by Eliza Ellis
Maxim sat up straight. “What are you implying?”
“Don’t play dumb, brother. Your antics are published in the papers. Your taste in women isn’t a secret. You’d actually do Leonor a disservice in being her husband. She would be seen as the savior, not just with her money, but with her character.”
“Yes, I would need someone who has the moral high ground to teach me to behave,” he said dryly. “It’s impossible for me to do that on my own.”
“Not without the right stimulation.”
“And we’ve come to it, brother. Leonor isn’t the right…stimulant.” Although he remembered she had made a valiant effort one night.
“Nonsense. What is wrong with her?”
“I…I can’t put a finger on it, but something is definitely wrong.” Was he crazy to want to choose his own bride? Much, much later after he’s had all his fun? No one needed him to sit on a throne. His children—if he ever had any—wouldn’t be required to rule any country. Where was the urgency?
“I had an arranged marriage, and it worked out wonderfully.”
“That makes you biased,” Maxim said matter-of-factly.
“It makes me credible,” Novak shot back. “And more in a position to advise what is best for my little brother.”
“Advise or order?”
“You know I don’t subscribe to—”
“But you’re doing exactly that,” Maxim interrupted. “You are ordering me to return and marry Leonor.”
“I’m appealing to your sense of honor and duty,” Novak said quietly, and his tone struck even more of a nerve in Maxim.
It also conjured a root of guilt that steadily wove its way around the tendrils of his stomach. Honor and duty. Duty and honor. Was there nothing more to life than those two things? According to his brother, His Royal Highness the King of Degonia, he could also have love. That would be great, if Maxim was looking for that.
But he wasn’t.
He was looking for freedom. He’d thought he had found it in DC.
“Your American experiment must come to an end, Maxim. It is your duty to return home. It will be your honor to marry Leonor and continue to serve your country, your people, and your Crown.”
Maxim inhaled stiffly, as though he were in the throne room, in front of his brother. “My experiment has been successful,” he argued weakly. “You can’t deny that. I could send you money—”
“It has been successful, and I applaud your efforts. But I need you home, Maxim. The Queen will give birth soon. You will need to take on some of my duties while I attend to her and the baby.”
He had anticipated this reason but hadn’t formulated a ready response. Money could solve a lot of problems, but he didn’t have enough to clone himself.
Maxim ended the call with his brother and dropped his head into his hands. This was the last outcome he had predicted, although it was really the only one, if he were honest with himself. No way would his brother ever agree to the second-born son living outside the country for an extended period of time. Perhaps if he were tenth or twentieth in line to the throne, there would be less oversight. But currently, he was first—until the birth of his nephew.
Maxim sighed. He stood and stretched his tense muscles. That call hadn’t gone the way he had foolishly hoped. He would return, but he hoped to convince his brother that Leonor and her family’s money wasn’t the only solution to their financial struggles. He had struck it rich with several of his risky investments. If he presented his portfolio and his future investment opportunities, maybe Novak would be persuaded to let his “experiment” continue.
His brother wasn’t a risk-taker. And that meant Maxim had an uphill battle ahead. Novak had always disliked Maxim’s crazy ideas and willingness to throw caution to the wind. This time, it seemed Maxim’s luck had truly run out. His duty waited for him at home, and so did Leonor.
With a groan, Maxim stood and walked out of his office. Usually at despondent times such as these, he’d warm up his hot tub, invite a friend or two over, some choice ladies, and eat and drink until he’d wasted the day away. Now, he felt like taking action.
He walked down the hall of his massive top-story condo in one of DC’s premier residential high-rises. He stepped into his library, one of his pride and joys. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases complete with sliding ladders. Both he and his brothers read a lot, but where Novak stuck to books and articles on the affairs of the country, Maxim spent a lot of time reading texts on the human condition, including psychology, criminology, and other sciences. He was fascinated with the human brain and its power—and its ability to shape destiny.
