About A PLAYER FOR A PRINCESS
From the Mediterranean to the Caribbean, the game continues…
Zelda Wilder is on the run, this time from the ruthless assassins who’ve decided she knows too much to live.
“Playboy Prince” MacCallum Lockwood Tate isn’t about to let the beautiful player who stole his heart get away—if only he could decide whether he wants to save her or strangle her for her dangerous choices.
After tracking her down to a casino in St. Croix, Cal follows Zee back to Tortola where he intends to keep her safe. One problem: Zelda’s criminal liaisons are two steps ahead of her.
Lives are threatened, and all of the players’ skills are tested in this plot to capture a killer and save a princess.Cinderella meets Ocean's Eleven in this CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE DUET featuring secrets, lies, royal high jinks, scams and double-crosses; breathless, swooning lust, cocky princes, dominant alpha future-kings, and crafty courtiers, who are not always what they seem.
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My mind travels across the miles in the darkness. I remember the first night I saw her in Monagasco at the charity ball. I remember her strapless black dress and the way she wobbled on those too-tall stilettoes. She looked up at me, blue eyes flashing with humor and determination, and I couldn’t resist. I’d never seen anything like her.
I didn’t understand why she was so focused on my brother. It was an entirely new experience, but it didn’t matter. After our first night, I knew she was mine. Unfortunately, it seems I am completely hers as well. My fists tighten, and the noise at the door tells me she’s here.
Tightness fills my chest at the sound of her voice. I left the patio door slightly ajar, and she struggles against the wind tunnel created. The sea breeze surrounds us, overwhelming us both. My breathing is heavy, barely audible as I watch her, alone in this dark room. She stops in front of the mirror and takes the pins out of her long, blonde hair. It falls in silky curls around her shoulders. I can still see the tips curling at her nipples the last time I fucked her.
She pulls off her shirt, and she’s my kryptonite. I flew half a continent to Tortola then hopped a puddle jumper to St. Croix then did it again. She has jerked me all over the god damned western hemisphere—I would never put up with shit like this—yet here I am, aching to hold her, wanting to slide my thumb across those full lips I long to kiss.
I came here desperate to find her, and now I want to turn her over my knee and spank her. I’m mad because she lied, but even more, I’m livid at her recklessness.
She’s like a child running into the path of oncoming traffic. She ran from me when men with guns were chasing her. She left with her sister lying wounded, nearly dead in a hospital bed. I told her I loved her, and she ran even further.
I fucking love this woman.
I fucking want to strangle her.
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