I was right. I told Tessa this was a bad idea, that she should never send me on my own and I was right.

The thought flashes through my mind as Prince Handsome-as-sin-but-that’s-the-only-thing-he-has-going-for-him Lucas drags me up the fancy staircase.

When I first laid eyes on him, I had a flash of me walking boldly up to him, grabbing onto his shoulders, wrapping my legs around those impossibly lean hips while demanding he fuck me.

The image was so unlike me, I’d turned red and promptly forgot everything I knew about dealing with people. I couldn’t look at him for fear he’d somehow look at my face and know exactly where my mind went.

When I realized he was talking to me, I thought he’d somehow read my thoughts and I panicked. Desperate to do or say something that would distract both of us, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

The stupid strawberry joke.

Okay, so the jokes not that good, it’s pretty childish, but still, it’s kinda funny. Most people laugh at least a little bit when I tell it.

Not Prince Jackass. He didn’t even crack a smile

Admittedly, most adults don’t share my love for bad, childish jokes, but at least they crack a smile or respond with a polite laugh, but not this guy. Based on his reaction, telling a joke is some kind of a national crime.

I slide a sideways glance up towards his face. It’s still gorgeous, exactly the kind of face Michelangelo would have sought in a muse, but it doesn’t look like the kind of face that smiles often.

Probably because it may crack wide open or crumble into dust at the first hint of a smile.

How do people survive without a sense of humor? It might not be quite as important as oxygen, but I’m telling you, it’s right up there.

He said he’s taking me to see Queen Lynnette, probably to convince her to bring back the guillotine and have me and my bad jokes silenced forever.

He tugs me through a magnificent doorway and across the biggest foyer I’ve ever seen. Someone has nicely arranged long, gorgeous runners on the floor but Prince Asshat ignores them, hauling me in a direct line across the slippery marble floor.

After three steps, I give up trying to walk beside him and just lock my knees and practically let my favorite pair of pumps slippery soles slide across the sleek floor.

The prince gives me a side-eye and I resist, barely, the urge to stick my tongue out at him.

The prince walks - and I slide - out of the main entrance room and into an equally grand side room that’s occupied by two women.

One, a woman who’s impossibly beautiful and about my age, stands near a window and typing something onto her smartphone. The other, an older woman who oozes regality and dignity is seated on stunning maroon settee reading a magazine.

Both look up as I’m hauled before the settee.

The Queen looks up and her eyes widen. “Lucas, what has gotten into you?”

Queen Lynette, doesn’t fit the mental image I created of her. One glance and I know she’s the most natural, most down to earth, queen I’ve ever met.

Her makeup, though flawless, doesn’t hide the network of faint crow’s feet radiating from the corners of her eyes and mouth or the softening of her jawline. Her clothes are comfortable and fit nicely. She lacks the hard, brittle edge women gain when they start fighting the natural aging process.

Queen Lynette is allowing herself to age gracefully and without shame.

I can respect that.

Prince Pea Brain’s grip on my elbow tightens. It feels like I’m back in school, being dragged in front of the principal and accused of someone else’s crime. Literally, the only thing I’ve done, is tell a joke. I hate to know how he reacts when he encounters someone who actually has screwed up.

Talk about tightly wound. If he doesn’t unbend soon, he’s going to shatter.

“This girl claims you hired her to look at antiques.”

The queen meets my eyes. “And you are,” she asks in perfect English.

“Alexis Thane.”

I slide my free hand into my purse and feel for my driver’s license which I hand the queen. “I own Glass and Wood Consulting. We’re based out of Boston, Massachusetts.” I add the second part out of habit rather than need.

The queen glances at the small card. “Lucas, unhand the girl. She’s exactly who she says she is.”

“But, I thought –”

Light flashes in Queen Lynette’s eyes as she points to his hand wrapped around my elbow. “Do as I say. Now.”

All trace of warmth is gone from the older woman’s voice. And for a split second she becomes supremely regal and there’s no doubt that she’s Queen of Moravia.

He drops my arm and takes a step back. The woman near the window slides her phone into her pocket and glides across the floor towards us.

