Chapter Two
Edee
“Edee Jones, get your butt over here right now.”
Since I’m waist-deep in a pool, camera aimed at two beagles happily paddling around, I’m not inclined to comply. Putting my college bestie’s call on speaker phone is already a huge compromise since I’ve only got an hour to finish here before my client has another obligation. I’m particularly motivated since today’s job pays well, and my student loan payment was due two weeks ago. Funny how a guy can’t hang onto my number to save his life but the collection agency always finds me no matter how many times I change my number.
“Little busy.” Carla’s at least an hour’s drive away on the Las Vegas Strip and no one’s invented transporters yet. I keep hoping that NASA will get on that, and they keep disappointing me by building rockets and spaceships instead. Who needs to set foot on Mars when there are so many places closer to home that already take forever to get to? The beagles in the pool bark in full agreement.
The sigh that emanates from my phone is epic. “Are you with a client?”
“Newlyweds,” I agree cheerfully, snapping away as my furry companions doggy paddle. Their person brought them over here an hour ago for a portrait session, but she’s ducked inside the pool house to use the bathroom. I shot the wedding last weekend; today we’re doing a destroy-the-dress session. Mrs. Beagle’s white lace veil floats around her brown and white face, and Mr. Beagle seems to have lost his top hat in the shallow end.
Doggie love is certainly easier to come by than people love. It’s not like guys take one look at me and fall madly, badly in love. Brown hair, brown eyes, five foot three, and a few more pounds than I should be—that’s me. Even when people look at me, they usually don’t see me. Their gazes slide right over me like I’m invisible. I’m the stagehand, not the star, and most days I don’t mind. I live with my stepmother and two stepsisters in a Vegas McMansion. When Dad died, my stepmom got the house, the investments, and the contents of the bank accounts. I got his cameras. My stepmother promptly exiled me to the pool house in the backyard where I’m allowed to live in exchange for “helping out around the house.” Translation? I’m the cook, the maid, the gardener, and the pool boy.
Don’t feel bad for me. I’m a pet photographer. I specialize in doggie weddings, although that’s partly what happens when you have student loans. My art degree qualified me to either do pet glamour shots or work retail for a living, and I’m much happier working with four-legged clients rather than two-legged ones. Someday, sure, I’d like to find my own, two-legged Mr. Right, but until he shows up and actually sticks around, I’ll keep on doing what I’m doing.
Or not.
Because hello, opportunity knocking . . .
“Do you still want to shoot people?” The desperation in Carla’s voice registers loud and clear over the enthusiastic splashing of my clients. She’s sounded more than a little crazed ever since she took a job as junior concierge at the Royal Palace Resort and Casino. Apparently, people who have enough money to require a concierge’s assistance also have ridiculous ideas about what a concierge can achieve on their behalf. From her war stories, it sounds like some clients expect her to cure cancer and deliver a Birkin bag in not one but two hot colors before lunch.
“Sure?” A new gig would be great, but photographing people would actually require . . . people contact. It’s not like I’m an Oscar the Grouch that hates on the entire human race, but I prefer to minimize the number of people I interact with on a daily basis. How can I explain for those of you who don’t hide when the UPS guy rings your doorbell? Some of us approach life like it’s a big, messy, fabulously hands-on art project; you grab the Play-Doh and plunge right in, rolling and shaping, laughing and talking. Good for you. I find all that interaction exhausting. I like my art—and the people in my life—neatly organized and with a little space. If I’m in the mood for art, I’ll pop into a gallery, take a walk past all the carefully curated pictures on the wall. I like those velvet ropes separating the two of us. I like watching.
“I have a client for you,” Carla says firmly.
“A client.” I sound like a parrot—she’s lucky I can’t poop on her shoulder and demand crackers.
“He’s filthy rich,” she coaxes. “You can charge him astronomical fees and he’ll never even notice.”
Money.
It’s an unfortunate fact that we all need it, right? I’d like to be all lofty ideals, but the truth is that I have those afore-mentioned student loans. And some century, I’d like to be able to move out of my stepmother’s pool house and into my own place where I can call the shots. Ergo, since my checking account is currently model thin rather than sporting a Rubenesque plumpness, I don’t hang up. Or laugh at her.
“I’m listening,” I say instead. I’m actually feeling cautiously optimistic about this.
“I need you to come right now,” she orders. “He’s not the patient type. He’s a prince.”
“Among men?” I joke.
“Literally,” she says. “He’s a prince from some teeny-weeny, oil-rich country on the Black Sea who’s in town to celebrate his engagement.”
Wow. I can practically feel my stepmother vibrating with interest. She’s a veritable pointer dog when it comes to finding and flushing out wealthy men for my two stepsisters. She’d have the ring off the fiancée faster than fast if it were possible.
“Who’s the lucky lady?”
