The car stopped in front of the Monaco Sporting Club. Ian climbed out first. Dominic remained seated. He didn’t want to waste an evening rehashing the same shallow conversations or battling the predatory females whom he could not afford to offend. He would prefer to be alone in his suite—in his bed—with Madeline. But Madeline would be here, and her vow to dance with every male present chafed like an over-starched shirt. Absurd since once his bride-to-be was chosen he would have no claim on Madeline. He would tell her goodbye and immediately fly off to fulfill his duty to his country and his promise to his father to continue the tradition and the monarchy of Montagnarde.
The weight of his obligations had never weighed as heavily on his shoulders as it did now.
Ian’s face appeared in the open door. “Your Highness?”
Dominic climbed from the car and entered the gala. The upper echelons of European society were out in full force at the charity ball. These were the very people he needed to court and attract to Montagnarde. At the moment he couldn’t care less. He scanned the crowd, searching for Madeline, but didn’t see her. An acquaintance greeted him. Dominic forced a smile and commenced his job as businessman and ambassador for his country.
But as he worked the room, politely fending off unwanted advances, some subtle, some not, he wondered if his future bride was among the women in attendance tonight, for this was very likely the pool from which she would be chosen. He found the prospect unappealing since none of the women attending the ball attracted him in the least.
Three-quarters of an hour later movement at the entrance drew his attention. Madeline and her suitemates had arrived. Urgency made his heart pump harder.
Madeline had pulled her dark hair up, leaving her shoulders bare. Her drop-dead sexy black dress molded itself to the curves of her exquisite figure. When she stepped forward a slit opened almost to the curls concealing her sex to reveal one sleek, tanned leg. She turned as a dark-haired man claimed the woman beside her, and Dominic stifled a groan. Other than straps encircling her shoulders in a figure eight, the back of her dress left the smooth line of her spine completely bare to just above the crease of her bottom.
Beautiful, seductive Madeline. He had to have her. Tonight.
“Prince Dominic,” a high-pitched voice said nearby.
He blinked and looked back at the woman whose red talons gripped the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket. He couldn’t recall her name. “Yes?”
“I asked if you’d like to see me home tonight.” She followed the words with an inviting pout and a flutter of false eyelashes which did nothing for him.
“I am honored, mademoiselle, but I must decline. I have a previous engagement. Excuse me.” He bowed and made his way toward Madeline only to be delayed again and again. His frustration grew. He had to reach Madeline before another man claimed her.
She was his.
For now. And he would have his fill of her before his desolate future consumed him. How hard could it be to not kiss a guy? Madeline silently fumed as she stood near the entrance of the exclusive La Salle Des Étoiles.
She “not kissed” guys every day. Dozens of them. Coworkers, patients, paramedics, her letter carrier, for Pete’s sake. So what was the big deal about not kissing one more? But that was her goal.
She’d succeeded Monday night, thanks to dinner with Dominic being interrupted by an urgent call from the palace which he’d had to take.
She’d blown it Tuesday in Biot, but she’d managed to keep her lips from straying on Wednesday when he’d surprised her with a behind-the-scenes tour of the Prince’s Palace, including rooms not open to the general public. She’d stuck to her guns again on Thursday because Candace and Amelia—bless ’em—had run interference by accompanying her on the visit Dominic had arranged to Princess Grace Hospital. Afterward, her suitemates had dragged her out for a night at the theater sans Dominic.
But resisting him hadn’t been easy. Each day his hungry gaze had gobbled her up bite by bite, leaving her more than a little ravenous and close to bingeing on the taste, scent and feel of him.
Thank God for Friday when she’d had the good fortune to avoid Dominic completely. She hadn’t been hiding exactly. She’d kept herself busy away from the hotel by shopping and doing wedding minutiae with her suitemates from breakfast until bedtime.
She’d been so happy to evade temptation that she hadn’t even minded the reminders of her own aborted engagement. In fact, she’d barely thought of Mike, the mistake. But that was because another man had planted his flag in her subconscious and claimed her thoughts. Damn Dominic Rossi for that.
Her gaze collided with Dominic’s across the haute couture and jewel-encrusted crowd of Le Bal de L’Eté and her breath caught. Speak of the devil. Her luck had apparently run out.
With his regal bearing, aristocratic bone structure and wealth of confidence, no one looking at him now would ever doubt his royal lineage. The man commanded attention without even trying, and he turned wearing a tux into an art form.
A blonde so thin the wind could blow her away stood beside him with a rapt expression on her immobile Botox-filled face. He flashed a smile at her, said a few words then broke free and headed in Madeline’s direction only to be sidelined by a squinty redhead and then a big-toothed brunette whose invitation to dance horizontally as well as vertically was obvious from clear across the room.
Madeline gritted her teeth and turned her back on the prince and his fawning females. She was not jealous. Nope. Not her. He could do the mattress merengue with every other woman in the room for all she cared.
