It didn’t work.
The Mustang slipped down the rocky side, nose-dived off the edge, and slammed into the water below. I screamed the entire way down, my hands like a vise around the steering wheel.
This wasn’t happening.
It was.
I clawed at the seatbelt and unlatched it, but when I went to open the door, it refused. Water pressure blocked my way out.
Dosomethingdosomethingdosomethingdosomething . . .
The smell of algae surrounded me as water seeped in from the floorboard. It crept up my legs, my chest, my chin. I scrambled away from the cold but there was no escape. I took one last gulp of air as the vehicle sank below the surface, water gushing in through the soft top. Light as a feather, the car drifted down several feet and settled on the bottom of the lake.
Silence.
I watched my blond hair float around my face.
I looked around at the watery darkness.
The car should be pressurized.
I could get out now, right?
God, I didn’t know.
I was only seventeen.
I didn’t know anything about anything!
I tugged at the door handle again. Nothing.
I tried to roll down the window, but the electric wasn’t working.
Break the windows!
I positioned my legs on the glass and shoved.
Stomped.
Beat.
I was never getting out.
Dizziness.
Panic.
My chest burned.
My nails scrabbled at the vinyl top of the vehicle. Searching for a tear. Anything.
I closed my eyes and wished myself out of the car. I even wished myself back home in that shabby house on the side of the mountain.
God, please.
Bubbles came out of my mouth.
IwasgoingtodieIwasgoingtodieIwasgoingtodieIwasgoingtodie . . .
Then I heard it—a tap, then a scratching sound. My eyes flew open.
The top of the Mustang moved. A small hole appeared and then grew bigger.
My heart surged.
Someone was there.
Someone was tearing into the car with a knife.
Everything went black.
***
Consciousness came slowly, dragging me along in bits and pieces.
Something warm touched my lips, and I coughed as pain rippled through my throat and chest. Hands turned me on my side and water gushed out.
I struggled to suck in precious air as my eyes cracked open.
Where was I?
Who had saved me?
I was lying on a shore with sand, cattails, and wild grasses. Mountain evergreens lined the perimeter.
But that wasn’t what got my attention.
A young man—or angel—huddled over me. I blinked, zeroing in on him. Even wet he was handsome with a jaw that was wonderfully chiseled, lips that were lush, and broad shoulders that looked as if they could hold the weight of the world. Water lingered on his way-too-long-to-be-real black lashes. Even in my state of shock, I recognized he was flawless.
Heavy breathing escaped his lips, and I gingerly touched my own. He’d kissed me.
It’s called mouth-to-mouth, you hillbilly.
“I thought you were dead,” he said as if he could barely believe I wasn’t. He rubbed his face briskly, pushing wet hair out of his face. “Was anyone else in the car?”
“What?” I croaked. My brain hadn’t caught up yet.
He stumbled as he stood and weaved on his feet. “Wait here. I’ll try to get them—”
“N-no,” I whispered, reaching a hand out to stop him. My voice was ragged. “Just me.”
He came back and collapsed down next to me, eyes searching my face in the darkness. “You hurt?”
I shook my head. I didn’t think so. If I was alive, I was okay. Images of the wreck flashed in my mind. Being trapped. The dark water. A shudder racked my body, and I made a guttural noise in the back of my throat I’d never heard before.
He gathered me in his arms, his hand palming my scalp. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. Shhh.” His neck smelled male and spicy, and my fingers dug into his shoulders to pull him closer. We stayed that way for a while, and after my shivering stilled, I eased back and glanced up to the bridge, noticing there weren’t any other cars.
Where had he come from on this dark and lonely night?
He’d braved the water to cut me out, and the average person wouldn’t—couldn’t—have done that. If he hadn’t been here in this exact spot when I’d gone over, I’d be dead and swimming with the fishes.
No one crosses our path without a reason. I believed this.
“You sure you’re okay?” He pushed hair out of my face, his voice incredibly gentle.
