Category: book tour

Dylanheads to Ireland, somehow he took her luck with him. Now
Yuki must board a plane to god-knows-where, to encounter
god-knows-what, hoping for a chance to tell Dylan the truth. Because
he’s captured her heart and something tells Yuki she’ll
need luck to get him back.

Friends

become lovers in Yuki’s Luck with strong family ties, alpha men,
and professional women in beautiful Dublin Ireland.  This BWWM
romance will have you happily reading non-stop until the last word.

Falling

in love is easy. Staying in love presents a challenge for this
couple. On the rocks, an alpha male and strong woman will push their
love to the limits. This novella will have you glued to the couch
until…The End.

“Do you have a reservation?” A man in a penguin suit asks from behind a podium. I glance over his shoulder,
and the inside is formal with white linen and soft candles. It echoes one sentiment, romantic.
No Dylan. No Dylan. No Dylan. This chant isn’t working as images of his smile, his eyes and a low rate hum
ensue. The one I get every time I think about him. Every time I see him. It happens more frequently. This will
not help.
Before Asher married Jazz the three of us did everything together. Then our three became two. It felt odd
without Asher at first. Over the past year, it became something we did. Every Saturday. Movies. Museums.
Concerts.
Missing our third wheel this time alone feels intimate. And although our secret meetings aren’t really a secret
we have never had a candlelight dinner. But this is the address he sent by text this morning.
“Ma’am.” His annoyed glare bores into me.
“Ah, Jameson, Dylan Jameson.” He scans a list under a reading lamp, my stomach’s in knots.
“Dylan, what are you doing?” I whisper searching the room for his familiar face.
“I want to celebrate your birthday.” His silky voice holds a challenge. I stumble back connecting with his chest.
“We shouldn’t.” Dylan steps closer planting his large hands on my hips.
“Of course we should.”
“Sir.” The suit insists.
“Give us a second.” Dylan turns me to face him as he scans my body from head to toe. A singe of heat
accompanies his roaming appraisal of my black dress paired with silver heels.
“Yuki. Join me. Or I could celebrate your birthday alone.” I see his smile before his head falls.
“How do you plan to celebrate my birthday without me?” I punch him in the arm. “You don’t have to do this.” I
glance again over his broad shoulders at the impatient suit.
“I know how important twenty-seven is to you.”
I don’t buy luck. However, on my seventh birthday, Momma adopted me. I graduated college at seventeen.
Twenty-seven looks as promising as the others. This is the downside of knowing him for most of my life.
There are very few secrets between us. I stare up into his blue eyes, and I shiver.
“We could dine upstairs,” he offers.
Taking a deep breath. Upstairs means fewer eyes, we would be alone. Alone, alone. But this is Dylan, we’ve
spent time alone before. I roll my shoulders back and close the space between us.
“What’s upstairs?”
“My penthouse suite.”

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Therewill also be we

ekly
giveaways for the series on the author’s blog during the month of
August. For details visit http://www.janesedixon.com/blog

 

Newly
knighted Adonis Truscott returned from the Continent with a tendency
to get lost in his thoughts. His frequent episodes of staring into
space have his sister claiming he’s a candidate for Bedlam – and he’snot about to argue. He doesn’t always remember where or when he was
when he recovers, but he remembers he made a promise, and he’s
determined to keep it. A promise to provide protection for Lydia,
whether she wants it or not.

