Page 10 of Princessa
Chapter 9
I’d never fallen in love.
Shocked?
Don’t get me wrong; there’d been several women in my life—some at the same time.
Models. Royals. Commoners. Huh, I even fooled around with a school teacher who happened to be kinky as fuck.
However, none seemed to be worthy of winning my heart. Whoever said the mark of a real man is one who allows himself to fall deeply in love with several women during his lifetime, should be punched in the throat. In my opinion, the mark of a real man is one who protects his heart, preserving its unblemished state for that special someone who captures it.
Would my heart ever be captured?
There I was, thirty-five years old and betrothed to a woman who literally made my skin crawl. The thought of spending the rest of my life with her made me want to dive off the Eiffel Tower. Walking down the aisle with someone I didn’t love simply couldn’t happen, regardless of Andorra’s bullshit rule. So, while it may have been juvenile on my part, each time Gaspard or Mom and Dad’s names flashed on my phone, I gratefully pushed red, ignoring the hell out of their calls. Avoiding the noise, all the chatter and buzz about my so-called duty had easily become a habit.
Nonetheless, I knew they’d eventually discover where I was, no matter how good of a job Finn did at hiding me. Sooner or later I’d have no choice but to face the music and spit out something likely to shake up everyone: if they weren’t willing to amend the pitiful, long-standing Andorra Rule, I’d gladly give up my right to the throne.
But, until that inevitable moment arrived, I vowed to keep living life to its fullest, even while on the run at Royale Resort France.
I looked forward to dinner with Arabella, which started off with an electrifying boom—of my heart, that is. The woman gave meaning to all words that defined beauty, grace, insatiable, and all-around sexy. That accent of hers drove me insane. Truly, I never realized just how sensuous and smooth the American Southern drawl sounded.
And her dress?
Fuck. Me.
I mean, it was more than obvious she had a hot body, and seeing those long, shapely legs not only solidified that notion, it got me wondering how they’d feel tangled in mine. The dress she was wearing gifted me a glimpse of pretty respectable, eye-catching cleavage. The fact my mouth watered caught me off guard since I had a preference for large tits. In fact, most of the women I’d dated—ahem, slept with—had D cups, some real, others noticeably fake. Yet, Arabella’s perky itty-bitty’s—yes, I fully imagined both would fit nicely cupped in my hands—were a sudden cock-twitching turn-on.
Please, stop thinking of me as some sex-crazed horndog and go back to where I cheerily disclosed having a tendency to think with both of my heads.
Anyway, I digress…
Dinner breezed by while the two of us talked about her growing up in a five-star resort, life as an heiress to a luxury resort chain, university life where she met her best friend, her overprotective parents, and how she became a fashion celebutante by building an Instagram following. In many ways, Arabella’s life mimicked that of a royal: heavily guarded with the need to remain mindful of family image, name, and positive contributions made to society. Not only was she off-the-charts gorgeous, intelligent, and a bit sassy, the self-made diva possessed an admirable business-minded quality that I found refreshing.
As we sat across from one another, enjoying the five-star cuisine at our candlelit table, conversation between us came easy. Though admittedly, there were a few moments when she flashed her breath-stealing smile, let out that addictive laugh, or did this sultry behind-the-ear hair tuck thing that, okay…let’s just say it wasmyturn to get all tongue-tied. Let it be known, until then, I’d never been tongue-tied, which should’ve been a sign of things to come. Thankfully, the waiter came by with a refill of wine. One sip escorted me back to my normal, confident prince self.
“So, since we’ve pretty much pow-wowed about me, I think it’s time we make you the hot topic of conversation,” Arabella said over her glass of chardonnay. “Please, tell me everything. Where you went to school, your friends, hobbies, what it’s like in Andorra…”
The fact she refrained from asking why I was on the run didn’t go unnoticed. It was the assumed reason why she accepted my invitation to dinner. Howbeit, she wasn’t forcing the subject on me, and it was appreciated.
“Shall we order dessert first? Maybe some coffee too? I hear the crème brûlée here is to die for.”
When our desserts and coffee arrived—she ordered decaf—we didn’t waste time coasting back into conversation. Chatting with Arabella began to feel as natural as the sun rising and falling.
“I attended private school all the way up to college,” I explained in between bites of my dessert. “Then, at age eighteen, went to the University of Barcelona, where I majored in International Business.”
Her gaze, framed with sweeping lashes, seemed to sparkle in amusement. “What did you do with your degree?” She shook one packet of Splenda, tore it open, added it to her cup, then sipped.
“Well, to me, it was important that I earn my own money apart from the royal wallet. So, upon graduation, starting my own investment firm—FIP, that ran hedge funds, actively invested in international stock markets and private equity firms—helped me achieve financial independence.”
“I can certainly understand the need to earn your own money,” she said, before taking a sip of coffee. “It’s why I worked hard to make a name for myself that wasn’t tied to my parents fortune.”
Indeed, being driven was a quality we had in common; all the more reason I fell fascinated, beyond intrigued by Arabella. Her ambitious character was a much-needed change of pace, considering most women I’d met were either looking for someone to be their financial windfall or living off a trust fund—including the troll to whom I was betrothed.
“Even though we’re supposed to be discussing me right now, may I squeeze in one question about you?” For what felt like several heartbeats, my gaze caught hers and I wondered if her breath hitched when she looked at me, the way mine did when I looked at her.
She fidgeted with a napkin as if nerves got the best of her. “Okay?”
“What made you leave your family and the resort you lived at all of your life in America, and end up in France?”
