Free Royal Marriage Market by Heather Lyons Page B

right now.
    Finally, his mouth opens. “And you?”
    I somehow lost most of the air in my lungs once more. “What about me, sir?”
    “Are you a virgin?”
    I have to give it to him: that was well played and ballsy as all get out. “What an impertinent question. I ought to slap you.”
    I inappropriately wonder if women spank him often.
    Christ, he’s got a beautiful smirk. “You’re avoiding.”
    I mimic his accent in a low voice. “I am twenty-eight years old.”
    “Surely there are plenty of twenty-eight year old virgins running amuck in the world.”
    Not at this party, they aren’t. Despite the matrimonial nooses looming over every singleton’s head, the sexual escapades planned for this week are already legion. It will be shag central at La Cuesta Encantada tonight—myself excluded, of course. “Would virgins be running amuck, though?”
    He chuckles, and it is beautiful and unfair and infectious. I bet his mother doesn’t tell him how undesirable it is to be seen and heard laughing.
    I itch to take a step back but fear it would illustrate just how affected I am by this prince. Instead, my spine straightens while my chin lifts upward in order to coolly meet his gaze. “A lady never discusses such tawdry things.”
    “Virginal ones might not.”
    Oh, oh, I very much like how his amusement so easily manifests in his eyes. I murmur, “Do you know many of these mythical women?”
    So much for Parker seeking out champagne—I accept a glass from a passing waiter; Christian does the same. “Mythical twenty-eight year old virgins who run amuck or ones who refuse to discuss sex?”
    My shoulders lift and drop as I slowly sip the drink. Bubbles dance their way down my throat and into my stomach, leaving the muscles within to match the foxtrot beat spilling through the speakers.
    “I know a lot of women,” he tells me.
    “I’m terribly shocked by this.”
    “Meaning?”
    “Meaning exactly what I said before. There is no way you will make it through the week a bachelor. Your mother must have a lengthy list of requests for you already.”
    A loud noise sounds nearby; a tray clatters upon the ground. Christian’s attention flits away as he traces the sound to scene, allowing me a few inconspicuous steps back.
    On the other side of the pool, a waiter is upon his knees, red faced while sweeping broken glass up with napkins as the royals around him sniff in disdain for him daring to exhibit anything other than unimpeachable behavior in their presences.
    “Poor sod,” Christian says quietly. “How much do you want to bet he’ll get sacked over this?”
    There is no need to wager. The unfortunate man will most likely be escorted off the premise within the hour.
    Christian’s focus is once more on me. “Are you challenging me to a bet?”
    I abhor gamblers, so this recent development is comforting to discover. It’s utterly vile to make light of a man losing his job over something so trivial.
    My scorn must be evident, because he quickly corrects, “No, not over the waiter. I’ll have Parker look into that shortly and see what can be done to rectify the situation. I meant your claim concerning whether or not I escape the week as a bachelor. It sounded like you were challenging me to a bet.”
    Attractive and altruistic? Temper notwithstanding, he has returned to being simply too much too again in my opinion. Why is he even still here? How has my vulgarity not driven him away yet?
    I swallow my pride and purposefully, meaningfully allow my eyes to drift lower. It is the wrong move, because images of this man naked flash throughout my mind. Wonderful. I strain to sound amused. “I am merely stating that men like you do not keep much in their pants.”
    That might have been a tad overkill, because I must toss my drink onto the nearby table in order to beat upon his back as he chokes on a gulp of champagne.
    His secretary rematerializes, snatching the glass out of the prince’s hand. “Chris! Are you