The Reluctant Prince

by Candice Gilmer

  I blinked, looking down at my stomach. My naval ring dangled below my shirt line, a post with a butterfly hanging down with three chains that had blue and white tiger’s eye stones in them. The navel ring matched my bracelet, which has seven blue tiger’s eyes. They went along with my hair.

  The gal had a pleasant enough face, curly blonde hair with copper and amber highlights running through it, emphasizing the curl structure. The weave lines left a dark edge around her face, because whoever did it didn’t get it all the way to the scalp.

  “Thanks,” I said, trying to turn off my critical hairdresser eye.

  “I’ve been thinking about getting mine done.” She pulled up her shirt to show off her perfect stomach muscles. “But I’m a weenie when it comes to pain.”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “It’s not that bad. It takes about thirty seconds, and the ring is in. The whole process only takes about five minutes.”

  “Really? How many other piercings do you have?”

  “Nine total.”

  She arched her eyebrow. “Where?”

  “Mostly my ears.” I picked up my bag again. Probably the worst thing about being pierced—aside from the explanations at metal detectors why I kept setting them off—was how many people wanted to know if it hurt. If I had a nickel for every time I was asked that one, I wouldn’t have had to save anything for this trip.

  “Oh, are you going to the symposium too?” She smiled at me as she saw the tag on the bag.

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’s the rest of your salon?”

  “It’s just me.”

  “Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “Well, I’m Cathy, and you’re welcome to join us. We’re going to get our bags and head over to Mandalay Bay and go do some gambling tonight.” The conference was actually at Mandalay Bay, but the Luxor had more appeal to me. It was probably as close to the Egyptian pyramids I’ll ever get in life. I’d always wanted to get an ankh tattooed on my hip, but I’d never taken the plunge of getting under the ink-filled needles.

  Piercings didn’t bother me—they could come out. Tattoos were always gonna be there—and I saw enough older ladies in my salon, I couldn’t help wondering what one would turn into when I was seventy.

  I held out my hand. “Sydney.” I smiled as we shook. “Well, I’m staying at the Luxor, and I think I’m going to retire to my room for the night. Get rested up and all.”

  “Oh.” One of the other hairdressers waved Cathy over. “Well, it was good to meet you, and if we have any of the same classes, you can come sit with me if you want.”

  “Thanks.” I watched her walk away. Rogue and the others asked a few questions, Cathy answered, they looked back at me, accompanied with a few smirks, then they were gone.

  Man, I hate hairdressers.

  My single bag of luggage finally appeared on the conveyer belt, and I snatched the faded green suitcase and headed for the shuttles.

  Jim Morris watched his ex-wife get off the plane in Vegas and head to fetch her luggage. Even when she wanted to be discreet, she couldn’t—not with her neon blue hair.

  Silly girl had no idea how easy she made this for him. Blue hair made her incredibly easy to track. Who wouldn’t remember a blue-haired, rail thin, more-stupid-rings-in-her-ears-than-a-person-oughta-have chick? Damn woman had always been thin, but she’d lost even more weight since the divorce—he’d bet he could count her ribs under her shirt when he grabbed her.

  And he was going to grab her. He was going to snap her twig frame in half. It was the least she deserved for throwing him out.

  He smiled to himself.

  She had no idea he was here.

  Good.

  She’d behave like she thought she was alone.

  And he could find out who she was meeting in Vegas.

  Riding around Vegas probably would have been interesting, had I not been plagued with thoughts of Jim. I kept having this nagging feeling he was somewhere nearby, which was foolish since he was back in Wichita and I was here in Vegas.

  Jim didn’t hop a plane to go somewhere—he didn’t have the funds for full-blown stalking. I know. I used to balance his checkbook.

  Still, the sights of the massive hotels, their insane over-the-top detailing, and their larger than life appearance saying welcome, come in, see our sights, experience our hospitality, and spend your money any other time would have certainly put me in the ohh and ahh stage, but I barely noticed the details.

