He sees another photo of Huntley Von Allister looking stunning, wearing a red gown and dancing with someone he knows.
* * *
I wake up to the sounds of the ocean only to have it be overrun with rap music—a loud, angry Detroit version—blaring from the courtyard.
I step out onto the Juliet balcony that overlooks the villa’s courtyard and see Ari shirtless by the pool, doing yoga. I study his form as he calmly holds a plank pose, his muscles tight for a long while before his arms finally start to shake. He holds the pose for a few more beats then pops up, sprints across the courtyard, and beats the crap out of a portable punching bag—his odd workout a combination of zen and badass.
I study my brother some more. I was right. He’s fully fit, toned, and perfectly muscled. He should be shirtless more often.
I close the door, shutting out the noise, and walk out into the living portion of my suite to find the file I asked for yesterday on my table along with a continental breakfast.
I pluck up the file, pour myself a glass of orange juice, wrap a napkin around a chocolate croissant, and make my way out to the veranda overlooking the Montrovian Harbor.
I savor a bite of the croissant before opening the folder. Inside I find just a single sheet of paper.
Aristotle, or Ari, is apparently his real name. Real last name: Bradford.
Mother passed away from breast cancer. Father was a four-star general stationed at the Pentagon, who died in a traffic accident. Ari went to military school, where they discovered talents in weaponry and hand-to-hand combat. He holds the school’s long-range sniper record and was their boxing champion.
I can see why they chose him for this mission. Not only is he qualified, but with his family all gone, it would be easy to change his birth records and create adoption papers. And wham, bam, Ari is the long lost son of a billionaire.
I turn the sheet of paper over, where Ellis has added a handwritten note.
Six months ago, Ari was pulled from his elite school and trained as a covert agent.
Which I find interesting. CIA training is typically a year-long program and for those who are at least twenty-six years old.
I’m distracted from the brief when a text pops up on my phone.
AirForceTwo: You owe me a pizza…and a shirt.
I look down at my choice of pajamas and smile. But I don’t reply. If Daniel wants his shirt back, he’ll have to come to Montrovia and get it. I glance at the clock, knowing I need to work out and then get ready for the pool party Ari and I are having today.
Apparently, when you win big at the roulette table in a barely-there dress and have a smoking hot brother, everyone wants to be your friend.
* * *
“Looks like you win,” Ari says, elbowing me and nodding toward the entrance to the courtyard.
“Well, isn’t this a precarious situation? My hot-as-hell hookup hands me the Prince on a silver platter. I couldn’t have planned it better if I had planned it.” I elbow Ari back. “Oh wait, I did.”
I watch as Daniel enters the courtyard with the Prince of Montrovia. Next to the Prince is a man with a discreet earbud and alert eyes. He’s the same guard who was with the Prince in the clothing store. I’m sure the outside of the villa is surrounded by agents, but the fact that there is only one in here is the first flaw I see in his security protocol.
The Prince doesn’t approach me right away. He’s too busy being swarmed by people who either know him or want to.
Daniel, on the other hand, walks straight over to me. I’m dressed in a bikini, but the way he looks at me makes me feel like I’m standing here naked.
“You crashing my party?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest like I’m mad at him for being here.
“You wanted me to come,” he fires back, then kisses both my cheeks. “And, now, here I am. With the Prince, who if I recall, you didn’t think I really knew.”
“So you flew all the way here just to prove a point?”
“Actually, Lorenzo called and asked about you.”
“Why?”
“Apparently, he invited you to his party last night, and you didn’t show. Not many women will turn down an invitation from the Prince. You’ve perplexed the poor guy.” Daniel laughs. I can tell he finds my not going to the party humorous.
“That wasn’t my intention. I just happened to be busy.”
“Doing what? Or should I say, whom?”
“What do you mean?”
He flashes a photo of Wesley and me leaving The Casino last night.
“That’s none of your business,” I say.
“Dang. I was going to compare battle wounds with him.”
“What are you talking about?”
He points down to his calves, which are indeed boasting fresh red tracks down the outsides. “Your sexy heels almost ruined my photogenic-ness—my perfect specimen of a body. And the salt water in the pool stung the hell out them.” He smirks. “But at least the pain stopped the tears of being ditched in the morning.”
“I tried to wake you up.”
“You did not. The shirt isn’t that big of deal, but stealing a man’s breakfast pizza? That was just cold.” I get the dimple. “Oh, look. Lorenzo is working his way over here. You should cover up. That bikini is practically obscene.”
I punch him in the arm. “It is not.”
He whispers, “It’s sexy as hell. Maybe I just don’t want the Prince seeing you like that. Really, I don’t want anyone seeing you like that. Want to borrow my shirt?” He pulls his shirt off, revealing his muscular chest and tight abs. I want to run my fingers across them.
So I do.
“Tease,” he says, grabbing my hands and giving me another blink of a dimple. God, I love the way he smiles. I fight the urge to grab his face and start making out with him, but I’m on a mission and although I want the Prince to have to work for it a little, I don’t want to run him off when I’m this close.