What didn’t hold his interest was anything having to do with love and wishy-washy pseudoscience. Facts and data. He wanted to see the numbers. It was how he made his business decisions, which netted him over a billion dollars. Rarely did he ever go with his gut. Usually, that meant having to sacrifice. And he wasn’t willing to face that kind of pain.
When his parents died, with them went any sense of normalcy in their family. His brother was thrust onto the throne, and Maxim’s life had changed as the next in line to the throne. He was watched like a hawk, and nearly all of his decisions had been made for him. Not willing to take any chances, his brother quickly married Jelena, and after years of harassment, he finally allowed Maxim some liberty to work overseas.
Making money was Maxim’s leverage. Now that was out the expansive windows overlooking the D.C. skyline. Maxim took in the city he’d grown to love and one that he would now have to leave. What could he do?
He heard a gasp and saw one of his cleaning ladies in the opposite corner, her hands covering her mouth. She was watching a television program instead of dusting. He couldn’t blame her; he did own a lot of books.
“What are you watching?”
The maid jumped, her hands going to her heart. “I’m so sorry, Your Highness.”
Maxim put up a hand to block his title, but it smacked him in the face. He was born with it; nothing could change that. “Forget about it. What startled you?” He came to her side and eyed three women on the couch. One gray-haired woman looked severe, the host was forgettable, but the one on the right side of the screen caught his attention.
She wore a bright yellow, form-hugging dress with lime-green heels. Her curly hair was piled high on her head, but her lips kept his interest. Red. Deep, blood red. Now he knew what it felt like to be a vampire. A primal hunger to taste her pouty lips grew in the pit of his belly.
“That’s Dr. Pearson.” The maid pointed to his muse. “She just agreed to marry someone—sight unseen—by midnight tonight!”
Maxim coughed. “Excuse me?”
“She is the D.C. Love Doctor. She can predict which couples will stay together. People pay her a lot of money to match them. She’s on that television show, uh…Married by Midnight. People agree to marry in one day.”
Married in less than twenty-four hours? Interesting. “What’s her success rate?”
“One hundred percent!” The maid clapped and smiled. “The other doctor thinks she’s a fraud, but Dr. Pearson never makes a mistake. She says it’s in the science. Her formula for matching people is so good, she’ll match herself.”
Science. Data. One hundred percent success rate.
An absolute no-brainer.
“By midnight? Why midnight for her?”
“It’s for the TV show. Isn’t that crazy? The other old doctor was pressuring her.” She made a face at the television. The show had gone to a commercial break. “Calling her service a mail-order-bride scam.”
That’s exactly what it sounded like. Maxim was intrigued. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed his manager’s number. If he was compatible with this doctor, then he could marry her tonight. If she needed a letter, he’d write one on his stationary. All girls wanted to marry a prince. Showing up with a new bride meant he couldn’t marry Leonor.
This choice, he wouldn’t let anyone else make.
And strangely enough,
his gut agreed.
Chapter 3
Deanna rested her elbows on her office desk, her head in her hands. “Why did I let her do that to me?” she said with a groan.
“I think it’s perfect,” her best friend and personal assistant Grace Holcomb said from an overstuffed chair near the window.
“You would think that,” came Rita Badowski’s—her other bestie and lead researcher—voice from the couch. “Now I have to sit here all day and create profiles for all the guys writing her letters. Dr. Allen did say this was a modern-day mail-order-bride service. More like groom.”
Ugh, that was the other thing. Comparing her business to a mail-order-bride service made the whole scientific process look silly and cheap.
“Weren’t you and I just talking about this the other day?” Grace said to Rita.
Wait. They were talking about her? Her two best friends in the world talking behind her back about her marriage? When were they going to tell her this? She didn’t need to get married. Had zero interest in marrying again. Once was enough in her book, and she had had her shot.
