Page 20 of A Prince of Smoke and Mirrors (Billionaire Sanctuary: The Heir #1)

a license to wed

NICOLAI ROMANOV

My bride stared up at me, her hands on her hips, her dark eyes fathomless and unknown like the universe swirling around me.

And the universe was swirling a lot. I could hardly keep my feet.

“I’m glad you approve of the municipal building,” she said, squinting at the parking meter while poking her hand in her purse, then straightening to look at me. “Hey, Nico, I was thinking. You need an official government ID to get a marriage license. I, um, not to mean anything by it, but, um?—”

“Yes?”

“You don’t sound like you’re American. What’re you, like, British or something?”

British? My high school English teacher would have been pleased. “Swedish. Born in Stockholm, and I carry a Swedish EU passport.”

Now her squint was directed at me. “I thought all Swedish people were blondes. And deathly pale. And you’re not.”

“My mother was Swedish. My father was mostly of Germanic descent, some Prussian, some English, even. Definitely some Italian in there from back in the days when the Hannovers were Guelphs. A few Russian ancestors.”

“Okay, if you say so, but you don’t sound Swedish at all. I mean, I’ve only seen the puppet chef on TV, but you really don’t sound Swedish.”

Good. “I grew up around Anglophones at boarding school, but I’ve lived in Paris since college. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’d picked up a bit of French accent.”

“Not that I can hear, but I wouldn’t know. I can tell if someone’s from Minnesota versus Michigan but can’t clock anything European.”

“How clever of you.”

Her wary frown spoke volumes that she wasn’t sure if I was making fun of her, but I wasn’t. She said, “The problem is that you’ll need a valid ID to get a marriage license.” And then her sheepish smile was adorable. “You probably don’t have your passport on you, do you?”

My passport, which was with my luggage, had been delivered to the hotel suite in the Sanctuary club after we’d landed. “No, I don’t.”

Crestfallen. That’s how I would describe the emotion that swamped my mind and overturned my happiness at my impending marriage. I was crestfallen.

Her smile was overly bright, like she had a secret. “Yeah, so we can go back to your hotel to get it, and maybe talk to your friends there about your plan?”

Somewhere along these bizarre antics that I knew were foreign to me, my desire had warped from merely escaping Volkov’s clutches to having a real wedding ceremony with this pretty little woman because it was fun.

Because it was a signpost in the roads of my life.

Because my life must be changed from its current trajectory.

Because otherwise, I might step off a balcony someday.

Because I didn’t want to meet a Russian intelligence service’s bullet without having lived.

And loved.

And because the vodka whispering fun in my head must be obeyed.

My friends would try to talk me out of this foolhardy endeavor.

I didn’t want them to.

Descendants of the tsars of Russia were not to be talked out of anything. “I have my driver’s license. Surely, that will suffice.”

“You have a driver’s license? From the US?” She didn’t sound excited.

“From Sweden.”

Light dawned in her sweet, dark eyes. “Oh, but it’ll be in Swedish. I’m sure it’ll have to be in English. That probably won’t be good enough for them.”

“I have an official notarized translation in my wallet, too, as well as a photocopy of my passport. One can’t be too careful when traveling in the US these days,” I reassured her.

Her shoulders slouched. “Of course you do.”

“Indeed. Let’s go in.”

The glass doors parted like magic as we approached them, and we did go in.

I led this time, as the worst of the buzz seemed to be lifting. I was feeling a bit numb but not legless.

Unbeknownst to me, significantly more vodka lurked in my digestive system, and it was slowly leeching into my bloodstream and about to pour in.

My bride held my arm and turned me toward her. “Nico, just so we’re clear, we can get the license and have a ceremony, but I’m not signing the license until tomorrow morning, got it? You need to be in a proper state of mind, sober as a judge, before I’ll sign it. I mean it.”

“Stipulation accepted. That’s probably quite logical of you, I think.”

“Yeah,” she muttered. “Logical.”

