by Angel Payne
And there was fate’s little favor for the day.
“Yes,” I pushed out, even meeting him eye-to-eye about it. “I mean it. You need to back the hell off. Now.”
Chapter Seven
‡
Why wasn’t I more relieved when he did exactly what I’d asked?
Okay, had demanded. In my bossiest, huffiest, tone—and in case I hadn’t forgotten, with words I did mean—and now yearned to suck back into my lungs so he wouldn’t rise, silken as a curl of smoke, to walk away.
And all I had left to drool over was the V of his back, etched flawlessly by the black cotton, as he moved past the first sitting chair. Around the edge of the couch.
Shit. He really was going to leave.
At the last moment, on the farthest side of the couch, he sat again. Hitched an elbow to the armrest and lifted his hand, which became the instant cradle for his forehead. His fingers kneaded in, their tips as taut as his expression.
Turning me into an equally bunched ball of feelings.
Conflicted ones.
Part of me squirmed, a little contrite. I’d cranked up the snark, when he was clearly troubled about something. He’d even come all the way to the guest wing, to my room, to talk about it. But hold the phone. My room? To talk about what? Our business with each other—all three seconds of it—was over.
But I couldn’t ignore the stiffness in his shoulders. The taut kneadings of his fingers. The fist his other hand had become.
“Okay.” I forced myself to rise, just to have something to do other than sit and gawk at him. One foot in front of the other, Luce. It’s called walking. You remember it, right? The small in-room bar felt like a good direction. Maybe I’d find more nectar there. “You going to need some gargle juice for this hot topic?”
His head lifted a little. His gaze narrowed a lot. “Some what?”
“Sweet sauce.” I nodded at the alcove. “Hard stuff? Maybe some basic nectar?”
“No.” He looked like I’d asked him to swallow explosives. “Merderim, but no.”
I canted my head, acknowledging a new realization. “You don’t like letting go of control, do you?”
His posture didn’t change but his aura sure did. The change in his energy was nearly a visual force, as if the air groupies around him had tensed, waiting on his next breath. If he took one, I didn’t discern it. His tight swallow, consuming the length of his neck, was a different story. Noticed every second of that—wondering when I’d become a “neck woman”. Just thinking of tucking my face against it, then licking my way along the muscled column until his growl rumbled beneath my lips…
Oh my God.
“There is nothing wrong with self-discipline.”
His commitment to that was understandable. From where he stood, both his brothers had shirked their self-discipline, choosing their hearts (and perhaps a few other things) over their country. In Shiraz’s world, where black was black, white was white, and numbers became sums that were either right or wrong, those decisions didn’t compute. After Evrest changed a major law to have Camellia, the Palais was breached by Pura rebels. After Samsyn went public about his love for Brooke, the Grand Sancti Bridge was blown apart. In his mind, the lunatics were taking over the asylum—and it was up to him to appease them again.
Somewhere in that logic, I actually found the reason he’d come slumming in the guest wing. But how to broach that little sticky?
I started by submitting, “Nope. Nothing wrong with discipline at all—unless it becomes your middle name.”
He lifted his head fully. Regarded me with extra caution. “I am perfectly happy with my middle name.”
“Really?” I pushed out a little hmmph. “Could’ve fooled me.”
He rose once more. Though his movements again belied the strength of a quarterback, they were as tense as one—at the damn Super Bowl. “I am not trying to fool you.”
“No?” I scooted from behind the bar, striding back toward the terrace. The bottle I’d been sent came with two of those cool flutes, along with a plate of cheese, crackers, and plump local olives. “Then come out here and join me for some nectar.”
Soft snarl. “I already said—”
“Yeah, I know.” I had his glass poured and extended. “But I seriously need you to cut the cologne ad antics, sexy as they are, and be real with me.”
“Sexy.” He backed the stupefied stutter with a little scowl. “I am not trying to be…sexy.”
“Which only makes that shit sexier.”
“That…shit?”
