Now that he was about to be king, he had strangers at every turn fighting to be his new best friends.
He hated to break it to them, but Gabriel didn’t have friends. Not real ones. That required a level of trust in other people that he just didn’t have. He’d learned far too young that you can’t trust anyone. Even family could let you down when you need them the most.
Speak of the devil.
From across the room, his cousin Juan Carlos spied him and started in his direction. He was frowning. Nothing new there. Ever serious, Juan Carlos never seemed to have any fun. He was always having business discussions, working, being responsible. He was the kind of man who should be the king of Alma—not Gabriel. After hundreds of years, why hadn’t people figured out that bloodlines were not the best indicator of leadership potential?
“You’re not talking to anyone,” Juan Carlos noted with a disapproving scowl as he loomed over his cousin. At several inches over six feet, he had a bad habit of hovering over people. Gabriel was never quite sure if his cousin deliberately tried to intimidate with his size or if he was unaware how much it bothered people when he did that.
Gabriel wasn’t about to let his cousin’s posture or his frown get to him. He tended not to worry too much about what his cousin thought, or what anyone thought, really. When it came down to it, Juan Carlos was serious enough for them both. “No one is talking to me,” he corrected.
“That’s because you’re hiding in the corner sulking.”
Gabriel scoffed at his blunt observation. “I am not sulking.”
His cousin sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Then what would you call it?”
“Surveying my domain. That sounds kingly, right?”
Juan Carlos groaned and rolled his eyes. “Quit it. Don’t even pretend you care about any of this, because I know you don’t. You and I both know you’d much rather be in South Beach tonight chasing tail. Pretending otherwise is insulting to your family and insulting to your country.”
Gabriel would be lying if he said the neon lights weren’t beckoning him. There was nothing like the surge of alcohol through his veins and the thumping bass of music as he pressed against a woman on the dance floor. It was the only thing that could help him forget what a mess he was in, but after the drama with Rafe, he’d been on a short leash. The family couldn’t take another scandal.
That didn’t mean he felt like apologizing for who he was. He wasn’t raised to be king. The Alman dictatorship had held strong for nearly seventy years. Who would’ve thought that when democracy was restored, they’d want their old royal family back? They hadn’t anticipated this summons and he certainly hadn’t anticipated his brother, the rightful king, would run off with a Key West bartender and send Gabriel’s life into a tailspin. “I’m sorry if that offends your sensibilities, J.C., but I didn’t ask to be king.”
“I know you didn’t ask to be king. It is plainly obvious to every person in this room that you don’t want the honor. But guess what? The crown has landed in your lap and you’ve got to step up and grow up.” Juan Carlos sipped his wine and glared at Gabriel over the rim. “And what have I told you about calling me that?” he added.
That made Gabriel smile. Annoying his cousin was one of his favorite pastimes since childhood. The smile was short-lived, though.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been told to grow up. What his family failed to realize was that Gabriel had grown up a long time ago. They all liked to pretend it didn’t happen, but in a dark room with thick rope cutting into his wrists, he’d left his childhood and innocence behind with his captors. If his family had wanted him to act responsibly, they should’ve done more to rescue him. He’d survived because of his own quick thinking and his first choice as an adult was to live the life he wanted and not care what anyone else thought about it.
Grow up, indeed. Gabriel took a large swallow of his champagne and sighed. The days of living his life as he chose were numbered. He could feel it. Soon it wouldn’t just be his father and cousin trying to tell him what to do.
“Always good talking with you, cuz. Don’t you have someone to schmooze?”
Juan Carlos didn’t respond. Instead he turned on his heel and walked over to the dessert table. Within seconds, he was chatting with someone influential, whose name Gabriel had forgotten, over silver platters of chocolate truffles and cream puffs.
Gabriel turned away, noticing the side door that led out to the patio and garden pavilion. Hopefully he could make it out there before someone noticed.
Glancing around quickly, he spied his father with his back to him. His sister was chatting with a group of ladies in the corner. This was his chance. He moved toward the door and surged through it as fast as he could.
Gabriel was immediately rewarded with the oppressive wave of heat that July in Miami was known for. The humid blast hit him like a tsunami after the air-conditioned comfort of the ballroom, but he didn’t care. He moved away from the door and out into the dark recesses of the patio.
There were some tables and chairs set up outside in case guests wanted to come out. They were draped with linens and topped with centerpieces of candles and roses. All the seats were empty. Gabriel was certain none of the ladies were interested in getting overheated in their fancy clothes with their meticulously styled hair and makeup.
Glancing over at the far end of the semicircular patio, he spied someone looking out into the gardens. The figure was tall, but slender, with the moonlight casting a silver silhouette that highlighted the bare shoulders and silk-hugging curves. She turned her head to watch a bird fly through the trees and he was rewarded with a glimpse of the cheekbones that had made her famous.
Serafia.
The realization sent a hot spike of need down his spine and the blood sped through his veins as his heart beat double-time. Serafia Espina was his childhood crush and the fantasy woman of every red-blooded man who had ever achieved puberty. Eight years ago, Serafia had been one of the biggest supermodels in the industry. Like all the greats, she’d been known by only her first name, strutting down catwalks in Paris, New York and Milan wearing all the finest designers’ clothes.
And she’d looked damn good in them, too.
Gabriel didn’t know much about what had happened, but for health reasons, Serafia had suddenly given up modeling and started her own business of some kind. But judging by the way that red dress clung to her curves, the years hadn’t dulled her appeal. She could walk the catwalk right now and not miss a beat.
He hadn’t spoken to Serafia in years. When his family was overthrown by the Tantaberras, they had fled to the United States and the Espinas moved to Switzerland. In the 1980s, they’d moved to Spain and their families renewed their friendship. When Gabriel and Serafia were children, their families vacationed together on the Spanish Riviera. Back then, he’d been a shy, quiet little boy of ten or eleven and she was the beautiful, unobtainable older woman. She was sixteen and he was invisible.
This was a fortunate encounter. They weren’t children anymore and as the future king of their home country, he was anything but invisible. As Mel Brooks famously said, “It’s good to be the king.”
* * *
Serafia felt the familiar, niggling sensation of someone’s eyes on her. It was something she’d become keenly attuned to working
