He smirked as he thought about how Christopher would love the fact that Bryan had answered a royal summons in dirty jeans. His father hadn’t really given him a choice. Because Bryan was so involved in his work, and so close to identifying his discovery, he’d wanted to get his audience with his father and Simon over with as quickly as possible. He hadn’t been thrilled about reporting to the castle, even if the meeting was because it was his birthday — which it kind of was — but not in a good way.
The black four-wheel-drive truck halted in front of him and Bryan took the keys, smiling as he noticed that the attendants had washed and waxed the vehicle. It would be filthy again the minute he entered the dirty, muddy roads in the hills that led to the mines.
My fault. I should have told them not to bother. Not that it would have done any good. They would have washed it anyway because that’s their job, making sure the royal family always looks good, and anticipating our needs.
Bryan heaved a long, masculine sigh as he seated himself in the driver’s seat, his spirits lifting as he heard the sound of the diesel engine revving up. Just knowing he was returning to the hills and the mines made him happy. It was where he belonged.
His gaze landed on the weathered stone of the castle exterior, some of the original walls left in place to remind them all of the sacrifices of their ancestors.
He honored his obligations as a prince, a member of the royal family, because of tradition.
He did his job at Dyholm because he loved it.
I’ve done my royal duty. Now I can get back to work.
He jammed the truck into gear and headed back toward the mine, trying to forget that there were men out there somewhere who had him marked for death if he didn’t comply with their wishes…soon.
“Let them come after me then,” he rasped to himself, winding the truck along the curvy city roads to get to the hills. “My work is more important than marriage. I’d rather die doing what I want to do than to live with a wife as miserable as Mother.”
While he wasn’t one to shirk his royal duties, Bryan wasn’t about to wed just because of some archaic tradition, and the threats of the Arcano that he hadn’t been informed about until a few hours ago. He’d join Xander in the hunt for the Arcano now that he knew the truth, but he refused to bow to their demands. He was royalty, and he conceded to no one except occasionally his father, and now Xander because he was king.
Brothers first.
He smiled as he finally turned onto the mining road, remembering the motto of the Demande brothers. If Xander tried to pull rank on him to marry because he was now king, he’d remind his eldest brother of the rule the three of them had always followed since the death of their mother. As children, they’d made that solemn vow to each other that nothing would ever get in the way of their loyalty to each other as siblings.
Brothers first.
Bryan took comfort in those words as he grabbed the phone on the passenger seat to call Xander and see how he could help join in the fight to hunt down the Arcano. The secret society needed to be put in their place once and for all.
Chapter Two
What in the hell happened?” Shea Turner groaned as she woke and tried to open her eyes, slamming them closed again because the light made her banging headache worse. And that was saying something because her head already felt like it was being squeezed in some kind of giant torture device.
Where am I?
Running her palms over the material she laid on, she noted that it felt like silk. Her head might be killing her, but the rest of her body felt like it was floating on a very soft, fluffy cloud.
I have to open my eyes. Think, Shea, think. What happened? And where is Hayden?
Concern made her eyes fly open wide despite the pain it caused her, wondering what had happened to Hayden. “Oh, my God.” Frantic now, she stumbled to her feet, completely ignoring the agonizing pain in her skull. “Hayden!” she screamed, trying to clear her foggy brain.
The last thing she could remember was being at her second job as a cocktail waitress, serving drinks to wealthy, sexist men who had no problem treating her like she was there solely for them to ogle, poke and prod. Every time she left the private club, her ass was so bruised from getting pinched that she could barely sit down, and after every shift, she contemplated where she could get a pair of metal underwear. She despised the place and most of the male members of the club, but the tips helped her eke out a living. Quitting wasn’t an option. Revulsion had made her turn down every offer of getting paid more for spending the night with some of the rich clients there, but she couldn’t stop serving drinks. The extra income was needed. Shivering, she looked down at her outfit, realizing she was still dressed in the very short, black skirt and barely-there halter top that she wore for her part-time employment.
I was working. But something happened. Why can’t I remember?
Frustrating and cursing the three inch heels on her feet, she stumbled as she tried to walk. She quickly surveyed her surroundings, not recognizing the marble floors or the luxurious bedroom. Wrapping her hand around one of the gold posts on the corner of the massive bed to steady herself, Shea realized that she had been lying on silk. Literally. The sumptuous material was bright red and embroidered with designs and decorations that reminded her of different colored gems. In the center of the bedspread was an elaborate pattern of a king’s crown with two crossed swords beneath it.
“Somebody thinks a lot of himself,” she mumbled, turning away to investigate the rest of her surroundings.
Opulence was everywhere she turned, from the marble floors to the spa-like bath. When she finally reached the exit door she was seeking in the living room, she discovered it was locked. “Dammit!” She pushed against the heavy mahogany. The wood didn’t even budge.
Frantically, she looked for windows, but found none. Even the damn walls appeared to be solid marble.
Shit. Shit. Shit. What. The. Hell?
Yanking hard on the gold, ornamental handle on the door, all she got was a nearly dislocated shoulder from her efforts, the exit obviously impenetrable. Peering at the small crack where the deadbolt should be, she discovered that there was more than one piece of steel between her and freedom. There were about ten of them, every deadbolt about the size of her wrist. The damn door had to be dense, and incredibly thick. She didn’t bother to check the bottom edge because it didn’t matter if it was bolted or not. She wasn’t getting out. Shea leaned with her back against the wall, sliding slowly down the wood in defeat.
I’m a prisoner? For what purpose? And where is Hayden?
Was she still in some unknown room of the club, being held captive by a horny millionaire with gaudy decorating preferences? If she was, the rich guy was delusional, convinced he was some kind of…royalty.
Hugging her knees to her chest, she startled as she bumped a small, round table beside the door, sending a piece of paper fluttering through the air. She snatched it as it glided downward, desperate for any information. It was a note…addressed to her.
Dear Ms. Turner:
Salutations and welcome to Rubare Collina. I regret that it was necessary to detain you in this manner, but the prince’s life is at stake, so the actions were necessary. Hayden is safe and well, in the care of the royal nanny and well-guarded. I hope you can make yourself comfortable until the prince arrives and you are able to work out a suitable arrangement for your wedding. I think you will find everything you need here in the tower, and trust that your accommodations are adequate. At the request of His Royal Highness, Prince Francis, we attempted to anticipate your needs as an honored guest.
There was no signature. Shea blinked and read the words again, certain that her foggy brain was deceiving her. It wasn’t. The words were completely the same.
Rubare Collina? No, it wasn’t possible that she’d traveled half way around the world without knowing it. This had to be some kind of elaborate joke. She stroked her hand over the stamp at the top of the letter, an exact replica of the
royal imprint she’d seen on the bed. As a matter of fact, it was a symbol that seemed to be almost everywhere in her luxurious prison. Looking around the room, she saw it above the fireplace across the room. Getting up and moving around the living room carefully, she continued to see the same marking on tables, glasses on the bar, and countertops.
“Holy shit,” she whispered to herself, running her fingers over what appeared to be a fine crystal glass with the royal stamp.
