Heir in Exile (3 page)

When they parted, her breath was short in her throat, mind aswirl with all sorts of sordid imagery that had no business being present under the current circumstances.

“Quit it, you're distracting me,” she said, pinching his thigh.

“We'll have a few hours this afternoon before the gala this evening. I'm sure I can think of some way to fill them.” He smiled, more wolf than man, fingers grazing her chin before falling away.

Chey snorted. Then she dropped her voice to a sultry purr. “Oh, so can I. In fact, one word nicely sums it all up.”

“Really,” he said. “And what word is that?”

“
Shopping.”

. . .

The
Royal Regency
lived up to its name. Everything about the hotel catered to the ultra rich, the ultra famous, or the ultra elite. Sitting right on the waterway, rising thirty-four floors above the ground, the structure was a study in Arabic architecture, glossy marble, gold accented columns and lush potted palms.

Men and women of power and standing came and went through tight security at the front doors, guarded by their own detail on their way to and from the building. Four of Sander's men formed a loose circle of protection from sign in all the way up to the penthouse suite. The suite had its own personal foyer outside the doors for security purposes, as well as an alarm system and panic button.

Arabesque archways led to other bedrooms, an office, a full kitchen and theater room. The furniture had a distinct Mediterranean flair while retaining a modern theme.

After Chey marveled over the view out of the floor to ceiling windows, she unpacked a few belongings and prepared for the shopping trip Sander promised her.

Every retail store, from the ones in the
Regency
to others lining the water, were as upscale as the hotels that surrounded them. The clothes, souvenirs and other items had price tags to match. Sander goaded her into buying things she wouldn't have otherwise looked at twice, and when she came across a dress that felt like liquid in her hands, he insisted she get it. Red, made of intricately sewn sequins that shined, the floor length gown had a scandalous slit up the leg, a snug bodice and an open back. A red ruby dangled from the nape all the way to the low spine. Adding shoes to match, along with a slim clutch, they departed the store ten thousand dollars lighter than when they went in.

Light headed at such expenditures, Chey lunched with Sander in an open air restaurant overlooking a tropical water display. The weather, a temperate seventy-four degrees with cloudless skies, was enjoyable after the two foot snows of Latvala.

In higher spirits once they returned to the room, Chey hung up her dress, sent the other purchases to be laundered, and spent the remaining two hours before the gala in Sander's arms.

As evening fell, and the lights of the city glittered to life, Chey showered and changed into her gown. She admired the way it streamlined her curves and accentuated the shape of her shoulders. Wearing her hair up in coils and curls allowed the dangling ruby to swing unhindered down her back.

Stepping out into the main living area in search of Sander, Chey stopped dead in her tracks. He stood with a glass of what looked to be whiskey in his hand, the other in his pocket, staring out at the glittery cityscape beyond the windows. The black, tuxedo length jacket matched slacks of a fine cut and cloth, and overlaid white-on-white layers beneath: white brocade vest, white shirt, white tie. It was a handsome suit by itself; on Sander, it was staggering. His shoulders filled out the jacket to perfection.

What stood out more than anything was the loose way he wore his hair. Instead of combed meticulously away from his face and caught in a low tail, as usual, he'd opted to wear it down. The golden strands brushed a couple inches below the collar, giving him a rakish look. He could have been a high class stripper in a club that catered to women, except for the debonair mantle he wore that would have surely set him apart from the rest. There was no mistaking his confidence or importance, and certainly no mistaking his allure.

“You're staring,” he said without looking over.

“As any red blooded woman would,” she countered.

He took a drink. Glanced aside. His gaze raked her head to toe, glimmering with a resurgence of passion. Then, he smiled. A devastating smile that changed his whole face.

“You're a devil,” she decided, attempting and failing to control the hectic pace of her heart.

“Ironic, considering you're the one wearing red. And wearing it well, I might add. Turn around, let me see if there's a tail.” He narrowed his eyes in anticipation.

“You just want to see my backside.”

“Is that a surprise?”

“Not really.”

“So turn around and indulge me.”

“You're impossible.” Chey turned around. Slowly. She swore she felt his gaze caress the naked length of her spine. The dress, Chey decided, was worth every penny. When she finished her turn, she found Sander standing directly in front of her. Towering over her, swirling his drink in the glass. He smelled like heaven. Masculine, musky, with a subtle bite of spice.

“I don't know. Maybe we can skip the gala. What do you think?” He lifted the glass and drained it.

“What? After all this? You're crazy. Besides, we
just
spent half the afternoon in bed.”

“Not
half.
More like a quarter.”

“You're greedy, that's what you are.” She flirted with him from under her lashes.

“I don't hear you complaining.”

“You always say that. Like I'm going to ever complain.” She laughed at the very idea.

He took a step closer. “So is that a no, then?”

“We can't just rip these clothes off now!” Chey eyed him to see if he was joking. Surely he had to be kidding. “Aren't you required to show up to this shindig or something?”

“I'm not
required,
but I
am
expected.” His expression gave nothing away. Sweeping a hand low around her back, he splayed his fingers across her spine.

Chey shivered at the contact. Damn the man. He was distracting her well and good with hardly any effort. “Then we should go.”

“Should we?”

Chey felt her resolve weaken. She started to have wild ideas about taking his clothes off with her teeth. Peeling away one decadent layer at a time, until he was beautifully naked and at her mercy.

