Into Her Fantasies -- A Contemporary Romance: The Cimarrons: Royals of Arcadia Island (The Cimarron Series Book 3)

by Angel Payne

  More of the TV headlines returned to mind—with a fresh, shocking implication. “So…nobody even knows if the guy’s actually punched his V card?”

  “Ding, ding, ding.”

  “And pretty princey himself won’t confirm or deny it either?”

  “Remember the part about how he likes his privacy?”

  I pivoted. Faced the sink. Eyeballed the blinking red motion detector for the faucet, wondering why my pulse had suddenly upticked to match its beat. What the hell? The status of Shiraz Cimarron’s virginity—or, more likely, just how far from “virginal” he’d gotten by now—was of no concern to me. None. That included all thoughts of how and with whom the man chose to get naked.

  And now I’d gone and done it.

  Just thinking of the man getting naked…

  Wow.

  Not. Going. There.

  “Well, he can keep his privacy.” My reflection scowled at Ezra’s. Using the secondhand delivery system made it easier to connect with the message. Or maybe the words just felt damn good to declare. “I’m flying there to connect with his brain, not his dick, and only long enough to impress the shit out of him with our proposal.”

  Ez also used the mirror as his messenger, rocking out a skeptical glare. “Hope you’re damn serious about that, missy—especially when that boy’s fine, fierce, potentially undipped wick is right in front of you.”

  I did it. Went ahead and rolled my eyes. “You want to give me a little credit?”

  “A little,” he conceded. “But I’ve seen your libido in action, Lucina Louise—action you haven’t enjoyed in a while.”

  I let my head drop. Batted both eyes in coy exaggeration. “I’m bringing all my favorite appliances along for the trip, darling. Extra batteries too.”

  He returned the grin. “Well, excellent!”

  We sealed the deal like usual. Hip bump then a hug. As soon as that was done, in our considerably clearer air, I ventured, “So aside from knowing this proposal better than my own name, what else should I do to prep for Shiraz of the Nuances?”

  Though that made Ez’s lips twitch, he was quick with the serious comeback. “Brutal truth?”

  “Is there any other kind?”

  He sucked back a big breath. “Dial back Miz Kinky Sass. Turn on Miss Prissy Tea Time. One thing we definitely do know about him? He’s a straight shooter when it comes to corporate prowess. I mean, the man’s daily planner probably has target goals instead of action plans, and he scores bulls-eyes on every one of them.”

  “Sheez.”

  “Bet your sweet ass, sheez.”

  “So what are we talking here?” I turned, meeting him eye-to-eye again. “Quick run to Costume Castle for a Mary Poppins cos play, or do I break out my nanna’s Dior?”

  Nanna, God rest her, had possessed impeccable fashion taste. I loved her stuff so much, she’d left a few pieces to me in her will, including a flawless black Dior, circa mid-50’s, with layers of crinoline and a deep V neck. I loved finding excuses to wear it.

  “No!”

  And apparently, this wouldn’t be one of those times.

  “This guy is your CEO nightmare on crack,” Ezra went on. “Wear your pinstripe skirt suit. And nude hose. And for God’s sake, secretary shoes.”

  I scowled. Deeply. “What the hell are secretary shoes?”

  “Do you have any flats?”

  “I have stilettos, wedges, platforms, boots—do boots count as flats?”

  “Not your kind of boots.”

  “Then no bueno on the flats.”

  “So borrow some from your mom. And wear your hair back. All the way.”

  I grabbed a hock of my split ends. “Hello? Layers?”

  “Hello? Bobby pins? And darling, one earring in each ear. Pearls are best. I know you have those.”

  Fighting him on that one was futile. He’d been there the day Mom moved into Ben’s place for good, and she’d found Nanna’s wedding earrings. Ez had held us both as we’d bawled after Mom gave them to me, saying she knew Nanna would want me to have them.

  I watched as the memory struck him, just as it did me—underlining the truth that bloomed, warm and full, between us.

  That despite executive meetings in the ladies’ room, we were a damn fine team. Despite all the ups and downs, twists and turns, dysfunctions and malfunctions of life in LA-LA Land, we’d managed to forge something rare in this strange place.