Deanna raised her head. “We’ll get around to what you two were talking about, but first tell me how this is perfect, Grace.” Because at this moment, Deanna couldn’t see it. What her mind’s eye did show her was her meticulously constructed business crumbling at the hot breath of Dr. Allen. The big, bad she-wolf had blown and—
No. Dr. Allen wasn’t the problem. I am. I was the one who agreed to this insane plan. She had huffed and puffed and blown over her own house. Her research, the sponsorships that funded all of her continuing research as well as the staff salaries and then some, her paid gig on Married at Midnight…all of it was gone.
Grace repeatedly swiped her finger across her iPad. “It’s a great plan because this will finally prove you’re over Ezekiel.”
“Over Ezekiel?” Deanna had snapped out of her self-loathing. Ezekiel was the core of Grace’s argument?
Deanna tried not to think about her ex-husband. Every day. Throwing herself into her post-doctorate research had saved her from drowning in self-pity and living in fear after the attack. Deanna touched her neck, remembering the hot, tender flesh from her injury. She dropped her hand. It was long over. The bruises had since disappeared. She had survived. “You say it like it’s easy to do,” came her hard voice. Grace knew well enough not to bring up Ezekiel’s name. It was an unspoken rule between the three of them.
“Yeah, have some compassion,” Rita snarked. She crossed her legs as she lay on the couch, holding her iPad over her face. “The guy almost killed her. Not exactly something you can get over. I’d never be complacent after that. I’d sleep with one eye open and would always be looking over my shoulder.”
“I never said it would be easy, but you can get over him,” Grace insisted. “Not every guy is going to… Anyway, he can’t hurt Deanna anymore. It’s time she moved on with her love life. Besides, most men will likely cheat on you at worst.”
“Zeke did that too,” Rita said.
Grace slapped her iPad down on her lap. Her narrowed gaze pinned Deanna. “Dee, it’s time. You created the algorithm. You know what you’re doing. Trust the science.”
Deanna went cold. Trust was something that didn’t come naturally to her—not anymore. Not after Zeke. That was one of the reasons she had spent so much time perfecting her theory, literally making it fact. She had made a colossal mistake in choosing Zeke. She didn’t want any woman to ever have to face their mortality like she had.
“Grace has a point.” Rita sat up. “You’re good at what you do, Deanna.”
“Et tu, Brutus?” Deanna made a face at Rita, who smirked.
“You know I hate to agree with Grace, but she’s right.”
“And you two have been talking about it. You both think I need a man right now.”
Rita nodded. “Business is the best it’s ever been. It is time. All we have to do is find the guy.”
“Good thing you have a ton of men who are in your database to choose from,” Grace offered. “Rita and I played around with it the other day and found—”
Deanna shook her head. “No, no, no.” She walked to the sitting area and took the chair opposite Grace. A guy from her database? “I’ve seen those faces. I…” Oh, great. She was really doing this. “I want something fresh.”
“You’re talking about your future husband like he’s a piece of meat,” Grace said with a frown.
Rita laughed. “He’d better be. A nice, juicy steak, if you ask me.” She licked her lips. “Tender on the tongue—”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Deanna said with a hand up.
Grace was giggling like a teenager. “Yeah, now I’m picturing it.” A soft rose color filled her cheeks.
“Picture yourself helping me out of this mess,” Deanna ordered. “I have to find a guy and marry him by midnight.”
“Yeah, I cringed when I heard the show mentioned,” Rita said, referring to Married at Midnight. “I mean, it can be done, but who knew being part of that show was going to bite you in the butt one day.”
Deanna’s shoulders dropped. “It was always a risk. What if one of the couples didn’t work out?”
“Impossible. Your record is flawless. So is the math.”
Deanna couldn’t help but think that she had overlooked…something. That the person she had modeled her career after—Dr. Allen—was right. You couldn’t predict love. Or people, for that matter. Am I’m playing God?