I nodded. “Thank you.”
We locked eyes, and a spark zinged from my head to my toes. One, two, three moments passed, and something—I couldn’t tell you what—fell gently into place. In the space between my near death and waking up, is it crazy to say I recognized him even though I didn’t know him? How is that even possible?
A siren wailed in the distance, pulling me back, and I visibly flinched as fear swallowed me again. The cavalry was on its way—police or an ambulance. Either way it all led back to my father and his rules. And I wasn’t going back. Ever.
Rolling out of his arms, I stumbled to my feet, grasped a nearby pine tree to steady myself, and scoured the dark forest beyond the lake. There was a town a few miles from here; maybe a phone. I grimaced as pain shot through my leg, and I touched it, finding a three-inch gash on my inner thigh. Blood dripped. It wasn’t a main artery, but I’d need to get something on it. It would probably leave a scar—another one to add to the list.
I whipped off my T-shirt, thankful I wore a bra as well as a camisole. Pulling on the neck, I ripped the Snowden High School Lions shirt into two pieces, my strength a heck of a lot stronger than I’d anticipated, probably from the high that came from nearly biting the dust. I dabbed the gash with one of the pieces then used a clean corner of it to wipe the tears from my face. The other piece I tied around my leg.
“That looks bad,” he said softly, coming closer to me with his eyebrows drawn in tightly. For the first time I noticed he was practically naked, wearing tight black briefs and nothing else. He must have ripped his clothes off to dive in. A Viking of a man, he stood well over six feet tall, his body perfectly sculpted with well-defined muscles.
Up close, I watched a droplet of water drift down his chest to his six-pack abs. I sighed. God had been using his A game when he’d created my hero.
Part of me was . . . excited. I’d never seen an almost naked guy.
I tore my gaze away from him and looked around at the picturesque shoreline and how the moonlight shimmered on the lake. Maybe I was dead and this was heaven?
The sirens inched closer, the high-pitched sound crawling up my spine.
I took a step backward, further into the woods, my foot crunching on the sound of pine needles and fallen leaves.
“Don’t run, please,” he said, raising his hands up hesitantly. He studied my face. “I know you’re scared, but I won’t let anyone hurt you. I promise.”
How did he know I was running?
Because you look like you just stole something, stupid.
I chewed on my bottom lip, contemplating what to tell him. Not the truth—that was for certain. “You didn’t see me here,” I went with, my voice still scratchy. “You never pulled me out of that car.”
“Why?” His brow knitted again. “People will be worried about you.”
“Please—just don’t tell them.” Desperation rang in my tone as I tried to convey to him everything I didn’t have time to explain.
“Wait,” he said, his warm hand brushing against mine, but then he let it fall to his side, a confused expression on his face as if he didn’t know what to make of me.
I was confused as well. And scared. Yet in the middle of thos
e tumultuous emotions, I was drawn to him. My body hummed with an acute awareness of our proximity, and my heart thumped so loudly that I pressed my hands to my chest. I was sure he could hear it.
What was this thing between us? Adrenaline? Lust? Destiny? I didn’t know.
But I did know he sent a buzz straight to my heart.
I wished the moon had been bright enough to see the color of his eyes.
I wished I knew his name.
I wished . . . I wished fate would bring us together again, some other time, some other place.
But not today.
With one last lingering look at his face, I turned and ran into the woods.
Fake Fiancée, 2017
Read an Excerpt from The Prince & The Player by Tia Louise
A sexy con artist.
A playboy prince.
A job gone terribly wrong.
Let the games begin . . .
Runaway Zelda Wilder will do whatever it takes to secure a better life for her and her sister Ava. Crown Prince Rowan Westringham Tate will do whatever it takes to preserve his small country.
“Playboy Prince” MacCallum Lockwood Tate will do whatever it takes to steal Zelda’s heart . . .
When Zee is blackmailed into humiliating the brooding future king, she never expects to be pulled into a web of international intrigue—or to fall for Rowan’s naughty younger brother Cal.