The queen places a hand on my shoulder and smiles apologetically. “You’ll have to forgive my son. He’s on the edge of losing a marriage bet and it’s made him … cranky.”

“A marriage bet,” I ask, convinced I’d misheard.

“I haven’t lost yet,” Lucas mutters darkly at the exact same moment.

“No, you haven’t,” the other woman in the room purrs an agreement. She moves away from the window and towards us. She stops next to the prince and smiles at him. “There’s still a few days left, which is plenty of time for him to find someone.”

The queen gestures to her companion. “Alexis, this is Eileen Schwimmer – my right-hand woman. She’s the best P.A. I’ve ever had. I honestly don’t know how I’d accomplish anything without her.”

Eileen nods at me. She’s an amazing woman. Skin the color of cinnamon and free of any imperfections, big exotic eyes, a tiny nose, a slim body, and she radiates poise.

There’s something about her behavior that’s not quite right. She stands just a bit too close, her smile is just bit too bright, and there’s something in the angle of her body that’s not quite right.

She wants him.

The realization jolts through me and I’m suddenly overcome with the desire to pull every strand of her perfect hair from her scalp. Apparently, I’m still a little attracted despite the way he’s treated me.

“Is there anything I can do to make up for my son’s atrocious behavior. We have a nice assortment of refreshments available.”

The queen winces as she points at a table laden with drinks and delicacies – perhaps realizing how insufficient her gesture is.

“I’d really just like to see the items you wish me to examine.”

There’s no way I can get through a bout of refreshments with these people. With the way things are going I’d probably dump hot tea on Eileen Schwimmer’s head, and either rip the clothes of Prince Lucas or stick a butter knife into one of his eyeballs. No, the best thing I can do right now is focus on work.

“Very well.” The queen leads us across the room. “I must confess that it’s possible you’ve been brought here to appraise pieces that could very well be of little value.”

Eileen glides ahead of the queen and opens a door. The queen crosses the threshold without breaking conversation. My eyes widen as I realize that this is what she’s used to. She might never have opened a door her entire life!

“Most were collected by my husband’s great-great grandfather who loved surrounding himself with great beauty, and wasn’t concerned with the actual value of the items. He was as happy with a Ming dynasty vase as he was with a clay plate made by a local villager.”

The room is roughly the size of my entire apartment. Extraordinary works of art hang from the walls or are propped on gilded easels. Beautiful chests, tables, and wardrobes gleam under the gentle light.

They’re beautiful, but they’re not what draws my attention.

“My goodness,” I breathe the words out and forget everything as I weave my way around one beautiful antique after another until I’m standing before an ornate display hutch where a dozen small glass animal figurines sparkle at me. I stare at them a moment, basking in their beauty and grace before unhooking the delicate latch and opening the door.

“Barclay Lunn,” I whisper, stunned.

“Who,” Lucas asks.

His mother ignores him and steps towards me. “Yes, that was the designer listed in the paperwork I have for those pieces. I hoped you’d be able to provide some background on the pieces. It seems I was right.” She shoots me a grateful smile.

“Barclay Lunn was born a slave. As a child, he worked as a laborer in the shipyards. In the little bit of free time he had, he drew elaborate sketches.”

I reach into the case and gently remove one of the figurines. It’s a butterfly. It’s so small, it barely weighs more than the animal that inspired its design. Yet every detail is absolutely perfect. I’ve never held such an exquisite piece of workmanship.

“Legend has it that the Duke of Rysperhuxk saw one of young Barclay’s sketches and was so enraptured with its beauty that he immediately purchased him and arranged to have him shipped to his country home, where Barclay spent all his time creating artwork and filling the Ducal home with one of a kind pieces. Barclay learned how to blow glass and started making glass figurines. Some are said to have been pretty bawdy, which fit the Duke’s taste and which he gave to his male friends, but most were like this, accurate and stunning representations of the animals Barclay loved.”

I return the butterfly and scan the rest of the figurines, looking for Barclay’s most famous pieces which had been lost well over a hundred years ago, if they even existed at all. They’re not here. I ignore the flash of disappointment.

