Shrewd Angel by Anyta Sunday
Summary:
The Christmas Angel #6
Pax Polo is the swashbuckling guitarist for Serenity Free.
Correction: Was the swashbuckling guitarist for Serenity Free.
Now he sports a black eye and his bros have kicked him out of their band—three weeks before Christmas. It’s an unfamiliar kick to his over-inflated ego, but . . . whatever.
No problem.
Thanks to some stellar eavesdropping, an unexpected angel ornament, and a bribe to open for his favorite band ever, Pax will weasel his way back into his mates’ good graces.
All he has to do is friend Clifford, the neighborhood man-shrew, for the summer. Distract him a bit so Clifford’s younger sister can sneak around.
It sounds like a piece of beginners Beethoven. Jolly good fun.
Easy.
Because, Pax totally knows how to friend people. He has heaps of friends. This shrew’s no match for his shrewd ways. Or is he?
The Christmas Angel #6
Pax Polo is the swashbuckling guitarist for Serenity Free.
Correction: Was the swashbuckling guitarist for Serenity Free.
Now he sports a black eye and his bros have kicked him out of their band—three weeks before Christmas. It’s an unfamiliar kick to his over-inflated ego, but . . . whatever.
No problem.
Thanks to some stellar eavesdropping, an unexpected angel ornament, and a bribe to open for his favorite band ever, Pax will weasel his way back into his mates’ good graces.
All he has to do is friend Clifford, the neighborhood man-shrew, for the summer. Distract him a bit so Clifford’s younger sister can sneak around.
It sounds like a piece of beginners Beethoven. Jolly good fun.
Easy.
Because, Pax totally knows how to friend people. He has heaps of friends. This shrew’s no match for his shrewd ways. Or is he?
Anyta Sunday is a new author for me which can be scary sometimes but it can also be exhilerating, that "is it or isn't it" moment can be a natural high that keeps my reading engines going. Well, if you are like me and are new to Anyta Sunday than Shrewd Angel is a perfect place to start. I'm not sure which part I liked better: the budding banter-filled slowish-burn romance between Pax and Clifford or the planning-filled friendship between Pax and Luca. They both had me smiling. A classic rom-com with just the right amount of drama and heat to spice up your holiday or any day of the year you pick Shrewd Angel up. Anyta Sunday is definitely going on my authors-to-watch list. A true reading delight from beginning to end.
The Christmas Angel series can be read in any order as the only connection is the angel ornament, however once again it is my personal opinion that Christmas Angel by Eli Easton should be read first as you learn the whys of her origins. Not that her beginning really has any bearing on each entry but I know I would have been a little distracted with wondering how she came to be and that would keep me from completely enjoying each story after.
RATING:
Summary:
The Christmas Angel #7
Prince Raphael, the youngest son of the Montaunoit royal family, is the custodian of his country's history. At a Sotheby's auction, he outbids Marc on an item he doesn't even want. Just because he can.
Meeting the museum curator turns Raphael's world upside down, and when lust turns to love he knows he has to change.
Can Marc be the one to show Raphael that he doesn't have to stay the lonely prince forever, and that love is always an option?
This story is one of seven stories which can all be read and enjoyed in any order.
Christmas Prince by RJ Scott is not only a wonderful concluding entry in the amazing multi-author series The Christmas Angel, but it is an incredible tale that is better than any Hallmark holiday film I've seen in many years. Lets be honest here, most of us at one point in our childhood had dreams of meeting a prince or princess and finding a HEA and with Miss Scott's Christmas Prince we get to relive those dreams vicariously through Marc and Prince Raphael.
For some alternating POV are not always a hit but I love them because we get to see the inner thoughts of each character to give us a more rounded story so being able to see into both Marc and Raphael was a an extra delicious treat. Watching them discovering each other and that there is more to each than that first fateful Sotheby's auction is a pure delight. A classic holiday fairytale in the making.
Now, as I've said in my reviews for other entries in The Christmas Angel series, they can be read in any order and I myself have jumped around and still have a couple to go back to before the 12 Days of Christmas are up. The Angel is the connection and even though I would love to know more about how she goes from era to the next, her journey is just part of the holiday magic of the season so there really is no reason it has to be read in order. I do however, highly recommend reading Christmas Angel by Eli Easton first because you learn the origins of the angel. Now that isn't all that important to the timeline but personally speaking I would find myself wondering about the hows and whys she came to be and it would leave me a bit distracted from enjoying each tale completely, but again that is just my personal preference.
Shrewd Angel by Anyta Sunday
Chapter One
Patrick “Pax” Polo knocked against the sun-warmed door with a jolly rhythm that belied the ache in his fist.