“Shiraz.” I reached for his hand, still weirdly clenched, and pulled out his long, tanned digits until they formed around the glass. “Just take a freaking sip, okay?”
He blinked. Several times. I did the same, hoping it spurred me to breathe. Bull, meet china shop. Ez actually called me “Ferdinanda” because of it, but always in affection—though his emotional shop was lined in leather, satin, and feathers. Not the case with Shiraz Cimarron. This man had blue fire in his eyes, burnished bricks beneath his jaw, and sheet metal walls around his heart—and right now, I’d knocked new fissures into all three.
Just by meshing our fingers.
Sheez.
I was in big, fat, fucking trouble again.
And I wanted more.
More of the heat permeating me from his skin. More of the heat radiating from those eyes. And definitely, oh definitely, more of the milliseconds in which his shields cracked, giving glimpses of a man—a person—who was more than columns, lines, perfection and duty.
More.
What would happen if I decided to go for it? If I leaned in just a little…pressed forward by just an inch…followed the invisible tractor beam of his pull, and just joined the atmosphere groupies in needing to touch more of him…
More…
Thank God one of us was still thinking.
Without another millisecond to spare, he pulled his hand away by raising it. With a deft nip, wetted his lips with the nectar.
“Mmmm.” Just like that, the steel doors were back up. He glanced at the remaining pink liquid in his glass as if regarding a calculator printout. “Yes. That is refreshing.”
My dire case of awkward dissolved beneath a laugh. “‘Refreshing’? You want some cool jazz sounds to go with that, Mr. DJ?” I hooked a thumb at the beach. “We already have the soothing wave soundtrack.”
He stared back, openly perplexed—or so it appeared. Whatever the hell it was, he softened again—not a lot, just enough—to the point his gorgeous turned back into devastating.
Dammit. I needed his steel slabs back in place. I needed my walls back in place. Trouble was, I’d taken out half the nectar by myself already, so those barriers were half in ruins—and no part of my brain volunteered for clean-up. It was an even more hopeless cause as he angled his head down, his focus sharpening from blue fire into midnight smoke…curling into my senses with the same allure.
“You do not find the nectar refreshing?”
“I find it damn delicious,” I quipped. With the same snazzy speed, an idea hit. “Hey.” I peered up with new interest, grateful for the excuse of true curiosity. “Are there different kinds of nectar, like varietals of wine?”
“Of course.” Questions sparked across his face but he said nothing else.
“Hmmm.”
“Hmmm?”
I turned my gaze toward the sea. It was mostly dark, though the moon glow and starlight formed intriguing liquid shadows along the waves. “Just an interesting idea for the wedding. What about a nectar tasting menu for the wedding reception? You could pair it to Arcadian food specialties. It’d be cool, since you’re likely to have a number of world dignitaries and celebrities there, and most will be visiting the island for the first time.”
He still didn’t say anything, though I felt the force of his contemplation. When the weight of that passed and he still didn’t speak, I hazarded another look over.
The man was grinning at me like a loon.
A gorgeous
loon, with the moonglow playing on his inky hair and a new, silvery light in his eyes…
And a force of concentration stabbing through me…
filling all the fibers of me…
even down there.
Especially down there.
I swallowed. Hard. Finally mumbled out, “Or maybe not.” Shrug. “It was just an idea.”
“A brilliant one.”
His praise turned my blood into champagne bubbles. I counteracted the effect by turning the shrug into a sassy shoulder shake. “Well, cool. You—ummm—can steal it. Well, Ambyr can. You can tell her about it. Hey, you can even make it your idea. It’ll score you extra points—not that you need anymore, Mr. Prince-of-Her-Dreams.”
I played up the teasing tone but it didn’t dent in his new solemnity. “Am I?” he finally countered, delving a stare into his nectar. “The ‘prince of her dreams’?”
“Pssshh.” There was no stopping it. “Tell me you don’t have those blinders on.” When that earned me an incredulous glance, I cut loose a new laugh. “Yikes. You do have those blinders on.”