Daniel turns toward the Prince. “Lorenzo, this is my friend, Huntley. We met a few days ago at an event in D.C., and when I mentioned I knew you, she didn’t believe me.”
“That’s not exactly right,” I contradict. “He was bragging about knowing you, so I rolled my eyes. Which he assumed was me not believing him and took it as a challenge, rather than accepting it for what it really was—me not being impressed.”
The Prince chuckles, which is good.
“It’s nice to see you again,” I say to the Prince. “Am I supposed to bow or something?”
“Only to my father, the King.”
Daniel laughs and points a finger at him. “He must like you, cuz he makes lots of girls kneel.”
To prove his point, a girl interrupts us, getting on her knees and lowering her head straight toward the Prince’s royal privates.
When she gets up, she whispers something in his ear, presumably about how she’s available even though she introduced me to her boyfriend earlier.
But, based on how close she was allowed to get to him without thought shows another flaw in his security. Women aren’t viewed as a threat.
“Cool party trick,” I say as the girl leaves. “So why are you two really here?”
The Prince throws his thumb in Daniel’s direction. “He says you owe him a pizza.”
I hold a finger up, causing a steward to instantly appear at my side. I whisper something to him and a few seconds later he presents Daniel with a box.
“What is this?” he asks.
I lean toward the Prince and pretend to confide in him. “It’s my new favorite combination, so I ordered it for our party.”
Daniel opens the box, looking confused, but the pizza quickly steals his attention. He offers the Prince a piece, but the Prince turns up his nose, takes my elbow, and leads me away from the crowd. I notice his security does not follow.
He kisses my hand. “It’s nice to see you again. I had hoped to see you at my party last night.”
“Oh, sorry. I got caught up at the roulette
table.”
“Was your luck good?”
“It was very good.”
“Congratulations.” He looks back at Daniel. “I can see why Daniel wanted to come to your party. You are very beautiful.”
“Thank you. But I doubt he came here for me. Isn’t Montrovia where all the rich playboy types will be this week?”
“Possibly. Regardless, I’m glad he allowed me to join him.”
“I will admit, it’s not every day that a Prince crashes your party.”
“So, what brings you to my fair country?” His gaze is intense. I like it. He actually seems interested in talking to me. It’s a refreshing change of pace from the guys at Blackwood who just wanted to hookup.
“Same as everyone. The race.”
“Would you do me the honor of coming to my party, since I crashed yours?”
“When is it?”
“Well, my party lasts all week.”
“When ever will you sleep?” I flirt. The Prince is holding back a smirk. I narrow my eyes at him. “Lorenzo, are you thinking of us together in bed?”
“Perhaps,” he says, not admitting a thing. Then he adds, “Trust me, there is plenty of time for pleasure between parties. It’s a week full of special events.”
“I know. We got tickets for the race and the car show.”
“There are events nearly every day and night this week. My private yacht is the best place to view the race, and we end the festivities with the Queen’s Ball. Girls from all over the world hope to be my date.”
“It must suck to be the Prince.”
He’s taken aback. “That’s not the reaction I usually get. Why do you say that?”
“I suspect it’s like a buffet—so many options that you can’t choose just one.”
“Are you saying you don’t want to be my date?” He looks confused. I think Daniel is right. I don’t think he’s ever been turned down before.
“No offense, but I wasn’t one of those little girls who dreamed of becoming a princess.”
“Too bad. You’re breathtaking,” the Prince says, touching my face.
“Thanks,” I say awkwardly, mostly because no one has ever said that to me before.
He stares into my eyes, his hand on my face. “We’re causing a bit of a scene.”
I look around—even though I am fully aware of what is going on around me. Mostly. I had to let my guard down for a few minutes to focus on the Prince—and only him—to make him feel like the only man in the room.
“How are we causing a scene? We’re talking.”
“You’re new in town and have held my attention longer than most of my dates.”
“Yay for me!”
“Sarcasm. I like it,” he says, flashing a conspiratorial grin.
“I’ll just tell everyone that I was standing close to you because you smell good.” I will admit, so far, I actually like the Prince. He’s clearly trying to impress me. He’s charming, polite, has a sexy-as-hell accent, and does smell quite intoxicating.
He touches the tip of my nose. “You’re cute.”
I say, “Thank you, Your Highness,” in Montrovian.
He cocks his head in surprise. “You speak our language?”
“A little. I have an affinity for languages.”
“Not many people speak our native tongue anymore.”
“I know. I’m kind of a history buff,” I say.
“My country has a great many historical sites.”
“I know that, too. My brother may have come for the cars, but I came for the history. While he’s sleeping off last night, I’ll be visiting the art museum, the hot springs, and going on a tour of the castle.”
“The castle? Well, you know most of the rooms aren’t included in the public tour. You’d need to know someone if you wanted to see the best parts.”
I sigh and roll my eyes. “Let me guess. The best part is your place?”
He laughs. “I’d show you the rest of the castle, too. Would you like a private tour?”
“I’d love that, actually.”
“I will send my driver for you tomorrow at noon.”
“No.”