Six in the evening, and he was already dead. His wants were simple: score this room that he’d seen for rent on a supermarket noticeboard, drop his crap on the nearest flat surface, and collapse into a bed.
One good sleep, and he’d feel normal again. Not confused that his mates of half a decade had kicked him out of the band. Not hurt and nursing an unfamiliar kick to his—admittedly overinflated—ego. Not hiding his stinging eyes behind shades.
He swung his beloved guitar off his back and settled it next to his duffel bag on a bench studding the porch. He knockity-knocked again, and a window yawned open above his head.
Steam billowed out as a guy maybe a few years younger than Pax’s twenty-three bent over the ledge. His dark hair was lathered in shampoo and somewhere behind him water rained against plastic.
Pax smoothed on a lazy smile that lanced pain across the bridge of his bruised cheekbone. The rim of his shades bumped swollen skin as he spoke. “I’ll take the room.”
“Patrick, correct?” Same melodic accent as over the phone. This must be Luca, then.
“Patrick. That’s me.” Fans and mates called him Pax, but he used his full name for official business.
“Give me a few minutes to rinse, and I’ll show you the place. Meet me at the sun chairs on the side.”
“Sun chairs? In Dunedin? You’re an optimist.”
“Sì.” Luca nodded brightly and disappeared.
Pax followed the porch around the tidy brick and shingle house, undone laces skittering over the wood as he dragged his feet. The wraparound porch widened into a deck where the house formed a sideways U. Or perhaps a J, as the house jutted close to a fence separating his (hopefully) new residence from the neighbors’.
White-framed latticed windows spat his reflection back at him, and he perched his glasses atop his hair. Ouch. A swollen bruise had swallowed the trademark freckle below his left eye. Good thing he suited shades.
Stupid Blake.
Stupid Pax for starting the fight. He was a man of music, not of muscle. Words were his weapons. Slice ’em with smiles, spirit, and song.
The scent of sweet baking wafted toward him, and piano keys clunked from somewhere upstairs, along with the lilt of murmured voices. The neighbors were home, and their windows were wide open.
Pax peered into their living room through a massive glass window. An unadorned Christmas tree stood in the front-facing window, occupying as much space as the drum kit in Serenity Free’s practice room. The tree was the same size as the one he’d bought with his bandmates yesterday.
Colors blurred, and Pax slid his shades back to his nose.
His time with the band was not over. It wasn’t. One of them would be welcomed back into Serenity Free. One of them would have their old life back. But would it be Pax or Blake?
His other three bandmates, Tim, Ted, and Tony—known by fans as the Three T’s—said they’d vote on the matter by Christmas.
Pax had three weeks to ease back into his mates’ good graces.
Blake could bash out a beat, but Pax could, too. What separated them was twofold: Pax thrived on fame, and he had known the Three T’s since their first year of university. They were bros.
Voices traveled from the upper level of the neighboring house, raised volume resembling an argument. Male and female, although the female sounded young by her whine.
“Cliff, please?”
Diagonally from where he stood on the deck, a window was open. He’d never been above eavesdropping. Besides, distracting himself with someone else’s drama? Bring it on.
“I don’t particularly like parroting old discussions.”
The dry tone caught Pax’s attention.
Pax sidled down the deck, trying to peer inside at the arguing couple. No luck. All he saw was a mustard-colored wall and refracted sunlight.
“It’s the summer holidays. I’m seventeen!”
“Exactly,” the Cliff guy said. “No need to bother with boys now. There’ll be plenty of time for heartache at university.”
“Most girls in my class are bumping uglies with their boyfriends, and I’m not even allowed to date?”
“Bumping uglies, Bianca? I take it back. Clearly you’re ready.”
Bianca choked out a reply. “You’re worse than Mum or Dad ever were.”
Pax sympathetically stiffened. His mind leaped to fill in the blanks. Tragedy had befallen their parents, and Bianca had been left in the care of her big brother, Cliff.
Cliff replied calmly, “While you live at home, you’ll forget about boys.”
“Fine, I’ll sneak out.”
Cliff laughed. “If you manage to sneak past me, you’re smart enough to dick yourself silly.”
“I will get past you.”
“You stalk the house like your shoes are on a rampage for blood. You bathe in perfume. If I don’t hear you, I’ll smell you leaving.”
Correction: Bianca had been left in the care of her big, snarky brother, Cliff.
“No wonder you have no friends, Clifford. You’re a horrible excuse for a human being.”
Yesterday, that comeback would’ve amused Pax. Today—after a fist to his face and a dismissal by his bandmates, it nagged him. Like a mosquito buzzing in his ear. Like maybe he should pay attention or . . . something.
