I take off after her, like the idiot I’ve become. She’s a strong swimmer—really strong—but I trained with the Wildemarian Olympic swimming team during my teen years, back before my father made it clear that, no matter how much I loved the sport, there were more important ways for me to honor our country than as a member of its 2004 Olympic team.
I catch up to her just as she reaches the far edge of the lake. And then it’s on. Instead of acknowledging me, she spins around and sprints back across the lake to where we started. I stay with her, keeping pace but making sure not to pull ahead by more than an occasional stroke here or there.
We race back and forth across the lake like this twenty-five times before she finally stops to take a breath. And what a breath it is, her full breasts once again straining against her skimpy bikini top as she sucks in great gulps of air. Part of me feels bad for pushing her this hard, but a smaller part—the one that is no longer bound by duty and responsibility and chivalry—is just glad for the chance to enjoy the view.
“What’s your name?” I ask, when it finally looks like she might be able to answer me.
She tilts her head to the side, then looks me up and down. “My mother taught me not to tell strange men my name.”
“That may be true,” I answer with an arch of a brow, “but you don’t look like the type who listens to her mother.”
And she doesn’t—she really doesn’t. Between the rhinestone stud in her nose, the elaborate back tattoo I still haven’t gotten a good look at, and her “drop dead” attitude, she’s pretty much the opposite of a good girl. Certainly the opposite of any woman Crown Prince Garrett, heir to the throne of Wildemar, should ever even glance at.
But I’m not crown prince anymore and the truth is I want to do a lot more than look at this woman. I want to put my hands on her, to tangle my fingers in all those riotous curls, to skim my mouth over every inch of her skin until she’s weak and trembly and can’t help calling my name.
This woman gives as good as she gets, and I can’t wait to see what that translates to in bed.
But for now, what it means is she’s giving me the same slow, thorough once-over I just gave her. And for the first time, a small hint of unease creeps through me. Because from the moment I first saw her, all I’ve been able to think about is getting her underneath me—to the exclusion of everything else. But now that she’s checking me out, I can’t help remembering just how broken I am. And just how many scars those three months in captivity left me with…Sure, the rash guard and board shorts I’m wearing covers most of the damage, but just because it isn’t visible doesn’t mean it’s not there. Inside and out.
My father has been insistent that I get plastic surgery to remove them all, but I’ve been resistant since it seemed vain to worry about parts of my body that people rarely see. But now, as this beautiful woman’s eyes linger over the jagged scar on my left arm and the wickedly curved one that runs down my right leg, I can’t help being uncomfortable. Can’t help wondering if, for once, my father was right.
I wait for her to say something about the scars—they’re relatively new looking and she’s not exactly the type to beat around the bush. But in the end, she waves her hand up and down in front of my torso and says, “Nice to know that body of yours isn’t just for looks.”
I’m not quite sure what she’s getting at with that. “Meaning?” I ask, brow arched.
She grins. “Isn’t it obvious? I like the way you move.”
I smile back, the tension leaking out of my muscles as suddenly as it came. “I’m glad to hear that. Considering I’m pretty impressed with how you move, as well.”
It’s a douchey line, one the old Prince Garrett would never have even considered saying out loud. I start to apologize—to take it back—but the way her eyes light up with laughter freezes the words on my tongue. And makes me appreciate my newfound freedom for the first time.
“Maybe we should move together—”
This time both my eyebrows hit my hairline, but she just laughs. And nods at the rock I’d been sunning myself on earlier. “I meant over to the shade. I’m hot.” She pretend-fans herself.
A million responses go through my head, but I’ve got enough self-control not to say any of them. Instead, I just hold an arm out—an offer to escort her back to the rock.
But she rolls her eyes—of course she does—and blows right past me.
She moves fast for such a small woman and I find myself scrambling to keep up with her. But once she reaches the rock, she doesn’t sprawl across it like I expect her to. Instead she settles on a corner of it and looks at me expectantly.
When I just look back—I’ve known her only half an hour, but already I know that she’s got a wicked bite—she rolls her eyes again. And pats the spot next to her.
“What’s your name?” I ask, once I’m settled beside her.
“Lola.”
“Lola? Seriously?”
Her eyes narrow. “You got a problem with my name?”
“No! Of course not. I’ve just never met a Lola—”
“Outside of a strip club?”
“I was going to say ‘before,’ but I guess that works too.”
“My mom was a dancer in Vegas when she got pregnant with me. Which explains everything you need to know.”
“About your name? Or you?”
She grins. “Maybe both?”
There’s no maybe about it. Her story says it all.
She’s American, the daughter of a Vegas showgirl, with a wild streak a mile wide and a “fuck off” attitude that shouldn’t be the least bit appealing to a guy like me.
But it is, and so is she.
Yeah, she’s about as far from my usual type as I am from being crown prince these days. In fact, nothing about her—save the killer body and sly sense of humor—would have been appropriate for the man I was nine months ago.
