Читать книгу A Royal Wager - Кристи Голд - Страница 8

Prince Marcel Frederic DeLoria had a fondness for fast cars and the freedom he enjoyed while executing hairpin turns on winding roads. Yet his greatest pleasure came in the form of more dangerous curves, those that could be found on a woman. He appreciated every nuance of the opposite sex—the way they looked, the way they smelled, their innate intelligence and, admittedly, the challenges they could present when it came to the chase.

But as much as he loved women, he hated goodbyes and for that reason he’d avoided emotional entanglements. Still, tonight an inevitable parting hung over him like a guillotine, poised to sever ties four years in the making.

A few hours ago, Marc had taken his Harvard diploma and was now set to embrace his independence. However, he did not particularly look forward to saying goodbye to Sheikh Dharr Halim, in line to rule his country one day, and Mitchell Edward Warner III, the son of a United States senator and American royalty in his own right. Three men bound by status, united by all that their legacies entailed, forever joined by a friendship that had grown and strengthened during their time together.

Noisy revelry filtered through the closed door from outside, a celebration signaling the end of an era, the end of their youth in a manner of speaking. The trio had opted to forgo the party and instead sequestered themselves in their shared apartment where they had formed their own fraternity of sorts, spending the past four years discussing culture, world events and their latest adventures skirting the ever-present paparazzi. And their favorite subject—women.

But tonight an uncharacteristic silence prevailed, as if the time-honored topics were inconsequential in light of what now awaited them—a future that no one could predict beyond their families’ expectations.

Marc reclined on the black overstuffed chair, his heels propped on the table before him. Dharr sat regally in the tan leather lounger across from Marc, the traditional Arabian kaffiyeh no longer covering his head; yet he still gave the appearance of a born leader. Mitch had opted for his customary roost on the floor reclined against the wall, dressed in jeans and scuffed leather cowboy boots, apparel that stood out from the crowd like a crown on a pauper. But although they were all different, Marc acknowledged, they still shared notoriety, the reason behind their frequent gatherings, a means to cope with the pressures of celebrity.

Mitch tossed aside the magazine he’d been reading since their arrival and picked up the bottle of fine French champagne, compliments of Marc’s brother, the king. “We’ve already toasted our success. Now I suggest we toast a long bachelorhood.” He refilled his glass, then topped off Dharr’s and Marc’s.

Dharr raised his flute. “I would most definitely toast to that.”

With champagne in hand, Marc paused to consider an idea—an appropriate send-off. One that would pique his friend’s interests. “I prefer to propose a wager.”

Dharr and Mitch glanced at one another then leveled their gazes on Marc. “What kind of wager, DeLoria?” Mitch asked.

“Well, since we’ve all agreed that we’re not suited for marriage in the immediate future, if ever, I suggest we hold ourselves to those terms by wagering we’ll all be unmarried on our tenth reunion.”

“And if we are not?” Dharr asked.

Marc saw only one way to ensure the wager’s success. “We’ll be forced to give away our most prized possession.”

“Give away my gelding?” Mitch grimaced as if he’d swallowed something foul. “That would be tough.”

Dharr looked even less enthusiastic as his gaze fell on the abstract painting of a woman hanging above Mitch’s head. “I suppose that would be my Modigliani original, and I must admit that giving away the nude would cause me great suffering.”

“That’s the point, gentlemen,” Marc said. “The wager would mean nothing if the possessions were meaningless.”

Mitch eyed him with suspicion. “Okay, DeLoria. What’s it going to be for you?”

Marc thought only a moment before adding, “The Corvette.”

“You’d give up the love mobile?” Mitch sounded incredulous.

“Of course not. I won’t lose.” And he wouldn’t, because Marc DeLoria hated losing anything of worth.

“Nor will I,” Dharr stated. “Ten years will be adequate before I am forced to adhere to an arranged marriage in order to produce an heir.”

“No problem for me,” Mitch said. “I’m going to avoid marriage at all costs.”

Again Dharr held up his glass. “Then we are all agreed?”

Mitch touched his flute to Dharr’s and Marc’s. “Agreed.”

Modern-day musketeers entering into an all-for-one pact.

Marc raised his glass. “Let the wager begin.”

Marc had no qualms about the ante. He could most definitely resist the temptation of a woman bent on tying him to an uneventful existence. He had no reason to marry, nor was he bound by duty to do so. Only one thing would be as unappealing to Marc as marriage—leading his country. But thanks to his birth order, Prince Marcel Frederic DeLoria would never have to suffer the fate of becoming king.