The sliding door rumbled behind him, and his (hopefully) new roommate, Luca, emerged. He wore a tight black T-shirt and loose pants, and his slicked-back hair revealed a gentle widow’s peak. He resembled Leonardo DiCaprio, except for the dark hair. And the thick eyebrows. And the muscular body that towered a good head over Pax.
Luca side-eyed him. “Your face.”
Pax shrugged. “Just a bruise.”
“I mean, I recognize it. You’re Pax Polo. Guitarist for Serenity Free.”
Former guitarist.
Possible future guitarist.
He cocked Luca a half-grin that spliced his face with pain.
Luca prowled a few steps closer, lowering his accented voice. “Did you really fuck your drummer’s sister? Behind the stage? Between songs?”
The story grew more elaborate every time Pax heard it. Not an ounce of truth in it, but Luca didn’t need to know that. Pax flashed his pearly whites.
His delighted roommate hooked a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing him inside.
Pax stepped toward the doors and paused as Cliff’s voice sounded from next door.
He had a problem where gossip was concerned. He liked to watch it, listen to it, surround himself with it.
Pax lifted a finger to his mouth to shush him, and Luca stilled.
Luca’s gaze flew to the upstairs window with a familiarity that had Pax’s brow quirking.
“Help you?” Bianca said sweetly. Too sweetly. “Sure.”
A pretty girl with sweeping chestnut hair leaned out the window, dangling a fat paper bag from a curled finger.
She didn’t even glance in their direction.
“What are you doing?” Cliff asked from somewhere in the room behind her.
“Helping you.”
“Bring it downstairs.”
Bianca released the bag and it fell with a quiet thunk. Her sweet face, blinking back tears, disappeared. She’d lost the whiny voice. “I hate that generic store-bought crap. It’s like you’re trying to forget them.”
Pax jumped off the porch. He leaned against the rib-high fence and scoured the neighbors’ yard. Glittery Christmas ornaments had burst from the paper bag over a row of ferns.
“This”—Bianca’s voice grew louder—“this is what should be on the tree.”
Cliff’s voice tightened. “Where did you find that?”
“What? You didn’t smell me climbing up to the attic this morning?”
“Bianca. . . .”
“Take it.”
“Don’t.”
“You took down all their photos,” Bianca pleaded. “I’m not asking for much. Just this one memory. Take it.”
“It’s too soon.”
“It’s been three Christmases.”
“Way too soon,” Cliff said.
“What’s wrong with you? I loved them. Miss them. Want to remember them.” Bianca sniffed. “I want you to remember them. Go downstairs and put it on top of the tree? Please?”
“No.”
Pax relaxed his grip on the fence and stepped back. He wanted to say he’d had enough eavesdropping and would now give the neighbors their privacy, but that would be a lie.
“Touch it,” Bianca demanded. “Touch it and remember. Maybe it’s magic just like they thought. Maybe it’ll melt that hunk of ice you call your heart. Take it, dammit.”
Cliff roared, and a gold object hurtled out of the window toward Pax.
Pax jerked his hand up and caught it. The impact should have jarred against his aching fingers. Instead, curious warmth zipped up his palms.
He peeled his fingers back and eyed the prize. An angel tree topper. A beautiful carved woman with intricate golden wings and eyes that seemed to follow him like she knew his penchant for vanity. Knew his mates had deemed it necessary to drop him. Knew he feared not being accepted back in the band. “They’re mates,” Pax murmured. “They’ll come around.”
Sunlight played over the angel’s face, giving the illusion that she blinked. At least, he hoped it was an illusion, or Blake had hit him harder than he thought.
Next door, the sound of retreating footsteps and the distant slam of a door echoed.
No one approached the window seeking the lost angel. Just like none of his mates had chased after him and asked him to stay.
Pax tightened his hand around the angel’s slender robe. He should take her inside for safekeeping.
Luca was gazing toward the neighbors’ house with a soft, dreamy look.
“Let me guess, you like this Bianca.”
Luca blinked and focused a boyish grin on him. “Like? Ha. She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”
“Do you know the neighbors much?” Pax asked as he entered the house.
The living room was decked out. Beanbags, a blow-up couch and a regular one, a bright green “Bug Off, 2000” poster, and a massive television with a video player and PlayStation attached. All the recent 1999 releases towered atop the TV cabinet. Final Fantasy VIII, Crash Team Racing, Need for Speed, High Stakes.