  The MGM Grand was green, and it reminded me of the thousands of dollars spent in the last eight months. My credit card was maxed because of that rat bastard, and now I had to figure out how to pay the thing off.

  Maybe I’d get lucky at the tables. Wouldn’t that be nice?

  Yeah right. My odds were about as good to get laid over the weekend.

  I’d be lucky if I got to flirt with a guy. I was going to a hair convention—odds were, any guy I met would be not into girls.

  Weekend flings were not high on my priorities, either.

  I wasn’t against the idea of getting laid. Far from it. My marriage had gone south long before any papers were filed, and the sex was never great to begin with, so the craving for good sex, no, wait, mind blowing, orgasmic screaming, messy, sweaty sex had been with me a long time. But that involved male attention.

  I didn’t need male attention.

  Jim had broken me of that particular desire. Between his controlling behavior and accusations of infidelity, there was only so much I could take.

  Ironic, considering I caught him, trousers down and going to town on some blonde floozie.

  I invaded my folks’ house after I left Jim, where all my mother could ask me was what I did wrong to drive Jim away. I tried to tell her nothing. I did every damn thing he asked, but she didn’t believe me.

  She blamed me for having the first divorce in the family, and destroying the family’s harmony.

  I didn’t stay with them long. There was only so much I could take of Mom’s attitude during the divorce. I managed to find a cheap apartment around the corner of my salon. Heck, I could walk to work if the mood struck me.

  It wasn’t the best apartment, the carpet was ugly, the appliances probably as old as I was, but it did have one feature I liked—I could afford it.

  I rubbed my head.

  Get a grip. No dwelling on stupid stuff. I was out here to learn some new hair techniques, and to get away from all the crap for a while. Be revitalized, dang it. I leaned against the window of the shuttle as it pulled up the drive to the Luxor hotel.

  My jaw dropped as the massive structures broke into view. Framing out a huge archway, two stone Egyptian gods stood at either side of the drive. The pyramid soared into the sky behind them, further up the drive. Sleek black lines against the Nevada horizon, the pyramid was a geometric apparition against the slow rolling desert lines. The entrance had been sculpted into another world, something that didn’t belong in the middle of the Nevada desert.

  The Egyptian desert, maybe, but not Nevada’s. Pillars sculpted like other ancient Egyptian gods surrounded the wide window entrance.

  I felt like I was approaching a huge temple, and were it not for the cars parked in the drive, I might have wanted to get down on one knee in respect of the Egyptian gods.

  People unloaded racks of luggage onto golden-armed luggage trolleys, and I marveled at the amounts of luggage. My God, how long were these people planning on staying? Some looked like they were going to sit out the winter here.

  Everything was gold. Gold and white washed stone, or at least that was the look of it.

  A tower stood on the west side of the pyramid, housing probably more rooms. Still, the structure was a stunning sight.

  “Whoa,” I muttered as the shuttle approached the door. Yeah, this was the right place. My gut started to tingle, my hands trembling in anticipation. Excitement bubbled up in me.

  This was a great idea—probably the best damn idea I’d ever had.

  Coming to Vegas was a
brilliant move. I felt like I could make a new life for myself here.

  The magic of the place was already working on me.

  Though the pragmatist in me wondered if they put something in the air.

  “Luxor,” the shuttle driver said.

  I climbed off and headed toward the door.

  “Hello ma’am, do you need any assistance?” A bellhop in black and gold appeared at my side and started reaching for my bag.

  I glanced at my purse, and knew I had nothing smaller than a twenty in it. I hadn’t even considered carrying anything smaller—I tended to spend smaller bills easier than the larger ones.

  “Uh, no thanks, I got it.” I shifted my faded green suitcase. He nodded, but disappointment hung in his eyes. I tried not to feel guilty—I usually tipped, but I wasn’t even sure what a bellhop got these days anyway.

  Heck, I couldn’t think of the last time I’d actually been to a hotel that had bellhops—if ever.

