The beach should be our last resort.
No point in heading down that road right now.
Besides, I could use a few minutes to cool off.
Tossing the plush towel an attendant handed me as I arrived on the beach onto the sand, I run into the surf, moaning in relief as the cool water closes over my flushed skin. For one brilliant moment, the ocean banishes the sizzling from my nerves and cools the fever in my head.
And then I emerge from the surf to see the sunlight dancing on the waves, looking so much like the glittering silver on Zan’s swimsuit that it all comes rushing back.
The heat. The longing.
The hunger for the one woman I can’t have.
Well, not the one woman. I’m sure there are plenty of women in the world who want nothing to do with me. I just haven’t had the chance to meet many of them in my first twenty-five years of life.
Fair or not, an affable, good-looking man who also happens to be a prince tends to get lucky with the ladies. I’ve never had a woman I was interested in turn me down even though I’m third in line to the throne.
Hell, I’m sure that’s been a perk for most of the girls I’ve dated—all the royal benefits, half the responsibility of my older brothers.
Especially Andrew.
My eldest brother’s been on the losing end of free time since we were children, and our grandfather forced him to spend half his weekend learning to wave, bow, knot a perfect tie, and ride a horse in that stiff, stick-up-your-ass way of Gallantian kings throughout the centuries.
Things were a little easier for Jeffrey, but as second in line, he still suffered through his fair share of international relations and court etiquette lectures. But aside from the occasional dance class, I was allowed to run wild through the fields and vineyards surrounding the castle.
Growing up, my brothers definitely bore the brunt of our family’s expectations.
They still do.
I remain the most overlooked prince, the brother no one expects too much of. Most days, I’m grateful for that.
I’d never be able to work for Union Ten or move into this leadership role within the organization if my relatives paid attention to what the baby of the family was up to. But sometimes I wonder how my life might have turned out if more had been expected of me at home.
Perhaps I would have felt necessary, vital to the ruling gig. Perhaps I would have found royal work that felt like a calling—the way Jeffrey has as a member of the Royal Guard—and not gone looking for excitement and fulfillment in a field rife with danger.
Yes, I love my job, and the past five years have been filled with good work I’m proud of, but seeing Andrew and Jeffrey settling down and happy with Zan’s sisters has made me wonder…
Is the trade-off worth it?
Is my good work worth the distance it creates between me and everyone I love?
I always kept my career a secret from my family, and always will. And I’ll never be able to tell a woman I’m dating, or even the one I intend to marry, that I’m a spy. I’m obligated by Union Ten policy and my own moral compass to keep that information to myself.
But Zan knows. You can be your most complete and authentic self with her. In fact, she’d insist on it.
I shove my wet hair from my forehead and scrub a hand down my face, doing my best to banish thoughts of the youngest Rochat sister. But as I stride out of the water and across the sand, thoughts of Zan dance through my mind.
Hers are literally the most delicious, sensual, perfect curves I’ve ever seen—from her full breasts to her narrow waist to the delicate perfection of her ankles and her small, square, yet strangely adorable feet. But it’s her eyes that haunt me.
I’ve never felt seen by anyone the way I do by Alexandra Rochat.
Her cool gaze cuts through my defenses and pierces my charm balloon, leaving me nowhere to hide. Zan sees past the bravado to the “craves the world’s love more than he probably should” person inside to that overlooked child who sometimes takes control of my grown-up body, demanding more than his fair share of attention.
But…she seems to like me anyway.
Well, to want me anyway.
She’s an excellent actress, but even she isn’t that good at pretending. Nothing’s fake about the way her skin flushes when we stand too close, the way she responds to my touch, or the way she melts into me, surrendering to the chemistry that takes over when her lips touch mine.
As I dry off, grab my sandals, and head toward the showers at the edge of the beach, my thoughts linger on her lips, soft and plush but not at all shy about asking for what she wants. Her kiss tells me exactly how she’d like me to touch her, take her. How much she’d enjoy having her legs wrapped tight around my hips as I pleasured her against the nearest wall.