “Boats having sex?”

  “The hell?”

  “Hmmm. You’re right. Take that one back. If the boats are having sex, they probably don’t want anyone finding them.”

  Another laugh, much fuller. “Just when I think I’m the biggest dork on the planet…”

  “I was actually just looking for a smooth transition slide.”

  My humor faded. “Uh-oh.”

  “Oh, come on,” he lobbed. “Yo
u knew it was coming.” A knowing grunt. “You don’t drop a bomb like ‘I rode the royal scepter’ then not expect the Ezra Lowe inquisition.”

  “The royal scepter?” I shook my head. “Did you really just go there?”

  “Hey. Be thankful I chose ‘inquisition’ instead of ‘probe’.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Hmmm. That one rolled off quite nicely,” he pushed on, unapologetic. “But inquiring minds need to know how many times it got screamed in your bed.” A scandalous gasp. “Or was it his? Oh, tell me it was. The royal beaudoir. God, I’ll bet it was gorgeous. What’s the thread count on the sheets? Were they like sleeping on butter? Did you sneak any snaps?”

  “Stop.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or groan, so I mushed them into one.

  “Sorry,” he relented. “You’re right.”

  Whooshing sigh. “Thank you.”

  “I mean, who cares about the sheets? It’s what happened between them. And do not skimp the details, woman. Is he an animal? I’ll bet he’s an animal. And do you think you’ll do it again, with your indefinite delay there?”

  “Sheez-ussss, Ez.”

  “Hey,” he slung back. “Fair question!”

  “Oh yeah?” I pushed to my feet, stretching the kinks in my back. Two days of clearing trash, palm fronds, and driftwood were a much different workout than Zumba class at The Beach Burn. “And how’s that?”

  “Hmmm.” It was shockingly thoughtful, in light of his more recent tracks toward sheets and wildlife. “Intuition, I suppose. But while the man said all but fifty words to me yesterday, there was something in his voice…”

  I stopped in the middle of the clearing. Was grateful the wind kicked up, blowing hair into my face, giving a real distraction from the painful skip in my pulse. “Something like what?”

  He made a little ticking noise.

  I knew that sound.

  It always came with a grimace, like he was on a ladder but still stretching for his answer. “The way he spoke your name,” he said slowly. “I think that was it. And it was more than the accent or the formality—though I have to say, he turns ‘Lucina’ into an art form.”

  “Yeah.” I bit my lower lip. Like a freaking thirteen-year-old. And didn’t care one damn bit. “He does, doesn’t he?”

  “Another topic, another time.” His voice carried a warning, for which I was thankful. The tangent of Shiraz’s magical voice would’ve had us skipping down a path populated by everyone from Bowie and Axl to Cumberbatch and Banderas and beyond. “For now, let’s just leave it at the obvious.”

  I bit the other side of my lip, this time in a weird surge of trepidation. “Which is what?”

  He cleared his throat—all but confirming my apprehension. “He practically prowls around the subject of you, Luce.” He attempted a self-deprecating chuckle. “I know that sounds strange, but I can’t think of a better way to say it. The entire time we were talking, I imagined him pacing the room like a lion or a panther or something, ready to bite someone’s hand off for coming near its food.”

  I turned. Let the wind hit me full in the face, needing the blast. The moment I thought of a pacing Shiraz, pounding a room’s floorboards with his single-minded stride, every blood cell in my body lit signal fires of arousal. But that was no excuse for not getting out my reply. “Was he…violent?”

  “Huh?” A choking laugh. “God, no. Just growly. And protective. Like a mash-up of Firth as Darcy, Craig as Bond, and that Daryl guy from The Walking Dead, only without the crossbow. Or maybe Cimarron has one of those too.” He snickered again. “Maybe he’s really good with a crossbow, and a certain someone’s just being stingy with the details about it.”

  I groaned. “It’s not stingy, okay? It’s just—”

  “What?” he prompted into my deliberate pause.

  “Confusion.”

  I knew how ridiculous it sounded. How the hell was I confused about a guy I’d met three days ago, with whom I’d slept with once? Once and a half, if technical details were applicable. And granted, there had been pillow talk—the usual sharing of little life stories, acceptable in the aftermath of rocking world-class orgasms together—but nothing I hadn’t disclosed to other lovers, for the sake of smoothly escaping back to real-life after the passion.

  And there was where the reasoning fell apart.

  Shiraz Cimarron hadn’t been just another lover. Avoiding that fact was as useless as avoiding the sun through the trees or the wind on my face.

  Equal truth: I hadn’t given my stories to him as a damn “escape”.

  I’d shared myself with him, as a gift.

  I’d wanted nothing in return because I hadn’t expected anything else. But that was because I never expected to ever see him again. Because I was supposed to be back in LA by now.

