The Billionaire's Princess - Ava Ryan Page 0,15

time. The ivory skin and willowy figure poured into a tight and sexy black suit that bares a healthy amount of cleavage. The patrician profile I feel like I’ve willed into existence again.

Carly.

I marvel at her beauty and her insistence on presenting this hot librarian look to the world when I’ve experienced the unleashed tiger that lives inside. I note the tension in her shoulders and tightness in her expression. I hate her for standing there with her drink as though she’s a normal person at a normal cocktail reception when she’s had my thoughts and my balls in her tight-fisted grasp this whole time.

But I don’t hate her nearly as much as I want her.

I freeze while two opposing factions inside me immediately weapon up and go to battle with each other. The proud and angry part insists that I walk over there, grab her by the arm and demand to know what the hell she thought she was doing by walking out on me when we both know—or should know—that we’re not fucking done with each other. And the humbled and relieved part of me wants me to drop to my knees and thank the God that I don’t even believe in for bringing her back across my path. For giving me the opportunity to apologize if I’ve somehow offended her. For blessing me with another chance to bask in her light and see what she might say or do next.

With any other woman, the angry side would win. No question. She doesn’t want me? No problem. Her loss. The sea is big and full of fish.

But Carly’s invaded my head. She’s like an octopus that has wrapped her tentacles around my brain, and her tentacles have tentacles. She’s been my every waking and sleeping thought for the last three weeks. And I haven’t slept. I haven’t fucking slept.

I register the guy with her for the first time, noting his hungry body language as he leans toward her. My entire body clenches.

“Who’s the loser?” I bark.

“He may or may not be her fiancé,” my brother tells me.

The fuck he is.

Something raw and primitive gives me a vicious shove between the shoulders, propelling me a step or two toward her with no conscious thought. So much for being proud and aloof. But Ryker clamps a hand on my arm, stopping me.

“What?” I snarl, pulling free. I don’t have time for this. What if she slips away again while I’m dealing with this idiot?

“Didn’t I just tell you not to lose your shit?” he asks, incredulous.

“Get out of my way or you’re going to be scraping this floor clean with your teeth.”

Ryker snorts out a laugh that does nothing to improve my mood. “Don’t you want to know who she is before you go off half-cocked?”

I keep one eye on her, but she doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. And my rabid curiosity gets the best of me, because I still don’t even know her last name.

“Who?”

“Her grandmother’s the Queen.”

“Of?” I say blankly.

“England, you stupid fuck. Her father is Prince Edmund. Duke of Montgomery. She introduced herself as Carly, but her full name is Charlotte Montgomery. Princess Charlotte.”

My brain reels while he types something on his phone and presses it into my hand.

“Here you go,” he tells me. “Take a minute to educate yourself.”

I grab the phone, grateful that at least one of us can think clearly.

“You keep eyes on her for me,” I say. “It’s your ass if she walks off before I can talk to her.”

“Aye, cap.”

I quickly read and scroll with growing astonishment, my adrenaline buzz making my hands unsteady. I catch pictures of her throughout her life, from chubby-cheeked cherub until now. Images of her with her father and with—oh, shit—the Queen on the balcony of Buckingham Palace during some big event. Recent snippets about her long-term romance with old Percy over there and speculation about a pending engagement. I also see a recent headline or two about her father’s questionable personal financial situation, which may or may not be dire.

I file all of it away for later. When I have time to do more thorough research.

For now? I have everything I need to know.

“Thanks,” I say, passing the phone back to my brother.

“We good? I don’t want any incidents with you and security tonight.”

“We’re good,” I say, already on my way. I slice my way through the crowd with surgical precision, scrupulously avoiding eye contact with anyone who may want to talk to me.

Now is