The Prince's Christmas Wager Read online

  Nova made sure to keep her eyes on her subject, who promptly launched into a description of roast pig which could make a vegetarian hungry, but otherwise, her attention was firmly on the back of the room.

  Who had saved her?

  Mentally, she ran through the crew members in the studio with her. Karl was behind the camera and Gustav was in charge of the lights, so he’d be off to her right. Kristine was likely in the room too, but that definitely hadn’t been her voice.

  No, the voice by the door had been…creamy. Smooth. Certain he knew exactly what she’d needed, and he’d been right. That was the uncanny part; Nova herself hadn’t even known what word she was looking for, but the man—that voice—had known.

  And despite her usual focus on the subject of her interviews, despite her fascination with the stories the old woman was telling, Nova realized she was anxious for this to be over. Because once the interview was finished, once the lights could be cut back on, and the old lady handed over to her family’s care with her payment and effusive thanks, then Nova could find him.

  Find the man who’d helped her, and see if he was as gorgeous as his voice.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Nova frowned and tried to focus on her tablet with the notes for the afternoon’s session propped up on the salt shaker in front of her. It wasn’t easy to read hand-written documents and eat seafood chowder at the same time, but anyone who’d spent any time in academia—or in a tiny island nation—learned how to do it quickly.

  She’d been staring at the same bullet point in her notes for the last several minutes, and couldn’t make any sense of it. No, her mind was too distracted thinking of the voice in the dark from this morning’s session.

  And maybe that was why she couldn’t ignore the guy staring at her. He was sitting a few seats down at the long communal table in the palace’s cafeteria, and Nova had felt his eyes on her for the last few minutes.

  With a sigh, she swiped left, then placed her spoon on the plate beside her bowl and thick crust of bread. It was probably better to figure out what this guy wanted and get it over with so she could go back to her conundrum of the creamy voice.

  So she looked up, prepared to meet his gaze and raise one of her eyebrows in that challenging way her professors had either loved or loathed... But then she actually got a good look at him, and almost swallowed her tongue.

  He. Was. Gorgeous.

  Nova stared, her mind completely blank in the way it had been that one time in undergrad where she’d flipped the page of 15th century Italian portraits and fallen in love with a long-dead face. Only this face, this man, was real life, and staring back at her.

  He had dark eyes lined with lashes too long to possibly be real. Black hair cut short on the sides and longer up top, so a lock fell forward over his forehead in what had to be a perfectly-placed disheveled curl. His nose was aquiline and might’ve been too-long or too patrician on most men, but on him it worked wonders. And his skin was dark enough to be from one of the Mediterranean countries.

  There. That wasn’t too hard.

  All of his features lined up, categorized, numbered. Eyes, hair, nose, skin. Nothing remarkable there. Nova found herself able to breathe again.

  Then she remembered Olivia’s line from Twelfth Night, so similar to her thoughts—“Item, two lips indifferent red; item, two grey eyes, with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth”—and felt her lips twitch.

  And that’s when—God help her—the stranger smiled in return. Perfect white teeth marching perfectly across perfect wide lips, and Nova choked again.

  This really isn’t fair.

  And how embarrassing! To be caught staring like that—and that perfect grin of his proved he’d not only caught her, but understood what it meant! As if she were a love-sick teenager, instead of a grown woman!

  But holy moly, look at him. Anyone with half a brain would stare at a face like that!

  Forcing herself to frown, she tried her best glare at the man. “What?” she snapped in mortification, half-hoping the ground would open up and swallow her. The other half—the logical half—reminded her she’d lose her notes and chowder that way too.

  And it really was delicious chowder, so it’d be a shame to lose it. Better to muddle through the embarrassment up here, whole, then.

  He made a show of looking around, as if she could be speaking to someone else. But there was no one else sitting at this particular table in the staff cafeteria. Most were courteous enough to leave her be when she was engrossed in her work, and even he sat a few seats down from her.

