by Danielle Monsch, Cate Rowan, Jennifer Lewis, Jeannie Lin, Nadia Lee, Dee Carney
The vision of him in bed rose again.
She hurriedly shoved into her flip-flops. “You’ll probably want to leave the coat and cravat behind. The waistcoat, too,” she said when he hesitated.
“A gentleman would never have shown his bare sleeves in my time.” He slowly unwound his neckcloth. “But as I said, I’ll learn.”
“Trust me, people display a lot more of themselves now without anyone batting an eye. And August in LA can get toasty, even with air conditioning in the shopping mall.” When he was done, with the discarded garments in a neat pile on the arm of the couch, she slid her gaze down his manly form in his shirt, breeches and boots, delighted to have an excuse. “We should be able to get you everything you need there.”
She should have known that the simple excursion she’d envisioned was doomed. They descended into the basement garage, and getting him into her low-slung Porsche—her one concession to her father’s bank account years ago—was just the beginning.
“So this is a car.” He scratched his head. “I’ve only been in one a few times, and always while in the terrarium.” He stared a moment longer before shooting her a quizzical look. “How do you get in?”
“There’s a handle here.” She lifted it and swung the door wide.
“I see.” He crawled in, hands on the seat, and then rotated until he was facing the right direction. “Have I got it?”
“Mostly,” she chuckled. “It’ll get easier over time. But you need to put the seat belt on.”
“Eh?”
“This.” She tugged it from the side of his seat. “This wraps around you to protect you in a crash.”
“Is that likely?” His forest-green eyes widened in alarm.
“I haven’t had one yet, but this is LA, so never say never. You click this metal part into a little slot on the other side of you.”
He frowned, searching. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I’ll help.” She hunched down and leaned in, pointing. “Right there.”
He flipped the metal in his hands. “But how does…”
She put her knee on the seat, plucked the metal from his fingers and reached around him, all too close, to click it in. “See.”
“I do.” He turned, his face mere inches from hers. Those eyes of his twinkled.
God, it would be so easy to kiss him. Right here, right now, hesitations be damned…
“All set, then,” she muttered, withdrawing. She shut his door and staggered around the back of the car toward the driver’s side. Prince Alexander of Nemerre was going to do her in. He was sliding straight into her life, and along the way demolishing every barrier she’d ever built to keep the world at bay—by simply being himself.
And she might even like it.
She took a fortifying breath before she opened her door and slid in.
“Here, let me help you,” he said, and reached across the suddenly claustrophobically small interior for the seat belt. His thumb brushed her ribs and set her skin on fire beneath her tee shirt. “Gads, these things are tight, aren’t they?” He grunted against his own shoulder restraint as he reached.
“That’s the point,” she said brightly. As he pulled the belt across her body, she grabbed the steering wheel, and it was all she could do to keep her hands on it instead of him.
“There,” he said as the metal tongue slipped into its slot.
Sheesh, this man could even make a seat belt erotic.
She started the ignition and drove toward the gated exit.
“Your car growls,” he said, clearly delighted.
“More than most,” she admitted, pleased. She loved the Porsche’s throaty sound, too.
He slid his large hands along the smooth seats and his gaze inspected the dashboard. “This seems beautifully made. And smells like good leather.”
“It is, on both counts. It was my one indulgence.”
“How so?”
She punched it out onto the street, the motor roaring. “It’s an expensive car. My father bought it for me before he died last year.”
“He was well off?”
“A captain of industry, as they say. Owned Ballondor Freight, an international shipping company.” She slipped onto the 405 freeway and blasted into the fast lane, relishing the acceleration as she and her passenger were pushed back in their seats.
“This is…significantly faster than a carriage.” A boyish grin hovered as he took in the passing landscape.
“This is nothing. Just wait until you fly on an airplane.”
His response was interrupted by an insistent grumbling of his stomach. “Pardon me!” he said.
She laughed. “Hungry already? I fed you crickets yesterday!”
“It seems they’re no longer sufficient, now that I’ve returned to a man-sized body. I don’t suppose this carriage of yours stocks food, does it?”
“No, but we can do the next-best thing.” She pulled off at the next exit and drove into the McDonald’s drive-thru lane. “I’m not promising this will be good, mind you. It’s not the best that America offers, but still a favorite. You like beef?”
“As in cattle? Yes, I suppose I do.”
She turned her head and spoke into the curbside microphone. “One Big Mac meal—Coke, and super-size it—and one Filet-O-Fish meal with an orange drink, no ice.”
“Wait… that machine cooks your food?”
“No, actual people do. Well, mostly. They’re listening to the order I placed and will make what we asked for.” She pulled up to the first window and handed over a twenty.
“Is that your money? That green paper?”
She nodded. “It’s lighter than gold and silver.”
“Nemerre used paper as well as coins.”
“We still have coins,” she said, collecting her change and depositing it in his hands for him to examine. “They’re just not worth much.”
He inspected a quarter as they pulled toward the second window. “George Washington, is it?”
“Yes! Very good.”
“Your Revolution happened not terribly long before I was born.”
