the tips of bare toes, the nails painted pale pink. I drag my gaze up her lithe frame to her heaving chest, glossy lips and dark eyes. I nearly lose myself in their deep pools.
“What’s in there?” I ask, nodding at the glass.
“Vodka soda.”
“Good,” I say, then tug at the dress’s torn lining hanging in front of her barely parted thighs. My fingertips graze her soft skin, and she yelps as I tear the fabric free.
“What the hell are you doing?” she cries.
I don’t answer as I dip the piece of her dress into her drink, soaking it. Then I squat so I am eye to eye with her injured knee, one hand behind it to hold her steady. It’s here that I catch a glimpse of lace just north of her exposed thighs.
She gasps as I press the alcohol-soaked fabric to her injury, but something tells me it’s not from the sting.
The sight of a woman’s panties I can ignore, but dammit if I can’t smell her—tangy and sweet—and it’s all I can do to keep my hand still when I want to slide it up to confirm what I already know—that this strange beauty is wet behind that pretty pink lace.
“I don’t get out much,” she says with measured control as I clean the wound. “Not used to shoes like this.”
I look up, and she stares at me unapologetically. Those eyes are familiar, but I can’t place them. I swear I’d remember if I met someone like her before.
“Do you need a ride home?” I ask.
She glances toward the Alfa Romeo and then at me, those innocent lips parting into a wicked grin. Then she reaches for the hand behind her knee, slides it up between her thighs, confirming my suspicions.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Juliet
The Alfa Romeo purrs like a wild jaguar and handles like a dream along the steep road that is one heart-pounding hairpin turn after another. I trace my fingers over the stitching in the caramel-colored leather seat and admire the sleek Italian interior design.
“Where to?” Damien growls softly.
“I don’t care,” I tell him. “Please...just drive fast.”
He acknowledges my request with a preoccupied shrug, and in a blink we’re racing up the mountain at over a hundred and forty klicks. The world outside my passenger-side window dissolves into a dark blur, and it takes all my strength not to pinch myself.
Two thousand feet below, a random club-goer from The Veil is wearing my drab black gown and is two thousand Euros richer. My curves are crammed inside her handkerchief-sized dress. A reckless trade, but one I don’t regret. It feels good to be a little wild.
When I hit puberty, Mother decreed that it was time to quit climbing trees and kicking around the football with the servant kids and start behaving like a Nightgardin princess...i.e: a stuffy, stuck-up, stick-in-the-butt.
The second I reached my sexual maturity, it was “bye-bye fun” and “hello monotony.” I now get to wear clothing more befitting an elderly nun than a young woman of twenty-one.
I’ve been coached to walk in a demure shuffle, keeping my gaze downcast—especially if men were in the vicinity—while waiting for my marriage to be arranged. After that blessed event occurs, I’ll be allowed the privilege of wedlock intercourse for the sole purpose of procreation so I may squeeze out a future heir and secure Nightgardin’s ancient throne.
Let’s face it...I’m a gilded goldfish destined to swim in useless circles until the day I get flushed down the proverbial drain.
The Alfa Romeo skids on loose gravel, wheels leaving the bitumen as I jerk forward, the seat belt catching between my breasts. My chest constricts. A precipitous drop looms mere feet from the end of the hood.
My eyes widen. I recognize this place. It’s Lovers’ Leap. Once upon a time, centuries ago, two star-crossed lovers took their lives here, jumping to their doom. I don’t know much about the legend’s particulars. Mother, the queen regent, forbade my governesses to fill my head with what she deemed “silly romantic notions.” Fewer novels and more nonfiction was her decree, preferably biographies about selfless women who sacrificed themselves for the good of their countries.
The man slouched in the driver’s seat watches my every move with his enigmatic eyes.
Goose bumps prickle along my legs. When I think of his strong, calloused hand on the back of my knee as he tended to my wound, I go slick between my legs.
At last he speaks. “Got to say, it took me quite some time to place your pretty face, but it’s finally come to me... Princess Juliet.”
I can’t hide my grimace.
“Not wearing your typical Nightgardin pillowcase tonight. That cocktail dress threw me off.”
He reaches out and his big hand covers my bare knee, sliding up. Not far. Only a few inches, but it’s enough to ignite a furnace under my skin.
He squeezes my flesh. Not hard, but enough that I tremble from a full-body shiver, my pulse quickening.
“Time to come clean. What’s your agenda? Trying to start a goddamn war with Edenvale or what?” His laugh is bitter. “If so, lots of luck. Word on the street is that you’re kept away from the media, so allow me to update you. My family despise me. See, I once killed a girl, one about as old as you, Princess.”
“I know this,” I hiss, knocking away his hand. “Do not think to patronize me, Prince Damien.”
“Just Damien these days, doll. I was stripped of titles when banished.” He idly rubs the dark scruff coating his chin. “But if you know that I’m dangerous, and that my beloved family has disowned me, why set me up to kidnap you and create a diplomatic row? Who’s paying you?”
“Paying me?” I can’t help it. I burst out laughing, and good Lord it feels good. At court, I must always remain so serious.
“Proper decorum is essential for a queen,” Mother says.
But yesterday she added a second sentence. “And for a bride.”
“I’m to be married.” My laughter dies a quick death. “I’m not here to create a diplomatic scene. I’m here because palace maids gossip and I happen to have excellent hearing. They say that Damien Lorentz, the banished prince of Edenvale, can give a woman ultimate pleasure. Your talents and skill are legendary, even here across the border.”
Now it’s his turn to laugh. “Is that what they say?” he drawls. “I suppose I have seduced more than my fair share of servants.”
“I’ve just learned that I am to wed Rupert Dingleworth, the Duke of Wartson.”
“Insane.” Damien furrows his brows in obvious disbelief. “That old goat’s pushing sixty.”
“Fifty-seven, but who’s counting? Wartson submitted a specimen to the royal hospital, and the medical report makes it clear that he can still sire children.”
“You’ve
