Chapter Ten
Dare
Queenie must have me on speed dial. He fires off a text approximately every ten minutes—and follows each scathing indictment of my intelligence up with another phone call.
Fuck it.
I ignore him
This isn’t my wisest move, as he’s not above pulling the royal card and sending the army after me next. What he hasn’t considered is my past. I served three years in Vale’s army, and I’ve drunk the better half of Vale’s soldiers under the table. Better yet, I’ve had their backs. I’ve pulled the trigger, covered their asses, and they like me. They’ll cut me some slack.
So instead of behaving myself like a good little prince, I go after Edee. One advantage of being a prince is that I have a shit ton of money at my disposal. My bodyguards also have various talents in the field of espionage, so it doesn’t take too long to track her down. Before she’s been gone more than a handful of hours, I’m in full possession of her employment history, her credit history, and her driver’s license. I’ve also got a handful of clippings about her father’s unexpected death; these are all accompanied by pictures of a stunningly beautiful, icy-cold woman who is labeled the grieving widow.
According to my intel, Edee’s just stepped into an inexpensive Mexican restaurant with two girlfriends. I hightail it over there. I am both shocked and impressed at the speed with which Mr. Right finesses us a helicopter. You think I’d avoid helicopters at all costs after what happened to my parents? Think again. I learned to fly those birds better and faster than anyone in Vale. I still argue with Mr. Right for a few minutes over who’s going to fly us, but I give in when he points out that I don’t have a valid pilot’s license in the States and getting my ass deservedly arrested will considerably slow down my reunion plans.
So I shut up, grab the headset the licensed pilot offers, and swing into the shotgun seat. Mr. Right can suck it up and ride in the back. We achieve liftoff mere minutes later, Vegas falling away beneath us. The summer sun won’t set for hours yet, but already the Strip is a cheerful blaze of lights and neon. Mr. Right’s briefed the pilot, so I don’t have to make small talk or even explain where we’re going. My reflection in the chopper door is looking a little rough; stubble darkens my jaw and my face is tight. Probably should have dressed up, too, but I save the suits for state occasions.
Edee turns out to live in one of the many bedroom communities sprawled outside of Vegas. Her neighborhood is dotted with minimansions, tiny castle wannabes. Of course it is. They’re the home owner equivalent of dick envy. Me? My castle is huge, a point I fully intend to make to Edee.
Mr. Right finally breaks his disapproving silence, speaking into the headset to inform me that we’re about to fly over Edee’s house. Or rather, what was her house. According to the crap ton of county filings that someone’s gone through on my behalf, when her father died intestate, the house passed to her stepmother. Edee now lives in the pool house, a tiny, well-landscaped speck behind the faux lagoon that occupies most of the yard. I can offer her so much more.
I signal for the pilot to make one more pass, and give serious consideration to mooning Edee’s stepmother. I’m pretty sure Edee doesn’t like her, so I’d be doing my wife a favor. On the other hand, why treat her to the sight of my spectacular ass? Or my spectacular ass accidentally falling out of the chopper to land on her artificially green grass? I’ve gotten drunk and cross-dressed, licked a few friends publicly, and hit more than one paparazzi. Do I really need to add another ridiculous stunt to my oh-so-public repertoire?
No. No, I do not. This new, mature me knows it’s time to move.
The Mexican restaurant is a nice-looking cantina about three miles away. Too far to drunk-stumble home, but I’m certain Edee has a plan for that eventuality. In fact, the one thing I’m betting she hasn’t planned for is me crashing her party. I improvise while the pilot sets us down in a vacant lot. Honestly, not much is required from me. A car service is waiting for us because Mr. Right is also a smooth planner. That, or he doesn’t want to have to explain losing or killing me to my uncle.
Two minutes later we’re pulling up in front of La Salsa. It’s the kind of place I’d have picked—nothing pretentious, just what looks like good, alcoholic fun. In addition to the pink bougainvillea crawling up the stucco front, there’s a faux cactus, and a whole lot of red, green, and yellow. It’s like a box of primary colors vomited all over the place. I’ll bet the tacos are served in a plastic basket and the waiters keep the killer margaritas coming. It’s perfect Friday night fodder.
The hostess intercepts me at the door with a flirtatious smile. Please. Don’t tell me I shouldn’t notice. She lights up like the Eiffel Tower at midnight—so there’s no missing her interest. Just in case I’m blind, however, she rubs her tits on my arm before I can sidestep. Edee may have kicked me to the curb, but I’m taken. I give her the royal stare and look over her head for my Edee.
It’s not hard to find her. She’s not even trying to hide—she’s parked at a highly visible corner table. Did I think she’d drown her sorrows alone? Not Edee. Introverted and peace-loving she may be, but she’s got two wingwomen with her—a blonde beauty waving a tortilla chip to emphasize some point she’s making and another woman with dark hair who belly laughs and knocks back a good inch of neon pink margarita.
