A body hit the ground hard, sending up a puff of dust from the arena floor. The crowd cheered wildly and Marcy joined in, waving her banner as Darius surged to his feet and charged back into the fray, swinging his padded sword. She didn’t know whose brilliant idea it had been to dress all the Suitors on the group date up as knights, give them fake swords and set them loose to whack at one another in the Renaissance Faire Arena, but she had to admit the spectacle was entertaining—provided none of them ended up in the hospital.
She was fascinated by the strategies they employed as they tried to win the prize—twenty precious minutes of alone time with her. None of them had been told what the criterion for winning was, but they had to guess it was her decision, so it was telling what they did to try to impress her, revealing what they thought she was looking for.
Darius was ruthless, determined to defeat everyone in his path. Mark L. appeared to have no athletic ability, but rose laughing every time he got knocked down—she might have to consider awarding him the alone time just for being such a good sport. Mark J. and Aidan had taken to working together, teaming up against the other opponents, which seemed to show a distinct lack of understanding that there could be only one winner, but also demonstrated that they could play well with others.
And then there was Craig. All flash and showmanship. No surprise there. He played to the crowd, earning more cheers than all the others combined, but he couldn’t have made many friends at the Suitors’ Mansion because the others kept coming after him, ganging up on him with single-minded ferocity, as if they had something to prove.
Did they see him as a threat? She certainly hadn’t shown him any favoritism. If anyone was the front runner at this point, it had to be Daniel—though she supposed it was hard for anyone to dislike Daniel, even his competition.
She’d had her first private date with Daniel last night—or as private as a date could be with camera crews capturing every swoon-worthy moment. She’d had a nice time. He was good company and it was hard not to enjoy herself on a picture perfect date, but even as they’d swayed in the moonlight to the strains of their private orchestra, she’d wondered if there was something wrong with her that she wasn’t swept away by the romanticism of the moment.
Daniel kept gushing about how “unbelievable” everything was—the helicopter that whisked them away, the private viewing of the new Monet exhibit at the Getty Villa, the gourmet meal served to them beside the fountains of the Villa, the private orchestra that appeared and began playing just for them, and the fireworks that exploded above their heads as soon as he finally manned up and kissed her—a gentle, respectful peck which he’d declared “perfect”.
Everything was “perfect” and “unbelievable”—and Marcy couldn’t help but wonder if he’d never seen the show. How else could he be shocked by the standard generic romance tactics?
She’d smiled and said all the right things—she’d written this scene too many times not to know her lines—but she hadn’t been moved. Wasn’t she supposed to be moved? She’d thought the reason she hadn’t fallen head over heels for Jack was because she’d known on some subconscious level that he was in love with someone else, even before she’d seen him with Louisa, but now she had to wonder if there was something actually wrong with her.
A cheer went up and Marcy forced her attention back to the arena below. Craig and Mark L. had somehow taken center stage, their swords clashing with muted thunks rather than the clang of metal. Mark L. whirled, going for one of the flourishes the fight choreographer had taught them and Craig brought his own sword up to counter just a little too slowly—Mark’s sword thwacked Craig square in the face, eliciting a sympathetic groan from the audience as he fell to his knees.
“Craig!” Marcy flew to her feet, her banner falling from her hands. Both Mark and Craig dropped their swords to the ground—Mark in horror and Craig to bring both hands to his face where bright red blood began to gush from his nose.
A trumpet sounded and the melee in the arena stumbled to a halt as Marcy rushed down the steps to the arena floor. Medics in medieval garb were already kneeling at Craig’s side. Marcy wove through the other competitors, hearing Aidan mutter, “Why didn’t I think of that?” as she flew past.
Then she was beside him, where blood was already turning the dirt of the arena dark.
“I’m so sorry,” Mark L. groaned, hovering nearby.
“It’s nothing, man,” Craig slurred—or at least that’s what she thought he said through the towel pressed to his face. He’d tipped his head down to speak and the medic gripped his chin, tipping it back up again to staunch the blood. The white towel was already soaking through.
“That’s a lot of blood for nothing,” Marcy said. “Is it broken? Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“And leave the date? Hell, no.”
