by Sparks, Ana
I was in Heaven, plain and simple, and judging by Beth’s face and the enormous grin I got every time I looked over at her, she was in the exact same state.
We were also nearing the end of our designated time, though, so we were starting to wind it up. Cooling it on the slower ballads and going into more fast-paced stuff as we cranked the crowd up toward the crescendo that would be the end of the show.
It might sound counterintuitive, but it was the way one of my first mentors had taught me to handle a show. You start with a bang, and then you slide into the familiar stuff that everyone likes to sing along with. And then, when you get close to the end, you start winding it up and getting faster and faster, because you’re building the crowd up for that moment when ultimately, you say thank you and goodnight, and walk off stage…
And then wait for them to start cheering again, so you can come out for your encore.
You have to leave them with that cliffhanger. Leave them wanting more. Leave them practically drooling for it.
It works, I swear. Which was why I’d been playing to a packed house for two weeks—even though I wasn’t a regular on the schedule at that particular bar, or even a regular in the music scene in Chicago. I performed rarely in the city, so I hadn’t exactly come in with an existing fan base.
But when you played good music, and you played it well, people heard about it and came running.
Bonus: Since this was a smaller venue and they didn’t have any set rules except for the length of time I was allowed to play, I’d been allowed to play a bunch of my own stuff, too. And that had been a really big hit. Like, big enough that it had me dreaming all those rainbow-colored dreams again, about hitting the road and touring the world with my guitar. The music, which had died down in my soul over the last year, was now rushing through my body with all the power of a tsunami.
And I didn’t want to let it go again. This was what came of promising myself that I was going to start going after my dream, and at this point, I couldn’t imagine going back to it. Hell, I’d even started thinking about cutting it down to part-time at the bar, just so I could start doing more gigs in Chicago and building up my resume and contacts.
We were just finishing up our last song—the one that really wound up the crowd and had them roaring for more—when I realized that I was going to throw up.
And I don’t mean I was just feeling slightly sick. I mean I was shaking-at-the-knees, sweating-through-my-shirt, having-to-keep-my-mouth-closed sick. If I didn’t get to the bathroom, stat, I was going to throw up right there on stage, in front of the entire crowd.
And I didn’t want to jump to any conclusions, but I thought that throwing up on stage probably wouldn’t help me build the sort of reputation I wanted in the city. I also didn’t think it would motivate the owner of the bar to keep having me there, regardless of how much money I might be bringing in.
I cast a quick glance at Beth, panicked, and she must have immediately picked up on the fact that something was wrong because she made one shooing motion with her hand, to get me offstage, and then turned back to the crowd.
I didn’t wait. I ran. And just before I jumped off the stage into the backstage area, I heard her say, “Guys, Erika—being the rock star you can all see she is—has to run to another engagement, so I guess we’re going to have to call it a night. How about a big round of applause? And I want to hear it get loud enough that it reaches her all the way in her dressing room!”
She really was the best friend in the world. I heard the crowd cheering right before I hit the bathroom—and my knees—and started retching.
* * *
I was kneeling on the floor, cold and sweating, when Beth found me ten minutes later. She’d played the encore by herself—I’d listened from the bathroom—and run to check on me the moment it was finished.
Because like I said, she was the best friend in the world.
When she pushed open the door and saw me, she gasped and dropped to her knees at my side, pressing a quick hand to my forehead.
“Oh my God, Erika, are you okay? What’s wrong? Did you fall? Did something happen?
“No. I’m not sure. No. No,” I groaned. “Fewer questions, Beth. I’m not feeling so hot right now.”
She grunted and then leaned down to look into my eyes. Because that was obviously going to tell her what was wrong with me.
“Are you sick?” she asked succinctly.
I snorted. “No, actually, I’m on the ground in a filthy bathroom because it seemed like the ideal way to celebrate a great show. Yeah, I’m sick. Actually, I’ve been throwing up for the last three days. I just didn’t think it would follow me to the show tonight since I don’t have like, a fever or sore throat, or anything else, so it can’t be the flu.”
Her nose wrinkled in response—though it could also have been the smell of the bathroom, I wasn’t sure. Then her face cleared and got incredibly serious.
“You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“No,” I said automatically—because that’s what you do when someone asks you that.
But then I shut my mouth and actually thought about it. Thought through the month… the dates… the number of times I’d thrown up in the morning…
And everything came crashing together, like puzzle pieces that were magnetized and had been held apart for too long.
Shit.
The timing was right. It had been five weeks since that wild weekend with Francisco. And I should have had my period a couple weeks back—though when it didn’t show up, I hadn’t paid that much attention. It tended to be pretty all over the place, which I attributed to my weird sleep schedule and work stress.
But I hadn’t put that together with the weekend I’d spent with the prince. After all, we’d used a condom.
“We used a condom,” I whispered, giving voice to that exact thought.