“Keep saying things like that and you’re going to freak me out. Here, this is ours.” She handed him the paper bag and turned back for the drinks. “There’s a cup holder on your door, if you just flip that piece down.”
He did as he was told and slid the drink, into which she’d already thrust a straw, into place. “Sofia, what in God’s name is that smell?” He stared, concerned, at the paper bag in his lap.
“Lunch. Does it smell good or bad to you?”
“I’m… heavens, I’m not even sure.”
“You might not be sure after you eat it, either. But don’t blame me if you get addicted.”
He pulled out the boxed fish. “I believe that’s yours. And what are these stick things?”
“Fried potatoes, also known as fries. Try ’em.” She reached over and popped one into her mouth to demonstrate.
He took an experimental bite of his own fry, his brow scrunched in concentration. Upon tasting it, his eyes rolled back. “Saints and deities, it’s salty!”
“That’s why it’s good.” She snarfed another couple of fries, then began on her Filet-O-Fish as they cruised the streets toward the mall, hampered only when she needed to change gears. She wished she were more of a dainty eater, but this was McDonald’s on the go, for Pete’s sake, so she decided to relish it.
He didn’t seem to mind, since he was digging in the bag for more fries. “I see what you mean about addictive.”
“I warned you.”
He proclaimed the Big Mac “interesting,” which she thought could indicate “horrifying, but I’m too polite to say it”—except that he ate all of it and she caught him using fries to sponge up the drips of ketchup in the now-empty container.
As she finished her last fry, she studied him out the corner of her eye. He was, as wacko as it sounded, a handsome prince who had literally appeared in her living room by magic—and yet she felt co
mfortable enough with him to eat fast food with her usual gusto. And although she generally disliked people and their demands, she found him funny and endearing.
Not to mention hot.
What would happen if she were to let him into her world? Not just the real one, which he was already invading physically, but her inner one, her emotions, the part of her that had the capacity to love and be loved?
She wrapped her hands tightly around the wheel. Letting people in meant getting hurt, and she didn’t want to be vulnerable anymore.
At the mall parking lot, they drove into the multi-story garage and lucked into a space on the second floor close to an entrance.
He glanced around at all the cars. “A popular place, this.”
“Only if you like shopping.”
“And do you?”
She quirked her lips. “Too many people, usually. I prefer to order things with the computer. But when you need something sooner rather than later, this will do.”
The Banana Republic store was close by, which was good, because even in the short trek from the parking spot she noticed something. Alexander was causing a stir.
Sure, his attire must have been part of it. In modern times, it took a secure man to walk around in a puffy shirt, tight breeches, and knee-high boots—at least anywhere other than a riding stable. Still, the ladies’ gazes didn’t just settle upon his clothing, but wandered back up to his face, often accompanied by a happy sigh or a none-too-subtle whisper to their girlfriends.
“I’m a bit obvious in these clothes, eh?” Alexander gave her a modest smile. “Thank you for helping me find something more suitable.”
“Oh, of course,” she said, somewhat distracted by her own reaction to the stares and whispers. It was, unmistakably, sheer jealousy. The kind that made her want to grab his hand, wrap her arm around his waist, or otherwise mark him as hers as they strode through the crowd. Maybe she could tattoo him. Or get him a tee that said “I’m Sofia’s” from one of the custom shirt vendors. And yet he wasn’t. Not at all.
Panic nibbled its way toward her brainstem.
She steered him into the Banana Republic and towards the men’s section. His keen eyes seemed to take everything in: the items for sale, the people, their behavior as they looked through the clothes. “Shoppers try on garments right here, in public?”
“Men might change shirts out here, but women usually use a dressing room for changing.” She pointed toward the curtained area.
He nodded, and she could almost see the gears turning in his head as he looked for the differences from his time and assimilated them. Smart men had always been her Achilles’ heel.
Down to business. Clothes, Sofia. Clothes. “Hmm, maybe this,” she said, holding up a cerulean polo shirt. “Yes, the color sets off your eyes.”
“You’re noticing my eyes, are you?”
D’oh. “If we’re going to get you new clothes,” she stammered, “they should be ones that look good on you.”
“Is that so?”
With his gaze locked on hers, he began to tug his long-sleeved shirt from the waistband of his breeches and roll it up his body.
Was that sweat beading in the small of her back as he exposed more of his manly torso? Yes, definitely sweat. He was going to strip off his shirt right here in the middle of the store. She should direct him to the dressing rooms for her own sanity. But it was just a shirt, right? Oh, sweet cheese…
Her mouth went wet at the sight of his rippling muscles. She found herself leaning against a rack of men’s dress shirts, her knees threatening to wobble.
He pulled the polo on with only a little bit of trouble and without any help from her, which was just as well, because her libido had hijacked her mind and was shouting, “Hallelujah!”
“What is your verdict, Sofia?”
“That looks great,” she managed. Hell, he could be a Calvin Klein model. “Definitely your shade of blue.” She yanked her gaze away and grabbed more polos in other colors. “Let’s get a few of these. I hate doing laundry, and I bet you will, too.”