  “Yes, you.” She nodded for good measure. “Can I help you?”

  She expected something trite. She expected something apologetic, perhaps because she’d put him on the spot. What she didn’t expect was his grin to grow, and for him to lean back and hook one elbow around the chair beside him, then say:

  “I was rather hoping you’d agree to kiss me.”

  It was a good thing she wasn’t eating at the moment, or she would’ve choked on the chowder too. It was a struggle to remember to answer in Aegirian, rather than her native English. “I—I beg your pardon?”

  “A kiss, Ms. Willetts.”

  Oh.

  She hadn’t misheard him. He’d really had the audacity to sit there behind his—what was that? Coffee?—and demand a kiss?

  Well, actually, it was a polite request, wasn’t it? Not quite a demand. And he was smiling when he’d requested it, so really, the angels themselves would probably be willing to kiss the man. No harm done.

  Thank goodness she didn’t allow herself to show any reaction to her traitorous inner monologue, because her subconscious was wrong.

  Plenty of harm could be done by a good-looking man, a flirtatious attitude, and a lovely voice—

  Wait.

  His voice.

  His voice, when he’d asked for a kiss, had been smooth and creamy and alluring. It had made her mouth water, sweet on the tip of her tongue and tart enough further back along the sides, the same way salted caramel tasted. He had a voice like salted caramel, and where in the world had that analogy come from?

  It was the same voice from earlier that morning, in the darkness of the studio. The voice which had helped her when she’d needed help.

  Oh.

  Realizing she’d been staring at him a little too long, Nova forced her shoulders to relax. There really wasn’t any way she could cover up the fact she’d been staring at him with wide eyes since the moment he’d spoken, but she had to say something to discourage him.

  What were her options?

  Yes please, I’d like a kiss, but then you have to go away and never talk to me again.

  Maybe, because kissing is nice, but I absolutely refuse to have anything to do with a flirt like you.

  No thank you, I’ve learned my lesson, and one broken heart is enough for me. Now, take your unhealthy gorgeousness elsewhere and leave me to wallow in my self-pity, thank you very much.

  Or… she could simply ignore his request altogether, pretend he hadn’t just shocked her. Focus on something else, and ignore his bad manners.

  Even if his bad manners had been asking you to kiss the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen?

  Stupid inner monologue. She cleared her throat.

  “It’s Doctor, actually.”

  His perfectly shaped brow went up. “What?”

  “It’s Doctor Willetts, actually.”

  The smile he’d been wearing this whole time finally faded, and that’s when Nova realized it had been fake, sort of a constant thing he always wore. But now? Now it faded with his surprise, and something akin to genuine interest flickered in his eyes.

  So he’d asked for a kiss more by habit than any real interest? That proved it; the man was a flirt, just as bad as Wayne had been. Worse, maybe, because he was so handsome and obviously knew it. He’d just been flirting when he’d asked for that kiss.

  But now…

  In one smooth movement, he scooped up
his travel mug and moved two chairs over, until he was situated across from her. As he settled into this chair—how did he manage to look so at ease in these hard metal things?—he smiled again. And this time, little lines appeared around his eyes.

  This was a real smile.

  She’d thought him handsome before? Sitting way over there with that gorgeous smile? Well, now she was seeing his real smile, up close…and he was breathtaking.

  Nova, my girl, you’re in trouble.

  “Dr. Willetts,” he said in that salted caramel voice, and inclined his head briefly, “I’m—I’m Marc Enzio.”

  Marc Enzio.

  Enzio was an Italian given name; she’d never heard it as a family name, but decided it was quite possible. The Marc might’ve been Spanish, but having a Spanish first name and an Italian last name didn’t tell her much about him.

  But maybe the way he’d stumbled over his introduction did.

  He was a flirt, a playboy like Wayne had been. Marc Enzio was smooth and creamy and knew exactly how to charm a woman, how to smile to get what he wanted. But he’d stumbled while introducing himself.

