by Anne Marsh
The big question is, what the heck is he doing here?
“Hi,” I croak out.
Crap. I’m blushing. I thought I’d worked my blush to death last night (Dare is obscenely inventive), but apparently not.
Mr. Left gives me the brisk head tip that seems to be security for hello and holds out an armful of paper carrier bags. He doesn’t seem the least bit disturbed that I spent the night shagging Vale’s second-in-line or that our wild, monkey sex got downright dirty before the night was over. God. I just hope it’s true what Dare said, that the windows are lens-proof and none of the paparazzi can snap us when we’re inside the suite. The rooftop pool, as he pointed out, is a different story, so I passed on having sex in the water. Which, to be honest, has never been a particular favorite of mine. Water makes everything tight, plus there’s an unacceptable risk of drowning or swallowing dirty pool water.
Dare’s demanded a chance to change my mind. He sounded downright certain that I’d enjoy water shenanigans with him, so I’m giving it some consideration.
And shit . . . I’m blushing again.
In need of a distraction, I look down at the small mountain of bags I’m now holding. “What are these?”
“Clothes.” Mr. Left is a proponent of minimalism because he wastes no words. “For you. His Royal Highness thought you might want a change.”
Uh-huh. And while I appreciate his thoughtfulness, I can also tell that there’s far more than a single outfit in these bags unless the man intends to wrap me up like a mummy. I peek in the topmost one and am met with a cloud of scented tissue paper and ribbon.
Before I can shove the whole lot back at Mr. Left, the bodyguard beats a strategic retreat and I’m left holding the bag. Bags. I consider humming a few bars of “Pretty Woman” and swinging the bags while I skip jauntily around the room in my best Julia Roberts imitation, but I’m bra-less, stylist-less, and still wiped out from my sex marathon. Pretending to be a movie star will have to wait.
I shut the door and try to come up with a plan that covers unexpected gifts of Chanel and True Religion. There doesn’t seem to be a lock on the door, which is just weird. Maybe if you’re born in a palace you get used to the lack of privacy and having other people in your business, but I like my space. And locks. And a million other things that . . . don’t matter.
Dare chooses this moment to stick his head out of the bathroom door. Not only is he wearing just a towel, but he’s chosen what appears to be a hand towel. The Egyptian cotton just skims his goodies and does absolutely nothing to conceal the enormous erection he’s sporting. The man is royally hung, as the errant water droplet snaking down his chest would like me to notice. Or perhaps he could use a good licking? My tongue is definitely not sore and I suddenly have all sorts of ideas.
“Why are you out there and not in here?” He makes a sad face that on anybody else would be a pout. On him . . . well, on him it should just be illegal.
“Because apparently it’s Christmas and Santa came early.” I shake the mountain of bags in his direction just in case he’s missed their ostentatious arrival.
“Well,” he runs a hand over a delightfully scruffy chin as he takes in the bags, “you were a very good girl last night.”
“And here I thought I was permanently on the naughty list,” I say.
Dare winks. “That, too. Come in here and show me what Santa brings bad girls. Could be you’ve got nothing but coal.”
If there’s any coal in these bags, I’m betting it takes the form of a stock certificate or private ownership of a mine in Pennsylvania. Since it seems ungrateful to protest his largesse, however, I follow him into the bathroom.
I’ve already figured out that vacationing post-prince is going to suck. Dare buys nothing but the best (and no, I haven’t yet figured out where I fall in that model) and his hotel room is the acme of princely luxury. The bathroom is not only the size of my cabana, but it’s also pleasantly warm from the steam pouring out of the ginormous glass shower that is the companion to an equally oversized tub.
He reaches into the shower and hits the water. “If you’re a dirty girl, you should clean up.”
He fingers the tie on my borrowed robe.
And that’s when I decide screw it. I’m a big believer in equal opportunities—and Dare’s been opportunitying me all night. So now it’s my turn.
I untie my robe and let it pool around my feet.