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The thought of viewing artwork created more than a millennia ago excited Lydia. That
someone had the skills to cut and carve marble into such detailed works of art meant the
ancestors of humanity weren’t the barbaric creatures she had been warned of whilst still in the
schoolroom in Merriweather Manor.
For every Spartan, there had been an Athenian, after all.
Viewing statues of mostly naked men would have been nearly impossible if there were too
many others with her in the Gallery. On a day such as this, she had the room to herself.
She didn’t exactly study the statues, but surreptitiously surveyed them as she slowly
walked around each one. She found them intriguing. Men nowadays weren’t so very different
from those of two- or three-thousand years ago, she decided, although she only had experience
with the two from current times. Perhaps the Greeks were more beautiful. Youthful, mayhap. Or
perhaps they only depicted younger subjects because it was difficult to carve wrinkles into
marble.
The reclining man before her was definitely youthful, his body barely muscled, his face
relaxed as if he were sleeping. She could almost feel his soft breaths as he lay there, one arm
raised above his head and angled so its hand was atop his curly hair whilst the other was bent
with its hand resting beneath his chin. He wasn’t entirely naked but wore a cape tossed over one
shoulder, and the folds of a skirt were strewn about his mid-section. His feet sported sandals with
leather ties wrapped about his thick ankles.
Awareness of another’s presence in the gallery had the hairs on the back of her neck
reacting.
The sensation of a soft breath wafted over her shoulder again, this time bearing the
slightest hint of sandalwood and spice cologne. Stiffening where she stood, Lydia realized
someone was standing directly behind and to her left. A man, no doubt, given the scent of his
cologne. She was about to put voice to a complaint, but he put voice to a most audacious claim
before she had a chance.
“I’ve been told I look exactly like him,” the male voice whispered, almost in her ear.Lydia carefully stepped to the right and turned slightly, amazed to see that, yes, the intruder
did indeed look exactly like Adonis. Or Endymion sleeping on Mount Latmos, if one
remembered the label mounted next to the block of marble. He was also impeccably dressed in a
superfine navy topcoat, an elaborately embroidered waistcoat in red and gold, and buckskin
breeches that, at the moment, left absolutely nothing to the imagination as far as his muscular
thighs and the bit of anatomy that was located just above them. A quick glance at his tasseled
boots, and Lydia was sure she could see her reflection. One of his gloved hands was pressed onto
the top of a cane handle decorated in ornately-patterned silver plate while the other held what
appeared to be a sketchpad.
“You do, in fact,” she murmured, her gaze darting back and forth between the statue and
his living twin. “Are you related, perhaps?” she asked with an arched eyebrow.
“My mother must have thought so. She named me Adonis,” he replied with an equally
arched eyebrow.

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Seventeen-year-old
Daphne Bowman, a bookish drama nerd in public school, might never
have crossed paths with Oliver, the popular, outgoing mascot for his
private school’s football team, but one event has bound them
inextricably. Daphne’s older sister, Emily, and Oliver’s older
brother, Jason, who were high school sweethearts, committed suicide
together seven years earlier.

When Daphne uncovers
Emily and Jason’s bucket list–a list comprised of their “Top
Ten” places to visit before they die–she knows she has to tell
someone. The one person who might actually get what she’s going
through and who might not think it’s silly that she wants to complete
the list, is also someone she’s never spoken to–Oliver Pagano.
Throwing caution to the wind, Daphne sends Oliver a Facebook message
that will come to change the course of both of their senior
years–and maybe their entire lives.

Tackling grief with a
wry voice and an unflinching eye, So Glad to Meet You tells the story
of two people who, in searching for what they’ve lost, end up finding
what they never knew they needed–each other.

 

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Logan
Farmer is the local sheriff. Small town boy who went to the big city
and joined the police force. Then he came home where he belonged. He
is deeply rooted in his Native American heritage.

 

Both
had grown up knowing that there was more to the world that could be
explained or seen. But neither of them knew that their peaceful lives
could be disrupted in an instant by a legend long buried. A tale that
had been told to them by Logan’s grandmother when they were young
along with a warning that the ancient legend could replay during
their lifetime.

But
was it really an ancient paranormal evil come to roost or were the
recent events merely the doings of a warped human mind? Or had the
human’s events shaped the return of the evil?

TeaganSummers has a secret that she thought she had tucked away forever.
That is, until she was summoned to her home town of Lakewood to help
with banishing an ancient evil that had come to pay a visit to the
sleepy town. Then, she was faced with another woman whose secret
wasn’t so secret anymore.

Devon
Brock knew he had to help his friend, Logan Farmer. Logan had helped
him out too many times to turn his back and say no. However, he
didn’t realize that he would be called upon to pull out his law
license to defend a poor woman who had killed and mutilated her
husband on Halloween night. And he sure never expected to have to
deal with spoiled Teagan Summers as part of it.

Devon
and Teagan join forces as they work valiantly to not only defend a
murderess, but to help Teagan’s sisters and Logan Farmer as they
battle an unseen evil that threatens to destroy the small town of
Lakewood. And as they work together, they also form a tentative truce
that they both know could lead to more.

Eric
Michaels had been born and raised to be a farmer. It was what he did
best. So, when the opportunity to be the foreman at a farm near a
place called Lakeview, he had jumped at the chance. What he hadn’t
planned on was getting sucked into a paranormal nightmare. Things he
couldn’t even begin to fathom. Including finding himself deeply
attracted to a woman who could create magic with the tips of her
fingers.

As
the conclusion of the Summer Sisters trilogy comes to an end, will
they be able to destroy the force that had unearthed itself from its
deep dark grave to destroy them?

