He leaned forward, licked her earlobe, and whispered, “You.”
“PRESENTING HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, PRINCE André Miguel Peralta, and Miss Gemma Westfall.”
The voice boomed through the expansive room. Gemma stood at the top of the stairs, clenching André’s hand and trying desperately not to vomit. The split staircase was as grand and high as the one in Gone with the Wind. But the room at the bottom was filled with people, all in tuxedos, military uniforms, and elaborate ball gowns of every color.
André beamed next to her, overlooking the crowd. His gaze met hers. Pride emanated from every pore. He led the way down the stairs, holding on to her hand as she maneuvered in the gown and heels. A half a smile was the best she could manage.
Don’t go tripping now. Wouldn’t be a positive start to have his secret weapon fall over and land on her ass.
“Breathe, Gemma.” André gave a reassuring squeeze on her fingers. “Show them your brilliant smile.”
She tried. Oh, she really tried. But it felt more like Heath Ledger’s Joker face.
Her eyes scanned the unfamiliar crowd, a multiracial sea split by a long, gold runner leading into the ballroom beyond. Finally, her gaze landed on a friendly Colombian face, and her shoulders relaxed. Rico wore a white tux with a navy blue cummerbund and bowtie. With a silly, kid-in-the-candy-store smile, her friend and fellow ranch hand from Texas looked as out of place as she felt.
Reyna would be crying with pride to see him in that suit.
Beside him, Cataline beamed with a wink as she walked by. “Breathe,” she mouthed.
With a gentle tug on her hand, André pulled her to the side and wrapped his arm around her waist. His warm hand rested on her hip, his constant touch reassuring and settling.
“Presenting Her Royal Highness, Princess Alanna Safira Peralta, and Mr. Gabriel Flynn.”
They turned.
For the second time that night, Gemma’s jaw dropped, bringing her lifetime total to three.
The princess’s iris-colored gown made the crowd audibly swoon. Perhaps the lace-covered bodice with pearls sewn into the sheer cap sleeves mesmerized them, or they were all so relieved to see her home safely. No matter the reason, Alanna commanded the entire room. All five-foot-nothing of her; petite, yet impossible to miss.
“Incredible,” Gemma murmured.
“So much like our mother.” André’s eyes glistened.
“He’s not bad to look at either.”
Gabriel Flynn—or Flynn, as he corrected when they first met last week—was the American yacht broker responsible for the princess’s safe return. And ever since, he had captured the eyes of every woman on the island, especially in this room. Muscular physique, broad shoulders like a Clydesdale, and permanently wind-blown, sandy-brown hair. Even Gemma had to admit his emerald eyes were worth a second glance, and his ethereal face was spectacularly unfair to the rest of mankind.
Except for André.
Despite the glamorous arm candy at Alanna’s side, Gabriel Flynn was far too stoic for Gemma’s tastes. But she was grateful to have the media frenzy transfer from her to him—at least partially—once he arrived.
André’s jaw flexed. “The Navy engineer cleans up well.”
Gemma bumped him with her hip. “So does this foul-mouthed ranch hand. Don’t go judging him. He saved your sister’s life.”
“I’d like him a lot more if he weren’t romantically interested in her.”
“You’re really using the clichéd older brother excuse?” she whispered back.
André glanced sideways at her.
“By that reasoning,” Gemma continued, “Rico should hate your guts.”
“He’s not your brother.”
“Close enough.”
Alanna and Flynn led the way into the ballroom, followed by André and Gemma.
Gemma nearly tripped when entering.
What a room.
Beneath glittering chandeliers, thirty or so elegant tables gleamed with towering centerpieces filled with lilies and roses. Every chair was wrapped in sky blue chiffon with little pearls sewn into the backs, confirming to every guest they sat in a tropical heaven. An elegant mahogany podium was draped with the same sky blue Solanian flag behind it. Thin ribbons billowed from the chandeliers across the ceiling like a tent.
A small dance floor in front of the podium made her feet fill with lead.
For the love of God, please no dancing.
