Page 7 of Princessa
Chapter 6
Being a prince on the run was a breeze when hiding out in a place where nobody gave two shits about who you were.
I’d sort of taken a liking to not standing out, blending in with everyone else without the swarm of ladies in Andorra who often flocked to me like birds of prey. Sure, there were a few incidents during my short time at the resort when I’d received the occasional glance, a double-take, and there was this one instance when I could’ve sworn a group of old ladies, eating croissants and sipping tea, giggled and whispered my name amongst themselves as I strolled by. Even so, Royale Resort France had been admirer-free—save for the brush with Elevator Girl who acted as though she wanted to lick me from head to toe, which would’ve been alright by me. The woman made my heart jump like a wild beast trapped in a cage—a polar opposite reaction whenever I came in proximity to my presumed betrothed.
Anyway, three days had come and gone since my run-in with the tongue-tied goddess, and truthfully, I’d found myself hoping the flustered beauty, who had my mind reeling of all things her, would smash into me again. God, she had this breath-hitching, easy-on-the-eyes elegance about her. Flawless, sun-kissed skin, amber-colored eyes, long ribbons of wavy hair the color of mahogany, and a set of bow-shaped lips I imagined would feel incredible wrapped around my cock.
Don’t judge.
Royal or not, I was still like any other man who had the occasional bout with Multi-Head Disorder—thinking with both…ahem…heads. With looks like hers, how could I not? My interrogating eyes told me she was rocking amazing curves with a petite-perfect frame that, at first glance, made me think she had to be a glamour girl—someone who’d graced the cover of Vogue or whatever fashion magazines people were into. It wasn’t until I heard the name, Ms. Royale, blurted out by the blonde who stood on the elevator with her when it became relatively clear, Elevator Girl must have been kin to the Royale name, linked to the resort in some way. So, as would any warm-blooded member of this need-to-know-minded society, I took to Google and discovered all I could about Ms. Royale.
Arabella Princessa Royale: Instagram beauty influencer turned fashion and makeup-designer maven whose products are sold exclusively in Royale Resort Boutiques, sole heir to the Royale Resort Chain of hotels. Google also informed she was a resident of Savannah, Georgia, USA, which made me wonder what she was doing in Saint Jean de Luz, France.
“I assume you’re hoping to see this, Arabella, tonight?” inquired Finn, my cheeky-as-hell royal advisor and bodyguard. He’d been my right hand for several years and, despite his sarcastic tongue, I trusted him far more than any other member of the royal staff my parents hired—specifically Gaspard whose phone calls I’d left unanswered. Finn was the one who arranged for me to hide out at Royale Resort, came up with my alias in which to reserve my room—albeit a name I wouldn’t have chosen—and who possessed amazing, secret-agent-like skills. With that British accent, he was like James Bond—a redheaded version, anyway.
Pulling on my blazer, I pinned him with a fuck-off scowl and replied, “Actually, I’m not expecting a damn thing.” Which wasn’t far from the truth. I was over trying to happen upon Elevator Girl again, feeling stupid for hanging around the lift as if by magic she’d pop up again.
“Glad you’ve come to your senses, seeing as how she was probably here for that one day and has since taken her American Beauty self back to the US of freaking A.” Finn had never been one to mince words, and at that moment, he resembled a Kermit the Frog meme, slurping tea as his mouth expelled sarcasm.
“Don’t be a prick, Finn.” I lifted a threatening eyebrow. “And that’s a royal command.”
“Except, sir, while you’re a guest at Royale Resort”—he brought the cup of tea to his mouth for one final slurp—“you’re not Prince Grayson, Royal Highness who barks out commands. You’re simply Rico Suavé, Commoner Extraordinaire.”
Ugh. That comment induced an eye roll. Not his commoner reference; I found pretending to be an average guy somewhat intriguing. But that alias he chose for me? Fuck. Me. True, being from Andorra meant I had Spanish roots, even spoke Spanish. But, Rico Suavé? Please.
