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“I thought that was Twix bars.”
“You’re right. Okay, guilt is sixth.”
“You might be scooting it to seven if you could taste this nectar stuff.” I giggled, grateful for the excuse to let out some nerves. “Damn, these Arcadians make good shit.” I swished, sipped, and sniffed the fruit drink again. Wait. Was that supposed to be swish, sniff, sip? And did that even apply to this stuff? And wasn’t spit somewhere in there too? Oh hell no. This stuff was too good.
“Hmmph,” Ez countered. “That supposed to make everything all better? A bottle of comp’ed booze, after you dropped everything and flew halfway across the world, only to find out the gig has already been taken by one of the brides?”
“Shit.” Sharp lean forward. “You want to cut that quiche in half, mister? That’s not public knowledge yet.”
“Quiche, schmeesh.” He stabbed a finger at the camera. “Those royal-boy putzes could do with a little egg on their fancy faces. Once it’s smashed in good, we’ll make them lick it off each other. And we’ll watch.”
I slammed my glass down. “I’m not sure whether to be horrified or intrigued.”
“Why not both?”
Another long laugh. “Done!” Broke out into applause. “Oh, I like feisty Ez way better than guilt complex Ez.”
He waggled tawny brows. “How about horny and curious Ez?”
“Huh?”
“Think a little guilt would make me forget the codpiece question?”
Groan. Yet another laugh. “Freaking hell.”
“Come oooonnn.” He pushed his begging knuckles at his camera, turning them into weird, pale flesh mounds on my end. “I’m living vicariously through you, okay? I’ve been a good boy lately. Haven’t even glanced at any boys.”
I narrowed my stare. “Not even any girls?”
He narrowed his. “I’m not a saint, Luce.”
“Because you don’t even believe in saints?”
“Beside the fucking point?” He shifted, shoulders hunching, as he pushed closer to his camera. “Admit it, woman. I see it, deep in those Bambi brown eyes of yours. You looked, didn’t you? You looked long as you damn well could at Shiraz Cimarron’s family jewels, in those moments when he wasn’t looking…”
“Shut. Up.” But my quirking lips undermined the words, inciting his victory whoop.
“Aha! I’m right!”
He was. But if he thought I was ever going to go there with him, the smarty-pants had an ice water bath coming to him.
“The finer points of His Highness’s physique are not a subject you get to know about when I’m talking to you from a wi-fi network called Palais One.”
He curled a small grin. “So there were finer points?”
“Hmmm.” I ran a finger along the rim of my glass. It was a cross between a standard wine goblet and a champagne flute, resulting in a little finger-and-glass song that was strangely melodic. “Maybe. Just a few.”
More than a few.Oh God. So many more.
But he wasn’t going to see that, even after I didn’t have the wi-fi as an excuse. As long as I kept the Bambi peepers averted, I’d make good on that vow—for now. And later? I had a whole night’s sleep then a day’s worth of travel to develop the answer to that.
Who the hell was I kidding?
Answer? What answer?
There was no “answer” but one.
I had to wash that man right outta my hair, dammit.