Luca sighed. “I wish I knew her more. But with the neighborhood, what’s it called”—he circled a finger, searching for the right word—“shrew! With the shrew watching over his sweet sister’s every move . . . I must be content glimpsing her on the street.”
“Or in their living room?” Pax said wryly.
“Sì!” Luca said cheerily. “I do love all that big glass.”
“A window to your soul mate.” The angel in his hand grew warm again. Was she trying to tell him something?
“È un bell’angelo.”
Pax shot a questioning look at Luca, who studied the angel curiously.
“Pretty angel,” Luca translated. “I think she sees things.”
Nothing too real, hopefully.
Pax tossed off a laugh. “Many things if she lives with the shrew.”
“I think she will be missed,” Luca said, gaze suggesting that Pax should return it.
“She was thrown out the window.”
“Such passion. The angel means much.”
Yeah, and sleep means so much to me. “Let the siblings cool off. I’ll return it tomorrow.”
Luca brightened again. “I can hide out in the tree out front. The big one with the red flowers and rough bark.”
“Pohutakawa. New Zealand’s Christmas tree.”
“It has an excellent view of their front yard. If Bianca answers the door, I’ll help you give the angel back.”
Pax shoved his shades up to his hair and contemplated Luca. He was a chirpy kind of guy. The kind who radiated romanticism. Who wouldn’t hesitate to hug a guy. Delightfully European. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
Young and naïve. The perfect age for some summer loving. “I heard the shrew say if Bianca could sneak past him, she was welcome to date.”
Luca snapped to his full height, eyes gleaming with hope. “Really?”
“Swear on it.” His head ached, exhaustion swamping him. “Now if you could show me a bed. . . .”
Luca grabbed Pax’s wrist and dragged him to the front door for his guitar and duffel bag. “Let’s pack your things into your room.”
“Perfect.”
“And start plotting.”
Pax worked up a smile. He was Pax Polo. Plotting and an unhealthy obsession with his face were his things.
He swallowed a yawn. The bed could wait.
Mayhem awaited.
Christmas Prince by RJ Scott
One
Marc
I’m a fish out of water. An outsider.
I was desperate to be back at the British Museum, with my artifacts, my history, and a whole lot of peace. Not sitting in the frantic mess of Sotheby’s London auction rooms with some of the richest people in the world, all while feeling like I didn’t belong.
Normally acquisitions like this were handled discreetly over the phone, a nameless financial representative armed with the budget they couldn’t exceed. No junior curator like me should have been there with the task of acquiring an artifact, but the anonymous financial donation had come with one stipulation; that Marc Chandler of the British Museum be the one to bid at the auction on Lot eighty-nine, from the Château Bertrand.
With that protocol had been shattered. Much to the disgust of my boss who had attended to keep an eye on me, and who burned with animosity and anger. He’d even bought his PA with him, as if he needed people to know he was the man with power here, and not me.
Whatever.
All three of us were out of place.
There was so much money being bid; a million here, another million there. Royalty rubbing shoulders with the nouveau riche, all wanting that elusive, unique item that marked them as successful. A phone bidder representing a private collector had just dropped three-point-four million on a miniature dating from the Renaissance. I would have loved that miniature; the detail elaborate for such a tiny thing, but I wasn’t royalty or rich.
“He’s here,” someone faux whispered behind me.
I didn’t have to ask who they meant. The paparazzi waiting outside were a clear indication that the auction would attract one certain person. The same man who had complained that the majority of the contents from the interior of the château belonged to the royal family of Montaunoit.
Not all of the contents, of course. Some were to be freely shared with the world, but there were certain things that apparently Montaunoit was not letting go. I’d followed his comments on the matter, the interviews he’d given, and couldn’t help but be impressed with his determination that he was going to be taking various important items back with him today. Luckily, it wasn’t my box of country history that he wanted. The prince was allegedly interested in a sapphire necklace once owned by Marie Antoinette, created by a master craftsman in one of the small workshops on the famous Rue Catherine in Montaunoit.
Thatwas what the Royal family wanted back. And they could have it; there were no secrets to be given up by the kind of million-euro bling everyone had seen and that most academics had commented on at one point in their lives.
There were five lots from the château in total; the prince didn’t bid on the wines; most of them were fortified Portuguese. He stayed right away from the two paintings, attributed to an obscure French Renaissance artist which sold for a cool two million each. Then it was the turn of the necklace, and the prince remained in a slouch. I suspected he wouldn’t be the one raising his hand to bid; that would’ve been tacky for royalty. No doubt some minion was on the end of the phone to one of the handlers at the front, or maybe he was already logged in with a substantial opening bid to lock the item down.
