by Tara Wylde
Under normal circumstances, I’d appreciate such things, but today even that requires more effort than I have to give. My muscles are seizing up.
Each step I take sends tiny quivers of pain through my entire body, each one a silent reminder I can’t ignore that I’m not nearly as young as I once was. I’ve never been as aware of time’s steady march as I am now.
I spent the day training and sparring with Yuri Iles, a boy whose entire family moved to the capital when Yuri was just nine years old so he could train with the great Carlos Mandolay.
I’ve watched Yuri grow up and trained with him countless times, but this is the first time that I realized that not only is he very, very good, but he’s old enough and getting strong enough to challenge even me.
I had to work to keep up with him, something I usually only need to do with Roderick.
If I’m not careful, there’s a chance Yuri will usurp me as my country’s fencing hero. Even before the thought fully forms, I square my shoulders and tighten my jaw.
Hell no, I tell myself firmly, I won’t let that happen.
Barring an injury or serious distraction, Yuri will have his chance to shine, to be a champion, but not until I’m good and ready to step down. And that’s not going to happen until I win a gold at the next Olympics.
But the first step is winning the European Fencing Masters.
And before I do that, I need to figure out what I’m going to do about this damned marriage bet.
When Roderick dared me to get married, there had seemed like plenty of time to find a willing bride, convince her to sign a pre-nup, and get married. I figured I had a whole contact list full of women who would be happy to be a princess – even if only for a limited time.
Heck, I was pretty sure I’d even enjoy being married to them for a few months.
Now, twenty-eight days later, the only thing I have is the pre-nup I convinced my lawyer to draw up. With two days to go, there’s not a bride in sight.
And it’s not like I haven’t been looking or somehow deliberately waited until the last minute, which I know is what my mother and Roderick think.
I’ve wined and dined a few women, and each time I intended to see if they’d be interested in playing at being my bride for a few months, but I just couldn’t make myself do it. Something stopped me. Like hitting a brick wall.
It just didn’t feel right.
But that doesn’t make sense. I’ve never been Mr. Right. Mr. Right Now has always been enough for me. So why the hang-up?
Still, there are two days left until I officially fail the dare, and I have a plan.
My mother’s PA, Eileen, has made it clear, even without words, that she’d be interested in helping a guy out. I would have asked her already, but there’s always been something about her that puts me on edge. I wish I could figure it out.
She’s sexy. She’s educated. She understands my family, and I think we’d have some good times together before we parted ways. Since she works for us, the press will have a great time spinning it as some fairytale love story.
I don’t know why I didn’t “propose” weeks ago.
There’s just one little problem. My mom. She adores Eileen and always says how she’s never had a better PA or how she’d get along without her.
Marriage to me, even on a temporary basis, would mean Eileen would have to step down as my mom’s PA. And to do that to my mom, especially for a sham …
I’ll never hear the end of it.
Still, I’ve never backed down from a challenge yet, and I’m not about to break my winning streak. I’ll just have to come up with a way to make it up to my mom.
Gravel crunches beneath tires. I watch a big black car that bears the royal insignia glide up to the front entrance and halt. The driver, an older man who has been transporting royal guests from the hotel to the castle since before I was born, springs from the driver’s seat with an agility that belies his age, and opens the rear door.
A short woman dressed in a well-fitted but inexpensive business pantsuit slips out. She tilts her head back and says something which makes Albert throw his head back and laugh.
After all these years, I’ve never seen him behave like that.
Albert spots me on the edge of the lawn and stiffens. He pauses a moment, obviously considering his options, before hooking a hand around his passenger’s elbow and leading her around the front of the car.
My red-blooded male mode kicks in and my eyes slide over her. Not bad. Not knock out beautiful like Eileen and the actress I like dating, but certainly not a slouch in the looks department. Dark blonde hair, nice nose, good cheek bones. A little on the short side, the top of her head might reach my collar bone if she’s wearing heels. Curvy figure.
With some different make up and better fitting clothes, she’d be the quintessential girl next door.
And yet still, she’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.
“His Royal Highness, Prince Lucas.” Albert dips his head in a respectful bow.
His passenger’s wide set, deep brown eyes stare at me for a beat longer.
“The prince himself,” she mutters in an accent I recognize as being from Boston. “Impressive.”
Okay, not the warmest of greetings. I wonder what’s put her back up. Has she heard something about me? Sure, there are some stories, but nothing too off putting to anyone who isn’t a complete prude.
Her dry tone doesn’t bring out the better aspects of my personality.
I arrange my face in my best I-am-royalty expression and return her stare.
The tip of her tongue snakes out and moistens her lips.
My cock twitches, surprising me.
She’s pretty, sure, but the girl next door thing has never been my thing. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, it’s just never gotten me excited before.
So why is my body reacting to this woman?
Her pale skin turns a becoming rose pink, and tiny beads of sweat appear on the bridge of her nose.
Our eyes clash. Hers are blue with interesting gold flecks fanning out from the irises. Very pretty. I could lose myself in eyes like that.
The thought irritates me. I let myself get swallowed up in a pair of big blue eyes once before. Never again.