Beth couldn’t know who I was talking about—mostly because I hadn’t told anyone about Francisco. To tell the truth, I hadn’t wanted to share him. That weekend had been so special, so different, that I’d wanted to keep it to myself.
Especially after he told me he wasn’t coming back.
But it didn’t seem to matter that Beth had zero idea who I was talking about. She just rocked back on her heels and shook her head slowly. “And condoms fail, Erika. You need to get to a doctor and find out for sure. Like, tomorrow.”
She was right. I didn’t like it… but that didn’t make her any less right.
Shit.
Chapter 16
Francisco
By the time I got back to my side of the estate—after taking a very long and meandering walk through the garden—I was so exhausted that I only wanted three things: a stiff drink, a long soak in the tub, and my bed.
It may not have been the most macho solution to stress, but in my experience, baths are the best way to relax when something frustrating or upsetting has happened. Plus, they have the bonus of getting you clean and making your skin soft. So sue me. I am a prince, after all. Good hygiene is part of the job.
And the afternoon I’d just been through was both frustrating and upsetting.
The problem was, I hadn’t yet given my brother an answer about the whole settling-down-and-helping-with-the-family-business suggestion. And I use the word ‘suggestion’ lightly, because there was no suggesting about this. I’d been threatened with disinheritance, more or less, and that had been a month ago.
The meeting I’d just had with Javier had been specifically to remind me that a month had gone by, and that my time to come to a decision was running out.
And this time, he’d brought reinforcements. Namely, my mother.
They’d taken the opportunity to not only team up on me but also present a plan that they must have been building for years together—without having told me about it, obviously.
They’d found a nice girl in a neighboring country who was equally royal and equally third in line, making her yet another spare. Which made us, according to my mother, an absolute dream
match. I mean, never mind the fact that we’d never met and had no idea whether we’d even be able to stand each other.
As far as my mother—and, it seemed, my brother—were concerned, being non-firstborn children in a royal family was all it took to make two people a match made in Heaven.
I slammed the door to my suite behind me and leaned up against it, closing my eyes and banging my head against the door.
“A goddamn arranged marriage,” I muttered to myself. “With a girl I’ve never met. Or seen. Or heard of.”
What was this, the 1600s? It wasn’t even like the royalty in our nation was all that important. We were part of a parliamentary system, which made us more decorative advisors than all-powerful. It wasn’t like they actually needed me to have lots of kids to populate the monarchy or something. And even if they did, I didn’t think those kids would have to come from royal blood on both sides.
I groaned, pushed myself off the door, and headed for the bar in my living room. I needed that drink, stat, so I could either stop thinking about the situation entirely… or start thinking of a way out of it.
* * *
As it turned out, the drink got my brain to settle down and start doing some real problem-solving, and by the time I was on my second glass of whiskey, I was actually thinking through the meeting with a clear head.
Javier, it seemed, was under some intense pressure from people in his administration about yours truly. I still wasn’t sure why they cared about me so much, considering I was just the spare, but evidently they did, and that was all I really needed to know. Because it meant that my carefree days of traveling the world were over.
Unless I wanted to do that traveling without the money and power of the Taranan throne behind me.
And although I hadn’t gone out of my way to take advantage of that power, and God knew it hadn’t saved me from getting into trouble with the law enforcement in at least a dozen countries, the fact was that I still enjoyed some privileges out there, thanks to my family name. And I knew I’d had protection from some of the more unfortunate repercussions of my ways. I’d also never had to worry about money or security a day in my life, and I was man enough to admit how valuable that was.
And above it all, running through the entire ordeal, was the fact that I didn’t want to let my brother down. If he needed me here, I wanted to be here for him. If he needed me to settle down and make myself more available to him, then I would do it. He’d supported me my entire life—despite the occasional warrant out for my apprehension—and if he was finally admitting that he needed me, too, then I wasn’t going to turn away from him.
That didn’t, however, mean that he was going to get to choose the woman I married. Because I might be royalty, but I wasn’t actually the king, and that right there meant that my marriage was both not as vital as his, and more flexible.
As far as I was concerned, she didn’t have to be a royal. If I was going to get married and spend the rest of my life playing partner in crime to a woman, I was going to take my time and find her myself. Not let my brother and mother force her on me.
At that moment, my phone started buzzing from across the room.
Thankful for the interruption, I jumped up from the couch and went to retrieve it. And when I saw who was calling, I grinned widely.
“Erika,” I said by way of greeting.
I hadn’t spoken to her in a month. And though there was a good reason for that—namely, that I hadn’t yet figured out how I was going to get back to the US to see her, and was a coward who hadn’t wanted to call her until I had an update—I had to admit that I’d been thinking about her almost constantly.
Thinking about her, and dreaming about her. Long, intense dreams that had me waking up hot and sweaty and still feeling the touch of her fingertips on my skin. Dreams that were more like memories of the night we’d spent together. Dreams that made me ache with the need to hold her again.
