by Anne Marsh
Screw it—when will I ever have another chance to hang out with a prince? I set my camera bag down on the floor and ease back onto the bed. He’s got an amazing mattress. I sink down and then down some more. You know those movies where angels lounge around on fluffy, white clouds? This is the real-life version, except my companion is more devil than saint.
“I don’t bite.” He frowns at the glossy picture in his hands. “Unless you ask.”
And then he looks at me and winks. His whole face lights up with naughty, wicked pleasure—for me. I’ve made this beautiful prince smile and something inside me ignites like a roman candle.
Be professional.
Okay.
Maybe being professional should be my number one motivation, but I’ll be honest. It’s the million-page contract I signed that’s making me behave. Not that I want to jump Prince Dare, but I’d sort of like to steal a kiss from him. He’s pretty and he’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. On the other hand, so is this job. I force myself to focus on the non-sexy words. “You don’t have a bride? Because I have two stepsisters who would love to audition for the role.”
That’s not a bad plan, actually. If he married Stasia or Ella, I bet the other sister and my stepmother would relocate to this Vale. There would be thousands and thousands of miles between us.
He shudders, slaps the first binder closed, and opens the second. He’s not a fan of my genius plan. “I have a shortlist.”
This is not a Disney movie and Dare isn’t going to choose a bride based on her footwear, but this all seems crazy and more than a little foggy. I blame the contact high I’m sporting after walking past his pool.
“Of fiancées?”
Dare shrugs and my shameless eyes glue themselves to the impressive muscles beneath all that sleek, naked, princely skin. “Yeah.”
“You need a list?”
I know a lot of guys think they need an act of divine intervention in order to recognize The One. It’s like they were born with blinders (or built-in beer goggles) and they happily saunter through life until they bump into the woman who knocks the glasses off. Or lightning strikes, or they both get swept away in some inexplicable flood of feelings so well-timed that the rest of us can hear the movie soundtrack.
“I was given a list,” he corrects me. “A, B, or C.”
Huh.
He nudges my mouth closed and the way his thumb rubs over my bottom lip is really freaking distracting. This prince of mine may be infuriating, but just that casual touch sends heat streaking through my stupid, traitorous body. It makes me think about biting him. Hard.
“I prefer ‘D.’” His eyes light up. “All of the above.”
Of course he does.
“Too bad you can’t marry all of them,” I mock. “Although that seems kind of greedy. Most of us don’t ever find The One, and you want three.”
“Don’t mock me,” he says. His voice is lazy and champagne-warmed, a rough burr with an exotic edge I blame on his Valeian accent. That accent is the bastard love child of a Frenchman and a Russian, and it’s the dirtiest, sexiest burr I’ve ever heard.
“Are you going to throw me in the dungeon?”
He smiles, his fingers stroking gently over my cheek. “Do you want me to?”
Yes, yes, I do. My libido jumps up and down screaming pick me, pick me. Obviously, he’s just playing, but it’s been a long time since I’ve had a guy’s attention focused on me. Sure, I miss the sex, but even more, I miss the little touches. Bumping shoulders with someone and knowing he’s here for me. The hugs, the fingers tangled up together, the stolen T-shirts and a thousand other silly, simple moments where I’m part of an us rather than all alone me.
I’m still lost in the fantasy when Dare removes his fingers from my face, snaps the binder closed, and chucks it into the trash bin. “You’re right,” he says. “This won’t work.”
I don’t remember saying that, but okay. He’s not wrong.
I look up at him. “Do you want to get married?”
Crazy party and my presence aside, it doesn’t seem like he does.
He sprawls backward on the bed, arms and legs going everywhere. His barely there briefs hug his assets, dipping low beneath a chiseled set of abs that demand licking. Or worshipping. My fingers itch to photograph because the man’s built like a natural wonder. He should be on all of those Wonders of the World lists that people have been making and remaking for centuries. Who needs the Colossus of Rhodes when she could have Dare?