With a sudden switch, he smiled. Charming, boyish,
devilish. “Gotcha,”
he whispered.

Chey backhanded his chest. “You just wanted to see me get all, all...”

“Yes,” he said, interrupting her with easy charm. “I wanted to see you get
all
swoony and moon-eyed. You're very alluring when you do that, and it puffs up my ego to think I can sway you without even a kiss.”

Chey scoffed a laugh. “Like your ego needs any puffing up.
Please.
”

Grinning, he applied pressure with his arm and escorted her toward the door. “C'mon, Slinky. Let's go tear up the town. Later I'll let you have your wicked way with me.”

Chapter Three

The gala in the grand ball room of the
Royal Regency
put the party in Monte Carlo to shame. Here, a ceiling arched high over the glossy floor, done in white like the walls, table linens and high backed chairs. Gold was the accent for everything, from the rims of real crystal glasses to the edging on plates to the medallions decorating arabesque carved niches. Even the polished marble they walked on had thin gold veining. Waiters and waitresses wore white as well, with gold piping the collars and sleeves.

All the color came from the clothing of the guests, which ranged the full spectrum of the rainbow.

Escorted to a specific table with Sander's name and title on a placard, Chey discovered they shared the space with three other couples. One, of some Asian descent, another definitively Spanish, and the third was German. To her surprise, Chey found each set to be accomplished conversationalists with cultured, easy to understand accents. The topics remained in the safe categories of the host country's ample assets, the weather, and the reliable shopping district, of which Chey could at least speak with a little knowledge. Her fears about keeping up with such elite company faded as the dinner wore on, until she was smiling and chatting as if she'd known the women, at least, for much longer than an hour.

When the men excused themselves for a more obvious session about business, Chey retreated to one of the lounge areas with the ladies. From there they could see the dance floor and the expansive skyline beyond the arching windows. Wary of a repeat from Monte Carlo, she declined any drinks that waiters brought by on trays, instead choosing to order direct from a specific one that Sander sent over.

When the women started discreet rounds of gossip, dropping famous names left and right, all Chey could do was smile and listen. She didn't personally know this Royal, or that Princess. Nor did she have the slightest clue what those four A-List actresses were up to. It wasn't until the Spanish beauty turned a curious look on Chey that she realized
she
was about to become the hot topic of the evening.

“I hear you're something of a minor celebrity in Latvala, is that true dear?” the Spanish lady asked.

Chey arched her brows and tempered her reply. “Me? No, of course not. If I am, no one has made me aware.”

The women tinkled polite laughter.

“Sometimes,” the Asian said, “it is best if we turn a blind eye to certain things. You aided in a rescue on a dock however, did you not?”

“Oh, yes. I did. But it was only what anyone else would have done. Hardly noteworthy.” Chey honestly felt that way.

“And modest, too,” the German added. “It's no wonder he snatched you up again the second he was free of Princess Valentina.”

“Yes, what a terrible situation,” another said.

Chey wondered if the elite of the world were delivered all the raging gossip by their employees for just these kinds of occasions. Put on the spot, she frantically sought a way to address the comment and remain politically correct. Sander had cautioned her earlier about leaving her ring in the safe of the room so it didn't spark questions and controversy. She was thankful for his foresight.

“It was unfortunate that his marriage ended the way it did,” Chey said first, buying herself some time. “Prince Sander and I have always been fond of one another, however, so I saw no harm in accepting his invitation to attend the gala.”

“Does this mean you're not actually dating then?” the Asian inquired.

“Shame, I rather thought she fit well into the circle,” the Spanish woman added.

“We see each other now and then. I'm definitely not adverse to dating the Prince, though,” Chey added, diverting from her stoic reply for a bit of honesty. After all, she
was
engaged to Sander, and at some point, the knowledge would hit the rest of society.

The women laughed while they eyed her. None were unkind, and none seemed to judge her harshly. Another surprise for Chey, who knew some of the women in these circles were more like piranha than not.

“I cannot imagine many women being adverse to such a thing,” the German said, proving she was more blunt than her companions.

“Indeed. I've heard several notable Princesses have expressed interest now that he is single once more,” the Asian remarked.

“And that one brash American—sorry dear,” the Spanish lady said, pausing to excuse the fact that Chey herself was American. “The supermodel who just dumped Leo of all people for a shot at the Prince's affection.”

“I haven't heard anything about it,” Chey said with a tepid smile. She took a sip from her glass and began to contemplate excusing herself for the bathroom. Maybe the conversation would move on to some other member of high society by the time she returned.

“Speaking of Princes,” the Spanish lady said, and cleared her throat.

“Excuse me, ladies. I'm here to claim Miss Sinclair for a dance,” Sander said, arriving just in the nick of time.

The women smiled broad and full and gave their genteel
glad to have met yous
while Sander helped Chey to her feet. Chey echoed the sentiment, and it wasn't a lie. Yes, some of the topics had been uncomfortable to deal with, but overall, she found the trio pleasant and polite company.

Setting down her glass, Chey let Sander lead her from the lounge to the dance floor, where she eased into the rhythm with an exhale of relief.

“Getting to you?” Sander asked near her ear.

“Not really. 'We' came up, and that's when I started to squirm.”

“You hid it well. I couldn't tell by watching you from a distance.”

“That's because you were distracted by the slit in my dress.”