Crown of Solana

by Susan Sheehey

  André shook his head, but words garbled in his throat.

  “You said it yourself,” Stefano said, finally resting his hand on the prince’s shoulder. The casual gesture was against protocol, especially with others in the room. But André didn’t care. “We have to act now, if we are to end this threat.”

  A huge knock echoed through the room. “Your Highnesses,” a royal guard called from outside. “Representative Arias to see you.”

  André’s head flipped on a swivel. What?

  “Pasé,” Alanna answered.

  The doors opened, and Mathis Arias limped through in a torn suit, with blood staining his white shirt. His eyes were fierce. “Your Highnesses.” He bowed his head.

  “Señor Arias.” Alanna moved to his side and threw an arm over his shoulder. “Thank God you’re all right. We were told you were killed in that blast.”

  “I escaped just before it blew. Thank God for the pocket knife in my shoe.”

  André moved to the man’s side, grabbing his arm and noticing even more blood on his suit. “Have you seen a doctor, my friend?” He looked to the guard in the doorway. “Bring a paramedic, immediately.”

  “Your Highness, I traveled all night to alert you.” He winced when he turned to face the prince. The man must have a few broken ribs, at least. “It was Raul Lozano. I overheard him mention a shipment of weapons coming into port last night. They are planning an attack against you and the princess, with massive casualties.”

  “When?” he asked darkly.

  “Sometime in the next forty-eight hours.”

  Alanna looked at André. “The parliament vote. It’s the only event we are both scheduled to attend.”

  “Massive casualties.” André finished the thought for her. “They’ll destroy our entire government in one swoop.”

  Her eyes widened. “We have to ask them to cancel it. Push it back.” She moved to the desk and picked up the secure phone.

  “Wait.” André ignored his sister’s stunned stare. He looked back to Arias. “Has anyone seen you since the explosion? Who else knows you’re alive?”

  He shook his head. “I drove here myself. Only the palace staff has seen me.”

  “Which means Raul still thinks you’re dead. He doesn’t know we’re aware of his schemes.” André faced Stefano. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  The man had a determined smile and pulled out his cell phone. “Already ahead of you.”

  “Care to fill the rest of us in on your plans?” Gemma gripped the edge of the desk.

  The thrill of a straight-flush rushed through his veins. The final river card was about to turn, and they were all-in. “Stefano, are you still interested in reinstatement?”

  THE EARLY MORNING WIND STUNG Santos Lozano’s face as he stood on the deck of the Moonflower, a ninety-foot sailing yacht. Most of Palau was sleeping, just as planned. The sun would rise in less than an hour. But they’d be long gone before the rest of the island woke. Ricardo carried two bags up the gangplank, his new wife biting her nails on the dock below. Memo stuffed a wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth and leaned against a post, where one of the ropes for the yacht was secured.

  “Why aren’t we using the plane again?” his son asked, wearing an uneasy scowl.

  “They’re watching the airports. We’d be spotted too easily. Private yachts are the only sure way in. Tell your wife to be thankful we’re not spending our day cruising aboard a fishing vessel as our disguise.”

  Ricardo set the bags down on the deck. “Sophia left one of her bags back at the plane. I’ll be back in a bit.” He glanced at his phone and turned towards the gangplank.

  “Leave it. We need to get underway.”

  He stopped on the gangplank and glared at his father. “Ten minutes won’t hurt your departure. I’m getting that bag.”

  “Watch your tone, son.”

  Every inch of Ricardo’s face darkened, and instead of the usual fear he saw in his boy’s eyes, there was only malice. “Then shoot me in the back.” He turned around and moved down the plank with sure footing. They both walked off hand-in-hand.

  Lozano cocked his head at the pair and chewed on his tongue. They’re planning something. He shifted his eyes to Memo. “Follow them.”

  The oversized henchman sighed with a roll of his eyes and complied.

  Lozano’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and answered.

  “Thanks for the gift, Pops.” Raul sounded more pleased with himself than ever.

  “Was it on time?”

