Kristi Gold - A Royal Wager

Noisy revelry filtered through the closed door from outside, a celebration signaling the end of an era, the end of their youth in a manner of speaking. The trio had opted to forgo the party and instead sequestered themselves in their shared apartment where they had formed their own fraternity of sorts, spending the past four years discussing culture, world events and their latest adventures skirting the ever-present paparazzi. And their favorite subject—women.

But tonight an uncharacteristic silence prevailed, as if the time-honored topics were inconsequential in light of what now awaited them—a future that no one could predict beyond their families’ expectations.

Marc reclined on the black overstuffed chair, his heels propped on the table before him. Dharr sat regally in the tan leather lounger across from Marc, the traditional Arabian kaffiyeh no longer covering his head; yet he still gave the appearance of a born leader. Mitch had opted for his customary roost on the floor reclined against the wall, dressed in jeans and scuffed leather cowboy boots, apparel that stood out from the crowd like a crown on a pauper. But although they were all different, Marc acknowledged, they still shared notoriety, the reason behind their frequent gatherings, a means to cope with the pressures of celebrity.

Mitch tossed aside the magazine he’d been reading since their arrival and picked up the bottle of fine French champagne, compliments of Marc’s brother, the king. “We’ve already toasted our success. Now I suggest we toast a long bachelorhood.” He refilled his glass, then topped off Dharr’s and Marc’s.

Dharr raised his flute. “I would most definitely toast to that.”

With champagne in hand, Marc paused to consider an idea—an appropriate send-off. One that would pique his friend’s interests. “I prefer to propose a wager.”

Dharr and Mitch glanced at one another then leveled their gazes on Marc. “What kind of wager, DeLoria?” Mitch asked.

“Well, since we’ve all agreed that we’re not suited for marriage in the immediate future, if ever, I suggest we hold ourselves to those terms by wagering we’ll all be unmarried on our tenth reunion.”

“And if we are not?” Dharr asked.

Marc saw only one way to ensure the wager’s success. “We’ll be forced to give away our most prized possession.”

“Give away my gelding?” Mitch grimaced as if he’d swallowed something foul. “That would be tough.”

Dharr looked even less enthusiastic as his gaze fell on the abstract painting of a woman hanging above Mitch’s head. “I suppose that would be my Modigliani original, and I must admit that giving away the nude would cause me great suffering.”

“That’s the point, gentlemen,” Marc said. “The wager would mean nothing if the possessions were meaningless.”

Mitch eyed him with suspicion. “Okay, DeLoria. What’s it going to be for you?”

Marc thought only a moment before adding, “The Corvette.”

“You’d give up the love mobile?” Mitch sounded incredulous.

“Of course not. I won’t lose.” And he wouldn’t, because Marc DeLoria hated losing anything of worth.

“Nor will I,” Dharr stated. “Ten years will be adequate before I am forced to adhere to an arranged marriage in order to produce an heir.”

“No problem for me,” Mitch said. “I’m going to avoid marriage at all costs.”

Again Dharr held up his glass. “Then we are all agreed?”

Mitch touched his flute to Dharr’s and Marc’s. “Agreed.”

Modern-day musketeers entering into an all-for-one pact.

Marc raised his glass. “Let the wager begin.”

Marc had no qualms about the ante. He could most definitely resist the temptation of a woman bent on tying him to an uneventful existence. He had no reason to marry, nor was he bound by duty to do so. Only one thing would be as unappealing to Marc as marriage—leading his country. But thanks to his birth order, Prince Marcel Frederic DeLoria would never have to suffer the fate of becoming king.

One

Nine years later

Marcel Frederic DeLoria had become a king.

Kate Milner had known him only as Marc, a seriously charming young man. A seriously inept biology student by his own admission, the reason why Kate had tutored him their freshman year at Harvard. And now he was the ruler of Doriana, a small European country.

Incredible.

Of course, the fact that she was standing in a storybook castle thousands of miles from home, preparing to see him again almost a decade later, seemed highly improbable, too. That made Kate smile.

But her smile immediately dissolved when he appeared at the end of the ornate palace foyer, a starched and polished middle-aged gentleman at his side. The mirrored walls, reflecting bursts of light from the crystal chandeliers, seemed to shrink as he drew closer, his confidence and calculated control almost palpable, even at a distance. His hair was still the same golden brown, somewhat longer than before, Kate realized, the fine layers windswept away from his face. Although he stood only slightly over six feet tall, he seemed more imposing now than when she’d known him before, with a broader chest and equally broad shoulders encased in a short-sleeved, form-fitting navy knit shirt that enhanced the considerable bulk of his biceps. He also wore a pair of faded jeans that outlined his narrow hips and solid thighs—the kind of clothes he’d worn in college, much to Kate’s surprise. He was, after all, nobility.

Good grief. Had she really expected him to be decked out in a jewel-encrusted crown and red velvet robe? That he would be clutching a scepter instead of a pair of sunglasses? Silly that she would even consider such a thing. But she’d expected he at least would be wearing an expensive suit, not attire that could be found in a chic women’s magazine ad extolling the virtues of cosmopolitan casual on hard-body hunks. Not that she was complaining.

When he came to a stop a few feet away, Kate was suddenly gripped by the sheer power of his presence, her pulse accelerating in response. She clung tightly to her composure when she contacted his piercing cobalt blue eyes—eyes that no longer held the mirth she had often witnessed during their previous time together. She saw something there that she couldn’t quite peg. She also sensed an edge about him, a definite change that went far beyond the physical aspects.

One thing Kate did know, he gave no indication whatsoever that he recognized her. But why should he? Kate had changed, too, hopefully for the better.

The attendant took a brusque step forward and executed a slight bow. “Dr. Milner, I am Bernard Nicholas, His Majesty’s primary aide.”

Kate had the illogical urge to salute—or curtsy. She opted for a smile. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Mr. Nicholas turned his attention to the silent, stoic king. “Your Majesty, may I present Dr. Katherine Milner, our latest candidate for the hospital position.”

Marc moved forward and extended his hand, which Kate took after a slight hesitation. “Welcome to Doriana, Dr. Milner, and please forgive my appearance. I wasn’t given much notice in regard to your arrival.”

His voice sounded much the way Kate remembered, European sophisticated and distinctly seductive, only deeper. Yet he didn’t look at all pleased, didn’t even hint at a smile. In fact, his courtesy seemed almost forced. Considering the early hour, and his unshaven face, she couldn’t help but wonder if maybe he’d just left the company of a woman, quite possibly a woman’s bed.

His extracurricular activities shouldn’t concern her. Yet the feel of his large masculine fingers wrapped around hers brought about a keen sense of awareness, the kind of awareness that came when confronted with a man she had been far too fond of. But Marc DeLoria was no ordinary man; he never had been. And obviously he had no recollection of their time together.