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“Exactly what…what?”
A new snort. “He’s a man, not just the title. There are…nuances to him. And you know me; I’m a big fan of nuance, but in this case…” He frowned deeper. “There’s a lot of shit here I can’t put together.” He shook his head, letting out a motorcycle rumble of a sound. “Fuck. The man is so damn private.”
“All right, untwist your panties.” I smoothed both hands on the air. “Obviously, there’s a lot we do know. Work backward from there.”
“Don’t you think I’ve tried?” His eyes developed blue shards. His jaw turned to granite. Sheez, the man could look hetero and intimidating when he wanted. “But all we’ve got is a happy royal upbringing in the Palais Arcadia, a gap year turned down in favor of four years at Aalto U in Finland, followed by a direct flight home then straight to work as CEO of the Island of Arcadia.”
“Which was three years ago,” I supplied.
“Which was three years ago,” he confirmed.
“And…?”
“And what?”
I took a turn at the frown. “And what else?”
“You think there’s more?” He folded his arms. Swished his head. So much for hetero. And my patience.
“Oh, come on.” My hands hitched to my hips. “Three years of nothing but work and sleep? Uh-uh. Not flying, either. The man has to have hobbies, interests.” Images from Gervase’s gossip show blazed again through my mind. “Shit that requires him to be shirtless. With bikini babes.”
“Who are apparently just friends.”
I pssshhed. “Because you have court spies in Arcadia?”
“Not a one,” Ez returned. “Only verified reports that those ‘babes’ were companions only, knowing no more or less about him than his male buddies.”
“Verified reports how?” My eyebrows were getting a great workout today. “Is someone paying off his security detail to talk? Does he have a security detail? If not, are people following the man around? And who are they? Verified journalists or free-wheeling hacks?”
And again with the teeter-totter smirk. “Want to start talking nuances now?”
“Shit,” I muttered.
“Another good way of putting it.”
More of the TV headlines returned to mind—with a fresh, shocking implication. “So…nobody even knows if the guy’s actually punched his V card?”
“Ding, ding, ding.”
“And pretty princey himself won’t confirm or deny it either?”
“Remember the part about how he likes his privacy?”
I pivoted. Faced the sink. Eyeballed the blinking red motion detector for the faucet, wondering why my pulse had suddenly upticked to match its beat. What the hell? The status of Shiraz Cimarron’s virginity—or, more likely, just how far from “virginal” he’d gotten by now—was of no concern to me. None. That included all thoughts of how and with whom the man chose to get naked.
And now I’d gone and done it.
Just thinking of the man getting naked…
Wow.
Not. Going. There.
“Well, he can keep his privacy.” My reflection scowled at Ezra’s. Using the secondhand delivery system made it easier to connect with the message. Or maybe the words just felt damn good to declare. “I’m flying there to connect with his brain, not his dick, and only long enough to impress the shit out of him with our proposal.”
Ez also used the mirror as his messenger, rocking out a skeptical glare. “Hope you’re damn serious about that, missy—especially when that boy’s fine, fierce, potentially undipped wick is right in front of you.”
I did it. Went ahead and rolled my eyes. “You want to give me a little credit?”
