Of Royal Blood. Carolyn Zane

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СКАЧАТЬ lifted her nose. “He was not winking at you. The sun was merely in his eyes.”

      “The sun is behind his head!”

      Ariane had to give her that. “Then he winks at all the pesky little kids in the kingdom. See? He just winked at Eduardo.”

      “And,” Lise pointed out, “if I’m not mistaken, Eduardo just winked at you, Marie-Claire.”

      “He wants you, Marie-Claire.” Ariane laughed.

      “Shut up.”

      “Marie-Claire Van Groober. That’s very pretty, don’t you think?” Lise and Ariane made slobbery smooching sounds and then snickered into their hands.

      Marie-Claire decided to ignore them.

      Sebastian…LeMarc.

      Marie-Claire LeMarc. Mentally, she traced the letters of his surname in her mind. For five long years he’d starred in her fantasy life, playing the part of her future husband and the father of their four yet-to-be-conceived children, three sons and a beautiful daughter.

      Oh, that he would only notice her again, the way he had that night. She flushed, as those memories came flooding back. She knew he remembered. He must. How could he forget?

      As he surveyed the fairway, she studied the confident curl of amusement that seemed so permanently etched in his upper lip. She took in the slightly cynical, yet thoroughly charming creases that bracketed the corners of his mouth. The thick, dark-brown hair with the tiniest smattering of silver at the temples. The squarish, masculine chin that sported an angel’s thumbprint. The velvety midnight-blue eyes and the come-hither look he seemed completely unaware he exuded from beneath the thick fringe of his lashes. Somehow, he looked more like George Clooney than George Clooney.

      All around her, women were salivating, posing to attract his attention, applying lipstick and nudging each other. Marie-Claire’s shoulders flagged. Her sisters were right. He had no time for her. Sebastian was an experienced, sophisticated man. And she? Well, at twenty-one, she was surely an overly sheltered case of arrested development. It was hard to become an independent, worldly wise woman with bodyguards and security cameras monitoring her every move.

      Wildflowers need air. Light.

      Hunkering low, Sebastian peered down his club, a thoughtful expression on his boyish mug. With a nod and a last murmured confab with Marie-Claire’s father, King Philippe, he stood, pressed his tee into the grass and set his ball atop. Carefully, he positioned his feet and squinted once again down the fairway.

      Oh, this was so exciting. Even the back of his head was enthralling. Sebastian was about to bring her father’s team to certain victory.

      Marie-Claire strained forward, knocking Ariane off-balance.

      A hush descended over the crowd.

      Sebastian laced his fingers over the handle of the club and, having lined up his shot, drew back.

      On the down swing the words “Go, Sebastian!” pierced the hush and too late, Marie-Claire realized that the giddy shriek had come from the depths of her own throat. She wanted to die.

      People turned to stare.

      King Philippe rolled his eyes.

      Buck teeth poking through his smile, Eduardo shot her the thumbs-up.

      Her sisters’ strangled giggles revealed their horror. Lise hissed, “You’re not supposed to yell at a golf tournament, you silly twit, have you lost your mind?”

      Ears still ringing, Ariane gawped at her. “It’s no wonder he’s noticed you. You’re a loon.”

      Much to his credit, Sebastian managed to execute a perfect shot, straight down the fairway, ending up a mere yard from the flag. The crowd went wild. Grins broad, King Philippe and Sebastian locked their hands overhead in a victory high-five and the paparazzi went nuts, scribbling on their pads, cameras flashing.

      Through the throng, Marie-Claire felt Sebastian’s eyes search her out as he turned and, once again, winked at her. Hands to face, her cheeks scalded the cool tips of her fingers and, in spite of her mortification, she smiled.

      Their gazes met and clung, as they had, from time to time, over the years.

      Around them, noises and colors swirled. Reality fell away. Marie-Claire’s heart skipped several important beats and planet Earth seemed suddenly to be rotating backwards, so slowly was everything moving.

      Sunlight glinted off the back of Sebastian’s head, highlighting his dark hair in a glorious crown of burnished gold. He dipped his regal chin, his deep bedroom eyes never leaving hers and he arched a brow so loaded with questions that Marie-Claire knew.

      He remembered.

      Now that the tournament had ended, people were headed home to get ready for the victory celebration being held at the de Bergeron Palace that evening. A great ocean of humanity flowed past the clubhouse to the parking lot and gridlock was immediate. Impatient horns sounded and threatening shouts only added to the festive feel of victory.

      Sebastian LeMarc watched his caddie as the lanky, flamehaired Van Groober lad stood staring after Marie-Claire. His freckled face wore the twitter-pated look of unrequited love. Sebastian knew the feeling. He’d been watching the stunning Marie-Claire de Bergeron from afar for half a decade now. Along with most of the male population of St. Michel.

      But that was going to change.

      Tonight.

      She was twenty-one. Fully grown and fair game. And he had a good feeling that his interest was reciprocated. At least he hoped so. She was an amazing young woman. Full of vitality and as beautiful on the inside as she was on the outside.

      Apparently, Eduardo thought so, too.

      “She’s something, huh, man?” Sebastian clapped the gangly lad on the back.

      “Yes, sir. I mean no, sir! I’m not…I could never…” He tore his gaze from Marie-Claire’s retreating form and stared up at Sebastian. “Have you ever been in love, Mr. Le-Marc?”

      Sebastian took his golf bag from the skinny Van Groober and shouldered it with an easy move. “Yes.”

      “What happened?”

      “Nothing.” He squinted off into the throng. “Yet.”

      From where she stood in her suite behind the king’s state apartment, Marie-Claire could hear the muted strains of a victory party gearing up from the grand Crystal Ballroom below. She pressed her nose to a balcony window to better see the headlights swinging around the circular drive at the front of the castle to the valet parking area.

      For the umpteenth time, she wondered when he would arrive. She strained to make out his sleek Peugeot through the gloaming and almost thought she saw it parked in the family’s private guest area. No doubt he was already downstairs, mingling. Though there were slated to be somewhere between twelve- and fifteen-hundred guests, for Marie-Claire, there was only one.

      Sebastian LeMarc.

      Light-headed СКАЧАТЬ