  “Right as scheduled. Even had time to cut some dead weight for you.”

  “Is the next strike ready to go?”

  “All tucked in like sweet crack-babies.”

  “Excellent. I’ll be there this evening.”

  “Who’s with you?”

  A little bell went off in the back of Lozano’s mind. “Why do you care?”

  “Is Ricardo tagging along, or did he stay behind to enjoy his honeymoon fuck-fest?”

  “You worry about your own ass and leave your brother to me.” The silence on the other end was exactly what he wanted. “See you in twelve hours.” He ended the call and settled into a deck chair. Raul would inherit the kingdom he’d built, but if everything went to plan, that wouldn’t happen for at least several more years. An entire country was on the verge of bowing to his will, and he intended to stick around to enjoy it.

  Sipping on his whiskey thirty minutes later, Lozano continuously glanced at his phone. A few fishermen had descended the docks toward their own boats, and a few hundred yards away, several merchants opened their street stalls. The sky grew lighter with every minute, just as his thinking grew onerous.

  Still no Ricardo or Sophia. That wife of his is going to pay for his petulance, with more than just a ring finger.

  His son had spent the entire flight into Palau on his phone. Or calming his bride who’d received her first real glimpse into the demands of the family. Lozano had brushed it off as culture shock, and eventually she’d learn to keep out of the way and her mouth shut. The more he remembered Ricardo’s disdain on the plane, and the brewing resentment around the wedding, the more Lozano’s stomach churned.

  A heavy man with thinning black hair crested the hill. Memo. Alone. With a distinct glower.

  “Shit,” Lozano mumbled and tossed his whiskey overboard. He stood, bracing his hands on the railing. Memo seemed to walk even slower down the hill toward the dock. By the time he reached the gangplank, Lozano struggled to keep from screaming. “Where the fuck are they?”

  “Lost them in the market,” he replied with his heavy Tagalog accent. “They never showed up at the plane.”

  As the sun broke the horizon, Lozano surveyed the Palau coastline. A red haze clouded his thoughts. That little fucker. The hairs on the back of his neck scraped his skin, and the breeze stopped. Everything turned still, quiet, and eerie. A bitter stench filled his nostrils, and he glared at Memo. “Change of plans.”

  Stefano’s plan made Gemma’s head spin. Or it could’ve been the pain meds. Nevertheless, the thought of putting André’s life in danger—along with his sister’s—was like reliving Reyna’s death all over again. Nauseating.

  André led her down the hallway toward her old room, his soft and firm hand soothing some of her nerves. Getting used to the lavish guest apartments was awkward. Gemma much preferred the simple tastes of the cabin back in Texas. But for the incredible man at her side, she’d sure as hell try. The palace’s opulence amazed her, even after all these weeks. The carved cherubs in the ceiling plaster demanded homage, the urge to stop and stare in awe overwhelming. Most of the repairs from the initial invasion’s gunfight had been completed just before she left. No more bullet holes in the walls or bloodstains in the rugs, and half of the stolen artwork had been recovered.

  He opened the double doors to her room. When she walked in, the smoldering gaze he gave her set her heart skipping. Her soul needed him. Craved his touch, his embrace, his l
ove. But her body was so frail. For the first time in her life, she admitted her own mortality. She finally cared about her life, because there was a chance she could share it with him.

  He closed the door behind them and didn’t wait for her to make it to the bed. He tugged on her arm gently and pulled her into him. “Mi diamente,” he whispered just before his lips smothered hers. His tongue devoured hers, tasting every corner and sucking the breath from her lungs. Deep, savory, and delicious. Her whole heart nearly burst right then. She wrapped her arms around him as best she could, despite the cursed sling and finger splints. The damn things restricted her capability to graft her skin to his. Her lower body throbbed for him, but the urge to continue was muted.

  Damn meds.

  She pulled back and rested her forehead to his. “There’s hardly time for this.”

  “There’s always time for you, corazon.” He kissed the tip of her nose, then up to her eyebrow. “But I don’t want to make your injuries worse. We can wait until you heal. I just wanted a moment with you all to myself.”

