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Chapter One
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“Here’s to the adventures of Lucy and the prince!”
“To Lucy!”
The rally cry, fifteen voices strong, made it official. My face was surely as red as my strawberry margarita. My giant, delicious strawberry margarita. So delicious, I threw down an extra tip for Gervase, my favorite Velvet Margarita bartender.
“Viva! To Lucy and her príncipe!” he shouted, skirting the bar to sweep me into a gallant tango. I laughed but blushed harder. Uh-oh. Out came the cell phone video cams, belonging to the majority of my friends and family, gathered tonight in my favorite Los Angeles bar to see me off on said “adventure” with said “príncipe”. To be more specific: Prince Shiraz Cimarron of the Island of Arcadia, one of the world’s most mysterious chunks of land, overseen by the most fascinating royal family since the Tudors. Of the whole family, Shiraz was the most intriguing—or so the western media claimed. To them, he was one hell of a fascinating subject: pretty but pragmatic, serious and secretive, an outer shell of calm hiding a cutthroat businessman on the inside…
And, at the age of twenty-five, had not had a single serious romantic relationship.
The press had indulged in a lot of fun with that one—and still were. A glance at the video monitor over the bar, broadcasting one of Gervase’s favorite celebrity gossip shows, proved as much. The audio feed wasn’t necessary to follow along, since the image montage was accompanied by headlines which blended mesmerizing and mortifying into a rare art form.
His Highness of Hotness—Hiding a Hidden Harem?
Shirtless Shiraz—but where are the Bikini Babes?
Single and Cimarron: Blessing or Curse?
Prince of Playboys…or not?
Cimarron CEO: Nasty and Naughty or Virgin in Hiding?
Sheez.
I blushed on the guy’s behalf. Almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
To be honest, it was hard to feel anything but lust when treated to a nonstop parade of Shiraz Cimarron’s magnificence. Was I proud of swimming in such a shallow first impression puddle? Of course not. But it was the truth, as blatant and bold as the man’s beauty itself. When confronted with both, sometimes all a woman could do was…
Stare.
God, yes.
The third Cimarron in line to the Arcadian throne was a work of art, plain and simple. Piercing blue eyes. Greek god lips. Strong, jutted jaw. A lean but sculpted body, likely developed from running and swimming in the constant sunshine on his island. His skin was the color of Moroccan sand, his elegant face framed by hair like midnight over that exotic land. Gazing at him was like marveling at a natural wonder; his picture should’ve been shuffled into the screensaver image packets between Moab cliffs and Tahitian Rainbows.
Yeah, he was that stunning.
That sinful. That unreal.
Seriously.
Unreal.
I didn’t just live in LA. I’d grown up here, in the land where illusion was reality and vice versa. I’d waited in coffee lines, stood at airport security, and picked up my dry cleaning beside pasty, bad-tempered people who’d been touted to the whole world as sex on sticks. Camera angles and editing tricks could turn Broom Hilda into a Victoria’s Secret goddess—
Which meant maybe that unreal Arcadian prince was really a doughy little yokel, and photo filters had done the rest.
That was it. My safety valve. The sane way to approach this little “jaunt” out to Arcadia. Recasting the stud as doughy dud meant my head could stay on straight—and focus on the bigger picture here.
The much bigger picture.
Like landing the contract to coordinate the hugest wedding event of the year. The Cimarron royal wedding day.
The event, a double ceremony to bind Shiraz’s two older brothers to the American women with whom they’d fallen in love, would be more than the biggest coup for the wedding planning company into which I’d poured myself for the last eighteen months.
