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“Lady Christina,” Crikers corrected.
“Lady Christina,” I repeated, giving in.
And here we were, at my first grand event. It was a cocktail party, a shindig where “all the right people had been invited,” per my parents’ hopes and dreams. In fact, Miss Carroll’s had more than delivered because on the guest list was a billionaire – Prince Georg of St. Venetia.
“He’s supposed to be really cute,” mooned Millie next to me. Millie was a girl I’d made friends with during my first few days here, a tiny thing, about ninety pounds with a button nose. Of course, she wasn’t actually Millie, that was too common. Millie was Lady Millicent Vonnegut, and here for the same reason I was – to snare a rich guy.
But honestly, the little blonde was really sweet without a nasty bone in her body, bonding over the beauty treatments, the sad fact that it was all for a future husband.
So I turned to my new friend and smiled.
“Who’s supposed to be cute?” I asked.
“The Venetians,” said Millie, “Haven’t you heard?” she asked confusedly. “They’re coming to the party tonight.”
Oh right. The family of billionaires.
“Is Prince Georg really old?” I asked slowly, dreading the answer. That was the thing about wealthy men – most of them were elderly dudes, almost mummies in some cases. I was hoping for someone in his fifties, sixties if I was unlucky.
“No, not Prince Georg himself,” said Millie laughing. “Prince Kristian, his son. I hear that he’s more than just cute,” she said, lowering her voice, “I hear he’s gorgeous.”
And now, I raised my eyebrows. More gorgeous than two six-four twins, with imposing builds, charcoal black hair and eyes as blue as the sea? I think not. Because during my time in exile, I’d reverted to dreaming about my encounter with them. It was almost unreal and some nights I lay awake, replaying our encounter in my mind, the way I’d raised my knee to show them my sweet kitty, the way Kato had stuffed me in front while Karl had dominated my backside. Oh god, I felt so full just thinking about it, stretched to the max, languorous and sexy, and yet here I was at Miss Carroll’s primped to within an inch of my life, bait for whichever old rich dude. It was depressing, but that was life and I forced myself back to reality. I sighed heartily. Right, the billionaires from St. Venetia.
“And what makes him so wonderful?” I asked my friend skeptically. I was expecting to hear something like, “He’s so dreamy, so amazing,” a bunch of really vague descriptors, so imagine my surprise when Millie was startlingly specific. “Prince Kristian is supposedly really tall, six four with black hair and blue eyes, and really athletic too. Doesn’t that sound like an amazing combo?” she giggled. “I always like the mix of dark hair and light eyes.”
Now my senses were on high alert because Millie had just painted my thoughts aloud, practically word for word. It couldn’t be, could it? It was just a weird coincidence that Millie had just described my twin fling, the two men I’d been lusting after since leaving Andorra. Because there had to be a ton of guys out there who were tall with the black/blue combination, it wasn’t unique or some kind of one-time thing. So I shook my head and scolded myself. No way were my twin lovers here, masquerading as Prince Kristian.
Saying nothing, I followed Millie as we were led to a set of heavy, oaken doors along with the other girls, perfume heady in the air, a bevy of chattering, female forms.
“Ladies,” nodded a butler before swinging the door open.
And my eye was immediately caught by a tall figure. Or rather, all of us immediately saw him because he stood head and shoulders above the rest, his aura unmistakable, penetrating blue eyes flashing as we entered the room.
It was Kato. Or Karl. One of them, I wasn’t sure which, was here in the flesh.
KRISTIAN
The chattering group of girls was ridiculous, like a cage of hens set free in the crowd.
“Oohh!” sighed one.
“Ahhh!” sighed another.
I could swear I heard a third one chirp, “Peep peep peep!”
I just shrugged my shoulders and tried to ignore the women. It’s so fucking annoying. As Crown Prince of St. Venetia, I’m obligated to attend a ton of events on behalf of the royal family, all sorts of shindigs that I have absolutely zero interest in, and this one was no exception.
Sproul, my social secretary cum butler cum personal assistant, had briefed me on tonight’s event.
“I believe, sire,” he said, looking at me over his glasses, “that you’ll particularly enjoy tonight’s event.”
I yawned and stretched, looking out the window of our library. Yeah, my ancestors spared no expense building and furnishing the St. Venetia Palace, and the library was no exception. Leather-bound volumes lined the walls, and there were quite a few collectors’ items scattered about, the antique books opened to pages with especially beautiful coloring or calligraphy. In fact, one of the original Gutenberg bibles was a few feet to my right, enclosed in a glass case, the temperature carefully monitored, lighting carefully controlled.
“Oh really?” I said disinterestedly. “What going on tonight? Wine tasting? Bourbon tasting? Whiskey?”
Sproul frowned at me. I’d been so bored and disillusioned lately that I’d been drowning my sorrows in Jim, Jack, Johnnie and Jameson. The Four Horsemen had been my constant companions, the hard liquor carrying me through these painfully dull parties.
But Sproul continued to look me over disapprovingly. He’s been with us since I was a baby, and knew me inside out.