“Why don’t you show me what you have in mind, big guy?”
I step into the shower.
Dare’s a smart man. He drags his gaze up from my naked, getting-wet boobs, drops his own towel, and proceeds to show me exactly why it’s good to own a very large shower.
* * *
* * *
After we’ve thoroughly christened the shower, Dare shaves while I rummage through the bags he’s had sent up for me. There’s the aforementioned Chanel and True Religion (which is a bizarre but strangely appealing combination), plus Fendi, Dior, Gucci, and a dozen other names I’ve only encountered on the pages of Vogue. In short, I appear to have an entire freaking wardrobe from the expensive designer shops that tempt lucky players to spend their casino winnings—or for the unlucky to console themselves with some retail therapy. I’m not sure how I feel about the excess. Or maybe I’m supposed to send most of it back? Or offer to pay for it myself? I don’t like taking things from him.
Dare drags the straight edge down his face and watches me in the mirror. It seems a shame to de-stubble him, but I console myself with the fact that it’ll grow back by tonight. In the meantime, I desperately need a pair of panties because otherwise we’ll just end up back in bed. Hence my scavenger hunt in the bags.
I decide a powder blue thong from Victoria’s Secret. Not too pricey and definitely acceptable since Dare’s responsible for the demise of my last pair. Then I start looking around for last night’s clothes.
“What are you looking for?”
“My clothes.”
He points to the bags. “Clothes.”
“My clothes.”
He shrugs. “Those are yours.”
“I can’t—” I wave awkwardly at the bags.
His forehead scrunches up. “It’s no BFD. I’m not trying to buy you. I just thought you’d like something clean.”
“There are enough clothes here for a week, Dare.”
He shrugs again. “Choices are good.” He grabs the closest bag and rummages through it. “This is pretty.”
He’s not wrong. The jeans he holds up are gorgeous. I’m instantly in love. The denim looks soft, but the best thing is the embroidery running down the legs. Little blue, super pretty, insanely expensive poppies. Or possibly bluebells. Something romantic but I’m no gardener. The price tag catches my eye and . . . holy crap. People pay two hundred dollars for jeans?
No freaking way.
“Pretty please?” Dare gives me puppy dog eyes over the top of the jeans. He should look ridiculous, but nope. He just looks hot and now I’m staring into his eyes, unable to say no.
I cave. Okay. I completely, totally cave—because those jeans are amazing and I’ll never have another chance. And he really doesn’t seem to care about money. I guess he’s got so much that all this is nothing to him, but it’s not nothing to me. Now I know how Eve must have felt when the serpent offered her that bright, red, shiny apple. It’s so pretty. So perfect. So decadently unlike anything I’ve ever seen, this life of Dare’s.
While I pick out the rest of my new outfit (although Dare says he’s more than happy for me to go topless), he gets dressed. The navy blue slacks and the tapered shirt that’s open at the collar are different from his usual uniform of jeans and T-shirts. For a prince, he’s far less buttoned up and ironed than I’d expect and my brain suggests that now would be a great time to revisit my favorite dirty business tycoon fantasy.
I need to get my h
ead out of his pants.
Desperate for a distraction, I go out and make a quick sweep of the bedroom making sure I’ve got all my stuff. If I don’t, he’ll probably just offer to replace it and then we’ll have our first marital argument. I don’t spot any AWOL socks or panties, though, so I grab my purse and turn to the door. Reality awaits on the other side. Such a bummer.
“Wait up a moment?” Dare leans against the wall, effectively barring my escape. I mean, I could brush past him, but that would be rude and friendliness is important.
“What’s up?” My stomach flip-flops, not sure what’s coming next. I mean, we’re already married and we’ve had awesome sex, so I’ve probably more than used up my share of good things.
“So.” His hand taps out a staccato rhythm against his thigh.
“If you want to have a conversation, you should have been stingier with the orgasms.”
He smiles and I add one more good thing to the day’s tally. “I want to ask you something.”