BLESSED BE

Alana sat gazing into the fire she built earlier in the day to drive off the chill from the rain that fell
steadily down and battered against the tin roof of her little cabin. Normally, she would have enjoyed
the music created by the rain. It was normally a soothing sound to her. But tonight, something kept
sending chills up her spine as if in warning of some impending crisis. She shivered then, as the chill
became more pronounced when she thought about it. Pulling the heavy crocheted afghan around her
more tightly, she scooted her chair closer to the fire and rested her feet on the thick, tri-colored fur of
her mixed breed dog, Buddy. The big animal was laying on the rag rug by the hearth. He snorted in his
sleep and rolled on his back to expose his belly. Part bloodhound, part St. Bernard, and part God only
knew what, he still played like a puppy even though he was nearing six years old this winter.
“You’re such a silly dog, you even want your belly rubbed in your sleep.” She laughed and ran her
stocking foot along his chest. The big dog was a comfort to her on nights like this. Alana wasn’t afraid to
be out here, in the middle of nowhere, alone. It was just that tonight, something troubling was brewing
and it was pricking at the edges of her peace.
The day had started out like most of her early autumn days. Getting up well before the sun came up, she
had done some yoga, meditated and gave thanks for the many blessings life had given her. Breakfast
had been a healthy combination of fruit, yogurt and granola with a cup of Irish breakfast tea sweetened
with honey from the local beekeeper. After Buddy and Anastasia, her cross-eyed white Siamese cat had
been fed, she spent some time cutting lavender and collecting ripe vegetables from her garden. Since
the day had been sunny, she decided to leave the truck in the barn and ride her bicycle the three miles
into town where she had her shop, Blessed Be.
Blessed Be was her pride and joy. A little bit of everything that Alana loved. She carried candles,
potpourri and soaps made in her kitchen, herbs she grew in her own garden, used and new books, music
CDs, and handmade crafts. Occasionally she would do the occasional spell or reading when it felt right to
do so.
This morning the shop had been especially busy for a week day and she didn’t notice when the clouds
started gathering off to the west, filtering out the sun. She did some accounting work while she ate her
lunch, vegetable soup brought to her by her friend Bessie at the little diner opposite her shop, and
caught up on her internet orders. When the delivery man pulled up out front to collect her shipments,
he shook his head.
“Sure is a long winded storm brewing on the other side of the lake. I hope you drove to work this
morning.” She looked up from her work, a calligraphy piece with an Irish blessing on recycled paper, she
noticed through the front window the dark clouds that appeared to be boiling in the sky. By the time she
closed the shop at five, the clouds were still hanging angrily in the sky but had not moved any closer to
Lakeview, the small town that sat on the northern bank of Victory Lake.
The main street of town ended at the public access beach which boasted a smattering of guest cabins
that were generally full the entire summer. As she rode her bicycle home, she kept a close watch over
her left shoulder and noticed that the clouds were moving along the same path as her own. She got the
first chill up her spine as she rode the bicycle down the lane to her little farm.Sitting here now, she had a feeling something was about to usurp the peacefulness of their small town.
She had circled her cabin and barn with salt, reciting the protection spell her mother taught her and her
sisters many years ago while they were mere children. “It is the most important spell you must learn.”
She could hear her as if she were right in front of her today, even though Rowena was tucked away in
County Kildare in Ireland with Alana’s stepfather Niall Fitzgerald.
Rowena decided when the last of her daughters had turned twenty-one, it was time for her to go in
search of her heritage which led her to Ireland. Alana, being the oldest of the three sisters probably
remembered her father the most. Hobart Summers was a somber man, the exact opposite of their
mother who was always filled with light, laughter and good spirit. He had been a good provider and
when he passed from a sudden brain aneurism at thirty-five, he had left them with enough to live
comfortably until they were all grown.
With her husband gone, Rowena was tired of living in the city and felt drawn to move all of them to
Lakeview where she had worked as the manager to the lake cabins during the tourist season and part
time at the small, local library during the off season.
Alana loved the peaceful solitude here in the country on her farm, and she relished the familiarity of
small town life. Her sisters had chosen entirely different lives. Teagan was the materialistic one of the
three and she had gone to college with the intent of learning something that would land her a wealthy
husband and lifestyle. Not faring well on the first with a messy divorce behind her, she was a travel
agent in Miami, Florida. Riana was the youngest of them, she was still finding her way in life, living like a
modern-day gypsy moving every few months and doing whatever job appealed to her at the moment.
The last Alana knew, she was working as a black jack dealer in Las Vegas.
Alana smiled to herself as she thought of her sisters. She missed them when they weren’t here and
when they were both here for a visit, she spent most of her time and patience mediating between the
younger two. Teagan always judging Riana for her lack of direction and Riana reminding Teagan that she
was the one who had married a drunk playboy that had made sure she didn’t have ‘jackshit’ to show for
it when they got divorced. And when Alana tried to intervene, they both inevitably turned on her and
told her that she was going to live like an old maid the rest of her life if she stayed in this boring hole of a
town. Rowena called weekly to check on all of them, but most of the time the only one that she could
ever get hold of on a regular basis was Alana. “You are such a grounding force for our family, Alana.”
That was always how Rowena ended their calls. Sometimes, Alana didn’t want to be the grounding
force but it was what it was. Alana’s Wiccan element was Earth and that was what Earth did, it
grounded. She reached for her tea and took a sip, enjoying the rich flavor of Earl Grey, her favorite. The
fire crackled and Buddy groaned in his sleep, his back leg jumping as he dreamed of chasing some poor
rabbit or squirrel in the woods. Anastasia was perched on the back of the sofa, her purring so loud that
Alana could hear her from where she sat in her grandmother’s old wing chair on the opposite side of the
room. The lights flickered a bit, but Alana was well prepared after spending the first winter without
electric about half of the time. She had installed a propane powered generator the following spring
which switched on automatically if the power went completely out.
Her cabin was cozy. She didn’t know exactly when it had been built, but she guessed probably in the
early nineteen thirties when Lakeview first became a tourist spot. The property sat three miles from the
town and about three and a half from the main shoreline but in this spot there was a small inlet the size
of a large pond just a few hundred yards behind the barn. The main living area was open with thekitchen to the front on the right side of the entrance with a breakfast bar being the only thing that
separated it from the small dining area that held a round table with two ladder back chairs.
The hand hewn, pine cabinets were plentiful and she had a laundry room off the kitchen which had yet
more pantry storage. Beyond that area was her bathroom with its antique, claw foot tub and a more
recently added modern shower. The sitting area of the living room was to the back of the cabin with a
natural stone fireplace on one wall and bookcases tucked under the open staircase that led to the loft
above. A door was in the middle of the bookcases and that door led to a small guest room where the
previous owners had left twin beds.
A set of French doors faced the back, something that Alana had installed when she moved in so that she
could have a good view of the woods from the covered back porch during the summer and from her
living room in the winter. She used the space in the loft for her bedroom where she had put a king-sized
bed in the middle of the room where the peak of the roof was. Her plan was to someday have a skylight
installed in the roof above her bed so that she could see the moon and stars from her bed at night and
so that the sun shone down on her every morning.
Generally, she watched television in the evening once the sun went down while she either read a book
or did a needlecraft project. Her home was filled with things she had created herself and she loved
books, which was evident by the full shelves under the staircase. Tonight, the satellite dish had gone on
the fritz long before the rain started, so she turned on the CD player and listened to some relaxing
instrumental music while she ate her dinner. Ham and cheese sandwich between two slices of
homemade bread and a handful of sweet potato chips dipped in some caramel sauce.
She pondered how to fill the evening ahead. It had gotten dark early because of the approaching storm,
a stark reminder that as the coming days passed by, winter would be nearer. When she consulted the
earth spirits over the weekend during her Sunday afternoon ritual, they warned of an early winter and
urged her to finish up the harvest as quickly as possible. However, the popcorn was not nearly mature
enough to harvest and would need at least another month. The pumpkins and squash weren’t
completely ripened either and her three apple trees had not fared well this year because of a late freeze
that killed most of the early blooms. But she had heeded their warning and picked what she could,
spending most of the afternoon on Sunday roasting sunflower seeds and stringing peppers to hang in
the laundry room to dry.
The book on the table by her chair beckoned to her. It was a recent best seller by one of her favorite
authors, a romance writer who threw in a little bit of paranormal for a twist. She picked up the book
and tucked her legs up beneath her, the afghan wrapped around her lower body. Maybe reading
something romantic would ease the uncomfortable feeling that still permeated her body.
The sound of the rain on the roof, the crackle of the fire, the softly playing music combined to relax
Alana as she read and she felt her eyelids go heavy. Her breathing became shallow and the book slipped
from her hands onto her lap as she dozed off.
She was running through the woods toward the small inlet behind the barn. The full moon overhead lit
her way through the branches of the trees that had shed a portion of their leaves. Something, someone
was compelling her to come.
Help. Help me. Please help me.