“No idea but he wants pictures of tonight’s party and any follow-up events.”
Shooting a royal wedding would be fun, although I can’t imagine an honest-to-God prince would hire an unknown like me. I’ve done a few people weddings, although beagles are, frankly, more my speed. Plus, dogs generally more appreciative. Most little girls—and more than a few boys—daydream at least once about Prince Charming sweeping into the ball and picking us out of the crowd. He promises we’re special, dances us around in dizzying circles, and makes it hard to remember that we were someone before he arrived in his boots and his uniform—and that we’ll still be someone after he’s long gone, gallivanting after the chick who drops her glass slipper on the stairs because that’s all the recipe for happily-ever-after that he needs. I make sure that the day you walk down the aisle, you get lifelong, full-color memories of the wedding of your dreams. No matter what comes afterward, whether you wake up next to your very own prince or he turns into a frog, you’ll have something to remember.
Carla plunges ahead. “Please? I need someone who knows how to work a camera and who won’t try to hump a newly off-market prince.”
I snap my last beagle shot and wade toward the steps, pitching my voice to be heard over the sloshing sounds. “I can resist.”
I’ve kissed enough frogs that restraint won’t be a problem. As my friends like to point out, I don’t have a history of breakups—I have break crashes. One way or another, the men in my life walk out and ghost me.
“You haven’t seen him.” She actually sounds doubtful.
“He’s safe from me. He won’t even know I’m there.” No matter how pretty this prince’s package is, recent experiences have thoroughly vaccinated me against men. I’m a walking litany of bad first dates—guys who stand me up because they’ve got a hotter date with their pot dealer, guys who don’t say a word or who won’t stop talking about themselves, guys who can’t be bothered to look embarrassed when last week’s date swings by our dinner table to say hello. These experiences are the ultimate in dating inoculations. They’re also the world’s best lust blocker. You remember that art analogy I hit with you? After my experiences, I’m definitely in look-don’t-touch mode.
I can totally resist a rock-star billionaire prince from a tiny country I’ve never heard of and can’t be bothered to Google.
While princes can do whatever they want, there are rules for us mere mortals. Lots and lots of rules that are disclosed to me when I arrive at the hotel. Rule numero uno is that no photos be taken without an explicit, verbal buy-in from His Royal I’m in Chargeness. He also reserves the right to review all pictures and delete any that he dislikes. That particular caveat will make my job harder, but since the man has agreed to a ridiculously large fee, I sign a mountain of papers swearing under pain of death that I will never, ever disclose anything I may see. Yep, I can be bought.
Let’s be honest. Most of us can. Maybe you think you’d hold out. That the almighty dollar wouldn’t sway your opinions. But then you just haven’t been offered enough money—and let’s just say this mystery prince is very, very generous. Except for a pounding headache, I’m entirely, deliriously happy as I head for the penthouse rooftop suite where Prince Darejan of Vale, a tiny, oil-rich country somewhere on the Black Sea, is hosting a bachelor party, having rented out the casino’s top-floor penthouse for a ridiculous sum of money.
“Remember,” Carla says nervously. “Address him as His Royal Highness. Don’t argue with him. I need him happy.”
Sucking up to the client was not part of the job description, but I can be flexible when it’s my paycheck at stake. My stomach chooses this moment to growl, reminding me that I’m hungry.
I cover the loud rumble with an equally loud question. “Anything else I should know?”
“He’s . . .” Carla jabs the button for the private elevator to the penthouse. I’m stupidly excited to see the penthouse—it’s not my native territory. I’m a goldfish happy to swim around in my little glass bowl, while Prince Darejan is some kind of exotic lionfish playing lord of the reef.
“You have twenty floors to spit it out.” I nudge Carla with my shoulder. “And then I’m finding out for myself.”
“He’s hosting his bachelor party tonight,” she says. “And he’s super hot.”
His fiancée must be open-minded. Or maybe she just really, really wants to be a princess?
“Got it. He’s Prince Charming. I still promise not to hump his leg.”
Carla swats me. “He’s not so charming. He says whatever he’s thinking. He likes his fun. He replaced the pool water with champagne. Good champagne. The sommelier almost stroked out. Do you know how many magnums it takes to fill a pool?”
Let’s take a moment to think about that.
The man is so rich that he can afford to mix up the pool and the minibar.
I’m still contemplating that shameful waste of champagne when the elevator doors slide open and two big, beefy bodyguards give us a very thorough once-over as we step into a marble and gilt foyer. The guy on the left holds out his hand for my camera bag. I hand it over. I’m not going to argue with that much muscle. While he rummages through my things, I look around. This may be my one and only opportunity to scope an honest-to-goodness penthouse and the lifestyle of the rich and probably famous, so I’m all eyes. The penthouse is definitely posh, with lots of floor-to-ceiling glass, chic modern furniture, and white leather. It’s downright blinding in the late afternoon sunlight. Right now, however, the entire place is vibrating from the bass beat coming from the pool area. Vegas is not precisely a quiet place, but I’m surprised we couldn’t hear the music from the hotel lobby. Or from outer Mongolia.