Shoot.
I’m staring.
At his dick. My whole body’s warm and lazy from the combination of champagne and exhaustion—and the bad boy prince, of course. The bed’s perfect, too, and if the door would just magically close itself, I might be tempted to climb on top of the prince and use him for a little mindless self-pleasure. And from the looks of things in those Calvins, Dare wouldn’t be opposed to my plan.
“Do I want to get married?” The prince repeats my question slowly. Honestly, I’m not really paying attention to the words coming out of his mouth because I’m far more interested in the very impressive yardstick trying to burst out of his Calvins. So I’m completely unprepared when Dare rolls over, yanking me into his side, and dropping a quick, hard smack of a kiss on my mouth.
I gape at him like a hooked fish. He smirks at me.
“I accept your proposal.”
Wait. What?
Chapter Four
Dare
I totally shouldn’t do this.
Eloping with an unknown American girl is at best scandalous and at worst treasonous. There’s also a few pesky rules in play: Rule A being that royal brides must be citizens of Vale and Rule B being that said royal brides must be approved by the reigning king. Thanks to the copious amounts of champagne I’ve swilled, however, the world has acquired a delightfully fuzzy edge and all I can focus on is just how much Queenie will hate my marriage to a non-Palace-approved bride who’s not in that stack of binders. Problems will definitely arise.
And the biggest problem of them all is that very popular part of me currently trying to burst out of my Calvins. I’m definitely aware that I’m sprawled on a bed next to a curvy, pocket-sized Venus. I smirk down at her as she gapes up at me. She can’t believe her good fortune, can she?
Yes, sweetheart. I am a prince, and we’re gonna get hitched. Seeing as how this is Vegas, I’m betting that there are a wedding chapel and an Elvis officiant who can do the deed for us. Hell, they might even have room service weddings here if I’m lucky.
“Did you get me a ring?” I wink at her.
The look on Edee’s face darkens and I revise my mental description. She’s more Vesuvius than Venus at the moment. That’s okay. I love a good challenge. No matter how much alcohol I’ve drowned my sorrows in, I’m still ready and willing to kiss the sour off her face and replace it with sweet. I lean down and kiss the first freckle I see.
So cute.
“You are unbelievable,” she says slowly.
I don’t think that’s a compliment or even a nod to the fairy-tale life I’ve just offered her. In fact, she slaps a hand against my chest, much harder than is strictly necessary. My bride has claws. And even if I’ve spent my entire life up until now being the spare, I’ve had a ringside seat for palace politics. You don’t actually have to get into the ring to know how boxing works when you can afford the best seats in the house. I’ve watched Nik and Queenie go at it—and at various threats to Vale—long enough to know politics means blood, sweat, bruises, and the occasional flying tooth. The men in my family don’t tap out, which just makes it all the more ridiculous that I’m supposed to take Nik’s place.
On the other hand, my pretty American is clearly hiding a backbone of steel underneath her plain black T-shirt. Part of me is tempted to roll her beneath me and strip it off. Just to make sure that she really is as strong as I
suspect. And yes, so that I can run my tongue down the straight, strong line of her spine until I find a very happy stopping place. I’m a big believer in worshipping perfection, and every sense I have is screaming that Edee is perfect. I don’t know why, but I’ve always gone with my instincts.
Right now my instincts are clamoring that Edee could hold her own against Queenie. So when my phone buzzes with yet another message from Queenie’s personal secretary, demanding I set up a call for the next day, I tap out a quick response: Yes. I add a bunch of random emoticons that look like dancing radishes, and then I sprawl back on the pillows to plot my next move in my secret slow-Queenie’s-roll plan. It’s Edee’s turn to say yes.
She’s staring at me. I don’t think she’s looked away since she sat down.