  A true friendship.

  Proved very clearly by my next thought.

  If I looked at Ez right now, even refusing to fly to Arcadia so I could roll out Expectation’s dog-and-pony for some stick-up-his-ass prince, he’d not love me an inch less. We’d hug, then begin tomorrow from ground zero. We’d find other weddings to produce—and before they came through, rent ourselves as kid party clowns if need be.

  We’d find a way. We always did.

  Which was why I’d find a way to get through this bullshit with Shiraz Cimarron. I’d do it in a stupid skirt suit and boring shoes, and I’d hit the hell out of this home run for our team and our future.

  How long could the whole process take, anyway? Couple of days? Perhaps a week? I could do anything for a week, even in flats. Once Ezra had his new passport, he’d make the actual follow-up trips to Arcadia for planning the wedding, likely flying me back solely for execution on the big day itself. By then I’d have exchanged the flats for boots. Or roller skates. Or both.

  One week.

  An eye’s blink in the whole span of my life. Barely enough for a few memories, let alone massive life landscape changes.

  Yeah, I had this shit.

  By this time next week, Shiraz Cimarron would be just a pretty face in my rearview—viewed through the shades I’d have to wear because of my bright, blinding future.

  Chapter Two

  ‡

  “Holy shit.”

  The words ricocheted back at me from the mosaicked walls of the Palais Arcadia rotunda, bringing the horrifying recognition I’d spoken them out loud. Okay, whispered. At least it wasn’t a moronic gasp. Those I gulped back—between numerous mental floggings.

  How the hell had I thought internet “research” was a proper substitute for all this? How could I have bitched, for a second, that the Cimarrons’ insistence on flying me here was a waste of money? Most importantly, how did I assume Ez and I could conceive a ceremony and reception to match this grandeur?

  The beauty continued as I followed a petite court page with a sleek French twist down several more hallways. Every tiled masterpiece was more intricate than its predecessor, shifting in theme from ocean and rainforests to the gold, red, and cobalt of the Arcadian crest. In spots where the walls gave way to archways, I snatched glimpses of balconies with elegant wrought-iron furniture, overlooking lush gardens and unspoiled shoreline. Beyond those beaches and cliffs, the Mediterranean was beautiful beyond description. The waves, like liquefied blue orchids, were dazzled with diamonds of sunlight and edged with lacy foam. It was splendor to the point of pain, but looking away wasn’t an option—as I learned while waiting for the page to swipe a fob over a digital panel embedded into a wall.

  I looked away from the view long enough to gape at the state-of-the-art lock. The moment was like the scene in Somewhere in Time, with Christopher Reeve jarred back to real life by pulling out a modern penny. I was equally jolted as we left the enchanted castle, entering offices that could’ve been transplanted from any modern corporate park.

  All traces of the old-world majesty were gone. Our footsteps were muted by industrial carpeting, instead of echoing on marble hallways. A collection of secretary cubicles stretched in front of us, decorated with kid pictures and puppy calendars. Their occupants chattered merrily. I was a little surprised, happily so, to see the international assortment of complexions and body types. From curvy redheads to ballerina blondes to wild Beyoncé locks, there were men and women to represent the look. Everyone was dressed in modern white pantsuits, accented with red and gold brocade scarves f
or the ladies, and matching ties for the men.

  My fascination was returned a hundred-fold. Though conversations didn’t come to screeching stops, I discerned fascinated whispers as I kept up with the page. Weirdness. While I was used to such behavior, it was usually because of gossip about the bride I trailed, not me. What were these people thinking of the American main attraction now?

  Not that I had a lot of time to ponder those answers. Keeping pace with the assistant was turning into my workout for the week…maybe the month. Ruthless pace, thy name is a court page in flats.

  Inwardly, I hissed at those flats.

  Note to self. Leave out that part during the debrief with Ezra.

  We entered another part of the offices, where the cubicles were replaced by actual offices lining a modern hallway. Through one open door I glimpsed an eye-popper of a modern conference room, outfitted with speakerphone consoles, wide AV screens, and even the latest in two-way hologram projectors.

  “Sheez-ussss.”

  The page glanced over her shoulder. “Miss Fava? Is anything wrong?”