I chanced a look at the man I’d read so much about. Prince Raphael-Alessandro Milland of Montaunoit, youngest son of the House of Berneux.
Gay.
And one of the most stunning men I’d ever seen in the flesh. His pictures didn’t do him justice. Mostly because each one was the result of a paparazzi shot in which he was either scowling and furious or had his gameplay mask on.
Personally, I thought that Raphael was the great white hope for any gay boy who fancied themselves in need of a prince in their lives. If only he didn’t seem quite so arrogant and unobtainable, he’d have had quite the following. I took my fill of him, of the profile of someone who knew his position in life and had the money to back it up. He lounged in his seat, as if he didn’t care about this auction at all, like none of it mattered to him.
He had a strong face. Shoulder-length dark hair fell in perfect waves to his collar, some of it pulled back from his face and held there with a tie. His gaze was fixed firmly on the screen in front of us, and he only gave one indication he was interested in the item. This was a man used to sitting still and facing the world with a certain image, but it didn’t stop him from moving his long fingers in a rhythmic tapping on the arm of his chair. He was worried about something; maybe that he would be outbid on the necklace? Who knew?
What is it like to be a prince?
The Montaunoit principality, while small, was an incredibly rich country, a place not unlike Monaco with its tax havens. Raphael-Alessandro must have all the money in the world to be able to buy anything he wanted. When I think of all the parties and glittering events, the doors that must open, the things he must see, it’s only one thing I focus on. That he gets to touch history in his palace every single day of his life without even thinking about it.
He stopped tapping his fingers and smoothed strands of his long hair behind his ear. His skin had a warmth to it, a Mediterranean heritage against my pale, white skin. I could imagine being in bed with him, my pale skin next to his, both of us sated after finishing with each other.
I wonder what he’s like in bed?
Would he be selfish, or needy, would he care about his partner, or maybe expect nothing less than perfection?
Would he top? Would he hold me down and—
He turned to face me. Shit. Stared right at me.
His dark eyes were unfathomable. We were no more than ten feet apart. His gaze fixed on mine, and I was lost. What did I do? I’d been staring at him, sizing him up, contemplating how rich he was, and even, on a smaller scale, what he was like beneath the perfect designer suit that was tailored to fit him perfectly. Do I look away and pretend it was nothing more than coincidence that I was staring at him? Or do I face this like I was fronting my role here today? I inclined my head in a nod.
I’m here on official business. I’m an expert in my field.
Even if I were a newbie, I had the smarts to have earned a seat at this auction.
He inclined his head, slowly, in acknowledgment, his left eyebrow rising. Then something the man next to him said had him turning away, and the moment of connection was gone. I turned to face the front, aware that Richard was saying something to me that I had completely missed.
I did sneak one more look at the prince, but when I did, he was no longer lounging in his seat. He was bolt upright and frowning; the bids on the necklace were already at four million, and he only relaxed when they reached seven point two and he was done.
I assumed that he’d won, because he wasn’t paying any attention to the next lot. Eighty-nine flashed up on the screen. There was no box that we could see, everything was too big to be hoisted out, but anyone interested had been given sight and touch of the items. There was so much in there I wanted to read, to decipher—a whole world of possibilities.
“Do this right,” Richard warned, and then muttered something about how things should have been done.
A couple of our nearest neighbors turned to check out the source of the words, and I went scarlet. The paddle in my hand was damp, I was tense, the hush in my head enough for me to ignore everything, thankfully.
I just wanted Richard to stay quiet. He had no time for modern art or Egyptian statues or Iron Age coins. Nope, he was all about the things that would fit in our Gallery of which he was the chief curator. Of course, that wasn’t a bad thing, we all had our areas of expertise, but he was stridently nasty about every other item.
I wanted to stop him from talking, but what I wanted to say would have been bad for my career, like hitting him with my catalog or stabbing him with the sixteenth-century dagger that we’d bid on successfully earlier. Of course, said dagger was in a reinforced lockbox as befitting a weapon once wielded by kings. But, practicality aside, stabbing my boss was not a good thing.
He’d hated we were even here. He hated that we’d lost out on artwork to the Edinburgh Museum, had vowed revenge, in fluent German, on Berlin’s Neues Museum for beating us to a miniature of Princess Marie Alexandra of Baden. Not to mention the closer we got to lot eighty-nine, the twitchier he became.
Richard also hadn’t gotten over the fact that it was me bidding on the lot. At twenty-six, I was only three years out from my Masters in European History from Cambridge, fully qualified on paper, but hardly with the expertise of his thirty years as chief curator. Or at least that is what Richard told everyone. Often.