A twelve-person orchestra in the corner of the room welcomed everyone to their tables with classical string music.
Gemma’s eyes zeroed in on their table, desperate to avoid the dance floor.
But when André pulled her onto the wooden waxed planks, her nerves skyrocketed.
This’ll be worse than a hoof to the gut.
Her prince pulled her into his frame, and wrapped his fingers around the small of her back. Sparks shot up her spine at his touch.
God, his face is too perfect.
“Breathe,” he whispered.
She inhaled, then forgot to let it out, gripping his hand tighter.
“Show me what Cataline taught you this week.”
Gemma shook her head. “The dance lessons didn’t really take.”
His smile was warm, soothing. “It’s all right. I’m an excellent leader.”
“I’m not any good at following.”
The smile widened. “One of the qualities I love most about you. But for now, just go with me.”
The lights dimmed, and spotlights blinded her. The orchestra played the first few notes of some classical song, and André pulled her into a grand sweep of the floor.
Blood rushed to her brain, and her heartbeat hammered between her ears.
My feet were only made for saddle stirrups.
“Eyes on me, love.”
André’s warm voice brought her back from the verge of panic.
“I thought we were supposed to eat first.”
“I couldn’t help myself.” He stepped back and spun her around, the momentum carrying her forward, the movement fluid and natural. When she made the full rotation, he was right there, filling her frame and pulling her into another sweep.
“Damn,” she muttered, breathless.
He grinned. “My thoughts exactly.”
Staring at his confident eyes and pearly teeth, the music finally registered in her mind.
“Remember When” by Alan Jackson. The instrumental version.
Her heart hiccupped. “How did you know?”
His mocha eyes glittered. “I asked Rico for your favorite musician. Thought this would help you relax.”
Her heart lifted to the vaulted ceiling, covered with gilded cherub wings and mermaid accents. She ached for home, remembering the hours she’d spent in the stables on the ranch, playing the song over and over. Closing her eyes to the familiar melody, she let it bathe over her as André twirled her around the floor.
She could almost see the sunset over the hills of the pecan grove, feel the cool waters of the tank where she swam every afternoon, and smell the oak tree by her small, private cabin nestled on the back of the property.
Almost hear Reyna’s sweet voice calling from the porch, announcing supper.
A lump crawled up her throat. She opened her eyes.
André stared back at her in awe. “I would give anything to see that look on your face every day.”
The music died off, and sudden applause ripped his gaze away.
She swallowed back the lump as everyone clapped. For a moment, she’d forgotten the crowd was there. André bowed, and led her off the floor.
A waiter held out a tray of champagne, from which she gladly accepted a flute and downed it. The bubbly, sweet liquid made her eyes water, but she welcomed the relief to her parched throat. She much preferred a beer, the darker the better. But this would work.
Alanna and Flynn took the floor to a Frank Sinatra ballad, “Beyond the Sea.”
The princess moved with such grace, her feet gliding
along the floor like she wore ice skates. As if she were born with the Ginger Rogers gene.
Two-stepping at six years old with my father hardly compares.
“You were glorious out there,” André murmured in her ear, his arm tightly wrapped around her waist. “Almost as glorious as that evening by the pond on your quilt.”
She snorted on the champagne. Heat flooded her cheeks.
“Prince André, still as charming as ever.” A shorter, dark-haired man with round glasses and thinning mustache strolled up. His tuxedo was a half-size too big and he wore a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
André’s spine stiffened, and the smoldering look disappeared. On cue, he turned with his practiced diplomatic smile in place. “Prime Minister Barilla, good to see you.”
The prime minister bowed his head, and they shook hands. The kindness in André’s face dissipated. Clearly no love lost between him and the new leader, since the previous prime minister was murdered during the attack.
“It’s wonderful to meet the famous Gemma Westfall in person.” He held out his hand, which she reluctantly extended. As he kissed her knuckles, his mustache scratched her skin. “I’m Alberto Barilla. A thousand thanks for saving our beloved prince from the hands of that monster.”