  I lifted a perky smile. “Nope. Right as rain.”

  “Oh! I love that expression too!”

  “I’ll bet you do,” I mumbled.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Uhhh…mmm…I said, what a coincidence…boo?”

  So I’d never win a rap battle. Thank God the girl looked more set on guiding me deeper into the office labyrinth than throwing down some one-liners—though we didn’t get much farther on that quest either, once a couple of women emerged from the next conference room, curious smiles on their faces.

  I recognized them at once, as damn well I should have. A brunette and a blonde, one rocking a cute ponytail and the other with a chin-length blunt cut. Both looked me nearly eye-to-eye because of the killer-cute heels on their feet. Heels. What the fuck?

  On the other hand, they weren’t the ones needing to make an impression here—proved by the goose egg diamonds on their ring fingers.

  “I heard a Southern California accent,” the blonde claimed in a sing-song.

  Her companion went for an eye roll. “I’d spank you but you’d like it, sister.”

  The blonde scowled. “What the hell?”

  “Californians don’t have accents.” She directed a wider smile my way. “They do, however, know how to greet one of their own.” And in seconds, had me locked in a sunshiney hug. “Hi there. Welcome to Arcadia. You’re Lucina Fava, right?”

  “Guess you’re hoping I am.” As I’d hoped, the quip met with her approving chuckle. “It’s lovely to meet you, Your Majesty Camellia.”

  “Just Camellia,” she insisted, stepping back to let her “sister” shift forward, extending a hand with more formality. “Or Cam, please. I’m not officially ‘Majesty’ of anything until after the wedding. And this is Brooke Valen-Cimarron, already the sister of my heart, soon to be my real sister-in-law.”

  Yeah, I knew that too, but tried to shake the petite blonde’s hand with a blend of formality and friendliness. “And I’m here to propose ideas about you both doing that in beauty and style.”

  “Oh, we know.” Brooke tilted an impish smile. “And believe me, the fact that you’re here says a lot about what we thought of your proposal.”

  I looked at the ceiling for a second, praying for the strength not to leap all the way through it. “That’s incredible to hear.” Swung my gaze over to include Camellia in the kumbaya of its gratitude. “The competition’s been fierce on this one.” Nervous laugh. “But duh, you both already know that. And I really did just use ‘duh’ in a complete sentence.” Forget the laugh; fast-forward to the blush. “And now I’m really babbling like an idiot, because that’s what I do when I’m nervous as hell, and—”

  “You too, huh?” Brooke interjected, though Camellia joined her own giggle to the mix, as well.

  “We get it, Lucy. Really, we do.” Her body did a squirmy thing, as if she wanted to hug me again but chose a more “queenly” response. “But you wouldn’t be here if we didn’t love your ideas and weren’t impressed by Expectation’s credentials—though as you might guess in situations like this, we aren’t the only ones in on the decision.”

  “Of course.” I blurted it automatically but studied her with fresh intensity. Did I accept her words at face value, or was she being kind, trying to hide that they’d learned about us losing the Kii Ramone gig? That tidbit hadn’t gone public yet but celebrities talked, just like all their “help” did. If someone from Arcadia had spoken to Kii recently…

  Brooke pushed into my rumination with a snort. “She’s just trying to be delicate, Lucy.”

  My heart thudded into my throat. “Delicate? About what?”

  “What she means is, if we two alone had the choice, Expectation would have bagged this thing already.”

  “Oh.” I struggled to keep my exhalation casual. “Wow. Okay. Cool.”

  “Regrettably, though, we don’t.” Brooke punctuated with a girl growl, when Camellia really did smack her backside. “Whaaat, dammit? She has a right to know!”

  “Know what?” I rushed the words to avoid stabbing too much insecurity into them. Like I needed to remind myself of that little factoid.

  “Nothing you won’t be able to handle.” Camellia scrambled to squeeze my arm, though it didn’t carry the reassurance she clearly intended. What the hell was that? What was I supposed to handle, other than meeting with their fashion spread hunk of a brother-in-law? Was she talking normal political bullshit “handle”, or zombie apocalypse “handle”? “These things are rarely just a simple signature on a contract,” she went on. “You know that, right?”

