Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 68691 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68691 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
So I perked up, feeling a little more awake. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be so painful, I’d be able to relax a little, enjoy myself. I was reaching for a second glass of champagne, congratulating myself for attending the event, when I caught sight of her. It isn’t often that the blood rushes downward making my dong stiffen, but that’s what happened when Tina stepped into the drawing room.
Curly brown hair, big hazel eyes and a heart-shaped face, she was a looker and then some. Wide hips bracketed a tiny waist and juicy ass, all of it topped with gazongas that had to be Double Ds at a minimum. I felt my heart hammering, blood pumping hard in my groin, a rushing sound in my ears.
And of course, she and another girl were headed my way. In two seconds flat they were by my side, the tiny blonde grabbing my arm.
“Hi, you must be Prince Kristian,” she chattered. “I’m Millie, I mean Millicent, and this is the Lady Christina.”
The brunette let out a genuine smile, and my heart caught in my throat. God, she was beautiful, I could almost feel warm rays caressing my skin.
“Everyone calls me Tina,” she said throatily. Oh shit, that voice was like dark velvet, a full-bodied glass of merlot that I had every intention of downing sip by sip.
“Tina you’re not supposed to!” giggled her friend. “We’re supposed to go by our given names remember? Miss Carroll said.”
But Tina just rolled her eyes and shot me a half-smile. “Sorry but Millicent and I are real girls, and we go by Millie and Tina, not Lady Anything.”
By now, I’d gotten my body under some control and reached for Tina’s hand. Her fingers were long and elegant, her wrist like a swan. Pressing a kiss on the inside, I growled, “Pleased to meet you.”
Tina’s eyebrows flew up at the intimacy, her pulse pounding under my fingers, beating like a butterfly.
“Do you always kiss ladies’ wrists when you first meet them?” she asked archly, looking at me through their lashes.
“Only if they’re as beautiful as you,” I rumbled, with a half-smile on my lips.
Her friend, meanwhile, had finally caught on to the vibes between us, some serious shit that didn’t include her.
“Um, should I go get a drink or something?” she twittered, “or do you guys need drinks too? I can get something for all three of us.”
“No, stay,” said Tina, but I interrupted.
“Yeah, that’d be great,” I said loudly, “whatever they have, thanks.” I didn’t mention that there were servers circulating even now with flutes of bubbly, I just wanted the brunette all to myself.
“Oh sure,” giggled Millie, running off, “Have fun you two.”
Hopefully that meant she wasn’t coming back, she’d give us a little privacy, and I turned back to the brunette.
“So what brings you here?” I growled, expecting some casual banter, some slick story about how she loved vacationing in the Mediterranean on her private yacht, the skies so blue, the sea so calming.
But instead, the girl didn’t really say, instead dodging the question.
“Just wanted to see what this is about,” she murmured, not meeting my eyes. “You know, mix and mingle a little.”
Odd. Usually people love talking about themselves, it makes them feel important. But evidently this brunette was more circumspect.
“You been to St. Venetia before?” I asked casually. My country is like another Monaco, with Formula One racing, fashion shows, and casinos galore. But the girl looked away in the distance again.
“Yeah, I was here when I was a little girl, it was fun,” she said, taking a deep breath and shooting a wry smile, “but I haven’t been back in a long time.”
And another bell went off in my head because St. Venetia is a playground for the rich, a resort on the Italian shore. Wealthy people around Europe come here to see and be seen, so I was surprised that someone at finishing school didn’t come regularly. Weren’t these girls from well-off families? It’s like a saying you’ve never been to the South of France, never experienced St. Tropez in the summer.
“Well, where do you usually vacation?” I asked curiously. “Where does your family summer?”
And the girl took a deep breath before answering casually, too casually.
“My family likes to stay put, we’re homebodies most of the time, and when I travel, I’m usually doing charity work. I did a program last summer in Romania, working with the Roma people. It was cool,” she said.
I kept my expression neutral but was internally surprised. Charity work? Hell, most women I knew never got their hands dirty, much less helped those less fortunate. So intrigued, I pressed on.
“What kind of charity work?” I asked curiously. “We’ve got some Roma people in St. Venetia too.”
The girl nodded.
“The Roma, or gypsies as a lot of people call them, are a dispossessed group who’ve been persecuted for thousands of years,” she said carefully. “They were originally nomads, traveling in caravans throughout Europe but lately a lot of them have been pressured to settle down by various governments,” she said carefully. “As a result, they’ve kind of become a ghettoized population, pushed to the fringes of society, living in impoverished circumstances.”