Prickles raced along her neck. “It was hardly just me. His royal guardsmen, especially Stefano, deserve the credit.”
“But if rumor is correct, it was your sure-shot that ended Bendetto’s life. No? Mighty brave of you, dearest.”
Dearest? The wound in her shoulder itched and she bit back a sarcastic remark. “Yes, extremely brave. Particularly for the men who lost their lives that night.” Carlos. And Reyna before him.
“Of course.” He raised a brow. “And for all of the citizens who were murdered the previous seven days before you arrived.” He cast a sideways glance at André.
“The Lozano cartel is vicious,” the prince answered quickly. “We’re doing everything we can to facilitate Santos Lozano’s capture and bring him to justice, along with his thugs. Meanwhile, all the lost Solanian citizens will have memorials befitting their sacrifice. Princess Alanna and I will ensure their families will be cared for with trusts for the next several generations.”
Barilla’s jaw twitched. “How kind of you, Your Highness.”
Stefano approached out of nowhere and whispered into André’s ear, to which he nodded.
“If you’ll excuse us, Prime Minister. The U.N. delegate from the Philippines has a pressing matter.”
“Of course. Miss Westfall, a pleasure to meet you.”
Gemma nodded, and André ushered her toward their table. He pulled out her chair, but she didn’t sit.
Instead, she raised a brow at him.
“This will probably be a few minutes, and I’d rather not keep you from dinner.”
Gemma set her flute on the table and crossed her arms. “You’re dismissing me?”
Those coffee eyes narrowed on her, and he moved into her frame. His musky cologne mixed with a hint of champagne on his breath. “Never.”
Rico walked up, the silly smile still plastered to his face. “Care for a dance, Gemmana?”
Gemma softened at the endearing nickname he’d given her years ago. A Spanglish version of her name and hermana, sister.
“That’ll be hazardous to your health. But you look awesome.” She gave him a sideways hug. “Reyna would be so proud to see you in a tux.”
His smile turned sympathetic. “Not as proud as seeing you en un vestido.”
Gemma swallowed back the lump in her throat. Yes, she would have loved this dress.
“She would whip me if I didn’t ask you for a dance.” Rico ran a hand through his slicked-back hair. So unusual to see him without his beat-up cowboy hat. “Where did you learn those moves?”
She turned to André. “I had a good leader.”
He grinned and leaned in, touching his warm lips to hers.
A bright flash made her blink. They both turned to a man holding up a camera phone, less than ten feet away. Suddenly, several royal guardsmen appeared from the outer wings, grabbed the man’s shoulders, and pushed him out of the room.
André seethed. “Damn paparazzi.”
“Forgive me, Your Highness,” Stefano muttered, stiff back as always. “Phones were supposed to be collected. I will check into the security at once.”
The prince nodded and caressed Gemma’s cheek. “That kiss will be all over the news tomorrow. Lo siento.”
She waved away his apology. “It’s a shame. That wasn’t even your best.”
The blush that rose on his cheeks made her hot. Seeing him ruffled and embarrassed made her heart flutter and her thighs ache to wrap around him.
“I’ll be right back.” He kissed her temple and left, with Stefano following close behind. As always.
Gemma ground her teeth.
“If you’ll have a seat, Miss Gemma.” Cataline’s kind voice pulled her around. A large royal guardsman stood behind her. “They are about to serve dinner. Do you mind if I sit with you?”
You mean fill André’s seat and distract me until he returns. “Sure. Rico, cop a squat.”
Cataline’s lips pursed, but Rico smiled and pulled out a chair. The guard pulled out both Gemma’s and Cataline’s chairs.
From across the dance floor, the princess and Flynn had finished their first dance. As she spoke something to him, his eyes were glued to hers. She rose on her toes, kissed his cheek, and he enveloped her in a tight embrace.
Gemma sighed. Flynn truly loved Alanna. That much was clear. And vice versa. She’d have to convince André to relax toward the man. She was all for the underdog.
