1
There are times in every person’s life—even the most type A, responsible, hands-at-ten-and-two people—when they find themselves wondering how on earth they’d arrived at a particular moment. Amy knew that intellectually, but she’d never thought it would happen to her. And yet it was happening right now.
She stared out over the New York City skyline with all its glittering canvas of twinkling lights. It was a view she’d seen a million times in pictures, but never quite from this vantage point. This being the Jewel Suite at the Towers at the Lotte Palace.
Amy had never once in her life hoped to set foot in a hotel room like the Jewel Suite, which was two floors of total luxury. A crystal chandelier dripped elegantly down from the cathedral ceiling to midair on the first floor. She recognized the style as Art Deco and painfully, seriously…rich.
Which was probably why a prince was staying here.
She shouldn’t be standing here right now, if she cared at all about her professional reputation and the longevity of her career, which she did. Her mother had made sure, over the course of her childhood, to drill that into her: appearances were everything. But it had been a long night, there had been a lot of champagne, and the way Prince Artur looked at her…
It had started at the gala earlier that night.
The PR firm that Amy had worked at for the past three years had been hired at the last minute to make sure everything proceeded according to plan for a particularly high-profile charity event. From what she understood, the plan was to rehabilitate Prince Artur’s image. He wasn’t very well-known in the United States, but in his home country, the news outlets watched him like a hawk—especially now that the country was considering abolishing the monarchy. A referendum was approaching that would decide the matter, and the PR people who worked for the king wanted to ensure his controversial younger brother was an asset rather than a problem. He was charming, and wildly popular with some segments of the population, but he was also a consummate playboy, always getting into trouble.
The royal family wanted to tamp things down more than a little.
It was Artur who was spending exorbitant amounts of money on parties and travel and generally…being a prince. This string of arranged appearances at formal, conservative, uncontroversial benefits and galas was meant to show he could and would behave himself with proper royal dignity…at least some of the time.
Amy had been assigned to a high-pressure position for the night of the gala. Her firm wanted someone on the ground to smooth over the conversation-level bumps in the road between participants, and that person was Amy. It was supposed to be a pretty staid affair, with a black-tie dress code and a big band playing the music, but events of that nature also had something else: an open bar.
One minute, things were fine—the hum of the conversation underscored nicely with the music from the jazz band. People were dancing. Not many of them, but enough so that the dance floor looked lively. Amy felt good in her black dress, which was a floor-length, one-shoulder creation that neatly straddled the line between professional and sexy. She had just turned away from the bar when the fight broke out behind her.
It was a single shout that made her turn back. Strangled, angry—not something you wanted to hear at a fancy gala, especially not if you were in charge of making things go off without a hitch. She’d spun around to see one tuxedoed man put another in a headlock.
“You bastard,” he growled through clenched teeth. “Repeat that garbage about my wife one more time. Do it.”
The man in the headlock did not appear to be able to answer, and the people near the bar were turning all around her to watch. If she didn’t get things in hand quickly, this would be the only thing people remembered about the event, and any chance of netting positive media attention for the prince would be ruined. It wouldn’t matter that he wa
sn’t involved in the fight—the anti-royalist press in his country would be sure to use it as an example of how he caused chaos wherever he went.
What was she going to do?
Both of the men looked strong, and much larger than she was. Still, it was her responsibility to intervene. Should she offer them more drinks? No. Clearly, they didn’t need any more alcohol. She took one decisive step forward. She could figure out what to say when she got closer to them.
Then another figure in black appeared at her shoulder, rushing in the same direction. She didn’t pay him any attention at first, and then—
“Gentlemen!” The voice that boomed out beside her turned her head. It was none other than Prince Artur. He was tall, lean, muscled in his tuxedo, with auburn hair and a wide smile that betrayed no anxiety at the scene in front of him. “There’s plenty to drink for everyone.”
He came up to the two men, clapping the one in the headlock on the back and offering him a hand up as if he’d tripped on the floor. The angrier man, still sputtering, tightened his grip on his enemy.
