by Kristi Gold
“Sounds like a very good plan, Your Studliness.”
“Have I told you what I plan to do with that champagne?” he said as he again waved to the crowd, looking as if they were discussing the weather, not hot and heavy lovemaking.
Kate waved as Marc did, even though she really wanted to kiss her husband. Badly. “Do tell.”
“I’m going to pour it all over your incredible body, and lick it off slowly.”
She turned her face to his and brushed a kiss across his lips, the crowd cheering its approval. “And I’m going to do the same thing to you.”
Marc groaned. “Could this procession go any slower? I’m going to die from wanting you before we begin our honeymoon.”
Kate smiled. “If I remember correctly, we started the honeymoon last night when you showed up in my bedchamber even after your mother told you to leave me alone so I could get a decent night’s sleep.”
He raised a dark eyebrow. “Bedchamber? Spoken like a true queen. And I didn’t hear you complaining last night. I did hear you moaning.”
“Stop it or you are going to make my makeup melt.”
He turned his attention from the crowd to her, surveying her face. “That wouldn’t matter. With or without makeup, you’re still the most beautiful queen Doriana has ever known, with my mother running a close second.”
Kate sighed and squeezed his hand. “I’m going to need time to get used to being labeled a queen.”
“The first gainfully employed queen in the history of Doriana, I might add.”
Thanks to Mary, Kate thought. Her precious mother-in-law had insisted Kate continue her work at the clinic, even if Mary had to go before the council and argue the point. Hopefully that wouldn’t happen. The unrest involving the last scandal had finally died down after everyone had learned of the impending marriage between the playboy king and the common doctor. No one knew about Philippe and his wife yet, but Mary had promised she would write it all down and reveal the news after more time had passed. In the meantime, Marc and Kate would raise Cecile as their own child, eventually telling her about the way she had come to be. A story of love worthy of being passed down through the ages.
Marc leaned forward and groaned again, his attention now focused on an alley to their right. Kate followed his visual path and noted the reason for his obvious distress. A handsome young man sat on the hood of a black convertible, several young women fawning all over him.
“That’s your Corvette, isn’t it?” she asked.
Marc frowned. “Yes, and they’re going to ruin the paint.”
Kate fought a sudden bite of apprehension. “Are you going to miss the attention from all those women, now that you’re a married man?”
He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close to his side. “I’m only going to miss the car.” He kissed her cheek. “I have the only woman I want.”
“I still can’t believe you gave up your car. Couldn’t you have kept it and just given some money to the building fund?”
“Actually, I gave the car away to fulfill the terms of a wager.”
“A wager?”
“Yes, with two friends from Harvard. We wagered that none of us would be married within ten years. If we did marry, we would have to give up our most prized possession. Although I did not adhere to the terms of the wager, I did last nine years.”
“Any regrets?”
He touched her face with tenderness. “Only if I would have given you up. That would have been my greatest loss. I could live without the car, but not without you.”
For the second time today, Kate was on the verge of tears. She willed them away and welcomed back the joy. “So have your friends married yet?”
“No. Mitchell Warner is living in Texas as a rancher.”
Kate’s eyes widened. “The Mitch Warner, from the Warner political dynasty? The senator’s reclusive son?”
“Yes, that would be the one. Dharr Halim is a sheikh and his wife has been predetermined. But as of yet, he has not married.”
“Are they here?”
“No, but Dharr sent best wishes and an intricate vase made by an artisan in his country, Azzril. Mitch sent a note that said, ‘I knew you couldn’t hold out,’ along with a model of the Corvette. We’re to meet again at a reunion in the spring.” He discreetly moved their joined hands from Kate’s lap to his thigh and slid it upward. “I’m certain they will understand why I could not resist you.”
Kate understood only one thing at the moment—the way Marc was looking at her now, with unmistakable hunger in his eyes, made her want to tap the driver on the shoulder and tell him to hurry the heck up.
Kate glanced back at the carriage behind them that carried the queen mother, Cecile and her own mother and father. “I think my parents are getting along well with Mary. She’s giving them advice on their tour across Europe.”
“Mother enjoys that sort of thing.”
“Honestly, I can’t believe they’re actually going to take a real trip. And when they return home, they’re going to travel even more. When I lived with them, they wouldn’t go anywhere or do anything. My mother wouldn’t even get on a plane. I had to provide their entertainment.”
“I can understand why they enjoy your company,” Marc said. “I certainly do.”
“Well, it’s nice to have someone need you. To a point.” Kate’s parents had long ago crossed that point, but it seemed they had learned to live without her constant companionship, which was a very good thing.
He turned his serious eyes to her. “But I need you, Kate.”
“That’s different, Marc.” With him, she had learned that having someone needing her didn’t have to be stifling. “We need each other. And you do have a life beyond only me. We both have lives.”
“We will continue to have a life together. That much I promise you.”
“I know. But I also understand you have responsibilities.” She batted her eyelashes in her best southern belle imitation. “Being as how you’re a little old king and all.”
Marc grinned. “There’s that Tennessee accent I do love. I thought you’d lost it after learning French. I’m glad you haven’t.”
