The Princess and the Player. Kat Cantrell

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СКАЧАТЬ the sky in the form of a “Will you marry me, Bella Montoro?” banner behind a small plane, which flew up and down South Beach for six hours while Bella was at a private cookout on the penthouse terrace of Ramone, the new guy she’d been seeing. A fan of drama Ramone was not. Thanks to Drew, he’d bowed out.

      And Bella had really liked Ramone, dang it; the more he drank, the more money he handed over for her wildlife charities.

      Drew followed her around, popping up at parties and museum openings like a bad penny, espousing his love for Bella with horrific poetry and calf eyes galore. It would be great if she could tell him off, but Honeycutt Logistics did a lot of business with Montoro Enterprises and she couldn’t afford to irritate her father further. Plus, she was 97 percent sure Drew was harmless and worse, he seemed genuinely baffled and brokenhearted over her continual rejection of his proposals.

      Each Drew sighting was another kick to the stomach. Another reminder that she was the hurricane baby, destined to whirl through people’s lives and leave havoc in her wake. If only she could find a way to not break everything into little pieces—even though it was always an accident—she’d feel a lot better. She hated hurting people.

      It was probably not a bad plan to disappear from the Miami scene for a while.

      Celia managed to get Bella into the car on time and with all her luggage. The gates parted and Bella waved goodbye to Buttercup, Wesley and the house she’d grown up in as the driver picked up speed and they exited the grounds. Sun sparkled across Biscayne Bay and her spirits rose with each mile marker along the highway to the private airstrip where the Montoro Enterprises jet waited to fly her to Alma.

      This was an adventure no matter what and she was going to enjoy every second of the sun, sand and royal parties ahead. By the time she’d boarded the plane, buckled her seatbelt and accepted a mimosa from Jan—the same flight attendant who’d given her crayons and coloring books once upon a time—Bella’s mood had turned downright cheerful. Cheerful enough to sneak a glance at the picture of Will Rowling her father had sent her.

      He was classically handsome, with nice hair and a pleasant smile. The serious glint in his eye might be a trick of the light. Serious she could do without and besides, this was the guy her father had picked. Chances were Will and Bella would get on like oil and water.

      But she’d reserve judgment until she met him because first and foremost, Alma was about starting fresh and Will deserved a chance to prove they were meant for each other. If he came out strong with a fun-loving nature and swept her off her feet, she’d be okay with a fabulous love affair and passion to spare.

      Though she couldn’t deny that one of the big question marks was what kind of guy would agree to an arranged marriage in the twenty-first century. There was probably something really wrong with Will Rowling if he couldn’t meet women on his own. She probably had a better chance of her plane flying into an alternate universe than finding her soul mate in Will Rowling.

      * * *

      For the fourth time, someone kicked sand in James Rowling’s face and for the fourth time, he ignored it. If he let loose with a string of curses—the way he wanted to—he’d only alert someone to his presence here, and James was trying to be invisible.

      Or at least as invisible as one of Alma’s most notorious failures could be. Maybe in fifty years he could fade into the woodwork, but every single citizen of Alma—and probably most of the free world—had watched him miss that goal in the World Cup. Anonymity was scarce.

      So far, no one had recognized him with Oakleys covering his eyes and a backward ball cap over his hair. The longer he kept it that way, the better. The last thing he wanted was a bunch of questions about why Real Madrid had dropped his contract. It wasn’t hard to look that one up...along with pictures of James leaving a bar in Rio with a prostitute...not that she’d mentioned money to him. Or worse, questions about whether he planned to stick around his adopted homeland and play for Alma’s reserve football team—soccer team if the questioner was American.

      No comment.

      A reserve team was for beginners. He would get a new professional league contract, period. If not around here, then maybe back in England, where he’d been born. There was no other alternative. Football was his life.

      Peeling his shirt away from his sticky chest, he leaned back into his short-legged beach chair, stuck his legs straight out and closed his eyes, somehow sure the elusive measure of peace he sought would be within reach this time. He almost snorted. When had he turned into an optimist?

      There was no peace to be had and if there was, it sure as hell wouldn’t be found in Alma, the capital of boring. Not to mention his father’s presence permeated the entire island, as if Patrick Rowling’s soul lived in the bedrock, sending out vibrations of disapproval on a regularly scheduled basis.

      That’s why James was at the beach at Playa Del Onda, soaking up the sun instead of doing whatever it was his father thought he should be doing, which would never happen because James lacked the capacity to do what his father said. It was like a mutated gene: his father spoke and James’s brain refused to obey. He automatically did the opposite.

      “Ooof!” Air whooshed from his lungs as something heavy landed square on his chest.

      Then his beach chair flipped, tossing him into the sand on top of something. It squealed.

      Someone. When his vision cleared, the tangle of supple-bodied woman and blond hair underneath him captured his complete attention.

      He gazed down into the bluest set of eyes he’d seen in a while. Something shifted inside as the woman blinked back, her beautiful heart-shaped face reflecting not an iota of remorse over their risqué position. Her body had somehow slid into the grooves of his effortlessly and the slightest incline of his head would fuse his lips to hers.

      She’d fully gobsmacked him.

      Their breath intermingled. She seemed in no hurry to unstick her skin from his and in about two and a half seconds, his own body would start getting into the moment in a huge and inappropriate way.

      Sexy strangers signaled big-time problems and he had enough of those.

      Reluctantly, he rolled off her and helped her sit up. “Sorry about that. You okay?”

      “Totally.” Her husky voice skittered across his skin and he was hooked on the sound of it instantly. American. His favorite. “My fault. I was focused on this thing instead of where I was going.”

      She kicked at a Frisbee he hadn’t noticed lying in the sand two feet away. But who’d pay attention to a piece of plastic when a fit blonde in a tiny bikini landed in your lap? Not him.

      “I like a girl who goes for the memorable introduction.”

      It was certainly a new one. And he’d experienced his share of inventive ploys for getting his attention. Knickers with cell phone numbers scrawled in marker across the crotch, which he discovered had been shoved into his pocket. Room keys slipped into drinks sent over by a knot of football groupies at a corner table. Once, he’d gone back to his hotel room after a press junket to find two naked women spread out across his bed. How they’d gotten in, he still didn’t know.

      The logistics question had sort of slipped his mind after ten minutes in their company.

      “Oh, I wasn’t angling for an introduction.” She actually blushed a bit, which was СКАЧАТЬ