I was not thinking. I was feeling. I was swept along and ecstatic. Every step turned into another as I drunkenly stumbled toward the future.

The line for the few windows with clerks was short, and we waited between frayed velvet ropes while the building waltzed around us.

I caught her hand in mine. Her fingers seemed so little, so delicate, in my oversized hand.

She was squinting as she looked up at me, doubtlessly from the tube lights overhead. “How tall are you, anyway?”

I got that a lot. “Bit over a hundred ninety-three centimeters. Um, a fraction over six-four in American units.”

Her dark eyes watched me like I might sprout wings. “Six -four. You’re six-feet-four.”

I gazed down at her. While kneeling and proposing, I’d seen her white high heels under that fluffy skirt that probably made her legs shapely and scrumptious, but the top of her head was still not quite at my shoulder. “Yes. Six-four.”

Her wry laugh was a funny little cackle. “Six-four. If we’re going to be pretend-married for a night, I wish I could at least find Jimmy and parade you in front of him.”

“Who’s Jimmy?” And why should jealousy pang through my chest due to a dolt with a stupid name like Jimmy?

“Just my ex.” Her voice became tiny, kitten-like, and sad. “I hate him.”

The vodka-fueled rage from previously, when that logo-swathed slob had dared paw my bride, heated and rose in a blue alcohol flame. “Did he hurt you?”

“He’s not important anymore.”

I was mildly mollified. “I could kill him for you.”

She looked up at me again, though her blank expression seemed studiously unconcerned. “Have you killed people?”

“No, but I’m a fast learner.”

She laughed three chuckles at that one.

Three cute, husky chuckles.

I liked her laugh.

My drunken mission for the night would be to make my bride laugh more.

We shuffled forward in the line of happy couples, falling all over each other and desperate to marry at nearly midnight in Las Vegas.

I tilted my chest to look down at my bride and nearly toppled over onto my face.

She grabbed my arm, steadying me.

No one ever steadied me. I was always the one grabbing a bobbling arm, shoving people into cold showers or cabs, pouring water down throats, and chucking drunks into beds. “You don’t have to do this, you know, just because I asked you to.”

My bride squinted a little as she looked up at me, a crooked little smile on her face. “Eh, why not?”

I was pleased. So pleased. “That’s my girl.”

“It doesn’t matter, anyway. It’s not legally binding unless the license is signed and notarized, and we won’t sign it while you’re wasted. You’re going to wake up tomorrow and thank me for not signing it. I think I’ll make you buy me breakfast, though. That seems fair.”

I watched her, the little flickers of her eyes, the twitches of her shoulders under white lace. Even though I was battered, I still watched everyone for signs of their true intentions.

Hereditary habit.

A highly selected-for trait.

She was fighting herself. Whether it was against her own true nature or the voices in her head telling her lies, my bride was locked in an internal melee.

“And it doesn’t matter even then, you know?

” she continued. “It’s not like there’s a penalty for saying you’ll marry someone and then not going through with it, like paying a fine or going to jail.

I mean, so you promise to marry someone.

You promise that you’re going to take a vow to love, honor, and cherish them.

You promise everything’s going to be all right, but people lie. ”

I watched her tell her story because everyone will if you give them enough time.

She shook her head as if dodging flies, and she stared at the air around us, not at me.

“It’s not like walking down an aisle and a minister chanting over you means anything.

Trusting people who make those kinds of promises will do nothing but get you hurt.

” She waved her hands at the clerks, the windows, and the other people in line.

“All this, the paper, the promises, all of it means absolutely nothing.”

If I’d had a heart, it would’ve been sad at this pretty little woman’s distress.

Instead, I concentrated on balancing where I stood on the undulating floor and gently used one knuckle to tilt her face up so I could see her dark eyes. “What happened?”

Her limpid eyes that I so admired rolled with an excess of dismissal and sarcasm. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.”

The blood of my autocratic ancestors rose in me, desiring executions. “I could kill him for you, you know.”