A cloud drifted across the moon and the woods was dark for a moment but it didn’t matter, she knew
these woods like the back of her hand. One of the gifts of having Earth as her own element. Her bare
feet touched the damp ground, the recent rain leaving puddles in some parts of the path that weren’t
covered by the trees.
Why am I here? Oh, yes, the compelling subconscious knowledge that she was needed to help someone.
Suddenly, the woods closed up and the path disappeared. How could this be? This was a familiar path.
Where was Buddy? He had been ahead of me. She tried to call out to him but nothing came out of her
mouth. Had she remembered to ground and protect herself before rushing out of the cabin in the middle
of the night? She couldn’t remember. The moon disappeared completely, only it wasn’t the clouds that
were covering the moon. What is it? It feels bad. Evil. Wicked. She tripped over a root that shouldn’t
have been in her path and felt herself falling. Falling. Falling.
The wind picked up outside the cabin and a branch banged against the window, causing Anastasia to
come off her perch on the back of the sofa and hiss. It was a chain reaction then, with Buddy stiffening
up under her feet and sending out a warning growl. Anastasia growled low in her throat, a warning
growl, then arched her back with the hair standing up. Buddy came to his feet and ran toward the door,
barking vigorously, the sound echoing throughout the cabin.
Alana awoke with a start and took a relaxing breath when she realized she had fallen asleep and was
dreaming. But something was wrong, she could sense it. Buddy was still barking furiously at the door
and as she got up, his tail started wagging and he let out a whine about the same time a knock sounded
at her door. Buddy whined again and pawed at the door.
She blinked the last remnants of sleep out of her eyes and got up from the chair, crossing the wood floor
in her stocking feet. Reaching for the door knob she pushed gently at Buddy with her foot. “Move, you
big lug. I can’t open the door with you in front of it.” The dog complied, his whole body wagging now
and his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, ready to give a serious tongue bath to whomever was
on the other side of the door.
When she pulled the door open, a tall, familiar form was standing on her porch under the yellowish
light. His back was to her, but she recognized the jeans clad figure with the holster at his side. Logan
Farmer, the county sheriff, turned to face her and the look on his face was a grim one. “Alana. It’s not
good.” He took a breath, his shoulders lifting and falling with the action. “Old Herman Monroe. I got
the call about an hour ago.” He looked down at his feet for a moment and Alana followed his gaze.
The boots were covered with mud and something else. Blood. She put a hand out to touch his arm.
She and Logan had been friends since they were kids and he had even dated her sister, Teagan, briefly.
Very briefly. “What is it, Logan?”
When he looked up at her, his dark eyes were glistening with unshed tears. “He’s dead, Alana. His wife
went to search for him when he didn’t come in for dinner and she found him in the barnyard. She
thought maybe he slipped in the mud when he was feeding the livestock but when she looked closer, it
looked…” His words trailed off and he appeared to be trying to compose himself before he continued.
This time, when Alana touched his arm she closed her eyes and the image came into her mind as clearly
as if she had seen it herself. The old man lying in the muddy barnyard with his dead eyes staring up in

fear and his throat ripped out. She pulled away, her stomach roiling and tears coming to her eyes. “An
animal? How can that be, Logan?”
He lifted his eyes to meet hers. “You know how as well as I do. We all knew this was going to happen.”