In the catalog, the lot didn’t look like much. A collection of bric-a-brac from a château sale; books, notes, dated from around 1880, along with a collection of antique ornaments that once adorned the thirty-foot Christmas tree which stood in the grand entrance hall of the château.
I didn’t want the ornaments; they were things I would take note of and then put aside, although I would never tell anyone that. For all intents and purposes, I was there as part of the Europe team at my first ever auction. Or at least the first one that I had been instructed to attend on behalf of the museum. And I wanted those journals and notes. Desperately.
I’d done my research. The château was actually a mini castle, with turrets that stood taller than the forest around them, and was over one thousand years old. It had been mentioned in writing for the first time in 1064 and sat on a rocky promontory on an oxbow on the River Tassigny, not far from the French border with Montaunoit. It was solid as a rock and now the property of a Saudi prince who didn’t see the value in old books and relics from the past. He allegedly had twenty-five Ferraris and Lamborghinis and didn’t even live in France. He had no need for a connection to the past buried in the idyllic French countryside. All he wanted was a garage.
I bet he didn’t even know that the château he’d bought was a place full of wonder and history. In the 1960s, the parquet floor had been lifted to reveal a fascinating discovery. A carpenter, who had been brought in to work on the floor, had scribed messages on the underside of the wood. There was a day-to-day account of his work, of the rural village he lived in, charting his family, child murders, and church influence. It was an entire soap opera of normal life. That beautiful singular fact, that glimpse into past reality, was something a Saudi king wasn’t likely to even care about. Or a prince either, I thought as I glanced over at His Royal Highness Prince Raphael.
Or maybe I was being too harsh in my assessment of the king or prince because I was sore that a treasure like the château was being shut to visitors and turned into a king’s playground.
That was probably it.
The mixed consignment contained more glimpses into everyday rural life, apparently. No one knew the full extent of what the notes and books covered because they were old and needed restoration and for someone like me to get my hands on them.
“Lot eighty-nine, from the Château Bertrand, various notebooks, letters, Christmas ornaments, and other sundries, start bidding at seventy-five hundred.”
I held back. There was a flurry of smaller bids, but I was happy to wait. Most people fell out when it went to twenty, and when the bids reached forty-seven five hundred, I paid full attention. Everything had slowed. The two institutions fighting for it were backing off. I raised the paddle.
“Fifty.” The auctioneer pointed in my direction. He paused, but I knew we’d won. The tension wasn’t there. This was a done deal. Hell, the auctioneer even gave me a smile.
“All done, fair warning—”
“Fifty-one,” a voice called.
I was snapped out of the self-congratulation. I pivoted to see who had spoken. The Prince, all loose and confident and staring right at me. Was him calling out at random even fair? Didn’t he need an official number or something?
I faced the front and showed my paddle.
“Fifty-two,” the auctioneer confirmed, and I was smug. The prince didn’t have to know we could go up to a hundred, and he’d back off now.
“Sixty,” the prince said.
I lifted my paddle.
“Sixty-five,” the auctioneer said and then paused. “Seventy,” he added.
I just knew that Prince Asshole had raised a hand or lifted one eyebrow in a sardonic gesture or maybe just breathed the right way. Whatever it was, suddenly I was only thirty-thousand from the limit I’d been given, and my palms were so sweaty that my paddle slipped.
I looked over at the prince, and he stared back at me, expectation on his face, a faint smile on his lips. He was daring me, pushing me to go hard. I ignored Richard telling me something, the rush of blood in my head telling me it was now or never.
Take it all the way. Shut this prince down. The voice in my head said or whispered in my ear or… I have no idea. I was losing my damn mind.
I held the paddle up so fast my elbow clicked; I was nipping this in the bud, taking this thing all the way to the limit, anything to show the prince I meant business.
“One hundred,” I announced and coughed to clear my choked voice. So much for appearing super confident. I refused to look at him, at the dark-haired madman who, for some unknown reason, wanted to fuck with me. This was why bidding was normally anonymous. Having the British Museum actually here had probably made us a target.
“One hundred and fifty,” he said.
And it was over.
There was a pause, but no one was going to beat that, and we certainly didn’t have the funds to go higher. The auctioneer waited for me, but all I could do was shake my head. He nodded his understanding that I was finished.
“All done, fair warning… Sold for one hundred and fifty-thousand euro to the House of Berneux, Montaunoit.”
We’d lost. Whatever glimpse into French rural life there was in those journals was gone, probably consigned to some enormous warehouse in Montaunoit where they’d never be seen again. I was in shock. Maybe I should go over there and explain that the museum needed these pieces, that my post would be permanent if I’d made this work, that I really had to have his help.