  How odd.

  Nova cocked her head to one side, studying the gorgeous man across from her, and thinking about the way his eyes had crinkled when he’d really smiled. Thinking about his real smile, and how different it was from the smile he’d shown her when he’d first asked for a kiss.

  A kiss? Was that really what he was after? Or had that changed, along with the flicker of genuine interest, when she’d told him she had a doctorate?

  “And you’re here because you want a kiss, Marc?”

  He blinked, and she swore he looked unsure for a half-second, but he recovered quickly. “Not just any kiss, cara mia, but one from you.”

  Then his lips lifted again in that charming smile, the enticing smile. The false smile. The one he’d worn when he’d first approached, before he’d known anything about her. And speaking of which…

  “How do you know me?”

  “You were pointed out to me, and I said to myself ‘Enzio, you must claim a kiss from that enticing creature!’ ”

  Hmm.

  Enticing? Her? She was a nerd. It was part of her identity, and she was proud of having written five books about people long dead and almost-forgotten folklore. No, there was nothing in her personality to entice a man like Marc, which meant he’d only looked at her outside, her appearance, before making such a ridiculous claim.

  Marc, on the other hand, was enticing and knew it. His charming, false smile said as much. Also, why did he refer to himself by his last name?

  No matter if he called himself Marc or Enzio, or Alphonso or Billy Bob, he was still a charmer, a flirt. A man who set out to entice women, and she’d had quite enough of that for one lifetime, thankyouverymuch.

  Maybe, like Wayne, he would claim he was reformed and could settle down with only one woman. But like Wayne, it’d be a lie.

  Jeez Louise, he asked for a kiss, not to settle down and start a life with you!

  Good point, internal dialogue.

  No prob. I’m here to keep you focused on the real issues. Your soup is getting cold.

  Her smile was tight. “Sorry, Mr. Enzio, I don’t kiss men like you.”

  “Men like me?”

  She wanted to say, Playboy flirts, but at the last minute, she chickened out. “Men I only just met.”

  Giving him an emphatic nod, she turned back to her meal, and swiped her tablet back on as she reached for the thick piece of bread. Staring at the screen without really seeing it, she took a big bite of bread and hoped he’d get the message and leave her alone.

  He didn’t.

  “Would you like to get to know me a little better?” he asked softly.

  Against her will, her gaze was dragged back up to his dark eyes. She made a sort of inquisitive grunt around the mouthful of bread, and didn’t even care that it made her look uncultured and piggish. She was trying to shoo him away, after all.

  Wasn’t she?

  Unfortunately, her manners didn’t seem to deter him. No, he was smiling again, the soft one, full of interest. His real one.

  Oh shoot.

  “I asked if you’d like to get to know me better. Have dinner with me. Maybe after a date, you’d be more interested in kissing me?”

  She’d watched his lips as he spoke, partly in fascination, partly so she could memorize his beautiful voice. More interested in kissing him? It was probably impossible to be more interested. But she’d learned her lesson.

  Hadn’t she?

  Apparently not, because, despite her history and the certainty that she knew better, she was still staring at him, considering his offer. She shouldn’t be. She should’ve immediately turned him away with a brilliant set-down…or at least sprayed some bread crumbs at him by talking with her mouth full.

  But she found herself unwilling to actually chase him away. She was—oh dear!—she was genuinely curious about this man. Besides his gorgeous voice and killer good looks, he was a mystery. A man with a story.

  Reaching for her tea, she acknowledged the truth to herself.

  And she’d made a living by tracking down elusive stories, and despite everything—her experience with Wayne and Naut, for instance—telling her to back away, she wanted to know this man’s stories.

  “I don’t know you,” she finally offered, a weak excuse. What did she know about him? “You called me cara mia, and you have a Mediterranean look to you, so I think I’m justified in my guess you’re Italian, or close enough. But you speak Aegirian like a native—better than me, certainly. What other languages do you speak?”

