The Prince and the Player

“It felt good to get your nut off more like,” she quips. I can’t argue, and she exhales a laugh. “It’s all right. I understand. I don’t think they understand, but I do. I forgive you.”

“Thanks, I guess. I’m paying for it now if that gives you any satisfaction.”

“It doesn’t, but thanks for the dance. Don’t feel pressure to pick me. I don’t care for men.” She does a little sigh. “I’m only here out of curiosity. I find you very interesting.”

That almost makes me laugh, and I give her a wink. “Are you telling me you’re a lesbian, Felicity?”

“Must we label each other, Playboy Prince?”

“Hmm,” I pull back with a frown. “I see what you mean. Let’s not.”

“Lara is very interested in you, or at least the chance at being queen.” She glances around the room. “From the looks of death I’m getting right now, I’d say she’s not alone. I wouldn’t be in your shoes for anything.”

“I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

Her slim brows pull together. “How so?”

“You distracted me from what was shaping up to be a horrid night.”

“Oh, it’s only just started.” She does a little bow. “Good luck, your majesty.”

I bid my strange new friend adieu, and Mother appears to make sure I dance with Graceland next. After her follows a string of noble females, who all look alike to me. I manage to avoid being paired with Lara, who I happen to remember is as fine a dancer as she is a horsewoman.

Still, after talking to Felicity I’m convinced dealing with her would be more than I can tolerate this particular evening. My patience has reached its limit. As a matter of fact, I’m counting down the minutes until I can leave. None of these fine ladies interests me, and they shouldn’t be the targets of my irritation. They only answered the call.

I manage to escape to the broad patio leading off the back of the ballroom, and by some miracle, I’m alone. I spot Felicity on my way out sitting on the sidelines chatting with a woman who looks older than my grandmother. She does a little wave, and I nod as I discreetly back out through the French doors.

Outside, in the fresh air, I take a deep breath and exhale a groan. I walk slowly across the flagstone pavement wanting to rip the bow tie off my neck and throw it over the balcony.

The moon is high and bright and far off in the distance. The noise of the ocean whispers like a taunt, and I wonder how difficult it would be for me to climb over the rail and escape, dash down the hill to the shore below. What I wouldn’t give to be my former self before my father died, free and easy for just one day.

Several moments pass, I stand looking out at the waves now black and tipped in silver by the moonlight. In spite of the annoyance of the evening, the night feels almost magical, like the universe shifts.

A soft voice catches my ear, and I realize I was wrong—I’m not alone. Through my exhaustion, I recognize the words softly spoken from the other side of the small rose bush planted in the center of the patio. A female voice recites a poem I learned in school.

* * *

And yet with all this help of head and brain,

How happily instinctive we remain.

Our best guide upward farther to the light:

Passionate preference, such as love at first sight.

* * *

I step around the roses, and I’m frozen on the spot. A young woman sits, leaning back on her hand, and she seems to glow in the moonlight. Her dark hair is down her back in long waves that curl gently at the ends. I want to thread my fingers through it and see if it’s as silky as it appears. Her lips are full and pink, and her skin is the color of caramel.

Her strapless gown leaves her slim shoulders bare, and her chin is tilted up, eyes closed. All my tension falls away, and I burn with desire to take her in my arms and kiss her.

I want to run my mouth all over her body and taste her. I want her in my enormous bed in my chamber where I can inhale her scent and have her all around me all night. It’s an insanely primitive response unlike anything I’ve ever felt, yet I have to know who she is. I have to know her better.

“Bonsoir,” I say as gently as possible, despite my growing hunger.

Her eyes flash open, and I’m hit with a blaze of deep emerald green. It’s like a sucker-punch to the chest.

“I’m sorry!” She leans forward and moves her long dress aside before standing. She’s American…. And she’s trying to leave! My insides revolt. I can’t let that happen.