Prince Artur leaned in closer. “You’re making a fool of yourself, and there are going to be more cameras here in a minute. Settle the dispute the civilized way, hmm? Place a bet. A round of cards. Something other than what you’re doing.”
The man hesitated, but after a long moment released his enemy.
Amy caught sight of a uniformed waiter holding a silver tray high above the fray. Thank god—he was carrying a full tray of cream puffs. She grabbed two of them, and just as the media photographers caught up to the incident, stepped over to where the three men stood and offered up cream puffs to the man who was still red-faced and furious, eyes narrowed at his counterpart, who was rubbing at his throat and clearly looking for a way to escape.
“They’re delicious,” she said with a big, encouraging smile. “Come on. Have a bite.” She handed one to the formerly headlocked man, then turned back to the people surrounding them. “Everyone, cream puffs! Over here. If you haven’t had one already, you’re missing out.” Heads turned, and several ladies stepped up to the waiter as if they had never noticed the cream puffs before. The attacked man took that moment to slip away.
Prince Artur tried his best to get the angry man’s attention, but he was staring in the direction the other man had gone. Amy could see him trying to decide whether or not to follow. “See? All’s right with the world. Your next round is on me.” Amy grimaced, worried that more alcohol would make things worse, but the prince winked at her. “Some coffee, perhaps? There’s a station set up right over there. Nothing like coffee to clear the head, right?” Then he’d pointed a finger at Amy. “But none for you, you gorgeous creature. You didn’t bring me a cream puff.”
She knew the prince was, technically, a client, but that hadn’t stopped the heat from rising to her face. He was hot. Okay? She could admit it. The proportions of his body were…perfect.
What had happened after that? The man’s anger still boiled under the surface, so Amy found him a new venue: the bar. She had turned up the charm to several hundred megawatts, put a drink in his hand, and gently reminded the man that it was a benefit gala, after all, with a prize auction at the end. Soon, she had him convinced that everyone would remember him if he donated more, and a bit more, until by the end of the evening he was the most boisterous participant.
The press had loved it. Loved. It.
So when the prince offered her a celebratory round of champagne at the end of the night, she said yes. It had been such a success, right?
But it didn’t end with one glass of champagne. There was another, and some laughing, and he teased her again about that cream puff in a voice that was somehow sultry and smooth even when it was talking about cream puffs…
There had been a car, a driver, a trip through the New York City streets. A grand staircase leading to a bank of private elevators. And—
“I’ve decided the celebration can’t be over.”
Amy turned away from the window to find Artur coming back into the living room, skirting the overstuffed sofa with a silver tray in his hands. Balanced on the tray was another bottle of champagne and an arrangement of little chocolates and delicate strawberry slices.
He put the tray down on a side table and Amy opened her mouth to make her excuses. It had gotten this far—to his private room—but she should congratulate him on a night well managed and get out of here.
Oh, but the moment he popped the champagne his eyes were on her again, a hazel that caught the light from the fire crackling in the grate and reflected it back to her a thousandfold.
“It’s not a party if it’s just me, Amy darling.”
Amy darling. He’d called her that the first time when he’d brought the first round of champagne, but it didn’t sound so much like a joke anymore. It sounded like what it was—a proposition.
And she had to admit that it felt good to have those eyes on her. Good to have the invitation to party. Something about him made her feel like the only woman on earth.
He poured a single glass of champagne and offered it to her.
“It’s not a party if it’s just me,” she repeated, keeping her voice low and teasing.
“It’s rude not to offer a lady a drink.” Artur’s voice was haughty, and it made her laugh. “But I want my full faculties about me for the rest of the evening. The chocolate and the fruit, however…” He lifted the glass from the tray in one hand and one of the chocolates in the other and came toward her. “Those should serve as a delicious appetizer.”
He was so close that Amy found herself tilting her head back to look up at him.
“Open those pretty lips, Amy darling.”