Just in case I don’t realize that I’m not in Kansas anymore, a stunning woman wearing just a bikini bottom runs through the room, boobs bouncing up and down. I mean really, who jogs around without the proper support? Doesn’t it hurt to have the girls slamming up, down, left, right?
Even if she does look pretty spectacular.
The bodyguards don’t even glance her way. The guy on the left zips up my camera bag and hands it back to me.
“Where is His Royal Highness?” Carla looks around the foyer as if the prince might be playing hide-and-seek with all the gilt. A wave of cheers and wolf whistles from the deck outside nearly drowns out her question.
The guard on the right tips his head toward the deck.
Naturally.
“He’s playing cards,” the other guard volunteers.
This is one of those moments that you think back on and realize that you should have asked a few more questions. This is a casino, after all, so why isn’t the prince downstairs gambling with the high rollers? And what kind of guy lives his life surrounded by muscle men in suits and topless women? It’s like a scene from a movie, except that my seat in real life is more ringside and less comfortable. It also lacks popcorn, which is a serious oversight on the universe’s part.
Carla strides toward the French doors that have been thrown open onto the pool deck and of course I follow. Not only is it in my job description, but I’m dying of curiosity.
“Oh shit.” She stops so suddenly that I plow into her. She’s staring at a group of people sprawled on a couple of ginormous Bali beds by the edge of the pool. I don’t think it’s the impressive mountain of empty liquor bottles that has her attention, however. Or even the rather staggering stack of bills in the middle of the bed. Those things are eye-catching, sure, but it’s the man slowly shucking his jeans that sucks all the air out of my lungs and shuts down my critical thinking skills.
I peel myself off Carla’s back. “Tell me that’s not the prince.”
“God, he’s gorgeous.” The only other time I’ve heard Carla sound so breathy was when we decided we’d go for a five-mile run after hitting the bars all night. My empty stomach is suddenly swooping up and down like it did that morning, but not because I feel the need to hurl. I actually check to make sure my jaw’s not hanging open because drooling would be unprofessional.
The prince has made an attempt to tame his hair, but dark red waves and curls escape everywhere, and I’m pretty sure he’s tunneled his fingers through the whole lot more than once. It’s just long enough for me to run my fingers through and hold on while he goes to town on my lady parts. And if through some horrible turn of fate it turned out that the man had no skills in the oral department, I could just look at him. When I tear my gaze upward from the hard, rippling chest he’s displaying, I’m treated to high cheekbones and more sun-kissed, golden skin. Really, his jaw should be some kind of national monument. It’s all scruff and morning-after stubble even though it’s past four o’clock.
He looks like he just rolled out of bed—and that he’d roll right back in for the right woman. He’s all sunshine and smiles, this prince, the perfect Icarus if Icarus had been six feet three inches tall and built. How does a pampered prince end up with all those muscles? And how do I not lick each and every one?
He’s red hot.
And totally off-limits.
Which of course is when he looks right at me, winks, and drops his jeans. Denim and my jaw hit the floor at about the same time. This was not in my job description. He abandons his jeans like it’s not a problem that he’s standing outside in a pair of boxer briefs that cling to every inch of him.
There are a great many inches.
The man’s anatomically gifted. I think I can practically feel my head exploding. I know this guy is just celebrating his upcoming marriage and he didn’t ask me here to judge him, but I’m not perfect. On a scale of one to ten, this man’s assets score one hundred—and his confidence is off the charts.
He saunters toward us.
Even if he wasn’t mostly naked, there’s just something about him that demands attention. If he weren’t a prince, he’d be a billionaire or Johnny Depp’s hotter, younger, badder brother. There’s no way not to look at him, and I’m practically drooling. Fuck, I’d like to be all cool about meeting my first honest-to-God prince but . . . just look at him.
“He’s like a lethal weapon,” I whisper to Carla.
“I know, right?” She’s hanging onto my arm now. I suspect her knees, like mine, aren’t 100 percent in working order. “I keep thinking he can’t be real. I think we should touch him. Just to be sure.”
“We need to stay professional.” My fingers itch to shoot him, to look at him through the lens of my camera. He puts underwear billboards to shame.
Carla scans the prince. “I know.”
She sounds mournful, and of course this is the moment Prince Hot and Charming winks at us.
“Ladies,” he says, sweeping us a bow that should look ridiculous seeing as how there’s no dignified way to pull off the boxer briefs look. Except he makes it work.
My insides melt faster than ice cream in the Vegas heat, and I kind of, sort of, really hate him for it.
Dog, I remind myself. This prince is a dog just like all my other clients.