But I’m not that man anymore and everything about this woman is ringing my bell. From her rainbow-colored toenails to the jumble of bracelets crowding her wrists to the long, long eyelash extensions that make her already striking blue eyes really pop.
“I’m Garrett,” I tell her.
“I know,” she answers.
It’s not the answer I was expecting—or the one I want to hear. I scoot back a little, in surprise or disappointment or both, but she slaps a hand on my thigh before I can move more than an inch or so.
“Don’t go getting all stiff on me,” she says as she reaches for her drawstring bag with the other hand. “If you want people to pretend they don’t know who you are, you should probably ditch the bodyguards. And the royal attitude.”
I lift a brow. “Really? I’m the one with the royal attitude?”
She just laughs—something I’m finding out she does a lot, despite the grab-life-and-everyone-in-it-by-the-balls attitude she wears like a cloak that covers every part of her. “Is that your way of calling me a bitch?”
“It’s my way of calling you a lot.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” She reaches into her backpack and suddenly Bastian and Bryce are standing two feet from us, eyes narrowed and faces set in the look I like to call royal-detail stern.
I tense despite my best efforts, but force myself to relax as Lola tilts the bag toward us so we can see that she’s pulling out a sweating bottle of chardonnay. “Don’t worry, boys. If I’d planned on killing him, I would have done it already.”
Bastian grins a little, tilting his head in acknowledgment. Then blends back into the trees.
“That’s a nice party trick they’ve got going,” she tells me as she unscrews the lid. “I wish I could blend in like that.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. “No, you don’t.”
It’s her turn to lift a brow. “And what does that mean, exactly?”
“It means if yo
u want to blend in, then you’re going about it entirely the wrong way. Every single thing about you says ‘look at me, look at me.’ ”
“Damn straight,” she answers with a grin. “And that’s the way I like it. Life’s too short to be anyone but who you really are.” She holds the bottle out to me. “Sip?”
Chardonnay isn’t exactly my drink of choice, but I find myself taking a long swallow anyway. It tastes better than I expected. Then again, that could just be because Lola’s smiling at me like I’m the only man on the planet. Except, of course, for my three-man security detail, all of whom are watching this exchange with avid interest, no matter how inconspicuous they’re trying to be…
I hand the bottle back and she takes a careless swig before wiping the back of her hand across that pink, pink mouth of hers. For long seconds I can think of nothing but what the wine would taste like if I sipped it from those lips.
She catches me staring and winks at me, right before she very deliberately licks her tongue all the way across her upper lip. I lean forward—more than a little hypnotized by every ridiculous, insouciant inch of her—but she slaps a hand across my chest. Then passes the bottle back to me with a little nod that urges me to have another drink.
“So, what’s a girl like you doing in Aubertin?” I ask after following her silent directions.
“I’m pretty sure I could ask the same thing of you. This village isn’t exactly known for its luxurious accommodations. You roughing it or something, Prince Garrett?”
I think about the lovely backwoods chalet I’m staying in, courtesy of American businessman and tech genius Ethan Frost—who also happens to be one of my closest friends. “I’m not sure that what I’m doing here exactly qualifies as roughing it…”
“Do you have thirty-seven servants to bring you breakfast in bed?”
“No.” I take another sip of wine. “But to be fair, I’ve never had thirty-seven servants to do anything for me. Even in the palace.”
“Geez.” She shakes her head in mock chagrin. “You’re really doing this prince gig all wrong, aren’t you?”
This time my laugh is more bitter than amused. “That’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one.”
Something flashes in her eyes—sympathy, empathy, pity—I can’t exactly tell what, but whatever it is, I don’t like it. I start to call her on it, to blow this whole lazy afternoon flirtation right out of the water, but it’s gone as suddenly as it came. And then she’s just Lola again, with her smart mouth and crazy riot of hair.
“Poor little prince boy,” she says as she reaches over and pats a deliberately patronizing hand against my cheek. “All undressed and nowhere to go.”
“I have…no idea what that means.”
She laughs, a loud, infectious thing that has heat racing straight to my dick. “Yeah, neither do I. But you could have just gone with it. You know, been the gentleman you’re trained to be so as not to embarrass a lady.”
“That might work with someone else, sweetheart, but I’m pretty sure if I give you an inch—”
“I’ll take eight?” She casts a deliberately lascivious look at the front of my board shorts. “Maybe even nine?”
Fuck, the mouth on her! Sexy, brash, in-your-face—it turns me on like few things ever have. Because there’s no wondering where you stand with this woman, no trying to read between the lines to figure out what’s going on or what you’re supposed to do next. After all the bullshit and half-speak I’ve been getting for the past few months—or hell, my entire life, really—the way Lola says exactly what’s on her mind is refreshing as all fuck.
It’s also all the invitation I need to slip the wine bottle from her hands and place it on the ground near our feet. All the invitation I need to move closer. To slide a hand into that glorious mane of hair of hers. To tilt her face up so that our lips are only a scant inch or two apart.