“Well, I’ve already matched you with at least three of them.” Rita held up the iPad. “Good-looking guys with solid careers, money, and—”
“None of them are this guy,” Grace breathed, her wide brown eyes furiously scanning her screen. “Holy Mother of…” Her jaw dropped, and drool began to pool on her bottom lip. A shaky moan fell out of her mouth.
Rita practically fell off the couch scrambling to get to Grace. “If she’s stopped talking then… Oh, oh yes! This one is it.” Rita jumped up and down and giggled. You couldn’t tell by her punk rock hair, black nail polish, and distinct grunge apparel that she’d make a girly display.
“Sure he is,” Deanna said with little enthusiasm. Yes, her database worked fast enough to match couples instantly, but if she was going to marry this man, they had to take their time.
As much time as possible.
Wait a few hours and see if anyone else was submitted. She couldn’t marry the first man they found.
“You haven’t even seen him!” Grace whined. “Come here and read what he wrote.”
“Not necessary. Just plug him into the database. We’ll probably receive a number of responses. I can’t believe men actually watch Carlie’s show. How embarrassing.”
Rita laughed. “It went viral. Saw the video on Insta and then Facebook, and Twitter picked it up.”
Deanna slouched in her chair and wailed.
“You should at least read his letter,” Grace urged.
“What is he? A regular Cyrano?”
Rita snorted. “He sure is.”
“With a nose to match?” Deanna asked. “Great. Now I’m shallow.”
“Even if he did—which he doesn’t—he has enough money to pay for a nose job.”
“Does he…” Grace said, once again going into a trance. What was she looking at? The guy or his bank account balance?
Deanna waved a dismissive hand. “I have my own money.” Millions to be exact.
“You’re not a billionaire,” Rita said flatly.
“And…” Grace flipped her iPad around, showing Deanna what looked like an email with a funny emblem at the top. “He’s a prince.”
“A what?” Deanna leapt the distance between them and snatched the iPad out of her hand. “A prince? Like a real one?”
“Like His Royal Highness and all of that bowing and curtsying stuff,” Rita said, giving the worst impression of a curtsy in her black denim skirt.
“Of what country?” Deanna scanned the man’s bio, ignoring his picture.
“And he matches!” Rita held up her iPad. “He’s an even better match than all the others.”
“Wow, that was fast,” Deanna said, her eyes going from Rita’s screen to the email.
Rita cleared her throat. “Yeah, well I’ve been working on speeding up the interface and all of that.”
“Yeah, Rita’s been doing a good job.”
Deanna gave Grace a side-glance. “Since when do you compliment her?”
“Since you’re getting married,” Rita answered dryly. “Trust us. Deanna, the search for your man is officially over. One mail-order billionaire coming right up.”
Grace covered her giggles with a hand. “You see! He’s perfect.”
“Perfect…” Deanna said absentmindedly. Her eyes found the picture of a man who stood a shoulder above a crowd. He had a serious expression on his face, but there was something about his eyes that Deanna didn’t like. “Are you sure? About the matching part?”
Rita popped the gum in her mouth. “Yup. Perfect match. Your babies are going to be super cute, too. Tall, dark, royal. Too bad I can’t wait for your son.”
Deanna made a gross face.
“Ew!” Grace vocalized Deanna’s thought.
Rita shrugged. “What? Every girl secretly wants to marry a prince.”
“Even you?” Grace and Deanna asked in unison.
Rita pulled at the gum in her mouth. “Even me. He doesn’t have to have a title or anything, but…just be all…princely and stuff.”
Grace laughed. “Okay, true words.”
“I don’t know,” Deanna said. She ran through the guy’s stats again before focusing on the paragraph he had written. “He’s willing to marry today. He doesn’t want to marry the girl his brother, the king, has ordered him to marry—okay, see, this is why he’s not right.” Deanna handed the iPad back to Grace. “He’s desperate.”
Rita snorted loudly. “So are you, Miss My-algorithm-is-so-perfect-I’ll-match-myself-tonight.”