“Okay?”
“Do you still want to go home?”
Is that a trick question? His eyes meet mine and my stomach stops flip-flopping and heads into free fall. I should play it cool. I should act like I could take or leave him. Because I could. This is just sex. Really convenient, super-hot, gotta-have-more sex.
“Because I’d really like it if you stayed,” he continues. “With me. While I’m in Vegas.”
He stops talking, but he doesn’t move.
Maybe the reason why so many people advocate couples counseling is because no guy can complete a sentence about feelings and relationships. It’s too much and their man brains overload.
“You want me to stay? With you?”
Clarity is important.
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “But only if you want to.”
This is one of those amazing offers—with the teeny-tiny asterisk that refers you to the disclaimers you can’t read without a magnifying glass. That’s just a small ice cube floating on the top of the sea—not a Titanic-inducing iceberg lurking beneath the surface. There’s nothing to worry about. Say yes to the hot prince. Yes to the fairy-tale life. Yes to happily-right-now.
You think I should hit pause?
I hear your concerns, but I understand the situation. Dare’s a prince and he’s going to leave someday soon. There are no babies or white picket fences or forever in our future. He’s offering the frosting but not the cake—and yes, I really, really want to lick his . . . spoon. He’s unfiltered, dirty, and fun. A man I’ve spent quality time with—clothed and unclothed. And I kind of want to get to know him better and not just because his dick is spectacular.
Which it totally is.
He is.
And that’s the reason why I’m willing to stay. Is it stupid? Yes. There’s a good reason I always make sure I leave first. That way, I stay safe. No hurt, no public humiliation, no risk. Dare’s name kind of says it all. I knew I wanted him when he offered me a contract, but I didn’t realize it was more than just the sexy fun times. Yes, I get turned on just thinking about him. Remembering what he’s done to me. What we’ve done to each other. He makes me feel impossibly good.
Or bad.
And it turns out I like bad and just maybe . . . I’d like to do it—him—a little longer. I told Carla that I’d have no problem keeping my hands off the prince, and that turned out to be a lie. The rest of what I said to her, though? It’s still true. Life has inoculated me against fairy-tale endings and I’m not hoping for forever. Falling in love isn’t something I do and I just want a little more time—so I’ll take it.
I’ll do this.
Dare.
Any second now, I’m going to spontaneously combust. Nerves, excitement—a little from column A, a lot from column B. I can’t breathe, can barely get the word out.
“Okay.”
A poet I am not. But a smile spreads across Dare’s face and big hands grab my hips, pulling me close.
“Okay then. I’ll be yours and you’ll be mine while I’m in Vegas.”
The words are sweet, the kind of message that you find printed on those candy hearts that pop up in February every year. Be mine. I love you. Urs 4 ever. So pretty. And like the candy, the words just melt away.
Chapter Fourteen
Dare
“I hear you’re shopping for a place. Are you playing house now? What’s next? A harem?” Luca glowers at me.
It’s a toss-up whether my brother is the bigger grump—or the bigger dick. I’m FaceTiming with him on my phone while a luxury-suit-wearing real estate agent gives Edee and I a private showing of the newest prince-worthy mansion to hit the market this week.
I flip him the bird, angling my phone so he can’t pretend he doesn’t see my finger communicating with him. “Harems are so last week.”
Luca just grunts. “Too much hassle.”
“Your people skills are rusty,” I tell him. “You should really work on that.”
He shrugs, but a hint of a smile quirks the corner of his mouth. Nik and I like to tell reporters that Luca has a facial condition and full-blown smiling causes him acute pain.
“Four girls, five,” I tease. “Imagine the . . . conversation.”
“I live in a castle with a moat. You should try that. Or maybe a chastity belt if we’re sticking with the medieval theme.”
Chastity is not happening when I’m around Edee.
“I’m a newlywed.”
“When are you coming home?” Luca frowns. “Queenie’s busting my balls because you’re not here.”