Kate rested her head on his shoulder and held his hand tightly when the carriage again lurched forward. “I could stand losing the accent, as long as I don’t lose you.”
Marc tipped her face up to meet his gaze. “You will never lose me, Kate.”
She looked at him with all the love in her heart. “And I think it’s wonderful that you’ve given up something you’ve greatly treasured for the sake of your people.”
“You and Cecile are my greatest treasure. The three of us make a good team. And when she is older, we will have more children to add to our family.”
Kate realized it was a good time for a few revelations, now that they were moving again, preventing him from jumping out of the coach. “Marc, there’s something I have to tell you. Actually, two things.”
He frowned. “Why so serious?”
“Because I don’t know how you’re going to feel about this.”
“Kate, nothing you could say would disappoint me.”
“It might surprise you, though.”
“My life is full of surprises. You are a prime example of that. A very welcome surprise, in your case.”
“Okay. Here goes.” She drew in a deep breath. “Bernard and Beatrice are married.”
“What?”
“I know. It’s shocking.”
Marc scowled. “When did this happen?”
“A month ago, in a quiet ceremony.”
“Is everyone bent on keeping their marriage a secret in this family?”
Kate squeezed his arm. “Ours has been very public.”
“True.” Marc ran a hand along his jaw then looked at her again. “So I’m assuming that’s all the shocking news you wish to tell me.”
Kate chewed her bottom lip. “Actually, no.”
“What else?” Marc asked, his tone wary.
&
nbsp; “I’m pregnant.”
His expression filled with awe as he laid his palm on her abdomen. “Are you certain?”
She rested her hand atop his. “Yes. I took the test two days ago. I wanted to wait until the right time to tell you. I figured this was as good a time as any since I have you captive in a coach, in case you decided to run.”
“I promise you I’m not going anywhere.” He proved it by taking her completely into his arms and kissing her deeply, thoroughly, eliciting a few whistles and catcalls from the crowd. When they parted, he told her, “You have blessed me twice today, Kate. I hope it’s another girl, a sister for Cecile. I admit I favor girls. Much less trouble than boys. Ask my mother.”
Kate was buoyed by his optimism, his love. “If we have a boy, I want him to be just like you.”
Marc brought her hand to his lips. “I want him to be better than me, Kate. I want him to have your spirit, your strength.”
“Marc, how can you say that? You’re the strongest man I’ve ever known.”
“You give me strength, Kate, through your love.”
“And you do the same for me.”
Kate recalled what Mary had said to her in the garden not long after she’d arrived in this beautiful country—to find a place in the world with this beautiful man.
I wish for you that kind of rare and precious love, my dear Kate.
Mary’s wish had been granted, and so had Kate’s. The consummate playboy had been replaced by the consummate king. The ultimate friend, an accomplished lover, the best father a child could know—loved her with all he had to give.
Truly a man for all seasons, and Kate’s husband for all time.
* * * * *
Unmasking the Maverick Prince
KRISTI GOLD
To the Ditzy Chix, the greatest group of authors
on earth, for their wonderful camaraderie. And
to the Chix-a-Dees, a fantastic group of
romance readers whose commitment to the
genre never ceases to amaze me.
Thanks to you all for your continued support.
Prologue
Tomorrow morning, Mitchell Edward Warner III planned to get the hell out of Harvard and return to the Oklahoma cattle ranch where he’d spent every summer since his birth. The place where he’d been taught to ride a horse and rope a steer without breaking too many bones. Where at fifteen, he’d fumbled his way through sex with a country girl down by the creek, high on adrenaline and teenage lust, as well as the prospect of getting caught. By the summer of his eighteenth year, he’d gotten pretty damn good at all three.
But he’d never been any good at being what his father wanted him to be—the heir apparent of a dynasty spanning four generations of high-powered politicians. He’d made the decision to shun his legacy, first by rejecting the preferred Texas alma mater in favor of an Ivy League school, and then going further against tradition by choosing business over law. He refused to enter the world of partisan politics and social-climbing suck-ups where both his father and betrayal reigned supreme.
The hoots and hollers filtering in from outside made Mitch long for a freedom that still wasn’t quite within his reach. Instead, he was hidden away with two friends, Marc DeLoria and Dharr Halim, in their shared apartment. An unlikely trio to most observers, but they had one very important thing in common—unwelcome attention from the press because of family ties. Tonight was no different from the rest. Sons of kings and senators had a hard time remaining invisible.
While the post-graduation party raged outside, Mitch claimed his favorite spot on the floor with his back to the wall, appropriate since at times he felt that way in a very real sense. He tossed aside the ranching magazine he’d pretended to be reading and picked up the champagne bottle to refill his glass, wishing it were a beer. “We’ve already toasted our success. Now I suggest we toast a long bachelorhood.” He topped off Dharr’s and Marc’s drinks, replaced the bottle in the bucket and then held up his glass.
Dharr raised his flute. “I would most definitely toast to that.”
Marc hesitated, champagne in hand, and after a few moments said, “I prefer to propose a wager.”
Dharr and Mitch glanced at each other before turning their attention back to Marc. “What kind of wager, DeLoria?” Mitch asked.