  Walls of defense that were all but rubble now—especially as the words of his last text seared themselves again on my brain.

  We WILL discuss this…tomorrow.

  Today was that tomorrow.

  “Confusion?”

  Ezra’s echo made me focus on verbalizing this shit. Like that was going to happen easily. But I had to try. “Yeah. About…him. About what happened between us. I feel kind of caged wildcat about it too, Ez. Maybe it was just because of what we’d been through first, with the storm and rescuing those kids and…”

  I let my thundering heartbeat conquer even the words for a second—thankful Ez filled them in.

  “Thinking about your own mortality?”

  “Yeah,” I got out after a lengthy pause. Another lap around the clearing had me flattening a hand over my head, wondering how far to take the revelation. “So things got…intense.”

  Ez hummed again—this time, communicating a smile. “But in the Book of Lucy, intense is usually good.”

  “In the Book of Lucy, intense is very good.” I stopped. Swallowed hard. “But Shiraz Cimarron…”

  “Rewrites the book?”

  “If you were here, I’d punch you for that.”

  “Which means I’m right.”

  “In more ways than I want to give you credit for.” I slumped against another tree. “Which wouldn’t be a problem at all, if the Sancti airport hadn’t been turned back into a jungle.”

  “And now?”

  Weighted sigh. “Now, I don’t know what to do. What to think…”

  “Then maybe you shouldn’t.”

  “Shouldn’t what?” I countered. “Think?”

  His huff held up to mine. “It’s called raw instinct, Luce. And sometimes, indulging it is better than fighting it.”

  I let a sound burst out, scoffing and gagging at once. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Best way to kill a star is to let it go supernova,” he rebutted at once—my first clue that he really wasn’t kidding. “So speed up the process. Feed the explosion.”

  “Fine idea, Galileo,” I cracked. “Only there’s a huge fly on the telescope, and her name is Ambyr Stratiss. Remember her? The woman who’s going to be wearing the man’s engagement ring any day now?”

  “But not yet.” He sang the last word, modulating it like a celebratory aria. “Anything can happen, my darling. You know it as well as I do.” He tsked with grand emphasis. “Now aren’t you happy about all the reality TV binges?”

  I raised him by a cluck, tossing in a brutal growl. “This isn’t TV, dammit.”

  “Which only makes it more romantic.” He had the nerve to sigh the words. Even bigger balls to add, “True princesses start in the magic of the heart. And let’s face it. ‘Princess Lucina’ has a damn nice ring—”

  “No.” I didn’t just cut him off. I snarled him into silence, using the vehemence to mask the truth crashing through me, the terror threatening to crush me.

  Princess Lucina.

  No fucking way.

  Yeah, okay; like every little girl, I’d once dreamed of being a princess—for five seconds. That was before I grew up and realized the truth about princesses. They wore big dresses t
o keep the world at arm’s length. They wore white gloves because they weren’t allowed to get dirty. Palace balls were another word for scripted boredom, and castles were another word for gilded cages.

  The angels hadn’t crafted me to be a princess.

  I liked dirty dancing and dirtier words. Leather skirts and fingerless gloves, both in black. Ballroom floors were my playground only when I orchestrated someone else’s happy-ever-after, and that was just the way I liked it. Being on the periphery of the fairy tale meant one didn’t have to live it—or explain why their version of it started in the castle’s dungeon.

  Arcadia needed a real princess, to stand at the side of its new hero—a knight with a spirit as stunning as his face, and with courage as boundless as his passion. A leader who could rely on a normal princess. A woman who—

  “Lucina.”

  Who didn’t turn at the sound of his voice, and instantly yearn to drop to her knees for him.

  Then dream of having him drag her into the forest with him. Naked.

  Then shake so badly from that desire, she dropped her phone into the dirt—and left it there. Then stood like a mute idiot, watching as he scooped the thing up and pressed it to his ear.

  “Bon sonar?” Shiraz’s face warmed by just a degree. His lips—holy shit, how had I forgotten the incredible curves of his lips?—tilted up at the edges. “Ah, Mr. Lowe. It is indeed nice to speak with you again. Merderim for your concern; all is well.” The light in his eyes began to rival the sun on the waves for gleaming brilliance, especially as Ez went on longer about something. I strained to pick up even snippets of words but Shiraz kept the thing tightly pressed against his ear.

  Dammit, Ezra. You’d better be sharing nothing with the man but a great recipe for guacamole. Nothing, across every chiseled inch of Shiraz’s face, told me differently. He looked like any other demigod prince shooting the shit on the phone with a friend. In the middle of a lush palm tree forest lining a postcard-perfect beach. In the wake of a rare Mediterranean hurricane. In front of the woman he’d screwed into half a dozen incredible orgasms the night before last…

  The woman whose heartbeat surely registered on the decibel scale as he ended the call with Ez.