“Your Royal Highness,” she mutters and twists her hands together. She lowers her head and stares at the carefully groomed gravel beneath her cheap, slightly scuffed black pumps.
I wait a beat longer but she doesn’t offer any clue as to her identity.
Alfred meets my gaze briefly and steps in. “Your Royal Highness, may I present Ms. Alexis Thane.”
Thane.
I roll the name over in my head. It sounds familiar but I can’t place it.
“She has a meeting with your mother regarding the items the Queen wishes to have appraised.”
That tiny bit of information is all my brain needs to make the connection. Alexis Thane, the consultant my mother is interested in hiring to help her donate some of the royal antiques to museums.
“My mother hired you?”
Alexis nods. She looks miserable, though I can’t fathom why. She was perfectly comfortable with Albert.
Maybe …
“Why was the baby strawberry crying?” The words tumble out of her mouth.
I gape at her, unsure of what to think, do, or say. Her words make no sense.
“Pardon?” Alfred coughs. I can’t tell if it’s to hide a smile or to cover up intense embarrassment.
“Because his parents were in a jam.”
A joke! Seriously?
This woman, in her cheap suit, who wants me to believe that she’s a competent business woman, is telling jokes, and bad ones at that.
Something is seriously wrong, and I can only think of one thing that it can possibly be.
I reach out and wrap my long fingers around her elbow and tug her up against my side. The smell of vanilla and honey, tickles my nose, tempting me to lean close. I’ve always loved the how honey sm
ells.
I order my body to ignore the unexpected urge to lean closer and indulge in a deeper inspection of the delicious scent and focus on the task at hand.
“I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but we’re going to see Queen Lynette and put a stop to it before it goes any further.”
Alexis
I was right. I told Tessa this was a bad idea, that she should never send me on my own and I was right.
The thought flashes through my mind as Prince Handsome-as-sin-but-that’s-the-only-thing-he-has-going-for-him Lucas drags me up the fancy staircase.
When I first laid eyes on him, I had a flash of me walking boldly up to him, grabbing onto his shoulders, wrapping my legs around those impossibly lean hips while demanding he fuck me.
The image was so unlike me, I’d turned red and promptly forgot everything I knew about dealing with people. I couldn’t look at him for fear he’d somehow look at my face and know exactly where my mind went.
When I realized he was talking to me, I thought he’d somehow read my thoughts and I panicked. Desperate to do or say something that would distract both of us, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
The stupid strawberry joke.
Okay, so the jokes not that good, it’s pretty childish, but still, it’s kinda funny. Most people laugh at least a little bit when I tell it.
Not Prince Jackass. He didn’t even crack a smile
Admittedly, most adults don’t share my love for bad, childish jokes, but at least they crack a smile or respond with a polite laugh, but not this guy. Based on his reaction, telling a joke is some kind of a national crime.
I slide a sideways glance up towards his face. It’s still gorgeous, exactly the kind of face Michelangelo would have sought in a muse, but it doesn’t look like the kind of face that smiles often.
Probably because it may crack wide open or crumble into dust at the first hint of a smile.
How do people survive without a sense of humor? It might not be quite as important as oxygen, but I’m telling you, it’s right up there.
He said he’s taking me to see Queen Lynnette, probably to convince her to bring back the guillotine and have me and my bad jokes silenced forever.
He tugs me through a magnificent doorway and across the biggest foyer I’ve ever seen. Someone has nicely arranged long, gorgeous runners on the floor but Prince Asshat ignores them, hauling me in a direct line across the slippery marble floor.
After three steps, I give up trying to walk beside him and just lock my knees and practically let my favorite pair of pumps slippery soles slide across the sleek floor.
The prince gives me a side-eye and I resist, barely, the urge to stick my tongue out at him.
The prince walks - and I slide - out of the main entrance room and into an equally grand side room that’s occupied by two women.
One, a woman who’s impossibly beautiful and about my age, stands near a window and typing something onto her smartphone. The other, an older woman who oozes regality and dignity is seated on stunning maroon settee reading a magazine.
Both look up as I’m hauled before the settee.
The Queen looks up and her eyes widen. “Lucas, what has gotten into you?”
Queen Lynette, doesn’t fit the mental image I created of her. One glance and I know she’s the most natural, most down to earth, queen I’ve ever met.
Her makeup, though flawless, doesn’t hide the network of faint crow’s feet radiating from the corners of her eyes and mouth or the softening of her jawline. Her clothes are comfortable and fit nicely. She lacks the hard, brittle edge women gain when they start fighting the natural aging process.
Queen Lynette is allowing herself to age gracefully and without shame.
I can respect that.
Prince Pea Brain’s grip on my elbow tightens. It feels like I’m back in school, being dragged in front of the principal and accused of someone else’s crime. Literally, the only thing I’ve done, is tell a joke. I hate to know how he reacts when he encounters someone who actually has screwed up.
Talk about tightly wound. If he doesn’t unbend soon, he’s going to shatter.
“This girl claims you hired her to look at antiques.”
The queen meets my eyes. “And you are,” she asks in perfect English.
“Alexis Thane.”