When it came to the pants, jeans and boxers, she made him go into the dressing room. She didn’t mind him coming out to show her how they fit, though. And she picked out some board shorts for him. He’d definitely be fun to take to the beach.
They finally made their way to the register with armfuls of clothing, from socks on up, plus his old clothes, and they handed over the tags for the shoes and the outfit he would wear out of the store. She whipped out a credit card and Alex observed the payment procedure.
“This card is another form of money, like the bills and coins?”
“In a sense. It’s really a symbol of the money I’m promising to pay.”
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his new jeans. “My lack of funds troubles me,” he said quietly as she signed the credit card slip.
“I get that. It’s hard to start all over.” She’d done that herself, after she’d made the break from her father. But she’d sold her art to make ends meet, and had found herself making a comfortable, if not extravagant, living. Her inheritance had come as a shock.
They gathered up the bags, which he took, refusing to let her tote any. “The least I can do is carry my own clothing.”
She led the way back to the car to drop them off. “We can trace your family, Alex, but I wouldn’t count on anyone believing you or handing over long-lost money. At any rate, not without one hell of a paternity test.”
“I’m not quite sure what that is, but I never fathered any children. At least,” he said, beginning to color, “to the best of my knowledge.”
She stifled a cough and tried to ignore the thought of him with other women. Even if those women were from another time. “There are now scientific ways to test how closely people are related. So we might be able to convince your family, eventually—if you want to tell them who you are and how you got here. But like I said, I still wouldn’t count on getting money out of them.” Once the bags were loaded and locked in, she gestured him back toward the mall.
“I’ve noticed,” he said thoughtfully, “that magic seems far less well known in this time. I’m not eager to be called a liar, or insane.” His gaze teased her, for she’d certainly labeled him all of that. “History has moved on, and so has my country.” For that he gave a small sigh. “It seems likely I will no longer have a function there, even if they were to accept who I am. And as kind as you are, dear Sofia, I do not want to live off your kindness.”
He opened the door to the mall for her, looking around at everyone and everything with his keen gaze. “People in this time earn money with jobs, just as they did in mine. What if I became an historian of my era?” He grinned, eyes twinkling.
She gave a delighted laugh. “You’d clearly have an advantage. But—” she laid a quick hand on his arm, as she’d wanted to do for a while—“for historians to be taken seriously, they have to go to school. For a very long time. It would be a lot of hard work.”
“I wouldn’t mind. I have much to learn about this time. What better way than by studying? I’ve always loved books. Even though wanting to read in peace once led to me becoming a frog.”
Her first instinct was empathy for what he’d been through, but that intriguing, self-effacing smile was on his face, and he didn’t seem to need her sadness. “An interesting plan, then,” she said. “We’ll have some things to figure out, but it could work. In the meantime, since you’re here in LA, you could probably do some modeling to make money.”
“Modeling?”
“Yes. People, um, enjoy looking at you. You could be a part of advertising campaigns. Like that,” she said, pointing at the attractive couple in the posters at a store’s entrance.
“Do you like to look at me, Sofia?”
Caught in his gaze, she stopped walking. A warm flush spread over her cheeks, down her neck, across her breasts and straight to her core.
“Yes,” she whispered. The word came from nowhere, an answer she hadn’t thou
ght she’d admit. But there was something so frank and honest about him that she could only reply with the truth.
Desire glowed in his eyes as they stood in the center of the mall, mere inches apart.
Just as she thought he might lean down and kiss her, a nearby toddler gave an ear-piercing shriek. She flinched, fracturing the moment, and flashed her teeth apologetically, though her heart was still hammering at what might have been. “Come on, one more stop.” She led him into the pet store.
“Er, Sofia? Why are we in the amphibian section?” he asked. “You’re not… planning to turn me back, are you?” He flared his eyes comedically wide.
She laughed. “Spells aren’t one of my skills. And I prefer Alex to Toad, anyway.”
He narrowed one eye. “You intend to buy her a frog to replace me?”
“I think that would be best, don’t you?” She glanced through the terrariums for a frog that looked like Toad.
“Are you planning to tell her what happened?”
She swiveled toward him. “Oh, sure, let her know her frog was really an enchanted prince? Don’t you think that would mess with her a little? She’s only seven.”
He cocked his head. “That seems the right age to understand magic.”
She sighed. “I don’t want her to get the wrong idea about how life works. Magic doesn’t run the world.”
“Doesn’t it?” He raised a brow. “Perhaps it’s not as obvious as in my time. But I bet magic is still here, just more silent, more hidden.”
He took a step closer. “Perhaps people don’t have as much control over it now, but it’s still here. It hovers in the space between moments. In the touch of another’s hand.” And he touched hers, sending a delicious frisson through her body.
But…
He smiled. “There goes that adorable divot between your brows. You’re resisting, Sofia. For an artist, you seem exceedingly rational.”
She frowned and rubbed at her brow, but that couldn’t erase his words. Especially since he was right. “What’s wrong with that? Being grounded is useful. Less chance of being hurt,” she added softly.