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Albert leaned back, though he might as well have tried to move a brick wall. The ornate chair
gave no quarter. His lower back remained a knot of muscle, a remnant from his flying days,
whenever he sat still. Overhead chandeliers cascaded fifteen feet above the tables, laid for a
three-course meal. Oyster forks. Albert unbuttoned his jacket. The schedule read four hours – at
the rate they were going, this ceremony would be slower than the Oscars. At the opposite table, a
blonde bombshell flashed the valley of her breasts while bending forward for her napkin. Frigid
aircon blew on the top of his head though most of the women wore one-shouldered gowns, if
they had straps at all. Simpering glances from the others on either side of the blonde came his
way. As they had done since he was old enough to register women’s interest. When had that
been? When he was five? Shuttled from his mother’s side into boarding school and then the
army; his family worked to keep him as far from women as they could. Or was it women as far
from the century’s most eligible bachelor? In either case, the women themselves couldn’t be
stopped. Like father, like son the tabloid captions read, as Albert worked his way through a
stream of interchangeable blonde girlfriends while at university. He shuddered at the
comparison.
Tonight no one of fuckable age sat in any of the eight seats at his table or at the one
immediately to his right. Two women out of the hundreds scattered in rows throughout the
ballroom were at his table and these were matronly types. Normally this would irk him. Torie
never missed a moment to remind him that, as the keeper of the family crown, her duty was to
ensure he stayed in line. Her darling little brother. The heir meant to be the spare.
Tonight, however, Albert could use a break after his weekend in the American city of Las
Vegas. Like they say, detox. He smirked at the gent in the tuxedo to his left. Seventy if he was a
day. Earl… Lord… something. Cufflinks glinted in the dimmed lights. There was a crest there,
he could make it out if he squinted a bit longer. Albert lost the summary card with the event
details and hadn’t listened while his aide, Edward, gave him the run-down of those seated at his
table. Albert shuffled through the notes tucked inside his jacket. Thank everyone for their time.
Recognize how important the events are.
“Sir.” A waiter, his face filled with wrinkles pulling at deflated cheeks, harrumphed on
Albert’s left.
“Yes, what is it?”
“I present Miss Heather Sparkle.”
“Spark—” Albert forgot his caustic remark as an olive-skinned woman slid into the seat
on his right. Her high-necked, black lace dress hugged a trim figure. Other than the men in
tuxedos, she wore the most fabric of anyone in the room.
The tuxedo on the other side of her rumbled about no one being seated after all the royals
were in the room. “Most unorthodox,” he said. The waiter looked down a long nose.
“I’m sorry, the studio’s helicopter was late.” Sparkle’s eyes darted around the room. Her
hands tugged at the ends of long, straight black hair. “Mixed up landing times or something.”
She pulled a napkin onto her lap. “Am I a course behind?” In her agitation, she picked up the
butter knife, to do what exactly with the empty charger, Albert couldn’t have guessed.
“Oh, Miss Sparkle, you made it.” Edward pushed aside the waiter who remained still as a
pillar.Albert leaned on one elbow – a sight Torie would have frowned on disapprovingly – to
take in the unusual occurrence of a breathless Edward. Normally his dour equerry, inherited from
his mother’s staff, would have nudged Albert’s chin off his palm. Except at the moment the
unflappable Edward focused entirely on the late arriving guest.
“They gave me a hard time at the door,” she said. Slender fingers tapped the bun at her
neck before flitting to the check the tear shaped necklace in the hollow of her throat. “No one is
allowed in after the prince.” Now she craned her neck as if looking for another prince, one other
than he seated next to her. “They didn’t say where he was.”
“Oh, he’s–” Edward coughed.
“I hope he didn’t see.” Sparkle dropped the knife back onto the plate with a clang.
“Those pesky rules.” Albert gave her a wink that the three hundred strong paparazzi
would have loved had they been allowed in the ceremony itself, not panting at the entrance for a
chance at a close up. “Surely he’s too busy to notice.”
“Yes, hopefully no one will notice,” she repeated to herself in a whisper. A fringe of dark
lashes lowered. The effect was – alluring. Albert toyed with his butter knife. She in no way fit
his type – or the type his sister accused him of having. Blonde, billionaire, party girl.
Edward stepped aside as a bevy of waiters approached with warm plates. They elbowed
him out of the way in order to set Albert’s dinner on the gold rimmed charger.
“The ladies first, please,” he said, in a deeper voice since the vision beside him still
hadn’t registered she was in fact sitting by the prince of her concern.
“Of course, sir.”
That got her attention, he noticed with satisfaction.
“Hello,” she said pointedly to Lord-what’s-his-name.