I saunter across the slightly sticky floor to join them, ignoring the curious looks the restaurant’s other patrons shoot my way. Let them look. I’ve never minded an audience.
Edee has her back to me, which gives me an advantage. Her friends’ faces are a giveaway, but fortunately Edee’s so involved in her story—which she punctuates with frequent waves of her hand and finger stabbing—that she fails to notice their shock and awe. I’m a handsome bastard, and they’re suitably impressed. You think I’m cocky? What I am is a prince, good-looking, and in possession of a real fucking huge fortune. Everything else is just a bonus.
“Ladies.” I curl my hand around Edee’s neck and go for the kill shot. I pet her skin. Nothing obscene, nothing the paparazzi will roast me for, but I need to touch her.
I should have waited until she wasn’t holding the pitcher because Edee jumps. Margarita sprays everywhere and it’s fucking icy where it hits on my crotch. Edee’s friends stare at the big, pink inkblot painted across my dick like a sexed-up version of that Rorschach test.
“Crap.” Edee squeezes her eyes shut tight as if she can somehow ignore or rewind time if she tries hard enough. I’ve lived through enough moments—painful and embarrassing—that I know it doesn’t work. We’ve already established that I’m a bit of a wild child. I’ve hung with rappers, dated a porn star, and been photographed starkers (not with the porn star).
“If you want to lick me, all you have to do is ask, Edee.”
Her eyes fly open and she stares at me. “God.”
“Only in some countries.” I wink at her and consider my seating options. They’re limited. The banquette’s not big, and any real estate not occupied by Edee and her ladies is filled with purses. Pretty sure they’re toting two apiece and all of them are carry-on size.
“Sorry about—” She turns the cutest shade of pink and waggles a finger up and down my front. It’s like catnip for my dick and my mouth.
“You don’t want me naked?” Edee’s friends are glued to our exchange, like we’re playing sexy naked tennis at Wimbledon. Which I’d totally be up for. If I ever become king of Vale, my first royal act will be to install a tennis court on the royal palace’s front lawn. Everyone will be invited to play.
“No.”
She couldn’t wait to answer, could she? I smell a distraction.
“Liar.” I shrug off my jacket. Fortunately, the margarita bomb missed the leather. The T-shirt underneath is a different story. I haul it over my head and drop it on the floor. I give Edee a moment to appreciate my naked glory.
“Cover up.” She flaps her hands in my direction, but I can’t help but notice she’s staring. She totally likes what I’ve got for her.
“She’s possessive,” I stage whisper to the blonde.
Who grins.
“Can’t say as I blame her.”
“I know, right?” I pull on my jacket because it’s important Edee understands I know how to compromise. Plus, I could totally have lost my pants. The seating thing is still an issue, though. There’s no room at the table for a fourth—especially not a fourth who comes with a bodyguarding fifth wheel. Mr. Right is nowhere near as discreet as he thinks he is. Since I’m a creative thinker, I scoop Edee up, slide onto the bench, and drop her into my lap, avoiding the icy patch.
“Introduce me to your friends?”
She winces. “Really?”
“It’s an important relationship step, brown eyes.”
The blonde laughs and shoves her hand at me. “I’m Lilah.” I give her a head tip and a quick shake and release.
“Rima.” The dark-haired doesn’t stick her hand out, but she tips her head at me. Her smile is slightly feral, so I peg her as the Doubting Thomas in this group. She’ll be the one telling Edee I’m too good to be true.
A surge of music from the sound system drowns out anything else Rima has to say. A place like this should have one of those roving mariachi bands. I make a mental note to get Mr. Right on that—we’re about five hours from Cancun. He can fly someone in. If we drink long enough, we can end with a song and then go back to my place.
I steal a sip of Edee’s margarita. Some kind of exotic fruit flavor that would taste amazing painted across her skin but that does nothing for me in a glass. I’ll get right on that. We’re starting to get sidelong glances from the other diners in the restaurant, people getting their cell phones out and lining up a shot. Mr. Right casually moves in front of Edee and me, blocking most of the looky-loos. I make a mental note to give him a raise. I hope Edee’s not big on casual nights out because our marriage is going to make that difficult.
“So you two really got married?” Rima asks. See? Total Doubting Thomas.
“I couldn’t say no when Edee proposed.”
Edee elbows me in the ribs and I smirk. “It’s the truth.”
“Truly?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re splitting grammatical hairs,” Edee mutters.
I’m not sure what she’s told them, and that’s a potential problem. As hard as I’ve worked to earn my bad boy prince reputation, I’ve also learned the value of a good NDA.