I slide my free hand into my purse and feel for my driver’s license which I hand the queen. “I own Glass and Wood Consulting. We’re based out of Boston, Massachusetts.” I add the second part out of habit rather than need.
The queen glances at the small card. “Lucas, unhand the girl. She’s exactly who she says she is.”
“But, I thought –”
Light flashes in Queen Lynette’s eyes as she points to his hand wrapped around my elbow. “Do as I say. Now.”
All trace of warmth is gone from the older woman’s voice. And for a split second she becomes supremely regal and there’s no doubt that she’s Queen of Moravia.
He drops my arm and takes a step back. The woman near the window slides her phone into her pocket and glides across the floor towards us.
The queen places a hand on my shoulder and smiles apologetically. “You’ll have to forgive my son. He’s on the edge of losing a marriage bet and it’s made him … cranky.”
“A marriage bet,” I ask, convinced I’d misheard.
“I haven’t lost yet,” Lucas mutters darkly at the exact same moment.
“No, you haven’t,” the other woman in the room purrs an agreement. She moves away from the window and towards us. She stops next to the prince and smiles at him. “There’s still a few days left, which is plenty of time for him to find someone.”
The queen gestures to her companion. “Alexis, this is Eileen Schwimmer – my right-hand woman. She’s the best P.A. I’ve ever had. I honestly don’t know how I’d accomplish anything without her.”
Eileen nods at me. She’s an amazing woman. Skin the color of cinnamon and free of any imperfections, big exotic eyes, a tiny nose, a slim body, and she radiates poise.
There’s something about her behavior that’s not quite right. She stands just a bit too close, her smile is just bit too bright, and there’s something in the angle of her body that’s not quite right.
She wants him.
The realization jolts through me and I’m suddenly overcome with the desire to pull every strand of her perfect hair from her scalp. Apparently, I’m still a little attracted despite the way he’s treated me.
“Is there anything I can do to make up for my son’s atrocious behavior. We have a nice assortment of refreshments available.”
The queen winces as she points at a table laden with drinks and delicacies – perhaps realizing how insufficient her gesture is.
“I’d really just like to see the items you wish me to examine.”
There’s no way I can get through a bout of refreshments with these people. With the way things are going I’d probably dump hot tea on Eileen Schwimmer’s head, and either rip the clothes of Prince Lucas or stick a butter knife into one of his eyeballs. No, the best thing I can do right now is focus on work.
“Very well.” The queen leads us across the room. “I must confess that it’s possible you’ve been brought here to appraise pieces that could very well be of little value.”
Eileen glides ahead of the queen and opens a door. The queen crosses the threshold without breaking conversation. My eyes widen as I realize that this is what she’s used to. She might never have opened a door her entire life!
“Most were collected by my husband’s great-great grandfather who loved surrounding himself with great beauty, and wasn’t concerned with the actual value of the items. He was as happy with a Ming dynasty vase as he was with a clay plate made by a local villager.”
The room is roughly the size of my entire apartment. Extraordinary works of art hang from the walls or are propped on gilded easels. Beautiful chests, tables, and wardrobes gleam under the gent
le light.
They’re beautiful, but they’re not what draws my attention.
“My goodness,” I breathe the words out and forget everything as I weave my way around one beautiful antique after another until I’m standing before an ornate display hutch where a dozen small glass animal figurines sparkle at me. I stare at them a moment, basking in their beauty and grace before unhooking the delicate latch and opening the door.
“Barclay Lunn,” I whisper, stunned.
“Who,” Lucas asks.
His mother ignores him and steps towards me. “Yes, that was the designer listed in the paperwork I have for those pieces. I hoped you’d be able to provide some background on the pieces. It seems I was right.” She shoots me a grateful smile.
“Barclay Lunn was born a slave. As a child, he worked as a laborer in the shipyards. In the little bit of free time he had, he drew elaborate sketches.”
I reach into the case and gently remove one of the figurines. It’s a butterfly. It’s so small, it barely weighs more than the animal that inspired its design. Yet every detail is absolutely perfect. I’ve never held such an exquisite piece of workmanship.
“Legend has it that the Duke of Rysperhuxk saw one of young Barclay’s sketches and was so enraptured with its beauty that he immediately purchased him and arranged to have him shipped to his country home, where Barclay spent all his time creating artwork and filling the Ducal home with one of a kind pieces. Barclay learned how to blow glass and started making glass figurines. Some are said to have been pretty bawdy, which fit the Duke’s taste and which he gave to his male friends, but most were like this, accurate and stunning representations of the animals Barclay loved.”
I return the butterfly and scan the rest of the figurines, looking for Barclay’s most famous pieces which had been lost well over a hundred years ago, if they even existed at all. They’re not here. I ignore the flash of disappointment.
“After England officially freed slaves, Barclay is said to have blown to figurines, one a badly beaten horse and the other the same horse after it’s been properly fed and loved. He was inspired by a story he’d heard about William Wilberforce who was instrumental in freeing the slaves. He felt that the story not only pertained to Wilberforce’s life, but also symbolized what the man had done for Barclay and other slaves. He gave the figurines to Wilberforce who supposedly treasured them.”