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

by Angel Payne

Yeah. Dog with a damn bone.

  “Confusion,” I confessed. “Maybe frustration.” Probably frustration, if my raging hormones had anything to say about it. What the hell was in the secret sauce of this man’s presence that had fried my libido this hard, this fast? He was so perfect even now, with his stance visibly tensing and his features crunching to a grimace.

  “Hmmph,” he grunted. “That does not sound like a very constructive word, then.”

  “Says you,” I flung back. “It’s very constructive. And versatile. As a matter of fact, it’s my go-to for celebration as much as frustration.”

  “And I have not given you cause for much celebration yet.”

  Well…hell. He had to go and do it again. Flip my game plan completely on its side. Who the hell was I kidding? The game plan had been shredded the moment I walked in here. His quiet, commanding concern just aided in the shred.

  Not. Acceptable.

  I needed him to be the uptight asshat I’d drawn out so clearly in LA. While we were at it, where was the doughy dude who wasn’t more beautiful than his gossip rag pictures? And the prince who was too royal to be worried about a “commoner” like me?

  Flip. The. Switches.

  “Well then, let’s talk about a celebration.” Inner fist pump. There was the switch flipper I knew and loved. Long as I had the ball rolling, I nudged a little harder. “That starts with being straight-up with me. Your Highness, will you or will you not be proposing to Ambyr Stratiss?”

  Chapter Five

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  A long minute of silence bridged into two.

  I was the only one in the room who noticed.

  The prince was lost to his own thoughts, even while yanking out his big chair then plummeting into it. He leaned back at a slant, comprising one of the most graceful slumps I’d ever witnessed. The man had a pirate’s game, a ninja’s grace, and a dark, etched beauty that was strictly his own. The thick, tumbling hair. The majestic, oceanic gaze. That unstoppable, unmerciful jawline.

  He drummed his fingers again, drawing my attention to the two photos—his only personal items—on the desk. The images, in matching black frames, looked recent. In one, Shiraz laughed on a beach with his three siblings. They were barefoot but dressed in formal Arcadian wear, their red and black outfits a perfect blend with the sunset’s bronze glow. The other photo was a formal portrait of the queen mother and king father. Ardent stood behind Xaria, a hand on her shoulder, and she reached up to cover his hand with hers.

  With eyes fixed on that image, he finally murmured, “My parents’ marriage was one step short of being prearranged.”

  His wistful tone yanked my stare back to the high couple’s photo. “Really?”

  He glanced up, a soft tease in his eyes. “Your research about our land did not cover the practice of The Distinct, I take it?”

  Deep frown. “The what?”

  He rose again. Strolled back around to my side of the desk. “The Distinct date back to Arcadia’s earliest days.”

  “What the hell is it?”

  “You mean they.”

  “Huh?”

  “You mean who are they.”

  I lowered into one of the chairs facing the desk. Let out a slow, “Okay…”

  “The prince in line to next inherit the throne was required to be married by the time he was thirty, whether he’d ascended to full rule or not,” he explained. “Blood lines needed to flow, despite the country’s political climate. A selection of the kingdom’s finest maidens was compiled for him to select from. The final fifteen were culled from an extensive review and vetting process. All of the women, then known as The Distinct, were then invited to the Palais for a period of time, so the prince could make the final decision and proposal for himself.”

  I instinctively slid a hand over my belly—as it turned over in three different ways. Was he kidding?

  The serious set of his face provided my answer.

  “Right,” I snapped. “So they brought him—what—a freaking catalogue of women to pick from?”

  Shiraz’s lips twisted. “Not exactly.”

  “But not not exactly.”

  “It is complicated.”

  “You think?” I flung. “So what happened if anyone arrived broken? Maybe a few cracks from shipping and handling? Was he allowed to return her for store credit or something?”

  His gaze narrowed. “What?”

  “Or maybe they just sent a replacement over. That’d be easier, right?”