Rina turns to me, her forehead puckering. “For real?”
“For now,” I say firmly. “You don’t think Edee will make an awesome princess?”
“She’ll be the best.” Lilah slurs that last word and I revise my mariachi band plan. We’ll have to come back tomorrow night.
Instead, we toast Edee’s elevation to royalty—and Rima promises to scoop out my royal balls with a rusty garden shovel if I so much as breathe on Edee wrong. I like these girls. They love Edee, and they’re looking out for her. So I pull out all the royal, charming, sexy stops in my arsenal. I pull a white box tied with a pink velvet ribbon out of the carrier bag by my feet.
My eyes meet Edee’s.
“For you,” I say.
“Are you trying to impress her?” Lilah looks totally impressed; Rima, on the other hand, eyes the box as if she suspects I’ve gift wrapped an adder or a bomb.
“I picked it for the ribbon.” I wink and hand the box over.
Edee looks adorably uncertain for a moment—I’m betting that she, too, is thinking about all the dirty, cock-achingly erotic things one can do with a good ribbon—but she takes it. Score one point for me. The lid comes off and Edee’s face lights up as she pulls the camera out. Finding it took hours, but it’s worth it.
I run a finger down her cheek. “Do I get a thank-you kiss?”
Edee ignores me, fingers flying over the whatsits and whoozits on that camera. “I missed you.”
I plant a kiss on her ear. “I missed you, too, love.”
She doesn’t look up. “Not you. Mr. Precious.”
Challenge accepted.
Mr. Left materializes next to Mr. Right and murmurs something. Mr. Right looks pained, but he turns toward me. Years ago, I insisted that my bodyguards learn a few basic signs in the princely bad boy sign language. The military has its own hand lexicon; scuba divers do as well. And now so do princes. One, it amused me. Two, when you spend as much time in clubs as I do, it gets hard to hear anything. This explains why Mr. Right points toward me, rubs his fingers together in the universal money gesture, and then makes a bottoms-up, drinking gesture with his thumb. That’s the sign for you pay for drinks—as well as gotta leave. I like a multipurpose sign.
I slide out of the booth and set Edee down on her feet. I’d prefer to carry her out of here like a caveman but that would lead to pictures.
“Come with me?” I hold out my hand.
Edee hesitates for a moment, but then she slides her hand into mine. Yes, I refrain from fist pumping. Barely.
Rima follows us, her hand on my arm slowing my roll. I pause. “Yeah?”
“I’m going to keep this simple,” she says. “We weren’t joking earlier, Your Highness. If you hurt her, I will kill you. Don’t think being royalty in some country I’ve never heard of will keep you safe. I will track you down. I will hurt you.”
She would be perfect for Queenie. I wonder if she’s on the market.
“Understood,” I say quietly. I toss a handful of bills onto the table. Waiting for the check isn’t part of my plan.
“The drinks are two for one,” Lilah points out dryly. “Hello, overkill.”
Rain is wet, eating the worm in the tequila bottle is never recommended, and acrobats will always be the best fuck a guy’s ever had. I have money. These are facts—as is the fact that I’m certainly not going to let Edee or her lady friends pick up a tab. But all three girls frown and stare at the wad of cash like I just farted in the Sistine Chapel—and then the Pope walked out. It’s just money.
“We should go dutch.”
Funny how it’s so loud in here but I can hear her perfectly. Lilah and Rima nod vigorously, fishing in their purses for money. What. The. Fuck.
I look at Edee. She’s rummaging around in her purse, too. Money’s flying everywhere as the girls pull fives and tens out of their bags and start slapping that shit down on the table in some crazy version of war. The waiter’s going to be one happy guy. While they go slap happy, I beckon the waiter over and slide him the cash.
All three ladies turn to argue with me. I hold up a hand.
“I invited myself along. I’ll pay. It’s not like I’m buying a round of Lamborghinis.”
Edee’s cheeks flush—she’s gearing up to rip me a new one. “You can’t do that.”
“Can.”
She folds her arms over chest. “We can pay for our own drinks.”
“I want to know about the cars,” Lilah mutters. “Can he really do that?”
Just for the record? Yes. Yes, I can. I also did one memorable evening in Monte Carlo. The bar staff still recognizes me and I’ve never paid for a drink since.
Edee glares at me. “We’re not for sale.”
Actually, technically, she was—although since she signed our marital agreement under the influence, I should probably be a gentleman and not remind her of that little fact.
“Edee?” I cup her face with my hand and kick the empty carrier bag under the table.
“What?” I can’t help but notice that she doesn’t step away.
“Shut up,” I say gently. “I’m buying this round. You can buy the next.”
Edee sighs. “Come on, wonder boy. You said you had to go.”