  I had about a hundred dollars in twenties, plus four crisp one hundred dollar bills, tips I’d stuck in a jar under my bed for six months to save up. It was pretty wonderful to go to the bank and get them cashed into larger bills. Everything else I’d scraped up was going to pay for the hotel bill.

  I’d probably be eating McDonald’s all weekend, but who cares? I was in Vegas.

  Working my way across the threshold, I admired the tiled floor, again in the gold and whitish pattern, and the noise that could only be a casino—beeps, rings and calls of the machines. Two massive stone pharaohs, I estimated almost two stories tall, stood beside an entrance to the casino across from the door.

  The front desk was off to the left.

  Maybe I’d seen Pretty Woman one too many times, because I froze and stared at the front desk, which seemed almost a city block long. Never in all my days had I seen a front desk like that. I’d expected something small, maybe two or three stations to check people in.

  But this was Vegas. Everything was large and overdone in Vegas.

  I really needed to get out more. I headed to a counter and checked in.

  Chapter Two

  “I’m driving down I-15 right now, Alicia,” Hadrian Drake said into his Blackberry.

  “Oh no you’re not,” Alicia snapped at him.

  “Yeah, I am.” He smirked. Granted, it wasn’t a good idea to piss off your assistant, but sometimes it was amusing.

  Especially since he had an assistant.

  “Alone?”

  “Well, how can I have some time alone if there is someone with me?” He heard Alicia’s heavy breathing in the background, the sound would have been accompanied with a heavy shoulder shrug, and in a moment…

  Tapping came through the phone. “Yes, but…”

  “My schedule is clear for the next few weeks.” He held the phone out from his ear to try and ignore her tapping.

  “It is, but there are several things that could have been taken care of this week. We still have to figure out what you’re going to do new on the show.”

  “Deal with it. I’ll see you in a week.” He tossed his Blackberry into the passenger’s seat.

  Hadrian stepped on the gas.

  “Viva Las Vegas,” he sang in his best Elvis imitation.

  One of the really shitty things about being successful in Hollywood was the need for assistants. Or so said the current Hollywood buzz. Everyone had assistants to keep their lives organized. He hadn’t wanted to get one, but he kept missing appointments, which looked bad. Even though he wasn’t truly Hollywood. Cooking show chefs weren’t nearly as glamorous as starlets and action heroes.

  So he relented.

  Alicia was a bit overbearing, but very organized nonetheless. She kept him in the best clothes, the best parties, everything. She handled things. That’s what she did. She should, anyway, his aunt arranged for her, and his aunt was very meticulous when it came to staff—being the Queen of Koros, she had to be.

  And having an assistant did have its benefits. Alicia knew everything about him. She understood why certain things had to be the way they were.

  Didn’t mean he had to like it.

  He pressed the OnStar button in his Yukon XL Denali, a present he’d bought himself a few months ago.

  “Hello Mr. Drake, what can I do for you?” the chipper voice replied.

  “I need a reservation at the Luxor in Las Vegas. A one bedroom suite, for the next four nights, available today.”

  “Certainly, sir, give me a few moments.”

  He passed a late modeled Saturn, flying down the highway at eighty-five. God, he loved his Yukon. There was something so cool about being able to drive and order a bouquet of flowers for his mom’s birthday.

  Something someone of his birthright shouldn’t ever marvel at. Born a prince, he should have been used to certain things.

  But he wasn’t.

  Most of his life, Hadrian had grown up a normal kid. Sure, he spent at least part of his summers every year with his dad in Koros, and the occasional holiday, but by and large, he’d grown up American. An American teenager that spoke French, Italian, English, and his dad’s native language—Korosian.

  Unfortunately, though, his mother understood enough of those languages he couldn’t get away with telling her off in Italian. He’d been raised in a small town in Missouri, and his mother made him do stuff that normal teens did, like get a job.

  And telling off your mother didn’t go over well. Even if it was in Italian.

  “Mr. Drake,” the voice came back, “they have a one bedroom suite in the pyramid available immediately.”

  “Fine, tell them I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

  “Great, I will let them know. Is there anything else you need?”