  This wasn’t keeping the switches off. I knew that and still couldn’t help myself. What was wrong with me? Me, who’d been diligent about my research of Arcadian values, traditions, and ceremonies—

  Mostly related to weddings, vows, and marriage.

  All the shit that took place after the courtship and proposal.

  Because the happy-ever-after was the part worth focusing on, right? Who wanted to deal with the mess of what it took to get there? One look back at my own dating history was a great answer for that one—so who the hell was I to mock the Arcadians’ ways? Vetting brides for a royal wasn’t totally horrendous, even in the modern world. Wasn’t that what the tabloid press was for?

  “The process was in place to prevent uncomfortable snags.” Shiraz’s sincere answer didn’t assuage my chagrin. His new proximity kept the rest of my switches flipped on. “A committee of three, comprised of two High Council members and one representative of the royal family, were appointed as initial agents of the process. They interviewed thousands of young women across the island, seeking those they felt would be comparable in talent and disposition to the incoming monarch.”

  “And they cleared only the exceptional applicants.”

  “That was the idea.”

  The irony in his tone hit a second before the context of his words. I seized the recognition, glad to think of something besides him inching a little closer…closing in on me again. His big body and powerful presence were so damn intoxicating. And hypnotizing. And utterly, thoroughly breath-stealing…

  “Whoa. Wait,” I said it slowly, as a new realization stabbed. “If that’s the tradition, why is Evrest marrying an American?”

  The story of his older brother, who’d fallen ass over elbows for Camellia Saxon when she came to Arcadia with a film crew two years ago, was the stuff I hadn’t had to research. Their fairytale love was an international legend by now, inspiring everything from fan fiction to boy band songs to a couple of high-end perfume lines.

  All facts that fled my head—and helpless senses—as the prince next to me became the man next to me. Leaning in until he filled nearly all my vision…

  Ohhhh, shit.

  My gaze dropped down the straight line of his nose. Stopped at the lush curves of his mouth.

  Ohhhh, shit.

  The mouth, now parting with sensual surety.

  “Things are changing in Arcadia.”

  I stabbed my mind at his words. Clung to them as my lifelines toward a response other than Your Highness, prithee might I have the honor of ripping your clothes off?

  “So they just didn’t do that screening process thing for Evrest?”

  “Oh, they did it.” For some reason, that snapped him back to his original distance. I sighed in gratitude. It was gratitude, wasn’t it? “A pair of my father’s finest advisors, Fortin Santelle and Jaymes Hester, were joined by my cousin, Tytan, to comb the country. They returned with fifteen beautiful Arcadian women, all ready to win my brother’s heart.”

  I leaned a hip against the desk, sarcasm already wooing my composure. Figured I was allowed this time, since the ending of the tale was obvious. Prince stud didn’t help, emulating my posture and balance—and looking more worthy of a magazine cover than ever. In this moment, I voted for Inc., the corporate hunks edition. Or maybe Too Beautiful For My Own Damn Good monthly. There was one of those, right?

  “And how’d that work out for everyone?” I finally quipped.

  “Hmmm.” The syllable screamed at deadpan, one of my fa
vorite looks on a man since it hinted at other things going on in his head. On his chiseled features, it became an art form. Help. My second base thoughts officially tried to steal third. “Considering Fortin’s being investigated for conspiracy against the kingdom, my cousin is more obnoxious than ever, and the most notable candidate of Ev’s Distinct is still at large because she tried killing Camellia—”

  “Holy shit.”

  “I am not certain what is ‘holy’ about it, but if you insist…”

  God, how I yearned to pick up his riff and run with it. Somehow, I kept my mind honed on the subject. “Those are some pretty huge details left out of the global narrative on the story.”

  His head dipped. Not a nod. A full tilt, deep enough that the ends of his hair played at the V in his shirt. “It is all contained in the Arcadian security forces’ records, which are on file in our halls of public records, but Evrest and Camellia did not feel the need to call international attention to it all.” His eyes sharpened, newly serious. “My brother’s goal is not to garner the world’s pity. It is to earn the world’s confidence. He has taken a stand about doing that with the love and strength of a worthy woman by his side.” He paused as if his words had come as a revelation. Took a full breath through his nose. “It was not simple to do that without bringing Chianna’s violence to light, especially when the Pura used the issue to rise to prominence.”

