Romy Sommer - Waking up in Vegas - A Royal Romance to Remember!

She shucked off her clothes as she headed to the bathroom. Another surprise awaited her there. Steam clung to the walls and frosted the mirror. He’d already run her a bath. Complete with scented oil, rose petals and candles.

All he had to do was throw in the champagne and she’d be screwed. Literally.

She submerged herself in the rose-scented warmth and closed her eyes. Baths, dinner, wine. She could get used to this. If being married meant being waited on hand and foot, then perhaps it wasn’t so bad.

Who was she kidding? Everyone she’d ever known who’d married had ended up divorced. Those that made it through, like her parents, and Max’s, just landed up with unbearable pain when their partner died. She’d been through that pain twice already and that was more than enough for one lifetime, thank you very much.

When her skin grew wrinkled she finally clambered out the bath. If Max wanted to stick around, then he was about to experience Phoenix as he’d never experienced her before. She grinned as she pulled on her rattiest t-shirt (her father’s souvenir of a Megadeth concert a lifetime ago) and her least flattering pair of drawstring sweat pants.

Max had a glass of crisp white wine ready and waiting for her. She took it straight to the couch in front of the television, flopped down, and began to channel surf, deliberately ignoring the table set out ready and waiting. Complete with the crystal vase of yellow roses she’d left in his hotel room.

If she’d hoped to annoy him, it didn’t work. He brought his own glass of wine to the sofa and sat beside her. Since it wasn’t the largest sofa in the world, his arm slung across the back was as good as slung around her shoulders. She could lean right back into the solid comfort of him…

She shifted as far away as she could.

“If you prefer, we can have dinner on TV trays,” he suggested.

She sighed. It was pointless trying to push him away. He invaded her space, her senses, no matter what she did, and an increasingly large part of her enjoyed it.

“The table will be fine.” She gulped down a mouthful of wine. “Hey, this is good. Another one of yours?”

His mouth quirked. “Not quite, but it’s from my homeland … my father’s homeland.”

“Where is that?”

He shook his head. “You won’t have heard of it. It’s a small independent nation called Westerwald.”

She hadn’t heard of it. “You were born there?”

The television’s flicker reflected in his deep azure eyes. “I was raised there.”

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