“You don’t want to marry me.” Her face scrunches up, like just the thought of tying the knot with me has an effect similar to the time I ate ten bean burritos to win a bet. I’ll just say that the aftereffects were not my finest princely moment and leave it at that.
“I do.” I give her my best and most charming grin.
“You don’t know me.”
I reach for the champagne bottle that’s on the bedside table and pour her a glass.
“You’re charming.”
Her fingers brush mine as I hand over the glass.
“You’re not.”
We both know she’s lying. Being charming is the one thing I’m good at. And because she’s not interested in pursuing that statement, she buries her nose in the glass and drinks. When she hits the bottom, she comes up for air and her eyes meet mine. I’m usually more interested in tits and asses than eyes, but hers are gorgeous. I stare into them trying to count the shades of brown. She’s got the tiniest thread of gold that begs me to lean in and follow that path . . . somewhere.
It’s ridiculous, the way I feel. Like we’ve got this connection, some kind of sexy, special connection between our eyes—and other parts of our anatomy. She’s just a convenience, I remind myself. My secret weapon in my nefarious plan to block Queenie’s plot.
“Marriage is serious business,” she protests.
I could tell her about my parents. Except . . . that’s always been an off-limits subject for me. I don’t discuss them or how they died. Or the fact that a large number of people secretly believe that my being a ginger is Exhibit A in the marital infidelity sweepstakes. And yet the next words out of my mouth are exactly that overshare.
“My parents certainly thought so.”
Rumors about my parentage aside, they couldn’t bear to be parted from each other, which was why they were both on the same helicopter despite the safety protocol that prohibited more than one member of the royal family from being on the same flight.
Edee’s gaze softens. Either she’s Googled me, or she hears the note of sadness that I still can’t banish from my voice after all these years. You’d think I’d be used to their absence by now, but I still can’t help imagining what my life would be like if they hadn’t got on that helicopter. If the paparazzi had backed off and left them alone. If, if, if. I’m so done with ifs.
I refill Edee’s glass. That connection thingie is happening between us again and I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from hers, even though she’s talking and asking questions I don’t like to answer.
“They were a prince and princess?”
I flick her a two-fingered salute as I set the bottle back down. “Born to the job.”
Born to it, died on it. And while giving my life for my country on a frontline or a battlefield would be an honor, crashing into a mountainside trying to outfly a bunch of photographers isn’t ever happening again. Not on my watch.
She buries her nose in her champagne flute. “Were they in love?”
“I think so,” I say way too softly. I hope so. Because they were good people, doing the best they could, and it didn’t work out well for them. Queenie’s wrong when he thinks that I could step into his or their shoes. I’m not that kind of man. I’m a charmer, but you don’t feed hungry people cake frosting—and that’s what I am. Light, fluffy, teeth-achingly sweet.
Edee’s forehead puckers up, looking part sad, part confused. “You don’t want that for yourself?”
Edee goes for the conversational jugular. I add that to the pro column. So I lay everything out for her.
“I want a temporary wife, just for a few weeks. Someone completely, wildly inappropriate who will convince my uncle, the current king of Vale, that I’m the absolute worst choice he could make for his successor. If I marry one of the Binder Girls, he’ll be happy, my brother Nik will be disinherited, and I’ll have to be a saint for the rest of my life, which will likely kill me. I’d be grateful if you could help me out with this little problem.”
I’m leaving out a few details, but Edee seems to pick up on the key words. She sets down her glass with a little click. “I’m wildly inappropriate?”
“Are you a princess or a member of a European royal house?”
She shakes her head.
“Preapproved by the ruling king of Vale?”
Another shake. And for the pièce de résistance . . .
“Virgo intacta?”
I don’t move from my sprawl even though it looks like Edee is giving serious consideration to baptizing me with her champagne and then ramming her flute up my nose. I’ve never seen anyone turn quite that shade of pink.
“Is there another qualification on your oh-so-special list?” Her voice is tight—I’ve offended her, which is my second-best specialty. My first, of course, is the almighty O. Since I don’t think she’s going to let me make her come in the next ten minutes, I plow ahead.