  “Sure. Right.” I hoped that sounded better than it felt, especially because the page started guiding me away. The golden rule of wedding planning was the bride—in this case, brides—on one’s side as much as possible, but I’d gotten here early so a prince wouldn’t be waiting on me. “It was awesome to meet you both,” I blurted, blushing again like a damn teenager. “Errm—I mean, it was a true pleasure, and—”

  “Awww, shaddup.” Brooke invoked enough Daffy Duck to crack the three of us and the page up. She sweetened the deal by hauling me into another full hug. “It was awesome to meet you too, girl.”

  After that bath of bridal warm and fuzzy, it was rough to keep following the page down the hall, but I steeled my nerves for whatever lie ahead. I could do this, dammit. I’d rehearsed this presentation so thoroughly I’d be able to present the whole thing to Congress if needed.

  Around a bend and past one more boardroom, then we stepped in a high-domed atrium filled entirely by natural sunlight. The effect was nothing short of the word that emerged before I could help it.

  “Wow.”

  The page lifted a knowing smile as I peered around, taking in the bounty of tropical palms and flowers surrounding a mosaic set into the floor. The sparkling glass pieces emulated the eddies of a lagoon, with a quaint stone bridge arching gently over the “water”. At the other side rested a wide reception desk overseen by a woman with the face of a fairy and the hair of Morticia Addams. Not a lot of people could rock that combination, but on her it seemed right—to the point I was intimidated once more.

  Yay me.

  Sheez and fucking rice. I didn’t do intimidated.

  Intimidated was for people who hadn’t been told their daddy was shot trying to catch a bad guy. Who hadn’t had to pack up a house by themselves, because Mom was in the other room sobbing about it. Who hadn’t gone to bed listening to Mom cry harder, after the department ruled he’d acted “outside the law” chasing that bad guy. And who hadn’t started working at thirteen, hoping even a part-time job would make it possible for Mom to quit the shittier of her two jobs—the one with the greasy boss who used phrases like “three’s really not a crowd” and “I like eating candy two at a time”.

  Yeah. Intimidated hadn’t been part of my vocabulary for years. I wasn’t about to let it in now.

  It worsened as Fair
y Morticia stepped around her big marble desk, extending a hand as if I were the damn president coming to visit. “Miss Fava. Greetings.” She leaned in like I was the most riveting person she’d ever met. “Were your travels pleasant?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Total lie. The turbulence had been so insane I’d spouted Hail Marys for the first time in years, but no way was that getting shared. I was certain Morticia would march to Heaven on my behalf, to have a few words with The big guy about the winter weather patterns over the Atlantic.

  “Excellent,” she replied, backing off on the lemur stare. Good thing, because her voice was actually the craziest part about her. It really was a mix of Morticia and Tinkerbell, though it was as soothing as her handshake. “My name is Crista Noble. I am Prince Shiraz’s main assistant, and I am here to take care of you in any capacity during your stay in Arcadia.”

  I lifted a teasing smile. “Main assistant? What happened to Park and Central?”

  The page girl giggled. Crista didn’t. Though if Shiraz Cimarron was half the workaholic everyone painted him to be, I doubted Crista got out much. Not that there was “much” to get out to. Sancti might be large enough for an actual Main Street, but I doubted there was a Park Avenue or Central Boulevard to go with it.

  “Sorry,” I muttered. “Not even…a little funny.”

  “Well.” Crista’s lips quirked a little. “Perhaps…a little.”

  I rejoiced at not having to jam Crista into the Stepford Assistant file. “I’m early,” I continued with a bigger smile. “Maybe I’ll just take a second to run to the ladies—”

  “Crista.”

  The interruption was as fake as it was sweet. Glass disguised as candy. Its source, a woman who’d emerged from the arched doorway behind Crista, exuded the same impression. She was a few inches shorter than me, with an hourglass figure enhanced in all the right ways by a dark pink sweater and black pencil skirt. But for all the softness of her outfit, her eyes were lined in sharp kohl and her cheeks contoured in severe blush, making it difficult to appreciate her God-given beauty.

  “Crista.” It was a full demand this time.