She fingered her copper and silver bracelets. Nine today. Depending on her mood, she wore either nine or six. In numerology, nine corresponded to her destiny number, which used all the letters of her full name, Karma Celestina Kennedy. Six was her soul number, derived from the vowels in her full name. Silver represented feminine energy, and copper was supposed to bring love, goodwill, and balance.
She didn’t feel very balanced these days.
“What thehekkelare you doing here? Are you stalking me?”
Decidedly off-balance now, she took a fortifying sip of spirits and turned a dismissive gaze to the owner of the voice, the Prince of Scandal. “In your dreams.
Chapter Two
What isshedoing here?Falkor’s nemesis sat pretty-as-she-pleased at the hotel bar. Was there nowhere he could go to get away from that woman? He’d mistaken her for a handmaid when they met, and she’d never forgiven nor forgotten his mistake. She’d been snippy ever since.
Her disdain rankled more than it should. What did it matter if one person out of millions—a human at that—deemed him lacking and unworthy of common courtesy? Frankly, it was downright odd; if someone didn’t like him, he would pretend. Hewasa prince, after all. An extra, a spare heir, a worst-case-scenario fallback, but royal nonetheless.
He watched the men flock to her like winged insects to a bright light. It wasn’t just the novelty of her humanness, or her flamboyant ruffled pink-and-orange dress. She exuded a sensual beacon men couldn’t ignore.
Except for me.Her nasty personality had immunized him to her magnetism.
Upon their meeting, he’d been aware Karma and Kismet were related, but he’d mistaken Karma for Kismet’s handmaid. As Falkor ranked below his firstborn brother, it had been natural to assume the sisters had a similar situation. Rattled by his body’s sexual response to a woman of employ, he’d donned his most haughty manner to push her away.
She’d taken it as a declaration of war. Since then, she treated everybody nicely except for him.
Anotherman approached her. She laughed at something he said, and her face transformed from pretty to gut-punchbeautiful. Odd, really. The sisters’ features were identical, but Jaryk’s wife didn’t have the same zing Karma did.
Or would have—if he hadn’t been inoculated against her dubious charm. He pressed his lips together. She enjoyed needling him. Went out of her way to do so. Like coming here. What were the odds she’d show up at the same place, same time as him?
With Jaryk traveling with his bride, the queen had dispatched Falkor to the conference of noblemen to deliver the speech his brother was supposed to give. Falkor hated giving speeches. His brother was good at it—seemed to enjoy it—but public speaking caused him to break out in hives. He could speak to anyone about anything, but put him on a stage in front of an audience? He scratched his neck along his collar. He still itched.
He supposed he’d done all right—everyone had congratulated him on an excellent presentation. On the other hand, they could have been blowing smoke up his royal ass. Would anyone tell him the truth?
The woman at the bar would. She would deliver a blistering critique of every single word. Had she been in the audience? Gods of Kaldor, he hoped not.
It didn’t seem likely she’d be a conference attendee, but why else would she be at the same hotel as him?
Squaring his shoulders, he strode up to her. “What thehekkelare you doing here?” he demanded. “Are you stalking me?”
“In your dreams!” She scowled. She’d smiled at every other man in the bar but glowered at him.
And smirked. “Don’t you think people know who you are?”
“I don’t understand.” Of course, people knew who he was. Sometimes he wished they didn’t. He wished he could be anonymous and blend in.
“You feel it necessary to wear a name tag?” Her gaze glanced off his chest.
Heat of embarrassment crept up his face, and he peeled off the sticker reading, HELLO MY NAME IS PRINCE FALKOR. It had seemed silly to wear one—everyone knew who he was—but it seemed presumptuous not to when the nobles had them. He crumpled it up and tossed it on the bar.
“You don’t strike me as a conventioneer,” she said.
“I’m not. I’m filling in for Jaryk. Queen’s orders.” He slipped onto a barstool.
Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.
The bartender approached. “What can I get you, Your Highness?”
“Spirits, please.”
“Coming right up.” With flourish, the barkeep filled a goblet.
He took a big gulp. Liquid fire slid down his throat. “You weren’t a convention attendee,” he prompted.