His quizzical look persisted. It didn’t change even as a night breeze ruffled dark waves against his face, even snagging them into his long eyelashes. Finally, he confessed softly, “I am aware that Ambyr carries an affection for me. But—”
“Affection?”
“Is that not the American word for it?”
“I’m familiar with the word,” I insisted. “It’s just not applicable here.”
“Not applicable?”
“‘Affection’ is daisies, lemonade, and walks on the beach.” I teeter-tottered my head. “Or if you were courting her in LA: parking tokens, Starbucks—and walks on the beach.” I laughed lightly again, spreading my hands. “But even if you two were in the middle of the Sahara, ‘affection’ isn’t the place you’re in with Ambyr Stratiss.”
After I finished, his gaze eagerly roamed my face. His scrutiny only lasted a couple of moments—the ones I needed to verify so much.
“Then what ‘place’ am I ‘in’ with her?”
I weighed what to say next, at last deciding on my instinct’s first choice. “This was why you came here to talk, wasn’t it? Because you need some advice about Ambyr?”
Once more, he moved very little.
Until he lifted his glass of nectar again—and downed the whole thing.
So much for wondering if he’d give a definitive reply.
So much for wondering if all of Ezra’s claims were true, also. The man looked like sex on a stick, but had no idea how the “stick” really worked. Maybe so much of his life had been defined by the boundaries of royal life, even dating and women were supposed to be in tidy boxes. But he couldn’t figure out the box for this and was lost. And pissed.
“And what the bloody hell if I do?”
Yep. Pissed said it right.
A situation I so could have had some fun with—except that I saw beneath the anger, to the uncertainty and uneasiness. The totally blind leap he’d taken in coming to me about this. The lost beggar beneath the assured prince.
He confirmed the impression by slamming his empty glass down. He returned inside with stomps tremoring the floorboards. I followed at a more measured pace, before joining him on the couch. This time, we both sat toward the middle of the big leather expanse.
Another long moment passed. I let it go on, sensing it was necessary. The man could protest all he wanted about this shit being just a business decision for the country, but if he really was a virgin, this was a bigger step than he wanted to admit. I didn’t have the heart to make it any more difficult.
“Your Highness.” I almost reached for him again. Not a great idea, missie, and you know damn well why. Didn’t stop me from revising it to, “Shiraz…”
His head tugged up. “What?”
And now that I had his attention, I wasn’t sure what to do with it.
Stick to the plan. That’s what you do.
Wise. Really wise. No matter how strongly my body screamed to betray the mission…
“You know that Ambyr’s all-in for this, right? A proposal,” I clarified, answering the new knit in his forehead. “She’ll agree as soon as you ask. She’d be a fool not to.”
It was my foolproof encouragement voice, the one I usually had to save for skittish brides—which made his fresh frown an unexpected twist.
“A proposal,” he finally echoed. “All right.” But nothing backed that up. His left knee jiggled a little. His right hand drummed atop the other. He stared into the corners of the room as if expecting something to materialize from the rafters. A guardian angel? An avenging demon? I couldn’t figure it out.
“Isn’t that why you’re here?” I queried gently. “For ideas about how to propose?”
He swung his head back around. Practically impaled me with his gaze. “Do you have any?”
I smiled again. I’d never meant a sentiment more. The dichotomy between the bustling businessman prince I’d met this afternoon and this awkward, earnest suitor, all but fidgeting from one end of the couch to the other…I was kind of enchanted. And yeah, might as well admit it, jealous as hell of Ambyr Stratiss. I hoped the woman knew what a rarity she had in him.
“To be honest,” I finally said, “I don’t. I’m sorry. By the time our company is contacted, the proposal part is usually finished.”
“Of course.” Shiraz rubbed both hands against his knees now. “I suppose that would be the case.”
I pulled in a long breath. Faced him more fully, curving a knee against the cushion. “Look, there’s no right or wrong way. The most important thing is that you’re sincere. You and Ambyr are…friends…at least, right?”
