The Reluctant Prince

  Duty comes with a price—his heart.

  Sydney Martinson’s budget is so tight, it squeaks—and she couldn’t be happier. Her divorce from her controlling husband is final, and a Vegas hair stylist convention is the perfect place to cut loose. Yet she can’t quite shake the feeling she’s being watched.

  It took some doing, but Hadrian’s managed to slip away from his watchdog personal assistant for a weekend of well-deserved relaxation. Life as TV’s “Pasta Prince” comes with pressure, and so does his closely guarded secret. He doesn’t just rule the kitchen, he’s royalty with a capital R—third in line to the throne of Koros. And he’d like to keep it that way.

  When he spots free-spirited, blue-haired Sydney tossing a coin into a Luxor fountain, he feels the punch in the gut that family lore says all Drake men feel when they meet their match. One weekend with her has him thinking about forever.

  Until his assistant tracks him down with dreadful news. One cousin is dead, another is missing. Hadrian is the Crown Prince of Koros—the last job in the world he ever wanted. Worse, he and Sydney are next in line on a killer’s list.

  Warning: this title contains the following: Royal intrigue, body piercings and a Prince sexy enough to stalk.

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

  Macon GA 31201

  The Reluctant Prince

  Copyright © 2010 by Candice Gilmer

  ISBN: 978-1-60928-054-3

  Edited by Bethany Morgan

  Cover by Natalie Winters

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: June 2010

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  The Reluctant Prince

  Candice Gilmer

  Dedication

  For Diana. This book would have never happened without the constant phone calls and all the encouragement. Oh, and all the royal advice.

  Acknowledgements

  Bob, of course, you put up with all my silliness. Thanks for that.

  Ann, thanks for cheering me on and listening to me whine when I wasn’t sure what kind of story this was going to be.

  And of course, my muses, who always seem to give me the best ideas.

  Prologue

  January, one year ago

  My hands shook, my insides rocked and my guts threatened to pour themselves out on the table at the sight of what was literally spread out before me.

  I blinked, rubbing my eyes.

  Yet the image wouldn’t go away.

  It was still there, punctuated by the rhythm of animal mating on the kitchen table.

  Jim, my husband of three years, had a woman whose face was obscured by the angle of the kitchen table, and was pumping into her like his life depended on it.

  “Yeah, baby, yeah, you know you love it,” he was saying.

  I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.

  Oh God, what had I done to deserve this?

  What had I done that was so wrong?

  Neither one of them realized I was there. Which didn’t surprise me. They were too busy making all the noise in the world, oblivious to anything but their coupling.

  Jim slapped the woman’s ass, and the sound snapped me back into reality.

  “Jim.”

  No reply.

  “Jim,” I said a little louder.

  Still neither of them registered it.

  “Jim!”

  He paused, then turned around to look at me.

  I expected anger. Anger, rage, embarrassment, shock, anything.

  Anything was better than what I got.

  Jim laughed.

  “What do you want?” he snarled at me. “Got a problem with me getting a real piece of ass?” He punctuated the words by grabbing the ass he was currently embedded in.

  “I…”

  He pulled himself off her, jerked his pants up and started walking toward me. The woman started cursing under her breath and tried to cover herself.

  “Come on… Spill it. You got a problem with it?”

  “Jim, I…”

  He got close, within striking range.

  “You won’t. Because I’m gonna get me a piece whenever I want it, from whoever, and you can’t do a damn thing about it.” His breath was hot and sticky against my face.

  I hated him.

  I never truly understood the meaning of the word until that moment. And in that second, I did, I hated him with every bit of my being, every fiber of existence.

  His head started rocking around, like he was some kind of diva. “Oh, lookey here. We’re gonna get upset. Ohh, come on girl. Get upset. Fight back. I fucking dare you.”

  They say demons come to you, possess you in strange moments, make things come out of your mouth you’ll never know, would never say, and never do.

  Whether a demon or an avenging angel took over my being in the moment, I didn’t know.

  I just knew this—it wasn’t me who started screaming.

  “Jim, you worthless piece of cow manure. You’re lucky I don’t have a gun in my hand, because your ass would be dead, including your two-bit floozy who doesn’t even have the decency to try and leave when she sees the wife walk in. You are the lowest piece of scum in existence. Hell, you’re what a friggin’ amoeba shits. You’re nothing. You’re scum. Get out of my house before I do find your fucking gun and turn you from a rooster to a hen with one shot.”

  Jim’s eyes went wide, and he took a step back.

  Never, not once in a three-year marriage, or in the previous year and a half of courtship had I ever screamed at him.

  With everything I had, I was the good wife. Dutiful. Proper. I had a job, cleaned and cooked and took care of things. Jim never had to do anything, because I did it all.

  And I had deluded myself into believing I did it all because I actually liked it.

  So stunned by my words, Jim and his floozy did actually leave. I didn’t wait around long to find out how long he planned on being gone. I went straight into the bedroom and started packing.