A mild shiver ran through Albert. He couldn’t place it as mirth or the sudden onset of a
cold from the continued blast of the aircon. She thought the tuxedo was him. No, surely no.
Surely everyone knew about the red-headed prince. They had television in America. Didn’t they?
The girls he invited to his suite during the last night on the Strip certainly had.
“It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Duke.” She repeated this several times because the
tuxedo – Earl of Nottingham, yes that was him, Louis, – couldn’t hear her.
Albert let out a cough at the twisted expression on the older man’s face as he tried to
make sense of what she was saying. “Young lady,” he began.
Albert raised his hand to stem whatever withering tirade would otherwise ensue. These
were the types of lecture he grew up; good deportment, paying attention, protocol, blah, blah,
blah. “Actually,” Albert interjected. “I believe you’re looking for me.”
A pair of deep brown eyes rounded on in him in growing horror. She sized him up, from
his hairline to his cufflinks. “You’re too young.”
“I don’t think we’ve been introduced.” He chuckled at the red flush creeping up her
cheeks.
“You are.” She closed her eyes in mortification. “Your Highness!”
“The only time a guest may enter at whatever time she chooses, is when she’s the guest
of honor,” Albert explained to the Earl. “Ms. Sparkle here is receiving recognition for her charity
work with children living with AIDS. You might recognize her from her work on – Sport of
Kings?”
“Game of Royals,” she corrected in a murmur.
“Yes, that’s the one.” Albert snapped his fingers. “Haven’t seen it yet,” he said by way of
apology. “Didn’t realize these period dramas now had people worth watching.”Despite her clear agitation, Sparkle gave a giggle. She tucked into the steak with that
peculiar habit Americans had of holding her fork in the right hand.
“Young lady,” the Duke began, aghast that the late arrival would eat before the head of
the table.
“Enjoy your meal,” Albert said. He shook his head at this peer of the realm, someone
Torie had placed here to stymie her brother’s evening. At least the gods sent him this paean of
beauty and earnestness.
“I usually don’t eat at these things,” Sparkle said, the first bite tucked into the side of her
cheek like a chipmunk in order to make conversation possible. “But I’ve been running around all
day.”
“By all means,” Albert said. He folded his arms on the table, eliciting another round of
frowns of disapproval from the Duke. “I know how that is.” This had the opposite effect of
warming her up – Sparkle froze with the fork halfway to her mouth. A cello played,
unaccompanied, a mournful string of notes competing with the click and clang of cutlery at
tables all over the ballroom.
“Oh God, I didn’t read the briefing card.” She gulped down the sizeable piece of meat
garnished with an orangy cream sauce. “It was in the bottom of my bag and it got wet when –”
“Your Highness.” Edward returned, sidestepping the departing waiter with the grace of a
dancer. “Your sister wishes to see you.” He said the second part into his ear.
“I’m at the table,” Albert hissed back. For the first time in months and months he sat next
to someone remotely interesting. How had Torie sniffed it out? He scanned the room for one of
her well-intentioned spies. No Thomas around to steady him if the waters got murky.
“Most urgent,” Edward whispered.
“I’ll have my meal first.” Albert reached for his napkin.
“Code jewels.”
Albert froze. They hadn’t ever used that word. This was their pact, a word that meant
they needed to discuss something big. Something on the level of your-mother-is-dead big. “I’ll
be right back,” he said to the downturned head of the woman attacking the mozzarella and
tomato accompaniment with vigor. He smiled tersely at everyone else at the table, British enough
to know they should stand when a senior royal left the table. She rushed to her feet at the last
minute, bumping her water glass. Canadian he mused as they led him out a side door into a
private lounge. Hadn’t picked that up in the accent.
They walked out of the side exit to the ballroom as the full orchestra filled the room with
the sound of popular concertos at least several hundred years old. The cement hallway magnified
their steps. As the music faded behind them, Edward passed him an oversize iPad. He led them
into a private event room, used for meet and greets with the musicians, with a white baby grand
in the center, and a marble topped bar.
“Can you get me the show? I’ll watch whatever episodes you can stream to me, on the
phone,” Albert called after Edward. “Game of Royals.” His long-time staffer said nothing and
pulled the doors closed, sealing him away from the glamour of the evening a few hundred meters
away. “In any order,” he added, confident of Edward’s excellent hearing. “Any chance of a
drink?” he muttered to himself, eyeing the bar. Albert hoisted himself onto a leather topped stool.
The iPad beeped an in-coming call.
Torie’s face filled the screen, her brow creased in the middle like a folded bedsheet.
“You’re alright.” He let out a whoosh of breath. Then his heart set to racing again.
“Granny?” His panicked mind tried to come up with the family agenda. “Thomas?” His panic