  “Nope.”

  “Thank you for using OnStar. Enjoy your stay in Las Vegas.” A click disconnecting her jarred Hadrian for just a second. He wondered if the gal would gossip with her friends that she’d got to assist Hadrian Drake.

  Of course, he had to wonder if she even knew he was the Hadrian Drake—The Pasta Prince.

  Possibly.

  His impromptu trip to Vegas wasn’t his first, and certainly wouldn’t be his last. He drove the four-hour drive as often as he could, and always stayed at the Luxor. He loved the ancient Egypt feel of the place.

  His mother said it was the Mediterranean in him. He liked to believe he’d lived a past life there.

  Even though the Luxor was a casino and way over the top like the other hotels in Vegas, he still loved the artifacts. Some were real. He could wander through the hotel for hours looking at stuff. And almost every trip, he bought something to put in his home.

  He’d considered actually looking into real Egyptian artifacts, but they wouldn’t mean as much as the stuff he bought in Vegas. Like the pharaoh bust he’d bought when he won after a seven-hour stretch at a poker table. Or the jewel studded sphinx he’d bought because his ex-girlfriend hated it.

  Besides, dammit, he was on break. The twelve to fourteen hour days creating a television series took a lot out of him. Not to mention the public appearances, promotions, interviews and all the other bullshit that went along with being on the cooking show.

  The Pasta Prince had really taken off this past season. The show had been on the air for seven seasons with the previous hostess, Elizabeth “Ebbie” Queen, at the helm. The show had been called The Pasta Queen then. When the auditions came around, the only edge Hadrian had was he’d been one of Ebbie’s assistants for three seasons.

  He loved to cook. It didn’t matter what it was, he was enamored of the process of cooking. There wasn’t much he couldn’t make, even with minimal ingredients. His mom had always teased him he’d better marry a woman that loved doing dishes. So far he’d had yet to find one that did.

  Most though, were more interested in who he was rather than any real caring about him as a person. They wanted The Pasta Prince. Or the truly ambitious wanted him for his lineage. While he tried to keep his royal pedigree under wraps, any
one who did enough research could figure out he was the eldest child of the Grand Duke of Bouzio. But so far, the producers hadn’t put two and two together.

  Ironic, considering they’d already picked out the title The Pasta Prince before Hadrian got the job. Of course, how would they know they’d be getting a genuine prince to star on it? So far no leak had reached the public. Everyone assumed the title was a farce.

  If he had his way, no one would ever find out about his pedigree, and he would continue to be The Pasta Prince.

  He was happy in his life. Why mess up a good thing?

  My room at the Luxor was a typical hotel room. It was done in geometric patterns of rusts, blues and golds. Obviously what some decorator deemed Egyptian, but not really Egyptian.

  The king size bed was appealing. I had a full size at home.

  I snagged the prominently placed card off the dresser, naming the housekeeper along with a place to put any tips for housekeeping.

  I raised my eyebrow at the little card. “You’re supposed to tip housekeeping? Spending a hundred dollars a night on this room, and I’m supposed to tip someone to make my bed?” Evidently my Midwestern, non-highbrow roots were showing.

  Tossing my suitcases on the bed, I started going through my stuff. In the little vanity area outside of the actual bathroom, I was surprised to see a small coffee pot on the counter, along with a hairdryer mounted onto the wall.

  “Good thing I didn’t bring mine,” I mumbled, glancing at the wattage of the blow dryer. Not that I used one. But I could, since one was available.

  I put out my makeup and toothbrush and took the rest of my stuff into the bathroom and almost dropped my razor and shampoo.

  The bathroom was huge. It had a large, glassed in shower, a sunken tub, and another sink, with a divider separating the toilet from the second sink.

  And in the nook where the toilet was, a phone hung on the wall.

  “That would have to be an important phone call, to have to take on the toilet.” The only thing I didn’t like was the toilet faced the door to the shower—anyone using the bathroom would get a full view of someone in the shower.