  That was the end of me being his girl.

  End of December, Present Day

  “We need to talk about what you want to do for the holidays,” Alicia Schmidt said, glancing at Hadrian Drake, the star of The Pasta Prince.

  Hadrian rolled his eyes. He hated these meetings. Especially when his assistant ran them—he might as well not even be here. “It’s not even January, Alicia. I just got back from the holidays. I am not ready to think about next winter’s holidays.” He’d only got off the plane late last night. He’d hardly gotten any sleep before his alarm—already set by Alicia—woke him up so he could make this meeting today.

  And he’d wanted to sleep in.

  Family did that to him. He loved his dad’s family, but they were an exhausting bunch.

  The Pasta Prince producer, Ron Weisberg, let out a sigh. “We have to plan out your schedule. And you need to come up with something new for the show.”

  “What for?” Hadrian asked. “We’re doing great. The show’s more popular than ever.” It was the first meeting of the year, even though it wasn’t quite January yet, wher
e all the plans for the new season were hashed out, and it was the most tedious meeting of being on a television show. “Why should we change anything?”

  Alicia started tapping her fingernails on the conference table. “The same old thing every time will get stale. We need to come up with an interesting idea.”

  “We don’t start shooting anything for two months,” Hadrian said. “We have plenty of time to come up with some kind of new segment. We don’t have to figure it out now.”

  Ron grumbled under his breath, and Alicia glanced at Ron like she was apologizing for a temperamental child.

  “Hadrian, to create a new segment, all kinds of things has to be done. The format, the design, the graphics, it all needs to be made and set up. That takes time. Figuring out what the menus should be is also a chore.”

  “I still like the idea of you traveling, checking out little Italian restaurants all over the country,” Ron said.

  Hadrian shook his head. “Everyone does that.” Almost every big celebrity chef on the Food Channel did some kind of tour of the country, going to different places. One cook did diners, one did vacation spots… It was all tedious, as far as Hadrian was concerned. “What about a segment on ways to bring flavors of Europe to your home kitchen? I mean, I was raised on an island.” He stopped himself before saying too much.

  Ron shook his head. “Gina does that on Casual Italian.” Ron stopped, tilting his head to the side. “Um, since when? I thought you grew up in Missouri.”

  Hadrian paused, knowing he’d said more than he should. And Alicia was giving him the evil eye. Again. “Family in the Mediterranean too.” He started rotating his pencil in his hand. “Budget cooking? With the current economy, it would be a good idea.”

  “We have three shows now with budget cooking,” Ron said.

  Alicia shook her head. “You should not be doing anything with budget cooking.”

  “Why not?” Hadrian asked. “I think it would be a nice bit. Shortcuts and stuff to save money. Do the full priced version of the menu, then show alternative, cheaper ways to do the same meal.”

  “Because, a man of your station doesn’t need to be worrying about the masses.”

  Hadrian grimaced. The last thing he wanted to discuss was his station—especially with Ron, the producer, sitting in front of him. One breath of his royal heritage to any of the show producers and they’d have a field day with it. “I’m a public figure whose show is supposed to be about every man cooking in his home.”

  Ron glanced at Alicia. “What in the world are you two arguing about?”

  Hadrian’s shoulders stiffened, and he glared at Alicia. She didn’t seem to notice his mad face, but he figured she’d mastered ignoring it over the last five years.

  “It has to do with Hadrian’s family. They are, shall we say, dignitaries overseas. They are not pleased about his appeal to commoners.” Alicia started punching things into her Blackberry. “We have a meeting in an hour with the stylist, Hadrian. We need to go over your wardrobe.”

  Hadrian shook his head. “This is a casual show, Alicia. I’m not wearing Armani to cook in.”

  “Of course not. But you’ll wear PRPS, like Pitt and Willis and Bale are wearing.” She raised an eyebrow, one of her blonde curls falling across her face, daring him to counter her.

  “Whatever,” Hadrian said. The argument was lost anyway.

  One would think, as the star of a cooking show, he’d have a bit more power in his real life.

  Chapter One

  January, Present Day

  “Listen, Debra, I’m a beautician, not a magician,” I said to my client on my cell phone. “When you dye your hair black with box color from the five-and-dime, you can’t go platinum blonde a month later. It just won’t happen.”

  “But I was blonde before. Can’t it be removed?”

  “It’s black. Black doesn’t come all the way out. There’s only so much I can do. And I’m not even in Kansas right now, anyway.”

  “But my hair. It’s just too dark.”

  I let out a sigh, resisting the urge to reach through my cell phone and strangle her. We’d spent probably six hours trying to get the black out of her hair, and it wasn’t until about hour four she admitted she’d done it herself. Not like I hadn’t suspected it.

  “You’re either going to have to chop it off, or let it grow. There’s nothing more I can do without frying it.”

  “I just can’t be this dark.”