“But you just said you wanted—”
“You aren’t sending your driver. If you wanna hang out with me, you can come get me yourself. Or I’ll drive.”
“You did mention that you have a new car here. Care to drive me home?”
“Sure, why not?” I smile as I escort him down to the garage.
He whistles at the car I’ve been dying to get behind the wheel of and says, “This isn’t a street car, it’s a track car.”
I don’t know who was in charge of acquiring this car, but they get two big thumbs up from me. “I’m pretty sure it’s street legal. Besides, I’m with the Prince of Montrovia, I should be able to drive whatever I want, don’t you think?”
“This car is amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“That’s because there were only two made. They had planned to make three, but the white carbon fiber proved to be difficult, so they only made two. It’s a Koenigsegg CCXR Trevita. Bad ass, right?”
“I’ll say. How did you get it?”
“I recently came into some money.” He raises his eyebrow at me, and then looks at the car again. “Well,” I clarify, “it was quite a lot of money.”
“Roulette?” he laughs.
I lower my eyes and my voice. “My father passed away.”
He touches my hand gently. “My own father is gravely ill. It’s only a matter of time.”
“Are you spending a lot of time with him?”
“Not as much as I’d like.”
“You should make the time. Even if it’s hard. My dad died suddenly. Massive heart attack.”
“But he didn’t suffer. It’s hard to watch your father, the King, a man who has always been larger than life, wither away.”
“I suppose, but trust me, you should be with him. Every day.”
“Will you come with me?” he asks with such emotion I have no other possible answer.
“Yes.”
“Maybe it will help you heal too, no?”
“Maybe. I didn’t know my father. My parents passed away when I was younger, and I recently got a call from an attorney asking me to come for the reading of a will. There, I discovered who my real father was and that I also have a brother. We are taking some time off to travel together. See the world. Get to know each other. Ari lost his parents too, so we’re the only family each other has.”
I’m surprised when he wraps me in a hug. “So much tragedy for someone so young.”
I allow him to console me. It’s really sweet.
“So are you ready to go for a ride?”
“Oh, I think so.”
We get buckled up and pull out of the drive. I take it easy through the city streets, giving people plenty of time to gawk at the car and take photos.
Ten minutes later, we’re winding up the hill to the castle and pulling through the gates. I take in my surroundings like I was trained to do.
“You have an airstrip up here.”
“Yes, for landing smaller planes.”
“Anyone planning on using it in the next few minutes?”
“I don’t believe so, why are you asking?”
I throw the car in neutral, rev the motor, and raise my eyebrows at him. “What do you say? I would love to see what she can do, and everything in Montrovia is really cliffy.”
“Cliffy?” He laughs. “Does that mean what I think?”
“What do you think it means?”
He gives me a smirk, shrugs his shoulders, and turns his hands sideways gesturing down at his pants.
“Cliffy? As in your hard dick?” I ask, stifling a laugh.
He bites his lip, a little embarrassed. It’s sexy as hell.
“Cliffy means that the roads are all on cliffs, and I don’t want to drive off one of them and splat into the Med. What you are referring to is a stiffy. A boner. Hot. Hard. Ready for a
ction.”
“Oh, yes, stiff. That would make sense.”
I drive to the end of the runway. “You ready for this?”
He doesn’t get a chance to respond because I quickly rev the engine and drop the hammer. The tires scream for every ounce of grip they can find. I use the paddle shifters to switch gears, the car responding effortlessly. This car is stupid fast and since it has a super charger as opposed to a turbo, there isn’t the kick every time I shift. The car just rockets down the runway.
“How fast are you going?” the Prince yells. “Slow down.”
“I read you race for fun. You should be used to this.”
“There’s a difference. I’m not driving. A girl is.”
When I reach the other end of the runway—which happens quickly—I slam on the brakes, downshift, and swing the car around ninety degrees to prove a point, then hit the throttle again.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, looking very nervous.
“We haven’t even hit top speed yet, but we’re going to try.”
“What’s her top speed?”
“Four hundred and ten kilometers per hour. That’s like triple the speed limit in America.” I push the car, finally getting it up to four hundred, before I have to stop at the other end of the runway. “Holy shit. Wasn’t that fun?”
“Why do I get the feeling you aren’t just here for the history?”
“Okay, so maybe I like the cars, too. What do you say? Wanna do it again?”
“Only if I can drive.” He starts laughing then he sobers. “Actually, I have a better idea.”
He instructs me to pull around the castle and out onto the lawn.
“Am I going to get in trouble for this?” I ask.
“Just the opposite,” he says. “My father loves cars. If he’s having a good day, he might be able to come out and see it.”
What he says touches my heart.
I use the hydraulics to lift the chassis so its profile is not as low and, hopefully, I’m not getting grass all up in the grill.
We enter the castle through a set of French doors that lead directly to the King’s suite. I know I’m with the Prince and that we checked in at the gates, but this seems way too easy. I could take out both the King and the Prince in less than a minute if I were playing for the other team.
Modern Fairy Tale: Twelve Books of Breathtaking Romance Page 204