He stared right at me, his lips thin, his eyes hooded, and he seemed angry. Why was he the one that was angry? It wasn’t me who’d just won this thing, was it? No, that was squarely on him.
Richard hissed something at me, Elsa leaning forward to block him, and all I could hear was the buzz of noise as the auctioneer moved on to lot ninety. I stood, placed the paddle on the seat, and turned to Richard.
“Air,” I think I said, although in my head it didn’t sound quite right. All Richard did was sneer at me, you’ve lost this. You challenged a prince. You’re an idiot. What happened to steady increments? I knew you’d fuck it up. You’re fired.
I pushed out of the door, passing security, then turned toward the bathrooms. I didn’t need air if I could just splash some water on my face, and I slammed the main door behind me for good measure. As soon as it shut, I deflated, my temper and confidence leaving me in a huge rush. I stumbled to the sink and leaned there, closing my eyes, unable to look myself in the eye.
“You completely fucked that up,” I admonished my reflection. “If you’d just gone up slower, you idiot, instead of jumping thirty-thousand, then Prince Asshole wouldn’t have snapped out such a ridiculous sum for the box.”
I could kick myself.
“That lot was always going to be mine,” a voice came from behind me, and I spun to face the owner. “And it’s Raphael. Prince Raphael, not Prince Asshole,” he said with a faint accent.
I was in the bathrooms at Sotheby’s, angry at myself, and now faced with real royalty. Should I bow? Should I scrape and grovel and pretend he was a better man than me?
“I was always going to be able to go higher than you.” Raphael brushed at imaginary lint on his suit sleeve. “But we were having fun, so why did you jump so fast and then stop?”
“Fun? And stop what? Throwing money at the lot?” I balled my hands into fists, my chest tight with my own stupidity, and the enormous weight of disappointment pushing me down.
“You stopped bidding against me, and it had been fun.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
“Fun? Stealing items from the British Museum? That’s your idea of amusing?”
It wasn’t entertainment; it was my career. My one chance to get hold of something that could have formed the heart of my own curated exhibit in the gallery.
He shrugged. “Not for long, but it could have lasted a lot longer if you’d tried harder, and I wanted to see some more of that fire from you.”
“Tried harder? What? It’s not a game. Collecting artifacts isn’t a goddamn game.” I resisted the urge to add the word “sir” with all the sarcasm and anger building inside me.
Prince Raphael moved a little closer to me.
I backed up the few inches to the sink. He was taller than me but not by much, lean, his chest muscled, his hair perfectly tousled, his suit clinging to his frame. He was deliciously sexy but intimidating, and I was out of my depth. I liked a man who could be in charge, but this was harassment, right? Or was it? He was a guy in the restroom. I was a guy in a restroom. Some of my best dates had started in restrooms.
Just a guy.
I defended my position. “Those artifacts are important to the British Museum.”
“I understand that,” he said. “Maybe they are important to me as well.”
I watched his sensuous lips move as he formed the words. Was there anything this man didn’t look good doing? “What? Why are they important? There is literally no provenance linking anything in that box to Montaunoit.”
He tilted his head and even tapped his lip. “And that is where you are wrong. The Countess Bertrand was a fourth cousin to my great-grandfather, an oblique but clearly relevant connection.” He nodded, as if he’d won the argument.
“What?” I pulled my temper back. If he wanted to argue provenance and relevance, I had a whole raft of things I could say. “The items are grounded in commoners, the rural villages, craftsmen, not in a countess.”
He reached out, and I flinched as he pressed a finger to the tip of my nose. What the hell was he doing? How the hell did he think it was okay to boop my freaking nose?
“I am the custodian of my country’s history,” he began.
“So you can hide it all away in boxes!” I was beyond exasperated.
“What is your name?” He changed the subject.
“That’s none of your business.”
His lips thinned again. “I can find out in mere moments, should it be necessary.” His accent thickened, a subtle mix of French with a special hint of Montaunoit’s ancient tongue.
Was that a threat?
“What the hell? You can’t go round threatening people like that. This is the twenty-first century.”
He shook his head, looking surprised at the accusation. “I apologize. I wasn’t threatening you, just stating facts.”
I gauged how much space there was for me to get around him and head outside where normal people stood and talked.
“Sounded like a threat to me,” I snapped because he was hemming me in, and I was overwhelmed by being stuck in a corner. My chest was tight, and all I wanted to do was shove him out of the way and escape.
Either that or drag him closer and hump his thigh.
“Then I am truly sorry,” he said. “Please tell me your name.” His words were soft and seductive, and my cock was happy to hear it. Sue me if I had a sudden fantasy of this gorgeous prince sweeping me off my feet in the men’s restrooms.