She hooks a finger in my belt loop and starts towing me toward the front door. On my way out, though, I can’t resist stopping at the front desk and picking up a souvenir T-shirt. Once I’ve given the signal to roll, I’m supposed to keep right on rolling until I’m in the secured vehicle. But fuck it. Tonight’s been awesome and I’d like to remember it. Plus, I don’t think La Salsa is a hotbed of would-be assassins—other than Edee’s delightfully bloodthirsty friends.
I turn to the cashier to pay for the shirt, but Edee beats me to the punch, handing the girl behind the counter two twenties. Which is highway robbery for a T-shirt. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t care. I consider it the prince tax and I happily pay it. But this Edee’s money and I know she doesn’t have much of it.
She hands me the shirt with a little smile. “Merry Christmas.”
When I take a girl out, I pay. I know it’s the modern era, but I’m loaded and they enjoy it. This is the first time I can remember someone buying me something. So I brush a kiss over her cheek and say thank you.
I thumb on my sunglasses. It never hurts to be prepared.
I strong-arm the door open and hold it for Edee. She gives me a small smile, the corners of her eyes crinkling up as if she’s in on a really great joke.
“A gentleman prince,” she says gravely.
“Never.” I wink.
I sweep her my fanciest ceremonial bow and she outright laughs. Christ, she’s got an awesome laugh. It makes me smile back. It makes me want to—
I lose that thought because we walk out of the restaurant.
Or we try to.
I have excellent reflexes. This is partly due to genetics and partly due to my time in the army. On the front line, I was a target—and not a prince. I learned to take the appropriate steps. So when the first flashes go off with blinding rapidity, I shift Edee behind me, blocking the photographers’ view of her.
Naturally, this doesn’t deter the paparazzi. A shot of me and Edee together would be the money shot, particularly if they caught her face, but any picture is going to be worth bank at the moment. This isn’t Los Angeles—it could be worse—but it appears that most of Las Vegas’s paps have relocated here in the hopes of getting a royal scoop. Calling my name. Hollering for Princess Dare to look this way.
Edee freezes, her fingers digging into the waistband of my jeans. “Are they here for you?”
There’s a time and place for everything, so I lie to her. “Yeah.”
“This sucks.” Her fingers slip beneath the edge of my jacket and stroke my bare skin.
She’s not wrong.
“I’ll get us out of here,” I promise. I forgot she was new to this. That she wasn’t one of the society princesses or D-list celebrities I usually hang with. Edee doesn’t want to wake up tomorrow to find her face splashed all over the gossip sites.
Mr. Right is already out in front of us, holding back the press of photographers.
Good. I know these bastards. They’d be right up in Edee’s face otherwise, and then I’d have to hurt someone and I wouldn’t give a shit about causing an international incident.
I hate hanging back, though. If it were just me, I’d shove through the crowd. I’d give them their photos, toss them a quote even if it was just sod off. But I’ve got Edee to think about. I have one job: keeping her happy. And safe.
And yes, I know that’s two things, but for Edee, I’m starting to suspect that they’re one and the same.
So I hang back, keeping my body between her and the photo-hungry horde. I ignore the calls from the paparazzi. I don’t give them the bird, don’t give them the royal death glare. I stand there like fucking Mount Rushmore, not blinking, not moving. This is what Edee needs right now.
Mr. Right signals. The car’s en route. Good.
I turn my head so I can see the top of Edee’s face. “The car’s pulling up. We’re gonna blow this place, okay?”
“I’m not sure I can move,” she admits.
There’s another wave of sound and flashes from our not-so-secret admirers as the car eases up to the curb. Mr. Right springs to open the back door and gives me the nod.
“I’ve got you,” I tell her.
It sounds stupid. Like something you write on a greeting card or a balloon. The sort of shit my friends hire a skywriter to paint in ginormous letters, preferably at sunset, when they’re romancing a girl and they want to convince her that they’re all in. But Edee nods. At least one of us believes me.
I scoop Edee up in my arms and stride for the door. I won’t run. I won’t give them the satisfaction of knowing they bother me. And while I’m sure some of them are perfectly lovely people just trying to pay the bills, most of them would sell their mothers, their souls, their golden retriever puppies for The Shot. The one that sets them up for life because they’ve captured something so entirely personal that no one else has had the balls to publish it to the world.
Edee promptly buries her face in my chest. I enjoy this more than I should. I can only imagine Queenie’s reaction if the paps get a dick shot and publish that for the whole world to see.
I slide her into the car and buckle her in. We all know what happened to Princess Diana. Her driver led the paparazzi on a crazy-wild chase and no one took the proper safety precautions. It’s too late for woulda-coulda-shouldas after you’ve careened into the side of a tunnel doing one hundred. All the money in the world can’t stop you from flying through the windshield.
