Princess of Estoria (Royal Brides Book 2) Read online

  Smart. By roping in Edgar, he ensured she’d show up.

  “We can accommodate you with no problem,” Edgar assured him.

  “Good.” Andres looked at Angela. “I cannot wait to get started.”

  7

  With the Bluetooth attached to her ear, Angela exited her car and waved at her elderly Black neighbor next door, Mr. Jefferson. As usual, the old man kept an eye on the neighborhood from the rocking chair on his porch. He nodded a greeting.

  He was the oldest person on their block, a holdover who didn’t sell when contractors bought up the homes, renovated them, and sold them to young professionals like herself. Other than Mr. Jefferson, Angela was the only person who lived alone. Everyone else had a roommate or was married.

  They had exchanged numbers not too long after she moved in. If she didn’t see him for a few days, she called to check on him, and he kept an eye on her place when she traveled. Every now and again she sat out on the porch with him and chatted for a bit.

  “Do you have plans this evening?” Angela’s mother, Tessa Lipscomb, asked in her ear.

  Angela slung her messenger bag over her shoulder and pulled department store shopping bags from the back seat, loath to admit even to herself that after she went into the office, she’d spent the rest of Saturday afternoon hunting for a new outfit for her meeting with Andres next week. “No, I’m staying in and working on a big project that got dropped in my lap yesterday. I’m working on a project for A. Vasquez International, owned by Prince Andres of Estoria, a new client.”

  “A prince! Oh my!” her mother exclaimed.

  “Yes, a prince. No big deal,” Angela said, more as a way to tease her mother than any real belief that he really was no big deal. The fact that Andres had flown across the Atlantic Ocean and signed a contract to do business with her firm—all for the sole purpose of spending time with her—was a very big deal.

  “Sure, no big deal. You’re funny,” her mother said dryly.

  Angela shut the car door and walked as she talked. “We’re meeting for dinner next week to review my preliminary recommendations.”

  “Dinner? Is that a business dinner or dinner-dinner?” Her mother’s voice took on that hopeful tone it always did whenever Angela merely mentioned a man. Being her mother’s only child, the pressure was on to produce a grandchild in a timely fashion.

  “This is business-related. It’s just dinner, Mom, not a date.”

  Tessa sighed. “All right, dear.”

  Angela smiled at the disappointment in her voice as she unlocked the front door. “What’s the latest with you and Dad? Is he finally ready to do some of that traveling he promised you’d do?”

  Her father, Martin Lipscomb, used to be a record executive and when her parents met, Tessa was a secretary at the same company but left after she married Angela’s father. Though he was technically retired, Martin worked as a music consultant, helping companies with the strategic marketing and branding of their artists.

  Tessa lowered her voice. “To be honest, I think he’s still working because of you-know-who. He wants to be accessible to her, and continuing to work means he doesn’t have to use his retirement income to help her out of her scrapes with the law. She’s practically still a dependent, and she’s here, by the way.”

  Angela flipped the light switch and stood on the threshold of her living room, to the right of the staircase that led up to her loft bedroom.

  You-know-who was her half-sister, Rebecca.

  “What’s she doing there? Please tell me she’s just visiting.”

  Her mother’s sigh came through loud and clear. “She’s temporarily staying in the spare bedroom. She got evicted from her apartment.”

  Angela groaned and sympathized with her mother’s situation. Tessa had experienced the wrath and dysfunction of Rebecca Lipscomb since the beginning of her relationship with Martin.

  “Mom, you have to put your foot down about this. She’s a forty-three-year-old woman, and at some point, she has to get it together.”

  “Sweetie, it’s not me, it’s your father. You know that. To be honest, I don’t want to even try to talk him into an alternative. That’s his daughter, and he’s determined to help her, no matter what. He blames himself for the way she turned out. He believes if he’d been in the home while she was growing up, she’d be in a better position now.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “Watch your language, please.”

  “Sorry,” Angela muttered. “How much longer will she milk that daddy-deserted-me excuse? I wish you weren’t put in the position of having someone in your house you don’t want there. She can’t stand you.”

  “We both have that cross to bear.”

  “At least I don’t have her in my personal space.”

  At forty-three years old, Rebecca was fourteen years older than Angela. Instead of being a doting older sister, she had considered Angela a thorn in her side even before she was born. The problems started when Rebecca referred to Tessa as “the Black woman who stole my daddy,” when Tessa and Martin became serious and he introduced her to his daughter. Rebecca’s acting out continued and accelerated after they married and Angela was born.

  As a toddler, Angela adored her older sibling but soon became aware that not only was the feeling not mutual, Rebecca’s jealousy caused her to express outright animosity on numerous occasions. So much so that Angela’s parents never left her alone with Rebecca.

  Her older sister’s resentment only increased as Angela excelled in sports, dance, and academics. Since she couldn’t compete in those areas, Rebecca found a new way to get attention—courting trouble. She’d been in and out of jail for various reasons over the years, which included such offenses as public drunkenness, forging checks, and fleeing the scene of an accident when she shouldn’t have been driving on a suspended license. The sister that Angela had looked up to when she was younger she now avoided at all costs, and had for many years.