  Based on the ache in her chest from the blood pumping through her healing body, her first impulse was to straddle him and kiss him silent. She’d missed him. Her very spirit needed to be refilled by this glorious, holy grail of a prince. She traced a finger down his jawbone. “I have to tell you something.”

  “Anything, mi amor.”

  She took a shaky breath. “I want nothing more than to throw you down on that mattress and ride you into next week. Steal you away from everyone.”

  “My exact thoughts when you said you loved me.” He kissed her temple, his soft lips trailing down to her earlobe. Prickles of arousal danced down her neck, but as it reached her abdomen, they died off.

  “I’m still spotting, André.”

  He pulled back, his breathing strangely even. Hers was erratic, all because of his presence and power. Something in his irises darkened, and he slowly pressed his palm to her stomach. “Here?”

  She opened her mouth to say the words, but nothing came out. She covered his hand with hers. How can I explain it?

  “After I left…” André swallowed hard, his gaze focused on her abdomen. “Did Stefano or the doctor talk to you about—”

  “My miscarriage?”

  When his head shot up, locking their gazes together, her heart pounded.

  “You know?” he asked, his voice higher and barely a whisper. “How?”

  She sighed. He already knew. “The nurses gave me instructions when I left the hospital.”

  His breathing escalated, and fear enveloped his face. “Gemma, I’m so sorry. I didn’t have the heart to tell you, when you were already so—”

  “How did you know?”

  His hands shook on her shoulders, and he brought them down to cup her fingers. “I was there when the doctor told Stefano. You were unconscious.”

  The room stopped. Everything went quiet, even the birds in the trees outside the bay windows. “Oh,” was all she could manage.

  André blinked, and his eyes turned glassy. “How do you feel?”

  “Not much. Pain meds are working great.”

  “No, Gemma.” He sighed, another shaky one. “You were pregnant. With our child. Now it’s gone.”

  She stood there processing the news and trying to read her own emotions. Shouldn’t I feel something? Loss? Anger? Guilt? But there was nothing.

  “Gemma?” André caressed her cheek. “Talk to me.”

  “I didn’t really have a chance to get attached.” She took a deep breath. “I didn’t even know until…after.”

  He continued to watch her. Waiting.

  “When you found out, what did you do?” she asked. Suddenly, it was the only thing she could focus on. Knowing his thoughts. How he felt about the possibility.

  A tear graced his long eyelash, which he wiped away. “I held your hand…and cried.”

  “You cried?”

  He nodded.

  “But you didn’t know before, so why did it matter?”

  His eyebrows crunched together. “Because it was you and me.”

  The agony on his face made a lump grow in her throat. She swallowed it back and erased the next words from his mouth with a kiss. When he tried to speak more, she did it again. “Sshh,” she said and sealed it with another press of her lips. “No more thinking. We’ve done enough of that to last a lifetime. Right now, just be with me.”

  “You promise not to push me away again?” He raised a brow.

  She smiled. “Only when we reposition to go deeper.”

  “JUST LIE BACK, GEMMA,” ANDRÉ soothed, slipping a pillow beneath her head. “I’ll do all the work.” He stretched out beside her on the bed, propped on an elbow. Her wince dwindled away as her muscles slowly relaxed. He used his soft voice to comfort her, ease away the tension, and rebuild the trust between them.

  He unclasped her shirt, one pearl button at a time, and pulled the fabric aside. Her skin was pale but smooth, a stark contrast from the garnet-colored lace bra. He smiled at her love for lingerie. Under all her rough edges and stubborn exterior, she was all feminine. Thoroughly delectable.

  His eyes drifted to the bandages from the surgery covering the side of her abdomen. Then to the more prevalent bruising, more expansive and darker than on her face. He held back a curse at the son-of-a-bitch Vasco who did this to her. But she was here now. Safe. Whole. And all mine.

  “If you feel the slightest pain, tell me.”

  She took a deep breath, her beautiful breasts rising against the lace. “If you stop, I’ll get angry. You’ve seen me angry.”