  “You should have thought of that before you dyed it black.” The plane shuddered as we taxied into position. “I have to go, we’re about to get off the plane.”

  “I can’t believe you’re on vacation in Vegas with my hair like this.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Your hair is fine. The dark auburn is very flattering to your blue eyes. In fact, it makes them pop more, and you don’t look so washed out.”

  “It does?”

  “Of course it does. It may not be platinum blonde, but it is very glamorous.”

  It took a little more silver-tongued words from me, but finally, I got Debra off the phone.

  “Customers are fun, aren’t they?” the man sitting next to me said. He was in his early fifties if he was a day, and had told me his life story all the way from Denver to Vegas. And I was pretty sure he wanted to sell me a new water purification system.

  I shook my head. “No, they aren’t.” Maybe I needed this vacation. Technically a working vacation—I was heading to a big hair show in Las Vegas—still it was not at home in Kansas.

  The plane slowed even more, and the flight attendants stood and started talking about proper plane exit. I rested my head against the headrest. Looking down at my left hand, the white line remained from my recently removed wedding ring. The finger was bare and empty, but the mark remained.

  There wasn’t enough self-tanner to make the stupid line go away.

  The ring had been huge. At least it was huge to me. God, I loved that ring. Even when the worst days had gone by. Even when Jim was completely intolerable, I still loved the ring. It was so beautiful and so, oh so…

  Symbolic.

  I was married. I, Sydney Martinson, had finally found someone who would be willing to tolerate me and spend the rest of his life with me.

  What a crock of shit.

  I ran my thumb around the place where the ring should have sat for the seventieth time today. I have got to get something to replace it.

  The man next to me stood up grabbing his bag. “Is this black bag yours?” he asked as he pulled down his carry-on.

  The Redken tag hung off the handle. “Yeah, that’s it.” He handed me the bag.

  I jumped at how heavy the bag was, the load of just-in-case-they-loose-my-luggage-stuff weighing more than my suitcase. ’Course, I had plenty of room in the big suitcase to bring home samples of new shampoos and color.

  The fun part of being a hairdresser—there was always cool stuff to buy.

  He moved to let me out, but I waved him on, telling him I wanted to wait until the plane thinned out a bit. Truth be told, though, I didn’t want to get up yet. I hated flying, but now I was safe, and I wasn’t ready to move.

  Traveling alone wasn’t my most favorite thing, and traveling alone to a city I’d never been to wasn’t what I’d call the smartest thing to be doing, but I had to come.

  I had to get the Hell out of Wichita for a few days. It was time.

  The passengers filed off, and I stood to follow the last person. The stewardess, no, to be correct, the flight attendant, smiled and wished me luck in Las Vegas. Not that I was here to gamble.

  The Redken hair show was once again being held in Vegas. I had planned to go a few years back, but couldn’t because of time and money restraints. This time, I’d saved up and my boss at the five-chair salon I called work offered me a deal. If I kept my retail-to-service dollars at a minimum of twenty percent for six months, Darla would buy my show ticket.

  Working through the terminal toward the baggage claim, I saw a lot of
male and female hairdressers.

  Dressed in black, the hairdressers had fresh hair color bleached to perfection, spikey hair that stood at attention, and of course, some kind of contrasting red, brown, copper, or auburn color to either downplay the bleached blonde or to emphasis it. Not to mention the perfect makeup, overly done and extremely in fashion.

  A gaggle of hairdressers stood around the luggage retrieval area, and snippets of their conversations filtered through the fog of noise—talk of the latest gossip within their salon, how this stylist was a bitch, and that stylist was horrible, etc, etc.

  Once again, I was thankful I’d worked with the same three people for the last eight years. We knew each other well enough. If we had a problem, we’d tell each other outright.

  One of the stylists, who resembled Rogue from X-men with a bad perm, looked right at me and then the Redken bag and rolled her eyes.

  Yeah, I bet I can outdo your best hair day too. Dressed in a plain black T-shirt with “I—heart—Nerds” across my chest and a pair of old low-rise jeans and black flip-flops, I didn’t look like a hairdresser. I favored the punk look with my florescent baby blue hair, cut in a short-cropped affair with a little volume in the crown. Not to mention the four earrings in my left ear, and two in my right. I didn’t do the glamazon look a lot of hairdressers favored. Part of it had to do with me not being able to afford Prada to work in. Part because, well, I’m a bit tight—I can’t justify spending five hundred bucks on a purse. Or three hundred on sunglasses.

  I put down my bag and stretched. Fatigue from the flight was starting to catch up to me. I couldn’t wait to get checked into my room and relax. Heck, I might even indulge and soak in the bathtub, as long as the tub was bigger than a postcard.

  “That is so cute,” one of the gaggle of hairdressers said. It wasn’t Rogue, but another who looked like she let the same gal do her hair as Rogue did.

  I froze. “What?”

  “Your belly ring. That’s just darling.” She stepped closer.