We race back and forth across the lake like this twenty-five times before she finally stops to take a breath. And what a breath it is, her full breasts once again straining against her skimpy bikini top as she sucks in great gulps of air. Part of me feels bad for pushing her this hard, but a smaller part—the one that is no longer bound by duty and responsibility and chivalry—is just glad for the chance to enjoy the view.
“What’s your name?” I ask, when it finally looks like she might be able to answer me.
She tilts her head to the side, then looks me up and down. “My mother taught me not to tell strange men my name.”
“That may be true,” I answer with an arch of a brow, “but you don’t look like the type who listens to her mother.”
And she doesn’t—she really doesn’t. Between the rhinestone stud in her nose, the elaborate back tattoo I still haven’t gotten a good look at, and her “drop dead” attitude, she’s pretty much the opposite of a good girl. Certainly the opposite of any woman Crown Prince Garrett, heir to the throne of Wildemar, should ever even glance at.
But I’m not crown prince anymore and the truth is I want to do a lot more than look at this woman. I want to put my hands on her, to tangle my fingers in all those riotous curls, to skim my mouth over every inch of her skin until she’s weak and trembly and can’t help calling my name.
This woman gives as good as she gets, and I can’t wait to see what that translates to in bed.
But for now, what it means is she’s giving me the same slow, thorough once-over I just gave her. And for the first time, a small hint of unease creeps through me. Because from the moment I first saw her, all I’ve been able to think about is getting her underneath me—to the exclusion of everything else. But now that she’s checking me out, I can’t help remembering just how broken I am. And just how many scars those three months in captivity left me with…Sure, the rash guard and board shorts I’m wearing covers most of the damage, but just because it isn’t visible doesn’t mean it’s not there. Inside and out.
My father has been insistent that I get plastic surgery to remove them all, but I’ve been resistant since it seemed vain to worry about parts of my body that people rarely see. But now, as this beautiful woman’s eyes linger over the jagged scar on my left arm and the wickedly curved one that runs down my right leg, I can’t help being uncomfortable. Can’t help wondering if, for once, my father was right.
I wait for her to say something about the scars—they’re relatively new looking and she’s not exactly the type to beat around the bush. But in the end, she waves her hand up and down in front of my torso and says, “Nice to know that body of yours isn’t just for looks.”
I’m not quite sure what she’s getting at with that. “Meaning?” I ask, brow arched.
She grins. “Isn’t it obvious? I like the way you move.”
I smile back, the tension leaking out of my muscles as suddenly as it came. “I’m glad to hear that. Considering I’m pretty impressed with how you move, as well.”
It’s a douchey line, one the old Prince Garrett would never have even considered saying out loud. I start to apologize—to take it back—but the way her eyes light up with laughter freezes the words on my tongue. And makes me appreciate my newfound freedom for the first time.
“Maybe we should move together—”
This time both my eyebrows hit my hairline, but she just laughs. And nods at the rock I’d been sunning myself on earlier. “I meant over to the shade. I’m hot.” She pretend-fans herself.
A million responses go through my head, but I’ve got enough self-control not to say any of them. Instead, I just hold an arm out—an offer to escort her back to the rock.
But she rolls her eyes—of course she does—and blows right past me.
She moves fast for such a small woman and I find myself scrambling to keep up with her. But once she reaches the rock, she doesn’t sprawl across it like I expect her to. Instead she settles on a corner of it and looks at me expectantly.
When I just look back—I’ve known her only half an hour, but already I know that she’s got a wicked bite—she rolls her eyes again. And pats the spot next to her.
“What’s your name?” I ask, once I’m settled beside her.
“Lola.”
“Lola? Seriously?”
Her eyes narrow. “You got a problem with my name?”
“No! Of course not. I’ve just never met a Lola—”
“Outside of a strip club?”
“I was going to say ‘before,’ but I guess that works too.”
“My mom was a dancer in Vegas when she got pregnant with me. Which explains everything you need to know.”
“About your name? Or you?”
She grins. “Maybe both?”