“My uncle wants me to marry so he can make me the next king of Vale. He’s my king and I’m going to do what he commands. I’ll buy the cow, take the plunge, make a quickie visit to the chapel.”
“To someone completely inappropriate,” Edee emphasizes.
I beam at her like she’s a particularly bright pupil. “You bet. And then he’ll realize that getting me hitched was a mistake and we’ll undo it. It’s not a legal marriage in Vale if the king doesn’t approve it. We’ll be able to annul it. Naturally, I’ll compensate you for your time. So what do you say?”
“Wow.” She blinks at me, and I can practically hear her thinking. It’s a good thing she’s already signed the standard NDA. “That’s so prince-like.”
I shrug. “Welcome to royal politics. It’s dirtier than an orgy at the Playboy mansion.”
I need to stop making comparisons because I have an excellent imagination and my brain promptly gets busy thinking about orgies and Edee. And even though I’m not a fan personally (I’ve never liked sharing my toys), it’s a fun thought. The bed we’re on is a big one. You could fit the entire Valeian court on this mattress, although it would get crowded. I’m not quite as bad as the media likes to make me out to be, but I feel downright wicked watching Edee.
“Am I boring you?” I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her into my side. Since we’re getting married, she should totally get used to touching me.
She thumps her head down on my chest and then grins unrepentantly with me. “Off with my head?”
“It doesn’t really work that way.” I lower my own head until my mouth is brushing her ear. She smells like strawberries and kiwis, which is probably just her shampoo, but it makes me want to eat her up. This must explain why my tongue does some very naughty exploring.
“How does it work?” The breathy sigh she makes is my new favorite sound. I’d like to make it my ringtone. I’m not supposed to find a woman to marry for real or a future queen, but there’s something about Edee that makes me want to keep her. Just for now. Just until Nik’s future is safe and I can go back to being me.
“I get what I want,” I whisper as my hand curves around her shoulders. I can feel the line of her bra strap
and the warmth of her skin through the thin cotton.
“I don’t believe in fairy tales,” she says.
“No?” I prop myself up on the pillows and get comfortable. One of the nice things about fairy tales is that they’re both short and predictable. There’s a whole lot of dark and grim, some kink, and then good kicks evil’s ass and the end. In this story, I’m the bad guy. I’m the evil prince who’s supposed to usurp the good prince’s throne, so I figure my beat-down is only pages away.
“Exhibit A. My dad and my mom were in love,” she says. “And then boom. Divorce. He remarried, and then he died.”
I have to admit that doesn’t sound like happily-ever-after. I take a guess.
“Evil stepmother?”
She shrugs. “Tomato, tomahto. I like to think that my dad was so happy being married that he couldn’t handle being alone. It’s like he got to have Thanksgiving for dinner every night and then his meal suddenly disappeared and so he ended up in a drive-through stocking up on one-dollar burgers because he had this big empty spot inside him.”
There are regret and sadness in her voice, and something else as well. I imagine her as somebody’s baby girl, bringing a smile to his face, and it’s surprisingly easy. I’m not entirely sure what to say, but she’s looking at me like it’s my turn to contribute something to our conversation.
I give it a shot. “He got married and then he got indigestion?”
“Something like that.” Her grin is stunning. “My stepmother isn’t easy to digest.”
“Man cannot live on one-dollar cheeseburgers alone,” I deadpan. “Marry me, Edee Jones. Fuck fairy tales. We don’t have to live happily-ever-after, but we can rock the next month.”
Edee stares at my face like all twelve hundred pages of the contract my lawyers will draw up are written there. Or maybe whatever she’s reading is way less dry and far more . . . fantasy-oriented. Because after a long moment, she nods and sets her hand on my chest. Right over my heart as if she’s digging in or making a point. Or maybe she’s just working up to saying no.