“After England officially freed slaves, Barclay is said to have blown to figurines, one a badly beaten horse and the other the same horse after it’s been properly fed and loved. He was inspired by a story he’d heard about William Wilberforce who was instrumental in freeing the slaves. He felt that the story not only pertained to Wilberforce’s life, but also symbolized what the man had done for Barclay and other slaves. He gave the figurines to Wilberforce who supposedly treasured them.”

“That’s a lot of supposedlys…” The prince’s voice is softer than before.

I glance over my shoulder, only to discover that he moved while I spoke, and is now angled so that he can see my profile. I can’t read his expression, but there’s a bright, puzzled light in his eyes that makes me uncomfortable.

I hold his gaze for a split second before turning back to the glass sculptures. A shiver passes through me

“There’s very little proof some of Lunn’s figurines, including the pair of horses he presented to Wilberforce, actually exist.” This time my gaze finds the Queen. She’s staring at her son, her brow furrowed in thought. I can’t tell if she’s heard anything I’ve said or if she even cares.

“I’ve only encountered three verified Lunn figurines and seen photos, mostly grainy, of some of his other pieces. I’ll need to verify that these are genuine pieces.”

“Of course,” the queen responds, her eyes remain glued to her son’s face.

I bite my lip. “It can take a great deal of time.”

This is always the tricky part. So Tessa tells me, anyway. The only experience I have in negotiating is half an hour role playing with my dog sick best friend.

Verifying items, especially ones as rare as Lunn’s is costly. I can do the work, I can’t afford to foot the bill myself, something most clients fail to understand.

“How much time,” Eileen asks. Her phone is back in her hand, ready to make notes.

“How much will it cost,” Lucas asks. He tucks his hands into his pockets and studies me. The light in his eyes is so bright, so intense, I have to look away.

“Both the length of time and cost of the verification depend on a number of factors, but based on the number of items in this room, a basic appraisal may take a few weeks.”

A few weeks here. In the same building with a prince who I both hate and lust after. Oh boy!

“And I can’t provide a true estimate until I have the opportunity to examine each piece and determine how difficult the appraisal process will be.”

Lucas frowns and looks ready to say something, but Lynette lays a hand on his arm.

“And then what?”

“Just to be clear, Your Majesty. You wish to donate these pieces to museums, they’re not for sale to private collectors. Correct?”

“Do you know of many private collectors with an interest in such pieces?”

I want to raise my hand and jump up and down while screaming me, me, me. I’d give just about anything for the privilege of calling just one of the Barclay pieces my own.

It takes all of my professional resolve to suppress the urge. Not only is such behavior unprofessional, the only way I could afford them was by taking drastic measures such as selling my house, my car, my business, my soul.

Tempting … but no.

Something in the queen’s eyes makes me think she knows exactly what’s going through my mind.

“I know of several people who would most certainly be interested in the opportunity to own any one of these pieces.”

Please say no, please say no.

I beam the thoughts her way. Once the pieces land in a private collection, they’ll most likely never be seen again.

If I can’t have any for my own, I would rather they end up in a museum, where they’d be properly displayed and viewed by people who truly appreciate them. Like me.

Clearly money isn’t a problem for the family. They don’t have to sell their treasures so they could pay their heating bill. Something I’ve done from time to time.

The queen doesn’t respond right away. She chews on her lip and slides a sideways glance her son who has apparently become singularly fascinated by something on the wall just past my left shoulder. I resist the urge to look.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive me. I failed to make myself clear during our exchanges.” The queen speaks slowly, like she’s in the middle of making a major decision. “I don’t want to donate these to any museums.”

My heart sinks. I shouldn’t have double checked her intentions. I shouldn’t have even mentioned the possibility of selling the pieces to private collectors.

“I want to use them to start a type of national museum right here in the capital city.”

Lucas and Eileen nearly give themselves whiplash as they turn to stare at her.

I release the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. These pieces aren't going to be hidden away forever. Thank goodness.

“Okay.” I say, starting to speak all at once – the relief causing me to babble. “I know a few people I can talk to who can provide advice on that type of project … unless you already have someone lined up.”

“I want you to do it.”