Yeah, like that is going to happen. I can’t even attract random guys in clubs on a regular basis. A prince who looks like he does, who could have anyone, is certainly not going to check me out.
He straightened my glasses for me with a soft touch.
Christ, I’m going to combust here.“My name is Marc and I’m leaving.”
I brushed past him, and he caught me with a gentle touch. I could’ve pulled free, but I didn’t because I didn’t think he was trying to really hold me. The fact that he was touching me and there was a predatory gleam in his eye made me nervous.
Princes can cover up all kinds of things: murders, disappeared bodies…
He squeezed to get my attention. “Earth to Marc,” he said.
I tried halfheartedly to shake free of his hold, to move away from the stimulating blend of man and aftershave, along with the gleam in dark eyes.
“I do apologize for what happened.” Raphael’s voice was low and so damn sexy. “How can I make it right?”
This is not happening. I’m not going to be made fun of like this with his silver-tongued tone. He was the one going away with the very items I wanted. I yanked my arm free, straightening my glasses, which felt a little off-center. “Excuse me, Your Royal Assness.”
I left him then, returning to the auction room and hovering at the back until there was a short break for me to sit back down.
Richard scowled at me, Elsa sent me a pitying look, and I was mortified that all I could think about was the fact that I’d just deliberately been rude to a man I didn’t really know, and that also, he didn’t return to his seat so I had no chance to apologize.
Or to see him again.
In 1750, a master woodcarver poured all his unrequited love, passion, and longing into his masterpiece—a gorgeous Christmas angel for his beloved’s tree. When the man he loved tossed the angel away without a second thought, a miracle happened. The angel was found by another who brought the woodcarver True Love.
Since then, the angel has been passed down, sold, lost and found, but its magic remains. Read the romances inspired by (and perhaps nudged along by) the Christmas angel through the years. Whether it’s 1700s England (Eli Easton's Christmas Angel), the 1880’s New York (Kim Fielding’s Summerfield’s Angel), the turn-of-the-century (Jordan L. Hawk’s Magician’s Angel), World War II (L.A. Witt’s Christmas Homecoming), Vietnam-era (N.R. Walker’s Soldier’s Wish), the 1990’s (Anyta Sunday’s Shrewd Angel), or 2018 (RJ Scott’s Christmas Prince), the Christmas angel has a way of landing on the trees of lonely men who need its blessing for a very Merry Christmas and forever HEA.
Since then, the angel has been passed down, sold, lost and found, but its magic remains. Read the romances inspired by (and perhaps nudged along by) the Christmas angel through the years. Whether it’s 1700s England (Eli Easton's Christmas Angel), the 1880’s New York (Kim Fielding’s Summerfield’s Angel), the turn-of-the-century (Jordan L. Hawk’s Magician’s Angel), World War II (L.A. Witt’s Christmas Homecoming), Vietnam-era (N.R. Walker’s Soldier’s Wish), the 1990’s (Anyta Sunday’s Shrewd Angel), or 2018 (RJ Scott’s Christmas Prince), the Christmas angel has a way of landing on the trees of lonely men who need its blessing for a very Merry Christmas and forever HEA.
Saturday's Series Spotlight
A bit about me: I'm a big, BIG fan of slow-burn romances. I love to read and write stories with characters who slowly fall in love.
Some of my favorite tropes to read and write are: Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Clueless Guys, Bisexual, Pansexual, Demisexual, Oblivious MCs, Everyone (Else) Can See It, Slow Burn, Love Has No Boundaries.
I write a variety of stories, Contemporary MM Romances with a good dollop of angst, Contemporary lighthearted MM Romances, and even a splash of fantasy.
My books have been translated into German, Italian, French, Spanish, and Thai.
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RJ ScottWriting love stories with a happy ever after – cowboys, heroes, family, hockey, single dads, bodyguards
USA Today bestselling author RJ Scott has written over one hundred romance books. Emotional stories of complicated characters, cowboys, single dads, hockey players, millionaires, princes, bodyguards, Navy SEALs, soldiers, doctors, paramedics, firefighters, cops, and the men who get mixed up in their lives, always with a happy ever after.
She lives just outside London and spends every waking minute she isn’t with family either reading or writing. The last time she had a week’s break from writing, she didn’t like it one little bit, and she has yet to meet a box of chocolates she couldn’t defeat.
Anyta Sunday
EMAIL: anytasunday@gmail.com
RJ Scott
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EMAIL: rj@rjscott.co.uk
Shrewd Angel by Anyta Sunday
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The Christmas Prince by RJ Scott
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