  He settled back in his chair, as if prepared to stay, and she found herself looking forward to his answer.

  “German, of course, and enough French to get by. Most of the Scandinavian languages.”

  “They’re basically interchangeable.” Once you knew Norwegian and Finnish, you could understand most of the northern languages, including Aegirian. “Russkiy?”

  He inclined his head. “Konechno.”

  Of course. Of course he spoke Russian. “English?” she asked.

  “Naturally. I was educated at Cambridge.”

  Her eyes narrowed at this lofty claim. “Spanish?”

  “Un poco.” He waggled his hand side to side a bit. “My grandfather was from Gerona.”

  This time he smiled not to charm, but in delight. It was easy to tell the difference, if she watched the little lines around his eyes.

  She hummed noncommittally. Well, a grandfather from Gerona would explain Marc’s Spanish first name, at least.

  “You’re very well-traveled, Mr. Enzio.”

  “Please, call me Enzio.”

  “You want me to call you by your last name?”

  “It’s…” He hesitated. “It’s how I prefer to be called.”

  She cocked her head, wondering why he suddenly looked a little worried.

  “Marc Enzio who wants to be called Enzio.” She cocked her head to one side, considering this man. Maybe Enzio wasn’t his last name.

  “Is knowing my full name a requirement for accepting my dinner invitation?”

  No, not really.

  Wait, what?

  Of course it’s a requirement for accepting a dinner invitation! You can’t just go on dates with strange men willy-nilly! Are you nuts?

  Possibly.

  Because she was actually considering it. The man spoke most of the European languages, he was polished and cultured and suave, and claimed to have been educated at one of England’s foremost universities.

  Despite her best of intentions, she was intrigued.

  He worked at being enticing, and she was intrigued. Not because of his work, but in spite of it. Where she should’ve been repulsed by his charm, instead she wanted to see his real smile again. Wanted to know why he was so well-traveled.

  Wanted to hear his stories.

  Fascinating.

  “If I agree to a dinner—one dinner—
with you, will you quit pestering me for a kiss?”

  His expression lit up in what she could only describe as excitement. And wasn’t that interesting?

  Before he could speak, she pressed the point. “I mean it. No kiss. Just dinner.”

  “Absolutely.” He straightened, until he was no longer slouched in the chair. “My word of honor.”

  She hummed again. “I’m not sure how much that means, really.”

  “And I would be devastated you could say that, if you knew anything about me.”

  Straightening, she felt her pulse speeding up at the thought of a verbal sparring match with him. “If I knew more about you, I would know you had no honor, thus your word of honor meant nothing, or”—she smirked—“I would know you had honor, thus you wouldn’t need to give me your word of honor.”

  He blinked. “I don’t believe I’ve ever dated a woman as smart as you.”

  “One dinner is not a date. We’re not dating. I’m agreeing to eat a meal with you so you’ll leave me alone.”

  And so I can learn your secrets.

  “We’re going to get on swimmingly, I believe.”

  “Yes.” A solemn nod. “Like a cat and a dog tied together in the same sack.”

  He burst into laughter. When Marc-Enzio-who-wanted-to-be-called-Enzio laughed, he did so with his entire body. His shoulders shook inside their expensive grey sweater, and the skin of his throat seemed to glow golden as he threw his head back and exposed it to the light.

  She swallowed thickly. She’d always been a sucker for a man who could laugh so easily, so willingly. It was as if he’d opened himself to the world to share his joy, and she was the only one nearby.

  Oh dear. Was she sharing in his joy as well?

  Stop analyzing everything!

  Suddenly, she was afraid.

  What have I done?

  She’d just agreed to a dinner with a man just like Wayne. A man who’d set out to charm a kiss from her, who’d made it clear from the beginning he only wanted one thing.

  And she’d just agreed to give him the opportunity!

  Oh dear.

  “One dinner,” she whispered, as much to herself as to him.