escalated at the thought that after all this, on the eve of his sister’s engagement, her fiancé might
be in peril. No she’s fine. No tears. She’s fine. In searching for relief, flashes of the edges of their
mother’s coffin came into focus. Oppressive summer heat as they walked behind her – behind
her body – through the streets of London.
“We’re all fine,” Torie said in muted tones. The camera focused on her aquiline nose, her
blue eyes glittering with something – not grief – an emotion he hadn’t seen before. “Your tie is
crooked, Albie.”
“I’m in the middle of dinner,” Albert snapped. “Did you really use Mum’s code to correct
my attire?”
“I didn’t,” she sighed. She swiveled, the camera sweeping across their mother’s desk, the
one that they had climbed across as children. Newspapers littered the wide expanse.
Albert’s mirror image in the insert fidgeted with his bow tie in the circle in the lower
right. “What is it, then? Stop frowning. You’re going to ruin that perfect forehead.”
“You’re going to send me to an early grave,” Torie said. She rubbed at her forehead, the
lines still tight around her mouth. Their childhood ribbing hadn’t worked to ease the tension.
“I’m not going to another event tonight.” His mind churned through the reasons she
might have called. “I’m only back from America a few hours and –”
“About that.”
Albert halted in fidgeting with his tie. “I don’t know what they told you but I kept a low
profile as you asked. No paparazzi, hats all the way, no one knew I was there.”
“No one besides the girls in your private party.” Torie paced across the room, scanning
her camera across a set of glossy shots, spread across the coffee table. They showed a panorama
of his suite in the Bellagio; several thousand pounds spent in alcohol and food. A few select
party guests. Women. Blondes.
“Now just a minute. What I do in the suite stays in the suite.”
“Not when your guests share it with the world.” One week, the bags under his sister’s
eyes accused. You couldn’t behave for one week?
Albert flopped into a brocade covered wingback as the camera steadied on an image of
him. Edward wasn’t the only one regretting his week’s vacation. Torie would be furious. Her
brother, nude, save for a pair of hands covering his nether region, kneeling on the bed. Head
thrown back in mirth. No mistaking who it was. Flaming red hair and all.
“Everywhere,” Torie said in the crisp tones of their family. “Twitter. Facebook.
Instagram. All the tabloids. Top of the ticker on the 24-hour cycle.”
“Cousin Torie!” Sophia’s twins burst into the room behind Torie. His sister scrambled to
gather the photos. “Nanny,” Torie called, not quite a shout, ever the lady. “Someone please bring
the nanny.”
“Cousin Bertie!” Andy’s chin filled the screen with Alice clamoring behind him.
“Listen, it’s easy enough to explain,” Albert said, waving to their cousin’s children. “A
game of strip billiards. I mean, I lost. You know I’m crap at games.”
Torie flashed an image at him. Full length of Albert hugging a woman from behind, her
also nude. Thankfully her long hair hid her face. “She’s not great at them either.” Not even a
laugh.
A woman with a thick waist and heavy-soled shoes came in to take each of the protesting
children out, holding their hands. “Come now, let’s see if we can find some biscuits.”
“Head home now,” Torie called from off screen. “We’re handling it.”