  “You’re in a tropical paradise, Gemma.” He kissed the junction of her shoulder blades, right under her neck. “With your own cabana boy.” Then he gently trailed more kisses down her sternum between her plump breasts. “Let the tension fade and just surrender.”

  On a shaky sigh, her cheeks colored and her eyes closed. André hovered over her nipple through the bra, and pinched it between his lips. Her skin pinked across her chest and into her neck. He pulled the fabric aside, revealing the puckered areola, rosy and screaming for attention. He suckled. Sweet and taut. She moaned, and the sound made his dick instantly harden.

  He spread his hand over her lower abdomen, careful not to go too close to her wounds. Her belly was warm, and from the goosebumps across her skin, so responsive to his touch. Everything about her was responsive. Yielding. He smiled through a kiss.

  “What’s so amusing, cabana boy?” she asked.

  “For once, you’ve given me control.”

  She chuckled through another moan as he wrapped his lips around the other nipple. “Don’t get used to it.”

  “On the contrary.” He slipped his hand under her back and unhooked her bra. “I intend to draw this out for as long as possible.”

  She shrugged out of the straps and flung it to the floor. “Not too long. You better hurry before my meds put me to sleep.”

  He trailed hot circles between her breasts with his tongue, then down to her navel. “Then let’s find a way to keep you awake.” He unbuttoned her jeans and helped her shimmy out of them. “If you were in control, what would be your next move?”

  She licked her upper lip. “I’d grab your cock and squeeze.”

  A smile tugged on his lips. “Like this?” He cupped her sex through the matching red lace panties with a tiny silk bow at the hem. When he squeezed, her gasp gave a slight jolt to her whole body, like he’d flipped a switch. Which electrified his, all the way to the tip of his erection.

  “Mm-hmm,” she breathed, and her whole face blushed.

  “Then what?”

  “I’d stroke…relentlessly.”

  Before she had finished the last word, he glided two fingers over her clit, back and forth. “Of course you would.”

  She arched her back and closed her eyes, lifting her chin into the air. When she bit her lip, he increased the tempo of his stroke. His ball sac tightened at the flush along the rest of her body, all the wa
y up to her pink lips. Glorious. Lickable.

  He slipped his fingers under the sides of her panties and pulled them down her long legs, kissing her skin every few inches. Instead of tossing it on the floor, he folded them and placed them on the bed. There is still plenty of time.

  “See what you can accomplish using only your hands.”

  He grinned. “I’m extremely good with my hands.”

  Her smile turned devilish. “You’re even better with another appendage.”

  He leaned over and kissed her belly button, lingering against her skin and breathing in her scent. “One step at a time, mi preciosa.”

  Stroking back and forth across her pink clit gave André a new addiction: watching Gemma rise to the crest of the tidal wave of bliss. Her gasps and moans charged his body, but nothing more than watching her bite her lip to hold back an orgasm to force the pleasure to last. His fingers worked her clit and inside her core to the point of torment. To find that special nub and launch her to the stratosphere. When she approached that moment, he’d slow down, backing her off the ledge. Only to build her back up.

  “What would you do next?” He kissed a glistening nipple and sucked it between his teeth.

  “Move faster,” she panted. “Deeper.”

  He thrust his fingers farther, and pumped relentlessly.

  Gasps turned to pants, panting to squirms, then into rocking. Her whole body matched the rhythm of his pumping, each moan from her lips higher than the last. Building, the tension tightening, and the heat around his fingers escalating.

  He was a breath away from exploding just from watching. “Let go, Gemma. Don’t hold back.”

  Her face blushed, down into her neck and chest. Her arms curled inward, covering her perky breasts. “Yes,” she panted. “Yes, more.”

  To which he gladly obliged. Her channel spasmed and squeezed around his fingers. Tight and wet. And ridiculously hot. She screamed. André growled with satisfaction and covered her mouth with his own, swallowing her squeal of pleasure. Her fingernails dug into his shoulder blade, deeper with every tremor through her core.