“See anybody you recognize?” she asked wide-eyed Amelia. If there was a celebrity or royal in attendance, Amelia would be able to name him or her.
“Are you kidding? This place is a who’s who smorgasbord. And I’m sorry to say, that includes Toby Haynes. I cannot believe Vincent sent that race car Casanova to babysit us.”
“Vincent meant well, and Toby is his best man.” Vincent had been working overseas, but moments ago he’d surprised Candace by arriving at the ball unexpectedly. He’d quickly swept his bride-to-be onto the dance floor where the two gazed at each other with so much love in their eyes it made Madeline uneasy. She’d once believed herself that much in love, and how she’d survived the aftermath was still a mystery. She could guarantee she’d never let herself care like that again.
“He should know we’re old enough to stay out of trouble.”
Amelia’s comment made Madeline shift guiltily in her stiletto heels. The edges of her heavy black sequined dress abraded her skin. She hadn’t managed to stay out of trouble, but she’d neglected to fill her suitemates in on the embarrassing details. Amelia knew nothing more than what Dominic had told her—that Madeline had threatened him. Her friend didn’t know the threat involved an actual knife against his princely throat or firing a gun over his royal head.
Madeline followed Amelia’s disgusted gaze toward the NASCAR driver who’d been a thorn in her friend’s side since their first day in Monaco. Thanks to Candace’s misguided matchmaking attempts, Madeline had dated Toby a couple of times back in Charlotte. She’d quickly labeled him a player and lost interest. The attraction—or lack thereof—was mutual.
Toby was a nice enough guy and definitely good-looking, but as far as she could tell he was serious about racing and little else. Amelia, on the other hand, had taken an intense dislike to Toby during Vincent’s hospital stay last year when Toby had been a frequent visitor to the burn unit. No amount of prying—subtle or otherwise—on Madeline’s part had uncovered the reason for the tension between those two.
“Do you see those women drooling over him?” Amelia grumbled. Amelia was the most easygoing woman Madeline had ever met, and seeing her friend bristle and hiss like an angry cat was totally out of character. There had to be a reason.
The back of Madeline’s neck prickled, and it had nothing to do with Toby spotting them and extracting himself from the women clustered around him to head in their direction. “What is it with these chicks and their sycophantic admiration? Do they have no pride? And don’t even get me started on how these guys are sucking up the adulation as if it’s their due.”
“Good evening, Amelia, Madeline.” Dominic’s baritone behind her confirmed the reason for her uneasiness. Her bones turned soupy. She cursed her wilting willpower. So much for her plan to avoid the man who had the power to kiss her right out of her clothes.
“Dominic, Amelia would like to dance,” she said as she turned. She tried to keep her gaze on his blue eyes, but she couldn’t help soaking up the breadth of his shoulders.
“Madeline!” Amelia protested.
“It’s either Dominic or Toby. Take your pick.” Madeline indicated the approaching driver with a tilt of her head.
Amelia’s eyes widened with panic. She looked beseechingly at Dominic and even curtsied. “I would love to dance, Your Highness.”
With a polite smile Dominic inclined his head and offered Amelia his arm. “Dominic, please. I would be delighted, Amelia.”
But his eyes promised Madeline retribution as he led her friend away.
Ha! He couldn’t get even if he couldn’t catch her. She’d make a point of dancing in the arms of other men all night—even if she had to ask them herself. She’d chosen a dress which guaranteed their answers would always be yes.
Toby reached Madeline’s side moments later. His appreciative gaze zipped from her upswept hair down her black formfitting dress to her silver sandals before he met her gaze. “If your goal is to bring these European guys to their knees, I’ll bet my new engine you’ll succeed. You look good enough to make me reconsider making a run for you myself, Madeline.”
A girl—this one anyway—liked to have her ego stroked even if she suspected the compliment generated from habit rather than genuine interest. “Thanks, Toby. You look sharp, too.”
Toby Haynes might be blond-haired and blue-eyed and of a similar height and athletic build to Dominic, but that’s where the likeness ended. Even though both men wore what were probably custom-tailored tuxes, Toby had rough edges aplenty whereas Dominic was smooth, polished perfection. But Toby didn’t trip her hormonal switches. Dominic, regrettably, did.
“Who’s the stiff?”
She didn’t pretend not to understand Toby’s question. How could she, since his eyes practically shot fire toward the man in question? “Prince Dominic Rossi of Montagnarde.”
“Montag—what? Never heard of the place. Must not have a race track.”
Nice to know she wasn’t the only geographically challenged one present. “Montagnarde. It’s a country somewhere between Hawaii and New Zealand.”
“Wanna dance?”
Not the smoothest invitation she’d ever had, but it beat standing near the entrance like a wallflower. “Sure. Why not?”
Toby led her onto the floor and swept her into the flow of other dancers with skill she wouldn’t have expected from a car jockey. “You’re pretty light on your feet.”