So seeing her name on my screen was like a balm to my soul. Not enough, surely. But something.
Her calling right now, when I was dealing with such an important question in my life, also felt a whole lot like fate. Hadn’t I just been thinking that if I was going to have a woman in my life, she was going to be one of my own choosing? And Erika was… everything I could imagine wanting. Gorgeous, to start with. Incredibly smart. Driven.
As sarcastic as they came.
Granted, she was halfway across the world and currently completely inaccessible to me. But she was…
Hell, the girl was everything.
“Francisco,” she said, her voice sounding… weak, somehow. Fragile.
“What’s wrong?” The question was immediate, instinctive. Because I could hear in her voice that something definitely was wrong, and it made me feel suddenly so possessive, so protective of her, that I could barely stand it. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I…” She paused, and I could imagine her biting her lip in that way she did when she was trying to say something she didn’t have the words for. She’d have that line between her eyebrows, that crease in her brow, that slight narrowing of her big brown eyes.
God, I wanted to reach right through the phone and take her in my arms. Use my fingers to smooth out her brow. And I didn’t even know what was wrong yet.
“Erika?” I asked softly. “Are you okay?” The jokes we’d shared before were on the tip of my tongue, but something told me that this wasn’t the time for that.
“I just called to see how you were,” she said, her voice stronger now, as if she was making a superhuman effort to keep it steady. “It had been so long since we talked, and I wasn’t sure whether anything had changed. I mean, if you’re coming back to Chicago, I have to work time off into my schedule. I’m a busy girl, you know.”
I let myself smile a bit in response to her attempt at a joke. “I have absolutely no doubt. Are you playing shows yet?”
It turned out that she was—twice a week—and further, that she’d been thinking about dropping down to part-time at the bar so she could play more.
My heart thrilled at the thought, because that was exactly what she’d talked about doing during that weekend we’d spent together. She wanted to be a musician. She’d spent her young life training for it, and then it hadn’t happened. The thought of her actually getting back on track with it echoed deep in my bones with its rightness.
“You should,” I told her firmly. “But you should also tell me what’s wrong. Because I’m fairly sure that you getting to play music more often doesn’t have you sounding like someone just spit on your birthday cake.”
Instead of answering, she went on to talk about something else. And after that, something else—and then something else again. I heard about recent festivals in Chicago and her best friend, Beth, and then the happenings in the bar, and even how the owner was celebrating his birthday.
I didn’t hear anything about her thoughts or her feelings or what might be bothering her.
And by the time she said she needed to go and would talk to me again soon, I was no closer to understanding what might possibly be wrong with her. Or why she’d decided to call me.
I did know one thing for certain, though: This girl was more important to me than almost anyone else in my life. I didn’t know when it had happened, or even how, but my soul was itching with the need to know what was wrong with her… and what I could do to fix it.
I had to know if she was okay. Everything in my entire body was screaming out for me to find her and protect her, make whatever it was better. Beat up the guy who had been mean to her. Fix the job she didn’t want anymore. Smooth the way forward for this woman who had somehow, beyond all expectation, grabbed my heart in that weekend we’d spent together.
I hadn’t realized how much she meant to me until that moment. But once I did, it was like an itch I couldn’t get to, an ache I couldn’t manage to stretch out.
She was that ache. And if she wasn’t going to tell me what was wrong, then goddammit, I was going to go see
for myself. Because I couldn’t stay away from her any longer.
Hell, now that I recognized how I felt about her, I wasn’t sure how I’d stayed away for as long as I had.
Chapter 17
Francisco
It’s amazing how many friends you can find in low, or dark, or actually illegal places when you start looking for them. I’m talking about friends you never even dreamt about asking to do things for you, that you never in your wildest dreams thought you would need.
Or want.
Nonetheless, here we were.
I was on the phone with a friend of a friend, ordering a fake passport. I went through my personal information, namely the fake details I planned to be using when I was traveling under said passport, and then gave the guy on the other end of the line an address to send the passport to when it was finished.
No, not my address. It was the address of the friend who had referred me to this particular associate. Because I couldn’t exactly receive a fake passport in the house where I actually lived with my brother, the king—who had security, I was sure, going through my mail at random, just to make sure I didn’t do things that would embarrass him.
Not that I would. I mean, he would only be embarrassed by this sort of thing if he actually found out about it. And I was intent on making sure he never did.
When I got off the phone, after receiving assurances that my passport would be ready within two days—as long as I followed through on getting the picture done and sent over to the right person—I turned to the list I made back when I first started planning this scheme. I crossed off passport and glanced down at the other points.
I needed to get tickets, of course—for both the ship and then the train in the US—and pack. I needed to talk to my assistant and make sure we had a cover story planned for when I stopped turning up for events.
Isabelle was, after all, the only person I was telling about this whole thing. Partially out of necessity, because she would be covering my back, and partially she was one of the only people I completely trusted.