“Let me think.” I tap my lower lip with the phone. Close up time! “How about never?”
We’re pretending to be married. We’ve got a deal. I’m hers and she’s mine while I’m in Vegas. I make sure the paparazzi catch teasing glimpses of us out and about; we shop for mansions; we boink like sex-crazed bunnies every chance we get. The press has run with the Apple Pie Princess nickname and they adore Edee. I’m not sure she feels the same way.
“Dare—” Luca sounds like a dog working over a chew toy.
He should get out more. The room I’m hanging in, for example, is a refreshing change of scenery from our hotel suite. The room is ridiculous—it’s roughly the size of a football field. If Edee and I lived here, we’d never see each other. She’s lost somewhere upstairs anyhow, checking out the bathroom. I’ve recently discovered that tubs are Edee’s favorite house porn. The minute we set foot in a new house, she heads straight for the bathroom to take pictures. Also on her fantasy list? Liberace-worthy chandeliers. I’m buying her a real one for Christmas. It’s Vegas. There’s bound to be a spare one around.
“Has brother number one resurfaced?” I play it cool but I need an answer.
Luca grunts something I take is a no.
Fuck.
I need Nik to come back and take over the heirdom. My arrangement with Edee isn’t a forever kind of thing. My proposal was reckless, a way to buy time. I knew I didn’t want to be king, but I didn’t realize just how bad I’d be at it until now. I live for the moment. I’m not a planner, not diplomatic, not all the things a leader should be. One minute I was the spare, hanging out in the royal wings, the life of the party, and the next minute I was up to bat with no clue how to hit the home run the crowd was chanting for.
I’m still lost.
Or rather, I’m still me and that’s the problem. I haven’t magically transformed into king material. Queenie may have anointed me the chosen one, but even he can’t change who I am. He can’t make me be Nik—even if I wish he could. I know I need to be better. Be more. Be royal. It’s just that I have no idea how to do it and time is running out fast. My big plan was to stall until Nik came home and took over—but now that it looks like Nik might not make it?
I’m panicking. It’s not like Nik to flake out on his responsibilities, so where is
he? And is he okay? There’s no magical connection between us, no secret Spidey-sense that flares to life announcing that my future king and brother is in trouble, but nothing sounds so logical when I think it through. Nik’s gone, incommunicado. Queenie’s worried. And maybe, if I hadn’t been so busy worrying about my own shit, I’d have put two and two together sooner.
My panic must bleed into the sudden silence because Luca actually volunteers a question. Usually he’s quieter than the bloody mountain he hides out on. “What do you want with a mansion in Vegas anyhow?”
“Today’s candidate only has seven bedrooms,” I point out. In royal terms, it’s totally a starter home.
Luca grunts again. Sometimes I think he speaks Neanderthal rather than English. “Were you planning on procreating right away?”
“I shrink-wrapped my bad boy.” I smirk, remembering last night. We’d christened the tub in our hotel suite. And while I’m not a big fan of floating around in something that smells like a fruit bowl, Edee made it up to me. Turns out, she can also hold her breath for a spectacularly long time. She used to be a competitive swimmer, and let’s just say she can go awhile underwater.
“So you’re being careful.” Luca doesn’t seem pleased by my announcement. He leans forward, folding his arms over his chest. Knowing him, he’s got his phone jerry-rigged in some super-cool gizmo he invented because he was bored and had spare parts lying around. “Do not take her word for it if she claims she’s on the pill. And only use condoms that you bought.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“You should probably inspect the condoms, just to be sure. And don’t tell me that Edee’s different and wouldn’t do anything to trap you. I’m just looking out for you.”
Condoms, even unsabotaged ones, aren’t a sure thing. I know that—but I don’t really appreciate the reminder. We both know more than one guy who’s had his life royally hamstrung because he got a girl pregnant. As a prince, there aren’t many rules that I have to follow. Pay your bills. Ask for a yes. Support your bastards.