  “The Pura.” Okay, I knew this one. “They’re that semi-radical fringe faction, right? The ones who think Evrest and the current High Council are guiding the kingdom to ruin?”

  “Among other things, yes.”

  “What other things?”

  “You want the printable ones or the wild ones?”

  “I’m not a reporter, Your Highness.” Tiny smirk. “I don’t care about printable.”

  His own lips quirked. “To start, they claim my brother surely sat at the right hand of Hell’s Overlord before being born—if he was even born.”

  Snort. “Do they think he just spawned? Or…what…hatched?”

  He chuckled. The sound was rich and sincere, and I liked it. “Interesting theory.”

  Oh, this was fun. “What else?”

  “Well, Camellia Saxon is certainly a succubus, created in the same vile place, which makes her not only Ev’s sister as well as his betrothed, but a soul sucker brought into this realm for the sole purpose of stealing all his spiritual essence. When she finishes with that, she shall, of course, move on to the rest of his kingdom, dragging us all down into the underworld with her.”

  I finally laughed too. Fully. And dared anyone not to do the same when presented with that kind of a story. As soon as my head aligned back into place, I side-eyed him, spurting residual giggles. “Do I dare ask what they feel about Brooke Valen?”

  His head cocked to the other side. I’d expected a lot of reactions when bringing up the woman, an American who’d grown up on Arcadia, but his open brood wasn’t one of them. “Brooke is…how would you say it in America…a delicate subject?”

  “Okay.” I extended both syllables. Delicate didn’t enter my mind when thinking of Brooke, the American senator’s daughter who’d trained with Arcadia’s security forces for years before their leader, Prince Samsyn, fell hard and fast for her. Their legal wedding had been a rushed affair in the mountains to the northeast, but now the pair wanted a romantic ceremony, so a double wedding with Evrest and Camellia had materialized.

  “Let me guess,” I finally ventured. “Brooke is a people’s princess because she’s lived here so long, and laid down her life for the country.” There was a story they hadn’t screened from the world. Probably impossible. The drama of how Brooke took a bullet for the youngest Cimarron royal, Princess Jayd, had made global headlines last April. “In normal circumstances, that would make her the ideal bride for Samsyn.”

  “Under normal circumstances, yes.”

  My shoulders dipped beneath the weight of understanding. “But Evrest had proposed to an American.”

  His shoulders stiffened. “But Evrest proposed to an American too.”

  “And the Pura expected Samsyn to fix that.”

  His jaw went taut. “They expected him to do something.”

  “And when Samsyn sealed the deal with another American, people’s princess or not—”

  “Shit got real.”

  My head snapped up. Hearing the vernacular of my language on his lips was like telling me to resist one of Gervase’s margaritas back home. Somehow I did it—with Shiraz’s accidental help. The somber intent in his eyes was still there, reminding me of the rest of his story.

  The scary parts.

  “That was when the Pura aligned with Rune Kavill?” I had to force out the asshole’s name. When Shiraz nodded tightly, I sighed heavily. “Damn. The terrorist even all the other terrorists hate.”

  It was the truth. Kavill was the worst kind of outlaw. No higher purpose or religious mandate had called him to a life of violence. He inflicted destruction because he liked it. He got off on the high, the monetary power, perhaps even the vengeance for abuses suffered during his childhood—or so the psychobabble experts liked to proclaim. Nobody could be certain, because Kavill had concealed all connections to his real identity.

  In the meantime, the sicko aligned with “partners” like the Pura of Arcadia, who found new ways to let him wreak chaos over the good King Evrest was trying to accomplish for his land. As a result, his ultimate goal was reached: to make Arcadians tense, angry, and afraid.