Home? What about Sparkle – the screen went blank in his hands. The silence in the
empty sitting room rang in his ears after the commotion of the last few minutes. They were
handling it. Albert pulled off his tie in frustration.
True to form, Edward opened the double doors at the far end of the room. “This way,
sir.”
“I’m not leaving,” Albert protested. “I have an award to give out.”
“All arranged,” Edward said. He persisted in holding the door open. “The Earl of
Nottingham was happy to be of service.”
“What, old Louis?” Albert’s voice rose. “For a cinema honor.” He had no one to be mad
at but himself.
“They wanted someone from the peerage,” Edward said. “The car is here.”
“Peerage? They asked for me,” Albert growled. This man had seen him through far
worse. From the dark days of his parents’ divorce into the oblivion afterward.
“Someone. Anyone.” Edward flicked a hand. “This way sir.”
You couldn’t reason with them that you might need to blow off a little steam. Not that
there was any way to justify his romp. Those girls assured them they knew how to keep a secret.
“A prince! I can’t believe I’m with a real life prince,” they squealed throughout the night,
kicking the phrases back and forth like footballs. At the time, their chorus washed over him, like
a soundtrack to his life. The spare was exciting enough for some – particularly Americans. He
scrolled through the headlines, searching for the worst as a preparatory strategy.
Sexy Soldier!
Private Prince.
Grainy photos, backlit by a floor lamp, him kneeling in rumpled white sheets. Thank God
for those hands he thought, a second time, albeit for completely different reasons. The woman
who held his genitals left him a shred of dignity. From Sandhurst to this. His grandfather’s ire
would be inescapable. Albert recoiled at the questions that awaited him from his family and the
paparazzi. He flung the iPad away and stormed out of the room, winding his way through a
series of hallways to the back of the Victoria and Albert hall. Edward ushered him into the back
seat of a tinted SUV, murmuring, “I’ll follow.”

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