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Two weddings would accomplish that with double speed.
Three weddings would make this country the talk of the globe for weeks. And the darling of international banks for weeks after that.
Three weddings…of three sons.
“Of course.” No more bafflement. Exactly the opposite. My new stare down to Crista said as much. “A triple ceremony, With Shiraz as the third groom.” I paused for just two seconds before barreling on, “Only the man has no bride.”
The furrows had vanished from Crista’s forehead. Favoring Morticia over Tinkerbell, she murmured, “Not anyone close.”
I pulled in a deep breath as full comprehension set in.
“Except for Ambyr Stratiss.”
Ding ding ding.Crista’s tight smile relayed that much, before she explained, “She and His Highness met in the Arcadian version of—how do you say it?—high school? Yes? After that, as our country began opening up to the outside world, her father was sent to Finland a few times for business training at Aalto, and she accompanied him.”
“At His Highness’s request?” I had no idea why that concept gave me the squeebs.
“Oh, no.” or why the vehemence of her answer felt so nice.
Squeebs aside, perhaps Miss Noble had just given me insight as to why the world’s jury was out on the prince’s sexual experience—or lack of it. Had he truly been “studying” all those years, if Ambyr Stratiss was jetting over for secret booty calls? And if that was the case, did she take those assignations as her God-given right to become his bride now?
Sheeeeez.
God help Shiraz Cimarron.
It resounded in my head like gongs—until the tolls were interrupted by the big arched door opening again, and a man appeared in the portal.
No. Not a man.
A freaking god.
The moment was literally like something from a movie—though hell if I could remember which one—not like it mattered, since I barely remembered my own name. For that matter, did I have a pulse? Or limbs? Even those weren’t conscious thoughts, more like meaningless wonderings far beyond the wild race of my bloodstream, pushing a deafening din into my ears.
Yet the next second, the world went still again.
So still, I couldn’t even breathe in it. Couldn’t feel or comprehend anything, except him. Everything about him…
The luxurious rustle of his suit. The way he pushed air from a straight, narrow nose that flared just enough at the bottom. The way he advanced, steady and sure, moving like some computer-created creature of power and mystery—then the gleam of sunlight from above as he stopped, igniting the ocean blue depths into pure cyan fire.
Perfection.
Perfection.
Dear freaking God, perfection.
Yep. That about did it for describing Shiraz Cimarron.
In more ways than Ez’s photos or the gossip tabloids could ever show.
Photos, even videos, couldn’t encompass this. All of this. The command of his stature. The force of his presence. The blend of his smooth yet rugged beauty. The effortless intensity with which he wielded it all, as if he already sensed even the air’s gratitude for touching him, then swore its fealty wouldn’t be in vain.
As soon as our stares met, his posture straightened. How tall was he? And did that even matter? The man could’ve been three-foot-three and filled that pinstripe suit with the same muscled grace. His substance was that potent, that lethal to any carbon-based life form within twenty feet of him. One quick glance at Crista and the court page, who’d both gone all shuffling feet and batting eyes, proved the theory clearly enough.
Lucky wenches. At least they could still move. I stood like a dorky doe in the headlights, all too aware my stare had bugged-out, my mouth was an awful O, and I swayed like a willow in a hot, hormonal hurricane.
God help Shiraz Cimarron?
No.
God help me.