“Well, since we’ve all agreed that we’re not ready for marriage in the immediate future, if ever, I suggest we hold ourselves to those terms by wagering we’ll all be unmarried on our tenth reunion.”
“And if we are not?” Dharr asked.
“We’ll be forced to give away our most prized possession.”
Oh, hell. Mitch could only think of one thing, something he valued more than any material object he had ever owned, and he’d owned plenty. “Give away my gelding? That would be tough.”
Dharr looked even less enthusiastic when he glanced at the painting hanging above Mitch’s head. “I suppose that would be my Modigliani, and I must admit that giving away the nude would cause me great suffering.”
“That’s the point, gentlemen,” Marc said. “The wager would mean nothing if the possessions were meaningless.”
Mitch found it kind of strange that Marc hadn’t mentioned anything he would be willing to give away. “Okay, DeLoria. What’s it going to be for you?”
“The Corvette.”
Damn, that vehicle was legendary, and Mitch had a hard time believing Marc would actually part with it. “You’d give up the love mobile?”
“Of course not. I won’t lose.”
“Nor will I,” Dharr said. “Ten years will be adequate before I am forced to adhere to an arranged marriage in order to produce an heir.”
“No problem for me,” Mitch said, and it wasn’t. “I’m going to avoid marriage at all costs.”
Again Dharr held up his glass. “Then we are all agreed?”
Mitch touched his flute to Dharr’s. “Agreed.”
Marc did the same. “Let the wager begin.”
Mitch smiled, the first sincere one in days. Team players to the end.
Without a doubt, Mitch would beat them all. Marc was too damn fond of women not to get caught in someone’s trap. Dharr would probably buckle under his father’s pressure and marry the woman chosen for him. Which left Mitch to do what he did best—stand on his own.
He figured the press would eventually get tired of stalking him if he didn’t give them anything to talk about. He would blend into the real world in a single-stoplight town where people didn’t look at him like he were some kind of a god. He’d get rid of every suit he’d ever owned, spend his days in jeans and chaps and his nights in the local bar, with women who didn’t expect anything but a few turns on the dance floor and an occasional good time after closing.
And if he was lucky, he’d finally be left alone to live his life as he pleased, however he pleased, and finally walk into a place without being noticed.
One
Nine years later.
When he strode through the doors with all the self-assurance of a living legend, Victoria Barnett almost dropped her plastic cup of cheap chardonnay into her lap.
The pair of Wranglers washed out in places too difficult to ignore, the denim shirt pushed up at the sleeves revealing tanned forearms covered by a veneer of dark hair and the black Resistol tipped low on his brow gave the appearance that he was any hard-working, testosterone-laden cowboy searching for a way to spend a Friday night—probably between the sheets.
But he wasn’t just any cowboy. He was Quail Run’s favored son, the next best thing to American royalty, and Tori’s possible ticket to a pay raise and promotion.
The journalist in her reacted with excitement at the prospect of obtaining the story of the decade. The woman in her reacted with heat to his diamond-blue eyes assessing the crowd with guarded interest as he worked his way to the jam-packed bar.
A few men acknowledged his presence with a casual, “Hey, Mitch,” as if his appearance in this dusty down-home dive was a co
mmon occurrence. More than a few women eyed him as if he were the answer to their wildest dreams.
Tori couldn’t imagine why a man of his caliber would frequent a place like Sadler’s Bar and Grill, or choose to reside in this unforgiving southern Oklahoma town. Had it not been for her best friend’s upcoming wedding, Tori would never have returned to Quail Run, where she’d grown up in hand-me-downs and a hard-luck shack. Poor little Tori, whose mama hadn’t bothered to marry her dad—not that he’d bothered to ask.
But for the first time in two days, she was glad she had come back. And if luck prevailed, Mitch Warner would give her exactly what she needed.
“You really should give it a whirl, Tori.”
Tori turned to her right and gave her attention to Stella Moore, the reason for her presence in the local bar—a final girlfriend get-together before Stella married Bobby Lehman tomorrow night. “Give what a whirl?”
Stella nodded toward the small stage at the front of the dance floor where some bearded, beer-bellied deejay wearing a T-shirt that read Bite Me was setting up for karaoke. “You should sing. You know you want to.”
“Just do it, Tori,” Janie Young said with an added nudge in Tori’s left side. “Plainie Janie” as she’d been known in school. But with her waist-length blond hair, perfectly made-up green eyes and lithe five-foot, eleven-inch frame, Tori concluded that Janie couldn’t lay claim to being plain now. On the contrary, her chosen career involved gracing the runways from New York to Paris as a renowned model known simply as Jada.
“One of you can sing,” Tori said. “I’d rather sit here and finish my wine.” Even if it was really bad wine.
“Come on, Tori,” Stella cajoled. “You had the best voice in the high school choir. Show it off.”
A hot blush crawled up Tori’s throat and settled on her cheeks. “That’s not saying all that much, considering there were only ten of us in the choir.”
Janie frowned. “Don’t put yourself down. You know you’re talented. Besides, it’ll be good practice before you sing at the wedding tomorrow night.”