When I pause long enough to go to the bar and get some water, I bump unsteadily into someone. "Sorry," I manage, clapping a hand on the tall man's shoulder in apology. It's solid muscle under my fingers. He's even more built than I am, and I've kept in good shape since my military service years ago and more recent modeling work after that. Before I settled into working with my business partner on our design projects.
The man turns around, frowning, his mouth open to complain. Then his eyes widen in recognition, beneath a tumble of dark, wavy hair.
Of course he's hot.
I grit my teeth. A hot man is what got me in trouble to begin with tonight. Or, more like, said hot man got himself caught up in the tabloids and then caused me problems.
Also, I might be staring at the stranger.
Not being a British royal usually has its advantages in London. Less recognition, for starters. I've lived in London for years now, away from Denmark. I get less than I would get back home anyway, unless on the off chance I come across a Dane or a Danish monarchy enthusiast. Which, surprisingly, happens more often than one might think.
Except I'm hardly being subtle tonight. I want to be seen. Straightening to my full height, I stand my ground in defiance.
Let them photograph me. I insist.
I want Aidan to know what he's missing. He'll be sorry then, him and his wretched groom.
Except it doesn't make things any better, and then it dawns on me I've still been gawping openly at a gorgeous man, with olive skin and black hair and blue eyes. Which, I've got to say, is a stunning combination known to do a number on me. He's mesmerizing. I gawp like a tourist taking in one of the wonders of the world. Believe me, he's one of them. Usually, I'm a shade more coy, to my credit, but I've had a lot to drink tonight, and my filter is off. In fact, my filter's probably tossed somewhere deep in the Thames, like a votive offering right alongside some Bronze Age weapons and Roman coins.
"Prince Theodor?" He has an accent that I can't quite place. It's totally hot, though.
"Guilty," I say flippantly, recovering in an artful facade of manners. I run a hand through my hair. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to crash into you. Shockingly rude. Would you like me to get you a drink to make up for it? Please."
"No need. Already have one." The man holds up his cocktail, complete with little umbrella and some fancy garnishes. His eyes dance. "You don't know who I am?"
If I hadn't been busy staring at his face like I was trying to etch it into my memory for all time, I would have maybe looked at his hand with its cocktail. Confession time. "To be honest, I barely know who I am right now."
"Fair." The grin he gives is spectacular, easy, almost familiar. His white teeth match his white shirt. I shiver. "I can see why you might want to forget tonight. Bad luck about the news."
Now he looks sympathetic. My face burns.
Oh, hell.
Does everyone follow the tabloids? God, has everyone seen my embarrassment coming before I did?
Even so, do I want to forget this stranger? The probability in truth is at around nil. Around us, the dance music thumps on, people laugh and carry on around the bar where we stand in the shifting strobe lights from the dance floor, all purple and pink and blue.
And then, everything comes crashing down again as his words belatedly register in my brain. My mouth hangs slightly open. So much for finding the evening's prospect. He's murdered my opening.
"Ouch, man." My suaveness has gone right out the door of the club and died on the Soho street. Probably by drowning in a well-trodden puddle. "You had to remind me about the news."
"Sorry." He looks contrite. Then he searches my eyes, with amusement lingering in his. There's no malice that I can see, which makes for a refreshing change, at least. "You really don't know who I am?"
"How rude, I should have asked your name. I'm sorry, my manners have vanished. Terribly sorry. What's your name, then?" I ask.
He laughs easily, shrugging. "It's Stefanos."
I go back to staring. Something is at last clicking into place through an absinthe-induced fog. No wonder he looks a little familiar. "As in, Prince Stefanos?"
That would be Prince Stefanos of the former Greek monarchy. The Greek Royal Family remains, but in exile outside of Greece, spread across Europe.
"Yes." Stefanos bows his head. There's something completely charming int he gesture, almost shy. Certainly self-effacing. "And I'm very sorry about the reminder of the tabloids. I know they're a pain for all of us."
"You just re-reminded me," I complain, but I'm smiling, despite the miserable night he seems to insist on reminding me about, like he's delighting in a few more twists of the knife. And despite my best efforts to forget about Aidan. A stab wound is like that. My gut twinges. Or maybe it's the drinks protesting in my stomach.
At any rate, I'm distracted by Stefanos, the moment of his glossy hair as he laughs again, ducking his head down as he breaks my riveted gaze.
"I've got to say, the prince-per-capita rating in this club is off he charts tonight." I gaze openly at him, leaning ever so slightly in. Yes, he's hot. Confirmed. As if there were any question about his hotness. The evening's at last tarting to look better and better. Thank fuck.
"Absolutely--"
Then, in turn, someone careens into me--and my flirting is officially cancelled.
Because it's officially messy o'clock at the bar before last call.
And I'm drunk enough to not have my bones left for balance--and I crash hard, my drink splashing him first--and I fall hard right into Stefano's chest.
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