  They only spoke occasionally when they ran into each other at her parents’ house, and the conversations were always tense and stilted. She longed for a relationship with her sister but realized a long time ago it was better to keep her distance.

  “Well, maybe she won’t be here for too much longer,” Tessa said.

  “Last time she stayed for six months,” Angela said.

  “Please don’t remind me. At least this time I was smart enough to hide all my jewelry so there shouldn’t be any pieces that go missing and are never found again.”

  She heard the weariness in her mother’s tone, and her heart ached with sympathy. “If you ever need to escape, you know you can come stay with me for a few days.”

  “I know, sweetie. Thank you. I better go. Your father will be home soon. I had him run to the store to pick up a few things for me. Keep me posted on Prince Charming, and you take care. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Angela hung up, thinking that maybe she should have a talk with her father, but then changed her mind. That wouldn’t help. He was set in his ways and bound and determined to be responsible for a grown-ass woman who refused to take responsibility for herself.

  She left her messenger bag on the wooden bench near the door and climbed the steps to the second floor. Her two-bedroom two-bath contemporary cottage was in the perfect location. She could walk to Candler Park or go jogging on the Atlanta BeltLine, an expansive redevelopment program that currently consisted of open trails and parks.

  Her home was the right size for a single woman who lived minimally. Although the master bedroom downstairs had a walk-in closet, an en suite bathroom, and opened onto a newly refurbished deck, she had chosen to turn the loft upstairs into a bedroom and added a bathroom with a large stall. She adapted the wide open space into a relaxing escape with a sitting area and a minimalist white and gray color palette. Plenty of light came through the windows overlooking the back yard and the skylight embedded in the vaulted ceiling above the bed, all of which could be shuttered to clos
e out the outside world.

  She quickly changed into jogging pants and a long-sleeved shirt and made her way back downstairs. She walked across the cherrywood floors in the living room, past the alcove she used as an office, and went straight to the kitchen. In the refrigerator she found a Styrofoam container of leftover Chinese food from a couple of days ago and stuck it in the microwave. As the food heated, she tapped her fingers on the countertop, contemplating the situation with Andres.

  She looked forward to seeing him again with way too much anticipation. The sight of him knotted her insides and made her long for his touch. Their kisses in Zamibia had haunted her nights, and she definitely wanted more. And he was charming, oh so charming, making him difficult to resist.

  She’d have to work hard to control herself with him during their non-date.

  8

  Andres’s chauffeured car pulled up outside Angela’s quaint little cottage nestled between trees on either side that reached almost as high as the rooftop. Tonight he kept a low profile in a dark sedan instead of riding in a limo, but the ever-present black SUV with his bodyguards followed behind as usual.

  “Wait a minute, Gustave,” he said to his driver, before the Frenchman could exit and open the door.

  Andres sat still for a minute, thinking. No matter what Angela said, this was a date, and he’d never put so much thought into his plans with a woman. He was the prince of his own goddamn country, and normally that was enough to impress anyone who met him. But Angela had him analyzing his every movement and jumping through hoops. He wanted to show her he was putting in the effort to woo her, but at the same time didn’t want to overdo it.

  He wanted her to enjoy his company as much as he enjoyed hers. She’d made him laugh with her witty comments and snarky tone, and he’d been very at ease in her presence. He longed to rekindle that feeling which suggested, among other things, that she was exactly the kind of woman he could envision spending the rest of his life with, if he were interested in a lifetime commitment.

  Marriage hadn’t been on his radar before Zamibia. He’d had relationships over the years, but they could be time-consuming, so he preferred casual flings with women who felt the same. With Angela, though, he didn’t consider the cost of time and looked forward to seeing her on a regular basis.

  Andres took a deep breath and exhaled through his mouth. “I’m ready.”

  Tall and well over six feet, the Frenchman climbed out of the car and opened the back door.

  Andres walked the short distance from the curb to the front the house. Before he could ring the doorbell, Angela opened the door.

  “Hi,” she greeted him.

  “Hello,” Andres said, his heart fast-forwarding into a rib-thumping gallop. He reminded himself not to sweep her into his arms. He simply smiled. “You look lovely tonight. I hope you don’t mind me saying that.”

  “Thank you,” she said demurely.

  No glasses tonight, and she wore tan slacks and a button-down blouse with sheer sleeves and paired the outfit with low-heeled, brown, pointy-toed shoes. Her makeup was simple—very little on her face and neutral lipstick, while her dark hair flowed freely past her shoulders, brushing against cheeks heightened with color.

  She took a few steps into the house and picked up a blue folder from a wooden stool before rejoining him and closing the door. During those brief moments, he caught a glimpse of cherrywood floors and tastefully simple mid-century furniture.

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  Andres followed her to the car, staring and trying hard not to charge her like a bull or grab her perfectly plump ass. He had a plan, and that plan was now set in motion. He simply had to be patient.

  Because he kept his identity a secret from her, she felt betrayed. He wished he could go back in time and change the way he’d approached her or at least at some point during the night divulge his true identity. He couldn’t go back in time, so tonight he intended to demonstrate he could be trusted and she didn’t need to worry about being in the public eye.