Felt like a safe question—somewhat. Weirdly, the words still seemed like eggshells. Wasn’t like I wanted the intimate details about their relationship, but maybe he’d disclose a few key details to work with.
“Friends.” He repeated it like learning a word in a new language. “Hmmm. Yes. I suppose that will suffice.”
I forced composure into my face. If I didn’t, I’d surely laugh. Or cry. I wasn’t sure which. That will suffice? He was going there because of the language difference, right? Surely, even if the union with Ambyr was being induced by Arcadia’s current politics, the woman had to be more than “sufficient” in his life.
A long moment passed as I waited for more. Kernels, even a few, of something I could use to help him with this dilemma.
The silence stretched on. Thick…then awkward.
Finally, I heaved a harsh sigh. “Okay, and what else?”
The man stared like I really was speaking another language. “What else…what?”
“Sheez.” Another long breath. Carefully in, not so patiently back out. “Shiraz. You’ve spent at least a little time with this woman, right?”
“Yes,” he snapped, adding a Duh face. “Of course. I have escorted her to three Palais dinners and the annual fencing tournament. She also went with me to—”
“Don’t need the Wikipedia entry.” I flung up a hand. “So you’ve dated, and—”
“No.” His eyes turned stormy. “Those weren’t dates.”
I struggled to stifle a smirk. Success. Wasn’t so winning with staving my follow-up question. “Errrm. What’s your idea of a ‘date’?”
He grunted. “Not what I did with Ambyr.”
I wanted to push more, if only to interact with this oddly cute side of him. By now, the only reminders of the imposing corporate hunk from this afternoon were the formal loafers on his feet and the styling product in his hair.
“All right then,” I murmured. “So you’ve been to some events and parties together. Had some pleasant times. Probably a goodnight kiss or two…” I watched him carefully while letting that one linger. There. His shoulders stiffened against his shirt. “Or more than goodnight kisses?”
More intent observation, especially when he didn’t deny it. Well, shit. Maybe my reading on Ambyr and him was all wrong—an admis
sion instantly twinging my chest—and worse, making me scramble for ways to finish this conversation without helping him one damn bit. If he’d been able to stick his dick into the girl, what the hell was he doing in the guest suite of a stranger, asking for advice on how to propose to her?
“What if…I have not even kissed her?”
A stranger now feeling like twenty kinds of a bitch.
And forty kinds of elated.
And sixty kinds of holy-shit-what-do-I-do-with-this?
“Wait.” I pointed at him. Flummoxed, let my hand drop. “You’re going to propose marriage to this woman, but you haven’t even kissed her?”
His shoulders hunched, even more huge with embarrassment. “That is—weird, I suppose?” He glanced over, lips twisting. “Wrong?”
“No.” Before I could think to stop, I leaned and grabbed the shoulder closest to me. Fuck. Nothing met my touch but stone-hard sinew. “No,” I blurted again, trying to squeeze him in reassurance. “It’s sweet. And sexy. And kind of cool. And it also answers your question about how to begin the proposal.”
Awareness dawned in his eyes. “Kiss her?”
“Uh huh.” So much for getting enjoying my shoulder feel-up. Not cool to be sizing up a man’s arms while discussing his first kiss with his potential bride.
“How?”
“What do you mean, how?”
“How should I kiss her?”
I shoved out my chin. Hit him with a major stare of are-you-serious. Wasn’t computing with the dork, and his open expression said so. He was just as lost as the moment he’d knocked on the door.
“Well. How do you think she wants to be kissed?”
Gah. Was I really doing this? With him?
He’s the client. Return to that preset. You’d be able to do this if he was still the client. Only now, instead of leaving this place with a deposit check, you be leaving with karma points.
Which, at this point, was nearly better than a check—considering how much karma was going to owe me.
“Kissing.” He peered around the room again, seeking his unseen angel or devil. His jaw jutted, a fascinating sight due to his dark stubble. “It is…like artwork, yes? Disgusting or stunning, depending on who wields the brush.”