Her eyes widen a little, like she wasn’t expecting the move. Good. Though I’ve never met another woman like Lola, instinct tells me keeping her on her toes is the only way I’ll have a fighting chance.
But just when I’m about to lower my lips to hers, Kian’s ring tone starts blowing up my phone. And while I want nothing more than to ignore it, he sent me out here with orders to relax and not report in for at least three days. Which means if he’s the one calling, it must be something really important.
I pull away, slowly untangling my hand from Lola’s curls. “Sorry, I—”
“Nothing to apologize for,” she answers with a wicked grin. “Duty calls.”
I grab the phone off the ground where I put it when I got here and swipe it open. “Hold on,” I growl, before turning back to Lola. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”
“Where would I go?” She gives me the most innocent face she’s capable of, which isn’t very.
“I’ll be right back,” I say again, before putting the phone back up to my ear and barking, “What?”
Chapter 3
“Wow. Hostile much?” my brother asks, amusement obvious in his voice.
“Fuck, yeah, I’m hostile,” I answer after I’ve walked about thirty feet away from Lola. “You’re cock-blocking me from two hundred miles away. So tell me what you want or get the hell off the phone.”
“Nice. What’s her name?”
“None of your business.”
“Does that mean you don’t know it or—”
“Of course I know her name. I’m not you.”
“I’ll have you know that every time I’ve climbed into bed for the last eight months, I’ve known the name of the woman waiting for me there.”
“That’s not nearly the accomplishment you’re making it out to be, considering the whole country knows Savvy’s name. She’s set to be the next queen, after all.”
“Nobody’s set to be anything yet,” Kian tells me. “Except for Savvy being my wife—that’s nonnegotiable. But the rest is still up in the air. Your kidnapping made Dad lose his mind. Once he recovers it, things will go back to normal around here.”
“Have you met our father?”
“I have. And while I admit that he’s a stubborn ass, he’s also pretty damn good at what he does. It won’t take him long to figure out that he’s hurting the country with his bizarre determination to keep you off the throne.”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you.”
“Oh, my hopes are way the fuck up, dude. Because no way can I do this shit for the rest of my life.” He sighs heavily. “I nearly caused an international incident this morning.”
Concern skitters down my spine. “With whom?”
“The president of South Africa.”
“What? How? You can’t do that! We need them for—”
“I know, I know. Believe me, I already got the lecture. That’s why I’m calling.”
“To get my opinion on how to smooth things over with South Africa?” I glance back at Lola, just to make sure she’s still where I left her. She is, though she’s now stretched facedown across the rock, sunning herself. “That depends on what got him—”
“No, that’s already taken care of. But I’ve got a call with Russia tomorrow about—”
“Laying the groundwork to lift sanctions in exchange for some human rights guarantees from them,” I finish. It’s a subject I’m intimately acquainted with, as I’ve been badgering my father about it for over five years.
“Exactly! And since my friendly conversation with South Africa accidentally took a not-so-friendly turn today, I’m afraid if I’m not careful, then I’ll really screw up this not-so-friendly conversation.”
Concern turns to alarm. “You really don’t want to do that.”
“I’m aware of that,” he half-snarls. “Which is why I’m calling you. Do you have a few minutes to talk me through it?”
Fuck. I barely re
sist the urge to bang my head against the nearest tree trunk. A few minutes? Right now, relations between our country and Russia are pretty close to an all-time low. And while there are certain sanctions I have no interest in lifting at all, there are a few that we can budge on—partly because they’ll help both economies and partly because they’re important enough to Russia to give us some bargaining chips in the human rights department. With the continued arrests and crackdown on political protestors of any kind by the government, the Russian people really need some relief.
We can be a part of making sure they get it, as long as my brother and father play their cards right.
With a sigh, I make my way deeper into the trees—some of the stuff we’ll be talking about walks the edge of being classified, and the last thing I need is for a woman I barely know to overhear me. Once I’m satisfied that I have total privacy, I get to work telling Kian everything he needs to know on a subject that I’ve spent years working on.
Forty-five minutes later, I finally feel like I’ve laid enough groundwork to end the conversation. There’s still more to tell him, but I can text him tonight, after I give the whole situation some more thought. The Russian ambassador that he’s going to be dealing with is touchy, to put it mildly, and he’s got to approach him just right or this whole thing is going to blow up before we even have a chance to get it off the ground.
“Okay, look, I’ve got to go,” I tell Kian, once he finishes going over the last few points we’ve been speaking about.
“Oh, right! You’ve got someone waiting on you—”
“Maybe.” I start walking back toward the lake. “Maybe I’ve got someone waiting on me.” Though I tend to doubt it. Lola’s not exactly the kind of girl to wait around for anyone, even a prince. Especially a second-rate prince who has nothing better to do on a Tuesday afternoon than to sunbathe.
“You still haven’t told me her name.”
“That’s because it’s still none of your business.” I jump over a log, then up my pace until I’m close to jogging.