Page 11 of The Billionaire's Princess

4

Carly—Three weeks later

You’re never going to see him again, you bloody idiot,I tell myself as I hurry down the steps from my apartment building and toward the limousine idling at the curb. It’s all for the best that you take this time to get your life together rather than hang any foolish romantic hopes on some bloke who just wanted a quick fuck. So stop looking for him in every crowd.

Excellent advice that my roving gaze ignores as I quickly scan the passersby on the sidewalk, hoping for a glimpse of Damon’s tall frame, broad shoulders and sleek sable hair. God, I’m so unbelievably stupid. As if he somehow discovered my last name and went to the trouble of tracking me down to my apartment here on the Upper West Side because he couldn’t bear the idea of never laying eyes on me again. As though I made that much of an impression on him when I know in my heart of hearts that he probably woke up, discovered me gone and said a fervent prayer of thanks that he’d executed a perfect one-night stand with all of the great sex and none of the morning-after awkwardness.

Please, Carly.

Try to muster a single milligram of common sense.

Yet I can’t help looking for him. Straining for some sign that he still exists and that I didn’t imagine the entire interlude.

But there’s no sign. There never is.

To make matters worse, I’m stuck attending some stupid cocktail party for Manhattan’s elite, making small talk with people I don’t know or care about and trying to pretend that my mood isn’t foul when I’d much rather be home reading one of my Agatha Christie mysteries. And the icing on top of my ruined evening? My escort for the night is my father, who made the long flight across the pond from London to “come see his poppet,” when we both know that the real purpose of his visit is to rub noses with said elite and to give me shit about the deplorable state of my personal life since my graduation from NYU a few weeks ago.

The chauffeur hops out, races around the car and opens the door for me before I can dream of doing it myself.

“Thanks,” I say, gluing a smile onto my face and keeping it there as I slide onto the seat next to my father, his Royal Highness Prince Edmond, the Duke of Montgomery.

Let the fun begin.

“Hello, darling,” he says, every silver hair in place as he beams at me and pulls me in for a kiss on each cheek. “How’s my poppet? You look lovely. Love the suit. Very smart.”

“Thanks, Daddy. How was the flight?”

“A nightmare,” he says, then sips his drink as the car pulls into traffic. My attention automatically goes to the rearview mirror, where I see his security detail follow us in a dark SUV. A hazard of being the youngest son of the Queen of England. “Whiskey?”

“Am I going to need it for this conversation?” I ask tiredly.

“Probably,” he says, reaching for the decanter.

“Hmmm.” I stare out the window—still no sign of Damon; in a city of eight million people, you’d think there’d be something—and wait for the official lecture portion of the proceedings to begin. “I can hardly wait.”

“I don’t understand you, Charlotte.” He passes my drink, which I sip gratefully. Perhaps if I burn my throat to cinders, I’ll be excused from having to explain myself. “Breaking your engagement at the very moment you’re supposed to be moving back home and settling down? Leaving London again and hiding out here before any of us can talk sense into your stubborn head? Ignoring my phone calls for three weeks and forcing me to fly over here for a face-to-face? What’s gotten into you?”

I sigh. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

“I don’t understand. You and Percy have been together since you were old enough to date. You got engaged last Christmas, right on schedule. Mummy signed off on it. My office have been ready to announce it for months. Yet you tell me to sit on the news. Then you tell the poor chap you need a break. Whatever that means. Now this. You’ve gone and ended the engagement entirely rather than ending that ridiculous break.”

He finishes his drink. Pours another one.

“Yes, well, I told both you and Percy that I needed a moment to process things—”

“The time for processing is before you say yes,” he says.

“Is that so? It seems to me that the time for second thoughts is before one engages the divorce lawyers.”

He grimaces at me.

“Why should there be any question of a split?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you and Mum had the world’s nastiest divorce when I was little. As have several members of the family, come to think of it. Mostly because that ring on my finger started to feel like a tiny handcuff and I couldn’t see myself spending the rest of my life in the dull English countryside with Percy. The entire idea made me, I don’t know, seize up. Once I realized that, I didn’t want to string him along.”

“Well, now you’ve returned his ring and broken his heart. Disappointed me terribly. Does that matter to you?”

“Of course it does. I feel terrible about it.”

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