A new Original romance from Angelina M. Lopez
Three days a month. That's all the billionaire wants from him. Or rather, three nights. Three nights a month for a year, and at the end, she will divorce him with a settlement large enough to save the small European principality that means everything to him. All the wealthy CEO wants? Three long, hot nights a month in her bed. And his heir.
The Billionaire's Prince: Turning the standard sexy billionaire story on its ear.
January: Night 1
Mateo Ferdinand Juan Carlos de Santos y Esperanza -- the "Golden Prince," the oldest son of King Felipe, and heir to the tiny principality of Monte del Vino Real in northwestern Spain -- had dirt under his fingernails, a twig of Tempranillo FOS 02 in his back pocket, and a burning desire to wipe the drying mud of his muck boots on the pristine white office carpet where he waited. But he didn't. Under the watchful gaze of the executive assistant, who stared with disapproving eyes from his acrylic standing desk, Mateo kept his muck boots tipped back on the well-worn heels and his white-knuckled fists jammed into the pits of his UC Davis t-shirt. Staying completely still and deep breathing while he sat on the white leather couch was the only way he kept himself from storming away from this lunacy.
What the fuck had his father gotten him into?
A breathy ding sighed from the assistant's laptop. He granted Mateo the tiniest of smiles. "You may go in now," he said. In what seemed like the favorite part of his job, the assistant hustled to the chrome and white-frosted-glass doors and pulled one open with a flourish. The dirt he sniffed at on the carpet he didn't seem to mind so much now as Mateo felt the man's eyes travel -- lingeringly -- over his dusty jeans and worn UC Davis Aggies t-shirt. Mateo felt his niñera give him a mental smack upside the head when he kept his baseball cap on as he entered the office. But he was no more going to take his cap off now than he'd been willing to change out of his muck boots when the town car showed up at his lab on campus, his father still screaming over the phone about why Mateo couldn't refuse.
The chrome door closed behind him, enclosing him in a sky-high corner office as regal as any throne room. The floor to ceiling windows showed off Coit Tower to the west, the Bay Bridge to the east and the darkening hills of San Francisco in between. The twinkling lights of the city flicked on like discovered jewels in the gathering night, adornment for this white office with its pale woods, lush faux fur pillows and acrylic side tables. This office at the top of the 55-floors-high Medina Building was opulent, self-assured. Feminine.
The office was empty.
He'd walked in the Rose Garden with the President and kissed the Queen's ring and kneeled in the dirt with the finest winemaker in Burgundy. But he stood in the middle of this palatial office like a jack ass, not knowing where to sit or how to stand or who to yell at to make this situación idiota go away.
A door -- all but hidden in the pale wood wall -- opened at the side of the office. A woman walked out, drying her hands.
Dear God, no.
She nodded at him, her jowls wriggling as she tossed her paper towel back into the bathroom. "Take a seat, Príncipe Mateo. I'll prepare Roxanne to speak with you."
Of course. Of course Roxanne Medina, founder and CEO of Medina Now Enterprises, wasn't a 60-year-old woman with a thick waist in medical scrubs. But "prepare" Roxanne to...
The nurse leaned across the delicate, Japanese-style desk and opened a slim chrome laptop perched on the edge. She pushed a button and a woman came into view on the screen. Or at least, the top of a woman's head. She was staring down, writing something on a pad of paper. A sunny, tropical day -- he could see a palm tree -- loomed outside the open balcony door.
Inwardly laughing at the farce of this situation, Mateo took a seat in a leather-and-chrome chair facing the screen. Apparently, Roxanne Medina couldn't be bothered to meet the man she planned to marry in person.
Two minutes later, he was no longer laughing. She hadn't looked at him. She just kept scribbling, giving him nothing to look at but the tree swaying outside and the part in her dark, shiny hair.
He glanced at the nurse. She stared back, blank-eyed. He'd already cleared his throat twice.
"Excuse me," he began.
"Helen, it sounds like the Prince may have a bit of a dry throat," Roxanne Medina spoke -- finally -- without raising her eyes from her document. "Could you get him a glass of water?"
"Of course, ma'am."
As the nurse headed to a water decanter, Mateo said, "I don't need water. I'm trying to find out..."
Roxanne Medina raised one delicate finger to the screen. Without looking up. While continuing to write. Without a word or a sound, Roxanne Medina shushed him, and Mateo -- top of his field, head of his lab, a goddamned Príncipe -- he let her, out of shock and awe that another human being would treat him this way.
He never treated people this way.
He moved to stand, to storm out, when a water glass appeared in front of his face and a hair was tugged from his head.
"Ow!" he yelled as he turned to glare at the ratchet-faced nurse holding a strand of his light brown hair.
"Fantastic, I see the tests have begun."
Mateo turned back to the screen and pushed the water glass out of his way so he could see the woman who finally deigned to speak to him.
She was beautiful. Of course she was beautiful. When you have billions of dollars at your disposal, you can look any way you want to. She was sky-blue eyed with long and lustrous black hair, high-breasted and lush-lipped. On the pixelated screen, he couldn't tell how much of her was real or fake. He doubted her stylist could remember what was Botoxed, extended and implanted.
She slipped her delicate black reading glasses up on her forehead and rubbed the bridge of her perfectly slender nose. "They're just a formality. I tested your father and sister and there were no genetic surprises."
"Great," he deadpanned. "Why are you testing me?"
She took the glasses off entirely and leaned forward to look into the screen at him. Really look at him. "Didn't your father explain this already?" A tiny gold cross swung out from the V in her creamy silk top. "We're testing for anything that might make the Golden Prince a less-than-ideal specimen to impregnate me."
Madre de díos. She was insane. His shock was punctuated by a needle sliding into his bicep.
"¡Joder!" Mateo yelled, turning to see a needle sticking out of him, just under his t-shirt sleeve. "Stop doing that!"
"Hold still," the devil's handmaiden said emotionlessly, as if stealing someone's blood for unwanted tests was an everyday task for her.
Rather than risk a needle breaking into his arm, he did stay still. But he glared at the screen. "I haven't agreed to any of this. You can't have my blood and you can't have my hair. I just came here to tell you no."
"The King promised..."
"My father makes a lot of promises. Only one of us is fool enough to believe them." (Click to keep reading...)