The double doors to my suite clicked shut behind us and as Finn and I stepped out and onto the carpeted walkway toward the elevator, my eyes drank up the resort’s cosmopolitan-like ambiance. Crystal chandeliers that hung from high-beam ceilings throughout, walls embellished with cultured paintings from local artists. The resort exuded sophistication, the same vibe Ms. Royale gave me—when her face wasn’t glued to my chest, that is.
Nonetheless, that crazy, burning hope to see her resurfaced, and it was beginning to annoy me. Never, had I been so taken by a woman at first sight, especially in such a serendipitous manner. Other than in movies, who really met a love interest by bumping into them?
No one.
Besides, smart-ass Finn was likely right: the American Beauty could have very well gone back home, nestled next to the man in her life. There was no way she wasn’t already spoken for. Women like her didn’t run wild for long.
Finnand I rode the elevator in silence all the way up to the Grand Ballroom, where a wedding after-party was taking place. All resort guests over age twenty-one were invited to the shindig hosted by Asuka and Chiko, a Japanese pop duo who fell in love and decided to exchange vows while in France. With almost three weeks of laying low behind me, I’d become bored and in desperate need of socializing, so the festivity couldn’t have come at a better time.
“You don’t have to come with, you know. No one here seems to know who I am,” I mentioned to Finn as we stepped off the elevator. Parties had never been his thing, and it wouldn’t have been the first time I’d been on my own during my stay at the resort.
“You’re joking, right? The very last time I left you alone to go for a simple swim, you were ambushed by a woman.” He cracked up at his own sneer remark, knowing full well Elevator Girl’s bumping into me was anything but an ambush.
The ballroom, massive in size, was decorated with light-up bar tables and an abundance of strobe lights. Pop music thundered from the speakers, and I surmised the Japanese song playing was one of the couple’s popular hits, considering the two of them, still draped in full wedding attire, were center stage, singing their seemingly tipsy asses off.
“I’m going to the bar for a drink,” I told Finn, leaving him standing at one of the neon-lighted bar tables before he could snap a protest.
Snaking my way through the crowd of partygoers, some hanging out, tossing back drinks, laughing and chatting amongst themselves, while others were dancing to the music, I spotted someone at the bar who resembled the blonde on the elevator with Arabella the day she crashed into me. When I reached the bar, it was apparent by the grin fixed to her face, she’d recognized me too.
“Festive bash,” I said, feeling as though it was an excellent way to invoke conversation. Coming right out the gate with, ‘Where’s Arabella’, would have been way too forward, right?
“Mm-hmm. Were you here earlier when the tigers made an appearance?”
“Tigers?” I chuckled. “No, I totally missed out on that.”
She giggled. “I’m surprised my heedful boss allowed it, to be honest.”
“Your boss?” The corner of my lip hitched up, cognizant there were only a few seconds between then and me finding out whether or not Elevator Girl was still at the resort.
Blondie’s head seesawed down then up, her eyes assessing me as she leaned back against the edge of the bar. “Yup. You know, the lady who slammed into you the other day? The one who just about lost her mind over you?”
Hearing I wasn’t the only one who’d lost their mind over that pseudo-meet-cute was like Mozart to my ears. “Where is she?”
The bartender placed two drinks onto the counter. “Here you are, Emma, two martinis,” he said and slid them over to her. “Can I get you something to drink, sir?” he asked me with earnest regard, and before I could mutter my request, the blonde he called Emma cut me off.
“How about you take one of these,” she suggested, side-eyeing the two martinis, “and deliver the other to Ms. Royale over there.” She flicked her chin up in the direction of a lighted bar table smack in the middle of the ballroom, where a goddess bedecked in a sweeping chiffon-like gown was standing. The black dress, entirely backless, along with her pinned-up hairstyle, showcased a sensual-as-fuck neckline I could see my tongue stroking. “Guessing by your dropped mouth, I’m assuming you’re game? Unless, of course, you’d prefer to stand here and salivate from afar, like some stalker.”
Almost spilling their contents, I lifted both martinis from the bar. “Thank you, Ms…”
“Emma Marks, or, what I prefer to be called, Lady in Waiting to Arabella Royale.” I took a double-take at her royal reference, yet she met my inquisitive gaze with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Oh, we can do a proper meet and greet another time. For now, you have a cocktail to deliver.”