  She slid onto the leather seat, and he climbed in behind her. Gustave closed the door, and within seconds, they took off.

  “Are we going to get any work done tonight?” Angela asked, crossing her legs.

  His eyes followed the movement, which was sexy even with her legs entirely covered in tan slacks. “Absolutely. I’ll review your initial report on the way to the restaurant, and we can discuss how to proceed.”

  She frowned. “That doesn’t give us much time.”

  “We’ll have plenty of time.”

  “Where are we going for dinner?”

  “Have you ever heard of La Cocina Patagonia?”

  Her frown deepened. “No, it doesn’t ring a bell,” she said slowly. “What part of town is it in?”

  “South Beach.”

  Her eyes widened. “South Beach? As in Florida?”

  Andres nodded. “I have a taste for Argentine cuisine, which the Patagonia serves. The food is excellent. It’s one of my favorite restaurants and I know the owner.” He’d chartered a plane because he wanted to keep a low profile, which was impossible to do if they took the Royal Plane of Estoria.

  “South Beach. For dinner.” Angela stared at him.

  “Yes.” He leaned closer, and her sweet perfume filled his nostrils. His muscles strained under the repressed urge to reach for her. “Relax, Angela. Once we’re on the plane, we’ll have a light snack and spend an hour and a half reviewing your plans. When we land, we’ll have dinner and then return to Atlanta. You might get back a bit later than planned, but I promise, your carriage won’t turn into a pumpkin.”

  “That’s cute, but what if I had plans?”

  “Do you?”

  “No, but what if I did?”

  “I would feel terrible.” And he would. He wanted her to enjoy herself, not cause her stress.

  “I get the feeling you’re trying to make me see what I’m missing.”

  “Is it working?”

  “A little.” A faint smile lifted the corners of her mouth.

  “A little? Then I have more work to do.”

  She smoothed a hand down her thigh. “I’m not used to these types of grand gestures.”

  “That’s a shame. Maybe I can make grand gestures your norm.”

  One of her eyebrows arched higher. “You’d be setting the bar rather high.”

  “But that’s the point, mi amor. I told you before that I want you, Angela. But if you choose not to pursue a relationship with me, I intend to make sure that every man who comes after me falls short. And then perhaps you’ll finally admit how much better things would be with me.”

  She laughed quietly and shook her head. “You get an A for effort, that’s for sure.”

  “Then I need to work harder. I want an A plus.”

  She laughed louder this time, and the fact that he’d amused her, enough to get a laugh, satisfied him immensely.

  Before long, they were in the air, and the flight passed quickly as they reviewed the details of her proposal. Considering the short notice, she was very thorough, making good use of all the information he’d provided. By the time they landed, they’d agreed on a way forward and devised a plan to tackle the issues.

  A chauffeured silver Mercedes-Benz picked up Andres and Angela at the airport and dropped them in front of the restaurant. The faint sounds of Latin music spilling from the front of another restaurant down the street could be heard as the car rolled away.

  La Cocina Patagonia was located at the far end of Ocean Drive and took up most of the ground floor of the boutique hotel above it, also named Patagonia. The location rested on prime real estate but away from the night-time craziness of crowded sidewalks and slow-moving traffic that South Beach was known for. They walked through the hotel lobby and were greeted at the entrance to the restaurant by an older Hispanic male.

  “Your Highness, it’s good to have you here. It’s been a long time,” he said with a slight bow.

  Andres extende
d his hand. “Too long,” he agreed. Both men shook hands briskly.

  The man turned his attention to Angela and clasped her hand in both of his. “I am Armando, the maître d’. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Lipscomb.”

  “Nice to meet you, too,” Angela replied.

  “Everything is prepared for you in one of the private dining rooms on the second floor.” Armando signaled to a waiter standing off to the side. “Mario will take you to your room and take good care of you. If you need anything, you know how to reach me.”

  “Thank you,” Andres said.

  Mario walked over, a stocky man with coffee-colored skin and short-cropped hair. “Buenas noches, right this way,” he said in accented English. He escorted them and two of Andres’s bodyguards to a flight of stairs that took them up to the next level. The room he led them into had a large window that looked out onto the strip and the darkness of the Atlantic Ocean in the distance.

  They strolled inside while security remained outside the door.

  “Is Esteban here tonight?” Andres asked.

  “Yes, he asked us to tell him when you arrived. I will do that now and he should be here shortly.” Mario disappeared.

  “This is nice,” Angela said, walking over to the table set for two.

  Andres helped her into her chair and sat across from her. They perused the menu.

  “What do you suggest? We came all this way, so you must have a favorite,” Angela said.

  “The steak, of course, since we’re at an Argentine restaurant. Their ribeye is incredible and the sirloin succulent. You can’t go wrong with either one. For dessert, I recommend their most popular dish, the chocolate mousse cake. It’s served with Venezuelan gelato.”

  She closed the menu. “I’ve made my decision. The sirloin with potatoes and the chocolate mousse cake for dessert.”