The engine purrs as Mr. Left gets us the hell out of dodge and Edee looks around. I can’t tell if she’s impressed or not, but she should be. Money has a scent. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. The car reeks of wealth. Leather seats, tinted glass, an engine built for a racecar.
“Am I going to be an Internet star?”
“Did you want to be?”
The more I look at her, the lovelier she gets. Her face is pink, from embarrassment most likely. Crazy strands of brown hair curl left, right, and out, but that just makes me look at her pretty face. There must be a better word than brown for her eyes. I try on a few. Chocolate, velvet, cocoa, hazel, nut-colored. I’m either hungry or I want to eat her up.
She looks out the window. “Where are we going?”
“For starters? Away.” I shrug. “The paparazzi will follow us until they get bored or find a better story to chase.”
Edee wraps her arms around herself. Is she cold? Nervous? I wrap my arm around her shoulders and she collapses onto my chest like she’s done it a thousand times before and it’s where she belongs. Every inch of me—especially the many, many inches immediately south of my belt buckle—agrees.
She’s deliciously curvy, so sweetly rounded that I’m not sure where to put my hands first. First choice might be her tits, straining at her shirt. Or I could go for the spots where her faded blue jeans hug her hips and thighs. Or . . . the fuck-me shoes. She’s got on a pair of strappy sandals that beg for attention. I hadn’t pegged her for a heels-wearer, but color me thrilled. Do you think she’d be willing to ride me like a cowgirl in the backseat of our town car? Our seat belts would be a challenge, but I’m up for it.
The car picks up speed and Edee glances nervously toward the windows. The windows are tinted, so we’re relatively private—but it also makes it harder to see outside. It’s like we’re hurtling through the evening in a leather and steel cocoon.
“I should go home,” she says.
“We should lose our tail,” I counter. “Or they’ll be camped outside your house forever.”
Well, not forever. The press is as fickle as their readers. Eventually, the story of an American girl turned princess will get old and the vultures will move on to harass someone else. But until then she’ll face a barrage of cameras every time she steps off the property. She’ll have to worry about long-distance lenses peering into her pool house. She won’t have a minute of privacy because there will always be someone, somewhere, who is willing to sell her out. The only thing surprising is how cheaply most people barter their souls for.
She turns away from the window to stare at me. “Are you serious? People live like that?”
“Being royal is big business,” I explain. “Everyone’s curious.”
She shakes her head. “Not me.”
I tug her closer. “I promise I’m super interesting.”
She looks up at me and grins. She’s about to say something when the Escalade escalates to warp speed and she jerks backward. I wrap a protective hand around her head, cushioning her landing.
Her expression is concerned. “What’s happening?”
Mr. Left leans over the front seat. “The paparazzi are in pursuit.”
We’ll have a word later about his desire to be helpful.
“Are we a mouse in this scenario?”
I look at her. Her face is more indignant than terrified, so that’s good.
“More like the roadrunner.”
Busy working his phone, Mr. Right ignores our witty repartee. From what I can overhear of his tight, low-voiced conversation, he’s trying to interest the local police in our tail. It won’t work. It never does. I once got a ticket for going a hundred in a forty-miles-per-hour zone trying to shake a tail loose. Think of it as the royalty tax.
I’m used to being chased. Girlfriends, wannabe princesses, paparazzi—everyone wants a piece of me. I prefer to be the one doing the chasing. Stop rolling your eyes. Yes, that makes me a guy. I totally get off on the hunt—so sue me. Think of it as foreplay.
I shift in my seat, holding Edee closer. A quick glance out the back window of the Escalade reveals three photographers visibly riding our ass. They’re definitely not concerned about obeying the traffic laws. After all, I’m an A-list celebrity and a newsworthy shot of me is worth far more than any fine on the books. Right now, I’m just grateful that they’re photographers and not Queenie’s hired goons.
Edee’s forehead wrinkles. “This sucks.”
“I know. I hate them, too.”
So much. Sometimes I’m so tired of hating them, of wanting them just to go away and leave me alone, and that makes me sound like a whiny, entitled snowflake.
“Does this happen often?” Her throat works. I don’t get carsick, but I recognize the symptoms. There’s a first time for everything. I rip off my jacket and hold it out to her.
“Puke bag,” I suggest helpfully.
She doesn’t hesitate. She grabs the jacket and holds it tight.
We race up and down roads, the Escalade doing a fine imitation of a carnival ride. Cinderella’s coach couldn’t have gone any faster right before her time was up and everything went poof—and then splat when her pursuers ran over her pumpkin. There’s an important lesson there.
Edee throws up into my jacket, shoulders heaving. I steady her, holding her hair out of her face.
