The Bossy Prince (Rugged and Royal #3) - Lili Valente Page 0,27

possessive hand on her thigh, dragging it closer to mine as the Jeep leaps out onto the dirt road. She bounces in her chair with a giggle and turns to cling to my arm with both hands, her breast pressing against my bicep as she gazes up at me with adoring eyes.

And yes, this is all a performance, but I confess I could get used to Zan looking at me like this, touching me like this.

I could more than get used to it—I could become addicted pretty damned quick.

Chapter Ten

Alexandra

Stefano’s beefy bros show us to our room, insist Nick join them for poker after dinner, and leave us to unpack in one of the most stunning interior spaces I’ve ever seen.

I come from royalty, but we were impoverished royalty. I didn’t see the inside of a hotel room until I was legally an adult, but since then, I’ve spent my fair share of nights in top-tier resorts.

As soon as I started earning a good living from my investments, I made it a point to kidnap Sabrina and Lizzy for fancy-hotel sister time at least twice a year. And Gerg, for all his faults, had excellent taste in vacation destinations.

Considering we were married less than two years, we spent an obscene amount of time at one St. Regis location or another. I’m usually a woman of simple tastes and pleasures—give me a morning on the lake on my stand-up paddleboard or afternoon tea on a pretty patio, and I’m blissfully content—but every once in a while, I enjoy thousand thread count sheets and room service delivered on shiny silver trays.

Gerg and I lived the high life in Italy, France, and Spain, and Sabrina, Lizzy, and I have had pedicures at every fancy hotel in the Alps at least once.

But none of those getaways can compare to the thirty-foot ceilings or the intricate blue-and-yellow tiled walls of this bright, airy room. To the massive bed festooned in golden bedding and surrounded by shimmering mosquito nets that billow around it like a silken cloud. To the thick woven rugs and polished native wood furniture or the expansive balcony with matching lounge chairs facing the shore and a private plunge pool that glitters in the sun.

It’s posh as hell, even swankier than the Von Bergen’s private jet.

“Pool first?” Nick turns back to me, drawing me into his arms. Until we have a chance to sweep for surveillance equipment, we agreed we should keep up the lovey-dovey act inside our room. “Or should we nap? I confess I wouldn’t mind spending an hour or two in bed with you.”

I put my arms around his neck, leaning into him as I purr, “How about pool, then shower, then nap? No offense, but you smell like you took a bath in sandalwood-scented wood chips.”

He chuckles. “You can definitely smell Tony coming.”

“And going,” I agree. Nuzzling my nose into his neck, I whisper, “I’ll do the bathroom while I change into my suit.”

“And I’ll check in here.” He kisses my cheek before stepping back. “But don’t take long. I’m dying to see you in that bikini.”

I fight the urge to pull a face or stick my tongue out at him. The bikini he picked out—a silver sequined number I can’t see holding up in the water for more than a few hours—is scratchy and obnoxiously sparkly and very, very small. It’s like the designer tied pieces of a shattered disco ball together with dental floss.

I haven’t tried it on yet, but I’m positive it’s going to look obscene. I don’t wear lingerie often, but when I do, I stick to the designs Lizzy gifts me from her collections. My sister is a professional panty-maker and an expert on which pieces set off a woman’s assets to their best advantage.

She taught me that ample coverage is best when it comes to a larger bust. Coverage and support keep things classy and sexy. Bandage-sized bra cups are going to make me look like a porn star.

But Nick is right. The more I play up the dumb bimbo routine, the more likely I am to blend in with the rest of the women here.

From what I spotted by the main resort pool as we crossed the property, porn-star-chic is the choice of nine out of ten drug lord wives and girlfriends. And the tenth, the only woman in a one-piece, was at least seven months pregnant, and therefore outside the control set.

As I discreetly sweep the luxurious bathroom for cameras or