“It doesn’t appear to be broken,” the medic said. “Just a gusher.”
“See?” Craig said, though it came out as sthee. “Nothing.” He pulled away the sopping towel, and the blood seemed to have finally stopped pouring out of his nose, though the lower half of his face was caked in red. “So did I win?”
#
Two hours later, Marcy and a cleaned-up Craig stood on the battlements in the Renaissance Faire’s Queen’s Castle, looking out over the lights of the Faire below as the rest of the men waited in the dungeons below for his awarded private time to end.
She cocked her head, studying her slightly-banged-up knight. A bruise was beginning to form beneath his left eye—he was going to have quite a shiner to go with his swollen nose—but he somehow managed to make the bruises work for him, lending him an air of danger. Not that he needed any help in the sex appeal department. The man only had to look at her to set her panties on fire.
“I think some of the guys think you took that hit on purpose.”
He grinned, rakish and unrepentant. “I did.”
“You risked your pretty face just for some alone time with me? I’m flattered.”
“I made sure it was Mark L. who hit me. Figured he wouldn’t have a very strong arm.”
“Very Machiavellian of you.” She realized she was fighting a grin again. Even when she knew he was trouble, she felt so alive being with him, like champagne bubbles were fizzing through her blood. “I suppose I should have expected it would get violent.”
“Hell yeah, you should have. We’re all hard-wired to fight for the prize to begin with and you gave us swords.”
“So I’m the prize, am I?”
“Did you think you were anything else?”
She knew she shouldn’t like the glint of challenge in his dark eyes, but when he pushed it just made her want to push back. “I think I’m the one in the driver’s seat and I can send you home whenever I want.”
“But why would you want to do that? I’m the only one who’s honest with you.”
“Is that so? Show me some of this honesty. Tell me something true, Craig. Something real.” She leaned against the fake-stone wall, surprising herself with how badly she wanted to scratch the surface of his bullshit and see who he was underneath.
“Something true?” He braced one arm beside her, close enough for her to feel the heat of his body, but not quite touching. The tease was almost more arousing than a caress. “You’re going to give me the next private date.”
“I am, am I?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And why would I do that?”
He grinned, leaning in so his chest just brushed the outside of her arm, her shoulder. She’d had no idea those could be erogenous zones, but she was so aware of him she felt like she could combust at any moment from the sheer electricity of his presence.
“Because,” he murmured deep and low, “while all those guys were fighting over you like dogs over a bone, not one of them looked up at you to see you were bored out of your mind.”
A blush rose to her cheeks—and she told herself she was embarrassed by his perception, not turned on by his proximity. She had been bored senseless watching the men banging their chests. But how had he seen that? “I wasn’t bored.” Deny, deny, deny.
He just grinned and tangled one of her curls around his forefinger. “While we’re being honest,” he said, “I have a question for you.”
“Oh?”
He met her eyes, his own smoky and intense—no one seared her with a look like Craig. “At the Elimination Ceremony, why did you hesitate?”
Her already heated cheeks went supernova. “What?”
“You almost didn’t pick me. Why?” He leaned forward again until she could feel each expulsion of his breath warming the skin along her neck and behind her ear. “Do I make you nervous?”
She struggled for a nonchalant shrug. “You know how these shows are. We have to create drama for the viewers.”
“So that’s all it was.”
“Of course.”
Again, he just grinned. That smile calling her out in the lie.
The man was entirely too perceptive. The others were all too happy to believe the role she was playing, but Craig saw through her masks like they were made of glass. He wasn’t supposed to be that guy. He was supposed to be the villain. The bad boy. The one all the men hated and she tolerated until it was time to cull the herd and get down to the favorites. She wasn’t supposed to be tempted by him and threatened by his ability to see through her at the same time.
“Marcy, Craig. Time’s up,” the segment producer called. “Time to hit the dungeons.”
Craig straightened slowly, taking all that warmth and intense focus with him. She shouldn’t have been relieved to get away from his all too knowing eyes—any more than she should have been so disappointed that he hadn’t tried to kiss her again.