“Water.” I shove a hand over the seat. Mr. Right passes a cold bottle to me and I press it against Edee’s forehead.
“Being a princess sucks,” she moans.
“Not a news flash.”
After a brief consultation with Mr. Right and Mr. Left, we head back toward the Strip. I don’t want to lead the paparazzi straight to Edee’s house, and there’s a chance they still don’t know exactly who she is. And since Edee’s carsick, she needs to get out of the car. My place it is.
The Strip looms up in front of us. Ordinarily it’s just one big princely playground, but tonight I’m hoping it’s cover. I consider our options. We could pull over fast and get lost inside one of the many casinos. It’s unlikely that the locals would recognize me. But Edee’s not feeling good and I’m not sure she’d really enjoy watching me bet a small fortune in the high rollers’ area.
So it has to be the penthouse.
I give the order and Mr. Left brings us in the back entrance, taking us through the parking garage to the casino entrance. Mr. Right shrugs out of his suit jacket and hands it to me before I can ask. I’ve never met someone who could read my mind so well and yet disapprove of me so much.
His taste in suit jackets is excellent, however, and while I could buy one off the doorman, I’d rather not. I pick Edee up and drape the jacket over her face. Even if she weren’t sick, she wouldn’t want her picture plastered all over the Internet.
“There are horror movies that start this way,” she mumbles.
“Think of it as insurance. Or a turtle shell.” I scoop her up into my arms and jump out of the Escalade. Our tail won’t be too far behind but I’ve got just enough of a head start thanks to Mr. Left’s talented driving.
The doorman holds the door for us and I stride through, the noise of the casino washing over us. The Royal Palace Resort and Casino picked—wait for it—a royal theme. This basically means they’ve ransacked multiple historical periods from around the world for royal inspiration. Downstairs, on the casino’s main floor, they’ve gone for a Castle of Windsor effect, complete with moat and crown jewels. Upstairs, in the hotel rooms, however, the decorators went for a King Tut theme—I’m probably lucky I’m not sleeping in a sarcophagus.
I’ve got long legs and two determined bodyguards—no one gets close to us before we’re in the private elevator. I set Edee down on her feet as soon as the doors close behind us and tug the jacket off her head. “You can come out. Mission accomplished.”
She blinks and looks around. Not being stupid, I slide between her and the mirror. I think she looks cute, but she’s going to disagree. Don’t tell me I’m wrong. I’ve gotten around.
Women. Sex. Good times.
Edee looks like she’s just rolled out of my arms. Her hair’s messed up from our mad dash from the car to the elevator, little strands flying in every direction and clinging to my fingers when I smooth them down. There’s a zing and a crackle that shouldn’t surprise me because the one thing we have for sure is chemistry.
Kiss the girl, my brain suggests. Three guesses as to whether that’s the brain in the big head or the little.
She doesn’t need this right now. She was just sick, I remind myself. Kissing anyone will be a distant second to finding a toothbrush and even my ego can only take so many hits. Sure enough, as soon as the elevator reaches the penthouse and the doors slide open, she kicks off her shoes and bolts toward the suite’s master bath.
“Sorry,” she calls over her shoulder. Her cheeks are rosy pink again, and not because she’s been wrapped up in a jacket this time. I pick up her abandoned shoes and follow after her.
She’s embarrassed because she puked in the car. I wish she wouldn’t be, but there’s no Magic Eraser for the shit we do. Getting carsick is beyond her control, I’d tell her. We drove too fast, turned too sharp. Hurling was simply a biological reaction and not a statement of weakness. Edee likes being in control and that’s another thing. When you’re a prince, almost everyone has less power than you. We’ve come a long way since Tudor times when a man like me could just snap off with her head and move on to the next female in his life, but I can still make things happen. Even here, even outside of Vale. Watching Edee get sick made me feel sick, too—because I couldn’t fix her, couldn’t give her what she needed.
Because I want her to be happy. Don’t read more into it than a desire to get into her panties. Or under them. I’m not particularly fussy. Everything I’ve done tonight has been part of my master plan to get Edee naked and start our honeymoon. Nothing more.
So while she worships the gods of oral hygiene, I check in with Mr. Right and Mr. Left and confirm security plans. I check my phone and ignore another text from Queenie. I keep half an ear on Edee, though. The shower runs for a long time, fueling a number of wet-girl-in-shower fantasies on my part, and then drawers open and shut while she noisily ransacks the hotel’s supply of toiletries. More water runs and I think about reminding her that Vegas is a desert and there’s probably a drought.