Cal is determined to capture the beautiful player, but Zelda is in over her head with very dangerous men. Time is running out, and it might be too late for the prince to save this player . . .
Prologue
Zelda Wilder
MY LEGS ARE wet. Thunder rolls low in a steel-grey sky, and the hiss of warm rain grows louder. I lean further sideways into the culvert, closer against my little sister Ava’s body, and grit my teeth against the hunger pain twisting my stomach. There’s no way in hell I’m sleeping tonight.
Reaching up, I rub my palm against the back of my neck, under the thick curtain of my blonde hair. A shudder moves at my side, and I realize Ava’s crying. We’re packed tight in this concrete ditch, but I twist my body around to face her.
Clearing my throat, I force my brows to unclench. I force my voice to be soothing instead of angry. “Hey,” I whisper softly. “What’s the matter, Ava-bug?”
Silence greets me. She’s small enough to be somewhat comfortable in our hideout. Her knees are bent, but unlike me, they’re not shoved up into her nose. Still, she leans forward to press her eyes against the backs of her hands. Her glossy brown hair is short around her ears and falls onto her cheeks.
Our parents were classic movie buffs, naming her after Ava Gardner and me after Scott Fitzgerald’s crazy wife Zelda. We pretty much lived up to our monikers, since my little sister wound up having emerald green cat eyes and wavy dark hair. She’s a showstopper whereas I’m pretty average—flat blue eyes and dishwater blonde. So far no signs of schizophrenia (har har), but you can bet your ass I can keep up with the boys in everything, which brings us to this lowly state.
“Come on, now,” I urge. “It can’t be as bad as all that.”
Her dark head moves back and forth. “I’m sorry.” Her soft whisper finally answers my question. “This is all my fault.”
“What?” Reaching for her skinny shoulder, I pull her up. She’s the only person I’ve ever known who looks pretty even when she’s crying. “Why would you say something like that?”
“I tried cutting my hair off. I tried not brushing my teeth—”
“Don’t be doing shit like that!” I snap, turning to face front. The rain keeps splashing on my side getting me even wetter. “We can’t afford a dentist.”
“I don’t know what to do, Zee.”
Pressing my lips together, I clench my fists on top of my knees. “We ain’t going back into no foster home. I’ll take care of us.”
“But how?” Her voice breaks as it goes high in a whisper.
“Hell, I don’t know, but I got all night to figure it out.” I press my front teeth together and think. We’re not that far from being legal. I’m seventeen, but Ava’s only fifteen. Looking at the sand on my shoes, I get an idea. “We got one thing going for us.”
“What’s that?” My little sister sniffs, and I hear the tiniest flicker of hope in her voice. She’ll trust whatever I tell her, and I take that responsibility very seriously.
“We live in the greatest state to be homeless. Sunny Florida.”
“Okay?” Her slim brows wrinkle, and the tears in her eyes make them look like the ocean.
“We don’t have to worry about getting cold or anything. We don’t have to worry about snow . . .” I’m thinking hard, assembling a plan in my mind. “During the day, we fly under the radar—keep your head down, don’t attract attention. I’ll see what I can find us to eat. At night we can sleep on the beach. Or here, or hell, maybe one of these rich assholes forgets to lock his boathouse. Have you seen how nice some of these boathouses are? They’re like regular houses!”
Her eyes go round with surprise. “Why are they like that?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Rich people are crazy. Some rich men even get their nails polished, and they aren’t even gay!”
Air bursts through her lips, and she starts to laugh. I smile and pull her arm so she can lie down with her face on my bony, empty stomach. “Now get some sleep.”
The rain is tapering off, and my little sister is laughing instead of crying. I don’t have any idea if anything I just said is possible, but I’m going to find out. I’ll be damned if I let another foster asshole touch her. It’s what Mom would expect me to do. I’m the biggest. I have to take care of us, and I intend to do it.
