Romy Sommer - The Trouble with Mojitos

His whole damned useless life where one day dragged into another.

He forced himself off the pillows and sat up.

The room wasn’t as bright as it first appeared. Wooden shutters shielded the worst of the infernal sunshine. It leaked through the slats, casting moving patterns on the bed that made his stomach swirl.

His gaze shifted back to the redhead. No, not red … more ginger. She wore it tied back in a loose ponytail, just as she had last night. Her eyes were too big for her face, her nose pert and slightly upturned, and her skin … he’d never understood the term ‘porcelain skin’ until now. The dusting of freckles stood out against the delicate paleness.

Kenzie, she’d called herself. What kind of a name was that?

“You look tired,” he observed.

She pursed her lips. “I wonder why?”

Her retort was too tart for him to have kept her awake in the most pleasurable of ways. So at least he hadn’t missed any fun stuff. “How did I get here? Last I remember I was celebrating alone in the beach bar.”

“Didn’t look like much of a celebration. The night manager and barman carried you up here. It was either that or jail.”

“In which case, I thank you. You have a kind heart.”

She didn’t seem to like the compliment. Her eyes spat blue flame. “I didn’t do it for you.”

“Ah yes, I promised you an introduction to the mayor. You didn’t take my advice though. Didn’t the hotel boutique have a dress?”

Although her jeans were a snug fit so they might do the job too. They were certainly making his mouth dry. Or maybe that was just thirst.

“I was a tad preoccupied this morning.” She pursed her lips again, and he found his gaze drawn to her mouth. Against his will, he licked his own lips.

She blushed, her pale skin lighting up as the heat spread. Then she dropped her gaze and rose from the bed. “Now you’re finally awake, take a shower, and I’ll order you some breakfast.”

“I’ll have toast, plain, and I like my coffee black and sweet.”

Kenzie arched an eyebrow. “Anything else you’d like?” He almost heard the sarcastic Your Highness she bit back. He swallowed bitter laughter. She had no idea how close to the truth she was. Or how far.

While she stalked off to call room service, he slipped into the bathroom. The shower’s temperature was set on cold, and by the time he’d managed to crank up the heat, he was well and truly awake. He was also starving.

He didn’t have much experience of hangovers but he was pretty sure this level of alertness was unusual. Weren’t people supposed to throw up after they’d been drunk? He couldn’t remember being sick. The concierge’s grandmother could rest peacefully in her grave. Perhaps he should finance the concierge in a little sideline herbal remedy business.

Rik discarded the idea as quickly as he’d discarded every other Plan B he’d come up with these last few months. There wasn’t a lot that an ex-prince could do without seeming like a loser or just plain desperate. Which he was. There was also only so much paradise one man could take. If he didn’t find something soon to fill his days he was going to go insane.

But at least he still had his dignity – as long as the girl in the other room never got wind of who he was. A sordid night in a woman’s hotel room was exactly the kind of lurid headline he didn’t need.

Like mother, like son. He could picture it already.

He towelled himself dry, dressed in his jeans, and emerged from the bathroom just as the room service waiter rolled in a trolley of pastries and steaming coffee. His stomach turned over, in a good way this time.

Kenzie had her back to him. She signed for the meal, closed the door behind the waiter, and turned.

She coughed.

“Please put your shirt back on.” Her voice sounded strangled.

“Do I offend your modesty?” he asked, feeling an insane urge to grin at her reaction.

She shook her head and swallowed again. “You have tattoos.”

“No, really? How did that happen?” He looked down at himself, eyes wide in mock shock.

She frowned.

“You don’t like tattoos?”

“I love tattoos.” She turned away again, fussing over the trolley and pouring coffee.

This time he grinned. And didn’t bother putting his shirt back on.

“Those tattoos aren’t new,” she said as she handed him a cup of coffee, careful not to look at him.

“No, they’re not.” They’d been his one and only form of rebellion, done right here in the islands on a holiday a couple of years ago. He’d had to be careful after that to always keep his shoulders and upper arms covered. It wouldn’t do for the heir to a European throne to be seen sporting tattoos. Not even his parents had known they existed.

Now that he was free to do as he pleased he still kept them covered. They mocked him. The dragon of Westerwald that snaked across his shoulder blades and down his arms. The emblem of a nation he didn’t belong to. Had never belonged to, it turned out, though it was the only home he’d ever known.

These were tattoos that no person but he and the artist had ever laid eyes on before today. Kenzie had no idea how privileged she was. He could only blame the lapse on last night’s over-indulgence.

He set down his undrunk coffee and pulled his long-sleeved shirt back on over his head. “You can look again now.”

She cast a furtive glance his way, long enough for him to catch the heated flush rising up her cheeks again. Interesting. So she had a serious thing for men with tattoos. And she didn’t want to.

He was sure he could change her mind.

Now where had that thought come from? He’d never been a seducer of women. In his old life he’d had a girlfriend for over a year and barely tried for more than a polite goodnight kiss. Teresa hadn’t made his blood boil, and that’s exactly why he’d liked her. She’d been cool, calm and rational. She’d have made the perfect Archduchess. She would never have done anything sordid, would never have created a scandal.

She probably wouldn’t have approved of his tattoos either.

Kenzie was everything Teresa wasn’t. She wasn’t cool and collected. She wasn’t a style icon. And her emotions were far too easy to read. In spite of the vulnerable eyes and heart-shaped face, sensuality smouldered beneath the surface. Emotional, sexy, complicated … she was everything he’d avoided in his old life.

She was everything he no longer needed to avoid.

He found himself grinning again. It felt good to smile. Strange, but good.

“Are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to drink your coffee so we can get moving?” she asked impatiently, perching on the edge of the sofa.

Was she always this bossy or was it just his charm that brought out her better side?

“Yes ma’am.” He gulped down the coffee, grabbed a slice of toast, and sat beside her on the sofa. Since he’d woken in the bed, she must have slept here last night, judging by the blankets and pillows piled at one end. She could have made him sleep on the sofa. However much she chose to deny it, Kenzie had a kind heart.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked.

“I did. While you were still snoring.”

“I don’t snore.”

She smiled, and it was an impish look. Forget smouldering sensuality. He’d guess she could be a downright bad girl if she wanted to be.

He set down his empty coffee cup, grabbed a cheese croissant from the basket and stood. “Where are my car keys? Let’s roll.”

She shook her head. “You’re not driving. I don’t trust you.”

It wasn’t just his driving. There was something in the rapid shuttering of her expression that told him exactly what she thought: it was him she didn’t trust.