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I’m not sure what it is about her that intrigues me so much. Maybe it’s the fact that she turned me down—God knows, that doesn’t happen very often. Maybe it’s the way she had no trouble speaking her mind to me. Maybe it’s that she’s gorgeous.
Or maybe, just maybe it’s the fact that, when I was talking to her, I felt good for the first time since Garrett went missing.
He was still there, in the back of my mind—just like he always is. But for the first time in thirteen weeks, I felt like I could breathe. I felt like maybe, just maybe, there’s a way for me to come out the other end of this nightmare.
It’s not much, but right now I’ll take whatever small glimmer of hope I can get.
My phone buzzes as I open my closet doors, and a quick glance down shows me that Roland has already started his campaign to get me to the Salon des Roses, the room he likes to use for interviews like these. Along with the text nudging me is another one with wardrobe suggestions. Like I haven’t been dressing myself since I was three.
Because I can’t help myself—messing with Roland is a compulsion as much as it is a stress-reliever—I fire back a text telling him that today feels like a naked day.
Then I drop my phone on my dresser and ignore his answering barrage of texts for the next twenty minutes. Just because I can.
I arrive at the Salon des Roses fully dressed and with five minutes to spare. Relief flashes in Roland’s eyes as it registers that I’m properly attired, in slate gray Armani dress pants and a sage green, button-up silk shirt.
Not that he’ll acknowledge my promptness or my attire—I’m not the only one who knows how to play games in this palace. Roland’s kept Garrett and me in line since we were kids and he made it obvious years ago that he had no intention of stopping just because we’re now adults.
Of course, neither of us would have it any other way. Garrett pretty much always does what he’s told and even he likes to fuck with Roland just because he can. And Roland takes it from him better than he does anyone else—he always says he doesn’t play favorites, but it’s hard to miss that he’s got a soft spot for Garrett that’s a mile wide.
Then again, don’t we all?
My smile fades at the thought and I can’t help wondering if I’ll ever get the chance to see Garrett ruffle Roland’s very proper feathers ever again. If I’ll ever get to see Roland fussing at him like he’s a little kid, instead of the next King of Wildemar.
I don’t understand why we can’t find him. It’s not like his plane crashed and he’s on some deserted island alone somewhere. He was grabbed in full daylight, outside a charity appearance he was making here in Wildemar. His guard detail—Pietro and Victor and Sean—were murdered, found lying dead next to the still running limousine.
And Garrett was gone.
No ransom note, no hits at the airport or train station or from the road and sea blocks Wildemar’s Royal Guard set up. No proof of life. No dead body. Nothing but the terrifying uncertainty that haunts my every waking minute.
We have briefings every day and they all say the same thing. We know that whoever shot those men also has my brother. Or did have. Every day that passes without a ransom demand or proof of life increases the odds that Garrett’s dead.
Just the thought has me wishing for a shot of tequila. Well, that and the knowledge that while Garrett was being taken—and maybe even killed—I was cruising the Mediterranean, drunk and sexed up.
How the fuck could I be so careless? So stupid? We’ve never had any enemies in modern times—at least none who would do something like this. Or at least, that’s what I’ve always believed. What has always been.
“The journalist has arrived,” Roland says, interrupting my downward spiral with his crisp British accent and narrowed-eye glare. “So pull yourself together and act like a prince. Sir.”
The tacked on “sir”—so proper and yet so obviously undeserved in his mind—is what does it, what has me chuckling when seconds ago I was heading straight into despair. The fear and guilt and rage don’t disappear, but they retreat a little. Give me room to think.
And judging from the satisfied look on Roland’s face, that is exactly what he intended.
“Well, show her in,” I tell him with an expansive—and slightly indolent—wave of my arm. Two of us can play this game, after all.
“Him,” he says, with a disapproving twitch of his nose.
The pronoun catches me by surprise. “Him? Are you sure? They always send female journalists to interview me.”
“Yes, well, maybe they thought it was time to give the Playboy Prince moniker a rest, with everything going on in Wildemar right now.”
“The Playboy Prince was King Juan Carlos, over in Spain, and he’s abdicated. I’m His Royal Hotness. Keep it straight, old man.”
“I do so beg your pardon, sir.” He reaches up and fixes my collar the same way he has for the last twenty years. “Try not to embarrass the monarchy, will you, sir?”
“But, Roland, you never taught me how to chew with my mouth closed.”
He sighs heavily, shoots me a look that says I am his cross to bear. “I’ll show Monsieur Meadows in.”
Chapter 4