* * *
Crown Prince Rowan Westringham Tate
The navy fabric of my father’s uniform coat stretches taut across his shoulders. It’s the tangible warning sign his anger is rising, and the person addressing him would do well to shut up.
“Monagasco has been an independent nation for eight hundred years.” His voice is a rolling growl pricking the tension in my chest.
The last time my father started on our nation’s history, the offending party was thrown out of the meeting room by the neck. He’s getting too old for such violent outbursts. I worry about his heart . . . and my future. My freedom, more specifically.
“I think what Hubert was trying to say—” The Grand Duke, my mother’s brother Reginald Winchester, tries to intervene.
“I KNOW what Hubert is trying to say!” My father (a.k.a., The King) cuts him off. “He thinks we should cede our southwestern territory to Totrington! Even though their raiders and bandits have pillaged our farms along the border for generations!”
Leaning back in my heavy oak chair, I steeple my fingers before my lips and don’t say what I want. As crown prince, I’ve attended these meetings for three years, since I turned nineteen. I’ve learned when to speak and when to discuss things in private with my father.
I could say I agree with Reggie, we should consider a trade agreement with our neighboring nation-state, but I’m more concerned about the King’s health. I’ve never seen him so worked up before.
“Independence at all costs,” he continues, his naturally pink cheeks even pinker. “We will not give those savages an open door to the control of Monagasco.”
“No one’s suggesting—”
“Shut UP, Hubert!” My father shouts, and I glance down to avoid meeting the earl’s offended eyes.
Hubert’s sniveling voice is like nails on a chalkboard, and I privately enjoy my father chastising him. I’ve always suspected him of conspiring with Wade Paxton, Totrington’s newly elected Prime Minister, from the time when Wade was only a member of their parliament.
“I’ve had enough of this.” My father walks to the window and looks out. “I’d like to speak to Rowan in private. You can all go.”
“Of course.” Reginald stands at once, smoothing his long hands down the front of his dark coat.
Tall and slender, with greying black hair and a trim mustache, my uncle embodies the Charmant line of our family. I inherited their height and Norman complexion. My father, by contrast, is a Tate through and through. Short, pink, and round.
As soon as the room is cleared, he stalks back to the table, still brooding like a thunderstorm. “Reggie’s in league with them as well,” he growls.
“Not necessarily.” My voice is low and level, and I hope appeasing. “My uncle does have an idea, and of the two, it’s the least offensive. Hubert would combine our countries and walk away—”
“Exactly!” Father snaps, turning to face me, blue eyes blazing. “My own cousin, born and reared in our beautiful land. He’s been promised a place in the new government, I’ll bet you. They’ll throw the lot of us out—behead us if they can.”
“I’m pretty sure beheading is no longer tolerated in western civilization.”
“Harumph.” He’s still angry, but at least he’s calmer. “It would break your mother’s heart. The Charmants founded Monagasco. We can’t let those Twatringtons in.”
His use of the unofficial nickname for our southwest neighbor makes me grin. Rising from my chair, I brace his shoulder in a firm grasp.
“We won’t let that happen.” Our blue eyes meet. It’s the only feature we share. He’s a few inches shorter than me, but he makes up for it in stubbornness. “We’re flush with reserves, and the economy can change at any time.”
His thick hand covers mine. “I’m doing my best to leave you a strong country to rule. The country I inherited.”
“We would do well to reduce our dependence on foreign oil reserves.” He starts to argue, but I hold up a hand as I head for the door. He’s finally calm, and I’m not interested in riling him up again. “In any event, you’ll be around long enough to see the tides turn. Now get some rest.” I’m at the enormous wooden door of the war room. “We can’t solve all our problems in one day.”
“Goodnight, son.”
The tone in his voice causes me to look back. He’s at the window, and a troubled expression mars his profile. A shimmer of concern passes through my stomach, but I dismiss it, quietly stepping into the dim hallway. It’s enormous and shrouded with heavy velvet curtains and tapestries.
The Last Guy Page 22