  Just like the burden I saw in this man’s azure eyes. The weight wasn’t just on Shiraz’s mind. It tore at his spirit. Was it stupid to assume such a thing? Maybe—though from that moment of a stare, I knew that about him. I just…knew. I could see it about him, inside him—that though he’d likely never sit on the throne of this country, he took its leadership as seriously as both his older brothers.

  With the same gravity he infused in his next words.

  “So.” His dark eyebrows hitched, expectant. “Do you have your answer now, Miss Fava?”

  “My answer?” The words drifted out of me. His eyes…I got lost in them all over again. Every new stare I likened to diving into an Arcadian lagoon, where hidden crevices and caves awaited discovery. “My answer about what?”

  For a moment, he seemed amused. “About what I plan to do with Ambyr Stratiss.”

  Time to get out of the lagoon.

  No. Time to think about going home, to the middle of the desert, where I could bake my senses back into clay. I’d harden them in the kiln clearly labeled Do Not Touch.

  No matter how badly I’d thought of doing exactly that…everywhere.

  Letting him do the same to me…more than everywhere.

  He’s. The. Client.

  Do.

  Not.

  Touch.

  I shoved to my feet. Marched back to the table, my sensible fucking flats making dull fucking thuds on the carpet, to retrieve my laptop. The device still showed the opening slide of Expectation’s proposal, which I tapped to close and suck it back down into the folder on the home page. The screen saver was an image of the Arcadian coast, elegant white cliffs parted by a waterfall resembling draped silk strands. I’d left nothing to chance, wanting to prove our dedication to this project in any way I could. Now the image only made my teeth grind and my sex clench, thinking of how close that azure water came to matching the prince of perfection’s gaze.

  Another note to self. Priority. Change screen saver back to Henry Cavill the second you get back to your room.

  “What are you doing?”

  I almost laughed at the incredulity of his demand. “At the risk of making this a meme, Your Highness, I think we’re done here.”

  “Done?”

  My laugh expanded as I zipped up my satchel. “Done? It’s a word that means complete or finished. Perfect for wrapping it up when everyone knows the event will be orchestrated by the woman about to score the prince’s engagement ring.”

  As I str
aightened, he approached. There was enough time to steel myself against his perfect scent—yeah, I’d noticed how perfectly the currant and bergamot of Creed Aventus fit the man—as well as lock my stare to his neck. Meeting his eyes would be the death of me right now. In more ways than just the figurative.

  With a pair of harsh scuffs, he halted. I fought the need to scream. The distance was too close for professionalism, no matter what cultural filter through which it was screened. A glimpse at his bottom lip—that was as high as I looked—said he knew it too. But hell if I’d give him any satisfaction by backing up.

  “Done.” He was more final about it this time—as if he didn’t want to let it go. His challenge hung in the air like a whole plate of glass, daring me to break it.

  To get to what?

  To him?

  But then what?

  Would we give in to this draw for a minute, an hour, a night? It didn’t change the reality of the situation, confirmed so completely by Ambyr’s confidence then Crista’s explanation. The deal probably had his parents’ seal of approval too. Soon, likely sooner than I imagined, he’d be stepping on a new stage of his life, planning to marry another woman. Even if every set piece there was a fake front, it wasn’t a winning ticket for me to even think of approaching the theater.

  And there was the buzzkill I needed.

  I sucked it up. Stepped backward. Made my head lift the extra inches to directly meet Shiraz Cimarron’s gaze. God…his gaze…

  This was the last time my breath would snag from those stunning blue depths. On a better note, the final time my body would ache, craving to be clutched by the rest of him too.

  “I think,”—determined breath out—“that’s a pretty good place to leave it.”

  I’d rarely meant anything more.

  Nor meant anything less.

  And made the mistake of letting both show through on my face—a weakness instantly seized by the man mere inches away.

  His hand dropped. Skimmed against mine.

  “Lucina.”

  My skin tingled.

  My sex clenched.

  “Your Highness.”

  He flinched as I gritted it.