The princess turned to leave, but not before waving at the three other occupants at their table, who waved back emphatically. They made Gemma smile. She’d met them briefly a week ago when they arrived. Alfred Cleaver was a portly bald chef with a soft face who had concealed Alanna and Flynn on the yacht on which they’d taken refuge during the initial invasion. His sister, Marie, was the chief steward, and fought relentlessly with Alfred. Probably like most siblings. Flynn approached the table and said a few words to Marcus Gazi, a Thai deckhand on the same yacht, who had all survived the helicopter attack from Lozano’s henchmen.
Due to their efforts in assisting Alanna, she extended an invitation to them for the State Dinner in thanks. The princess followed André’s trail with her own royal guardsman in tow. Flynn’s eyes never met hers or anyone else’s as he pulled out a chair.
“Well done,” Gemma commented, trying to get him to engage. “You looked like you were having fun.”
“Thanks,” he replied, his voice clipped. He looked around the table, his eyes never settling on one thing.
“Is there anything you can’t do?” Marie asked with a thick British accent. “You can fix a yacht engine, battle mercenaries, and now ballroom dancing?”
“Seriously, my friend,” Alfred interrupted. “You’re making us all look bad.” He gave him a wink and sipped on champagne.
Flynn didn’t smile, but his cheeks pinked.
Gemma leaned forward. “Where’d you learn to dance like that?”
“Internet.”
Her brows rose. “Really? Dance lessons online?”
“Enough for the basics.”
“In a week? Impressive.”
Flynn shrugged and unfolded his napkin.
“What better be impressive is the food.” Alfred downed his champagne and motioned for another from a passing waiter. “If royalty doesn’t have a stellar chef, I can certainly go back there and fix that kitchen up in half a spot.”
Marie scoffed. “You just want to steal a peek at the top-of-the-line equipment.” She glanced at Gemma. “Chef envy. He’s been obsessed with becoming Alanna’s personal chef ever since he learned she was royalty.”
“I think you need to work on controlling your little hissy fits first.” Marcus adjusted his bowtie.
Alfred looked hurt. “I don’t throw hi
ssy fits.”
“Yes you do,” Flynn replied with a straight face. “I heard them all the way down in the engine room.”
A waiter draped napkins over Gemma’s and Cataline’s laps.
“Please put a good word in for me, chap.” He lowered his voice. “I always liked you, you know.”
Marie rolled her eyes. Flynn smiled. Or half of one. With how angelic his face was, he should do that more often.
“Ah, here’s the first test.” Alfred rubbed his hands together.
Like a gust of wind, servers poured out of the back doors carrying covered silver trays. They set the platters down in front of everyone and simultaneously removed the lids.
Steam clouds rose over the tables, the aroma intoxicating. Roasted chicken on a bed of herbed potatoes and honey-glazed carrots made Gemma’s mouth water. Her heart ached with tenderness.
Her favorite.
“Down home American cooking?” Alfred gawked at the plate. “Well, this chef is full of surprises.”
Gemma couldn’t hold back a secret smile. André had arranged this. A prince indeed.
SANTOS LOZANO PEERED OUT OVER the railing of his hotel balcony, overlooking the early evening haze of Singapore. The view of the peninsula city-country from the Marina Bay Sands casino circled the entire hotel. Lush gardens fought for space among the skyscrapers and concrete marvels. In the bay, hundreds of tanker vessels waited to be off-loaded in one of the busiest ports in the world. Lozano beamed at the endless running lights glittering across the water’s surface.
The ultimate rule of the land, commerce.
Not law or morality, but money.
This is where I’m king.
He tightened the sash on his silk robe and walked back inside.
A brunette with perfectly manicured toes lay sleeping in his bed, her petite breasts bare.
So beautiful—what’s her name?
The red-headed prostitute—Sadie, I think—emerged from the lavish bathroom wearing only a black leather thong, and her hair pulled into a loose bun. When she saw him standing there, her eyes darkened. She subtly moved her hand behind her tight ass.
But Lozano saw what she failed to hide. A cell phone.
Hookers—so stereotypically stupid.
Crown of Solana Page 2