Page 2 of Alien Spare (Cosmic Mates #9)
What is she doing here? Falkor’s nemesis sat pretty-as-she-pleased at the hotel bar. Was there nowhere he could go to get away from that woman? He’d mistaken her for a handmaid when they met, and she’d never forgiven nor forgotten his mistake. She’d been snippy ever since.
Her disdain rankled more than it should.
What did it matter if one person out of millions—a human at that—deemed him lacking and unworthy of common courtesy?
Frankly, it was downright odd; if someone didn’t like him, he would pretend.
He was a prince, after all. An extra, a spare heir, a worst-case-scenario fallback, but royal nonetheless.
He watched the men flock to her like winged insects to a bright light. It wasn’t just the novelty of her humanness, or her flamboyant ruffled pink-and-orange dress. She exuded a sensual beacon men couldn’t ignore.
Except for me. Her nasty personality had immunized him to her magnetism.
Upon their meeting, he’d been aware Karma and Kismet were related, but he’d mistaken Karma for Kismet’s handmaid.
As Falkor ranked below his firstborn brother, it had been natural to assume the sisters had a similar situation.
Rattled by his body’s sexual response to a woman of employ, he’d donned his most haughty manner to push her away.
She’d taken it as a declaration of war. Since then, she treated everybody nicely except for him.
Another man approached her. She laughed at something he said, and her face transformed from pretty to gut-punch beautiful. Odd, really. The sisters’ features were identical, but Jaryk’s wife didn’t have the same zing Karma did.
Or would have—if he hadn’t been inoculated against her dubious charm. He pressed his lips together. She enjoyed needling him. Went out of her way to do so. Like coming here. What were the odds she’d show up at the same place, same time as him?
With Jaryk traveling with his bride, the queen had dispatched Falkor to the conference of noblemen to deliver the speech his brother was supposed to give.
Falkor hated giving speeches. His brother was good at it—seemed to enjoy it—but public speaking caused him to break out in hives.
He could speak to anyone about anything, but put him on a stage in front of an audience?
He scratched his neck along his collar. He still itched.
He supposed he’d done all right—everyone had congratulated him on an excellent presentation. On the other hand, they could have been blowing smoke up his royal ass. Would anyone tell him the truth?
The woman at the bar would. She would deliver a blistering critique of every single word. Had she been in the audience? Gods of Kaldor, he hoped not.
It didn’t seem likely she’d be a conference attendee, but why else would she be at the same hotel as him?
Squaring his shoulders, he strode up to her. “What the hekkel are you doing here?” he demanded. “Are you stalking me?”
“In your dreams!” She scowled. She’d smiled at every other man in the bar but glowered at him.
And smirked. “Don’t you think people know who you are?”
“I don’t understand.” Of course, people knew who he was. Sometimes he wished they didn’t. He wished he could be anonymous and blend in.
“You feel it necessary to wear a name tag?” Her gaze glanced off his chest.
Heat of embarrassment crept up his face, and he peeled off the sticker reading, HELLO MY NAME IS PRINCE FALKOR. It had seemed silly to wear one—everyone knew who he was—but it seemed presumptuous not to when the nobles had them. He crumpled it up and tossed it on the bar.
“You don’t strike me as a conventioneer,” she said.
“I’m not. I’m filling in for Jaryk. Queen’s orders.” He slipped onto a barstool.
Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.
The bartender approached. “What can I get you, Your Highness?”
“Spirits, please.”
“Coming right up.” With flourish, the barkeep filled a goblet.
He took a big gulp. Liquid fire slid down his throat. “You weren’t a convention attendee,” he prompted.
“No, Prince Nosy Pants, I was touring Kaldor. With Kismet gone, the queen suggested I see more of your planet.”
“You’re staying at this hotel?”
“I wish. They’re all booked up. My hovercar broke down. Now there’s an electrical storm approaching.
“It’s already here.” He’d checked the weather before heading for the bar. The thunderstorm raged in full fury. Nobody with any sense would fly a vehicle into an electrical storm. They would take cover immediately.
“How long will the storm last?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Hours, at least. Could be overnight.”
“Great,” she said glumly and took a sip of her mostly untouched drink.
“Where are you staying?”
“Haven’t figured it out yet. I was supposed to return to the palace today, but that’s not going to happen.”
He connected the pieces. Disabled hovermobile. Booked hotel. She was stranded during an electrical storm with no lodging.
“I’m probably going to be spending the night in the lobby,” she said.
He cursed silently. The sister of the future queen sleeping in a hotel lobby would cause a huge scandal.
If word got out he knew and allowed it, there’d be hekkel to pay.
He could use his influence to get the hotel to give her a room, but someone else—likely a noble—would be kicked out of theirs. A bigger scandal.
The king had vowed that if Falkor caused one more incident, he’d find himself stripped of his title and disinherited.
His father would never do that because that would also bring disgrace upon the crown, and his mother, the queen, wouldn’t allow it, but his sire would find some other devious punishment—maybe condemn him to delivering speeches for the rest of his life.
He grimaced. “I have a suite. You can stay with me.”