She leaned toward me a little. “I know you’re joking, but you should not make murder threats in a government building, even if it’s about somebody who’s not here. People get weird about that.”

I had to laugh as I drew back. “Wise.”

We stood at the head of the line now, and a clerk who was far too bright-eyed for that time of night waved us over. “Identification and previous divorce papers, please,” she said.

Forewarned, I pulled my Swedish driver’s license and the certified translation document out of my wallet while my bride fumbled in her purse.

The clerk glared at my driver’s license, which was rather unadorned compared to the US version, just my monochromatic picture and numbered list of biometric data on the pinkish plastic card, and then she turned to the paper with the translation. “Interesting last name there, Nick.”

I shrugged. “It’s more common than one would think.”

“Okay, you don’t have your passport with you, by any chance?”

“It’s in the hotel safe, but I have a photocopy.”

“Probably more secure that way. Well, you’re of age and identified. That’s all I care about. Any previous marriages?”

“None.”

The clerk squinted at me. “Are you drunk?”

I wanted that piece of paper so I could marry this woman. “Not at all.”

She squinted harder.

“Maybe a little,” I allowed. “But I’m fine.” The office was spinning again, whipping around and around, and I grasped the top of the glass screen and held on lest I be flung backward. “Really. Fine. I’ve had two.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve seen worse.” And then she turned to my bride. “ID and divorce papers?”

My little vanilla cupcake handed over a small card. “No previous marriages.”

The clerk entered my bride’s name (which I still didn’t know, and that fact was amusing the hell out of me, so I wasn’t going to ask) and frowned as she stared at her computer. “It says here that you applied for another marriage license to someone else last week.”

My bride rummaged around in her purse and magicked up another piece of paper. “We didn’t use it. You can see here that it’s not signed by any of us and not notarized. Can you cancel it or something?”

An unused marriage license? Interesting.

“Sure, I can do that for you.” The clerk examined the paper that my little woman slipped through the tray to her, typed something on her computer, and then stamped canceled across my bride’s old marriage license in tall red letters.

My bride drummed her fingers on the counter. “Can I get a refund for that one, by any chance?”

The clerk raised her eyebrows. “I’m sorry. The fee is nonrefundable.”

She sighed. “Okay.”

The clerk frowned at my little bride. “That takes care of that, I guess. This is kind of unusual. Are you sure you want to try this again so soon with someone else?”

My sweet little bride shrugged. “Even if we do manage to find a priest tonight, which we won’t, I’m not going to sign this thing until tomorrow morning. This isn’t valid until it’s signed by both of us, right?”

“Both of you and the officiant and a witness, and then notarized and registered.” The clerk leaned forward and peered at where I slumped against the glass, which was cool against my cheek. “Are you sure he’s in a state to do this?”

“It was his idea. I keep trying to talk him out of it.”

I nodded emphatically to assure this minor civil servant that I was, indeed, in full charge of my faculties. “It’s definitely my idea.”

The clerk peered at my bride, even lowering her glasses for a harder look. “Are you being coerced? Do you need help?”

“I’m fine. It’s not like that.” My bride and soon-to-be wife bit her lower lip for a second.

“There’s obviously something going on with him right now.

He’s adamant. I’m just making sure he doesn’t get taken advantage of.

There were other people around who seemed scammy.

A couple of them would’ve signed this marriage license right here in front of you to make sure it was legally binding right away. ”

“Oh,” the clerk said.

“Really, I’m just doing whatever it takes to get him back to his hotel and pour him into his bed without screwing up the rest of his life. If I bring this unused license back here tomorrow, can you just cancel it like this one?”

“Of course. That’s what we’re here for, canceling inadvisable marriage licenses.

” Her dry tone indicated sarcasm. “Well, it’s irregular, but this is Las Vegas.

Irregular marriages happen all the time.

There’s no rule against getting dead drunk and signing a binding lifelong contract here.

Heck, we’d be cutting off one of our major sources of revenue.

Congratulations, you two crazy kids, and good luck. ”

That is the last thing I remember.