But it’s not like I can’t afford whatever outrageous water tax the hotel tacks onto my bill, so I leave her to it and get busy ordering up some room service. Chicken soup, a nice risotto. I toss in a bottle of champagne, two crème brûlées, and a mint sorbet. White food’s supposed to be bland and easy on the stomach according to my Google-fu, and since it’s my fault that she got carsick, it’s my job to provide the aftercare. Mostly because I like kissing everything better. If I had to do tonight over, I’d have snuck out the back door of La Salsa, but only so we could skip straight to the sex parts.
I’m just wrapping things up with the food order when the bathroom door opens and a Gobi-desert-worthy cloud of steam comes billowing out, followed by Edee. She’s wearing the same clothes she wore to La Salsa, the curve-hugging jeans and the little camisole beneath a cardigan big enough for a linebacker. Her hair is twisted up on top of her head like some kind of gravity-defying soft serve twist.
She’s gorgeous, although my first choice would have been naked. A hand towel would have been my second.
“Hey.” She gives me a careful grin. “Sorry about that.”
“Never be sorry. Not with me.”
Afterward, I’m never sure who moves first. Maybe we both started toward each at the same time. I like that idea. But somehow we end up pushing ourselves together, her arms reaching for me as mine reach for her. We’re all tangled up together and holding on. I want to shove her pants down and put myself inside her just so we’re as close as possible. I want to feel her absolutely everywhere I can. Her slim arms holding me, her thighs pressed up against mine, her silly, flyaway hair tickling my nose as I take her down onto the bed.
I want to learn which touches make her smile, which make her moan. If she’s a screamer, a moaner, or a breath holder. How she tastes and where she’s ticklish. I want to know all of her.
We hug for a long time. Such a simple thing, so complicated. People hug to say hello, to offer comfort, to say I am here. For you. I want to tell her all of those things and more but I’m a fucking idiot and serious words, the kind of shit that rhymes or makes for epic Hallmark verse or just conveys meaning of any kind? Nope. Not in my bailiwick. So I hold her against my heart because maybe she’ll figure out what I can’t say. Stay with me. Be with me. And no, I don’t have a plan beyond tonight or tomorrow. I don’t know where we’re headed but I’m not ready to go home without her.
I run a finger up the bridge of her nose and to her hairline. Her lips part, so I do it again. She’s not saying no. She’s not saying stop. And right now that’s all the green light I need.
Somehow my hand ends up tangled in her hair. It’s damp from her shower and smells like citrus. I draw the strands through my fingers, find her scalp and draw small circles there. Her breathing changes, growing deeper. Her heart beats harder against my chest. And I don’t know why I do what I do next. Maybe it’s because getting her naked too fast would be bad and my dick needs a distraction and differential calculus is failing me. After all, what’s calculus but a comparison of the rates at which quantities change? I’m a known quantity, of course, but Edee.
She’s a fucking, wonderful, awesome mystery.
I hum. My singing repertoire is surprisingly limited, so I go with Disney and that “A Whole New World” song from Aladdin. Aladdin’s the kind of guy who deserves to become a prince. He’s a fighter, but he’s also smart about which battles he picks—and he’s got awesome taste in girls. Jasmine is hot. She starred in many of my adolescent fantasies.
Edee looks up at me and giggles. “You own a flying carpet, too?”
“If you want one, I’ll get you one.” She can have whatever she wants.
“We can improvise,” she says dryly. And then she surprises me. She grabs my hand and starts singing. Loudly, full-on, balls-out singing about the wondrous shit we’re going to see. She’s not bad, either, although she’s claimed the boy part. She pokes me in the ribs when it’s time for the princess to chime in, and I do. I belt out the words in my best falsetto Prince-like croon with her and swing her into my arms because singing means dancing.
And as corny as it sounds, somewhere around the fifteenth round of the chorus, our eyes meet and everything changes. The laughter’s still there, and the fun, but there’s heat, too. I can’t look away. A few days ago, I’d have laughed if you told me I could possibly . . . fall.
I urge her forward, a hand on the small of her back. And fuck this noise. I fist her shirt, we’re home free from prying eyes, and I swing her gently against the wall. Kissing her—here, now, in front of my bodyguards or the entire world—is my new plan.
“Dare?” So many questions in that one word. Her eyes stare into mine. Is she feeling what I’m feeling? Do I leave her breathless the way she does me? Why do people want to have all these feelings when they could be touching, kissing, screwing instead.
No, I don’t know what I’m doing. No, I don’t understand these feelings that seem to come not from my dick but from somewhere more north and unfamiliar. Head, heart—these are terra incognita but I’ve lived my life balls out, never holding back. Never following the goddamned rules. So why start now?
I kiss her.
Fuck it all. Fuck. That’s my new motto—I’ll have it engraved on the Avalioni coat of arms. And . . .
My fingers find hers, threading through the slim digits as I draw them up beside her head and lean in so I can press my mouth harder against hers. Her fingers clutch at mine, not to push me away but to pull me closer. My tongue traces her lower lip where she’s soft and plump. She tastes like mint from the toothpaste but she also tastes like Edee, which is so fucking perfect that I want to howl.
Transferring her hands to one of mine, I cup her head with my other hand, angling her mouth so I can devour her. Her hands close around my wrist, and then she’s giving as good as she gets. Our kiss isn’t soft or gentle. It’s not a kiss for a Disney princess—it’s my kiss for my princess. I kiss her deep and hard, covering her mouth with mine and owning every inch she gives me. Tongue, teeth, nipping, fucking biting—she’s the perfect surprise.
Edee kisses me senseless.
Breathing becomes an impossibility. She’s a marauder, a sexy fucking pirate, the best. She kisses me playfully and I can’t hold back. I kiss her hard, pressing between her thighs. Not close enough. Not nearly. My chest pounds, my dick demands immediate attention, and goddamn this is good.
It’s the heavy beat of rotor blades that yanks me out of the kiss. There’s a helicopter. Right outside my fucking window. The pilot guides the bird in so close that I swear I see the bulletproof glass shimmy from the backwash. The fool could kill us all.
It can happen so quickly. It—
I shove Edee behind me, placing my body between hers and the window. Splintering glass can do a hell of a lot of damage, but I’m big. She should stay safe. Unless there’s fire. An explosion. Fuck, but this has all gone to hell.
Mr. Right materializes seemingly out of nowhere—it’s like a ninja had a baby with a ghost—and sprints toward the enormous panes of glass. I try to remember if they’re see-through or not. Usually, we book me into hotels with advanced privacy options. Right now, I just want to kill someone.
Unfortunately, Mr. Left appears to possess mind-reading abilities. He takes one look at me and motions for me to step away from the windows. As if he is worried that I’m about to strip and run toward the cameras in slo-mo with my dick out and waving. So what if there was that one time? I’ve never lived it down. It cost Queenie a small fortune to buy back those pictures.
“No killing,” he orders. “No mayhem, no scenes, no decoys, and definitely no daredevil stunts.”
“You’re no fun,” I mutter. Edee shoves at my back, wanting out. Too bad for her—I shepherd her into the main room as the roar eases off.
The two bodyguards move about the penthouse, checking out the helicopter that is apparently flying around the resort like a toy train on a track. I make a mental note to order champagne for the other guests if we can’t force the paparazzi to move along soon. Just when I think it might be safe to step out of the shadows, however, the buzz of the rotors fills the room again. The Royal Palace clearly did not invest in quality soundproofing.
“This is crazy,” Edee announces.
She’s not wrong.
She pulls her fingers free from mine, craning her head to see out the window. “How can anyone live like this?”
The chopper comes back for another shot at us and I brace Edee against the wall. Yes. Let’s pretend that this is because my gentlemanly side is coming to the fore, all ready and able to protect her from the evil helicopter full of photographers. Never mind that I’ve got Smurf-colored blueberry balls because my wild honeymoon sex was interrupted by a flying menace. Now that I think about it, every time I have Edee alone, there’s an interruption. It’s almost as if fate is attempting to send me a message. That, or Queenie’s already got to the bitch and pulled royal rank.
“Let’s act married,” I suggest.
Edee gazes out the window at the helicopter. “I think I’d prefer to have a real life, thank you.”
“Too late.” I lower my head until my mouth is almost brushing hers.
The real answer is that you don’t live when you’re a prince. Not loud and wild and free. Not really. For all the money in my bank account, my life is sometimes a golden, gilded cage.
Edee pushes my chest gently.
“Enough.” She blinks at me more than a little owlishly. La Salsa isn’t stingy when it comes to tequila and apparently all that hurling in the car wasn’t enough to clear it out of her system.
I press a kiss to her knuckles and let go. I may be an asshole, but this asshole has limits.
She starts tugging on her rings. “I’m giving these back. I’m leaving.”
La Salsa may be generous with its tequila pours, but it’s equally generous when it comes to the salt shaker. And between the chips and salsa and the margaritas, Edee’s consumed a fair amount—and her fingers are ever so slightly swollen. My rings don’t budge. I resist the urge to fist pump at this evidence that fate might be on my side after all.
“Huh.” She glares down at her hand as if she can somehow magically unstick a quarter million dollars’ worth of diamonds.
“I could suck on them,” I offer. “Or anything else you’d like sucked.”
My new wife throws up her hands. I think she might be looking around for missiles or wishing that helicopter came armed. “You are the Prince of Pigs.”
I reach for her. “I—”
“Stay,” she snaps and marches off.
And since at least she’s headed for the bathroom and not the elevator, I let her go.