“Which ones are yours?”

“Oh, I can grab . . .” His steady stare had my words trailing off with a sigh. “The aluminum Fendi ones with the red straps.”

Without a word, Lucian—and really, he was far too big and gruff to be a Lucian—turned and began hauling my bags off the conveyor belt. When he set the last of them down, he shot me another look.

“These all of your bags?” he said, as though I’d brought a trousseau. There were only four.

“Unless I’m suffering from sudden amnesia, yes, those are all of them.”

“Hmm.”

Two grunts and a hmm. Lovely.

“I like to be prepared,” I felt compelled to say.

He gave me a sly, sidelong glance. “Didn’t have a pen handy, though.”

“A pen?”

“For that autograph I wanted.”

Argh.

“If you’re going to ask for an autograph, Brick, you should approach with pen in hand.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Well, this was going to be a fun drive.

CHAPTER TWO

Lucian

It figured Emma Maron would be more beautiful in person, more potent. Though her hair was now a honey gold instead of white and blue, I’d recognized her immediately and felt a tug of hot attraction. A year ago, I’d have been laying on the charm from word one, already plotting to woo her into my bed. I would have been pleased as punch that Mamie put her in my path. Well, I would have done all that if I hadn’t been engaged back then. The fact that I’d plain forgotten I had been engaged at all was unsettling.

This woman was a walking distraction. I didn’t do well with distractions lately. Especially ones with smiles of spun sugar and the confidence of a first-class sniper—God knew her verbal hits had perfect aim. That combination shouldn’t have been sexy. But it was.

I felt a twitch along my whole body as I opened the passenger door of my pickup truck and waited for her to get in. For a brief second, she’d paused and glanced at me with those wide indigo-blue eyes, as if she was waiting for me to take her hand and physically help her up into the truck. And the twinges within me became a full-fledged body clench.

I didn’t want to touch her. It felt dangerous. Like some awkward boy, I feared physical contact with this woman, as though it might mess with me so badly that I’d spew even more dumbass replies in the face of her bubbly effusiveness.

But then she merely flashed me a quick breathtaking smile and hopped in with surprising ease. I shut the door with a sigh of relief. But it was short lived. The drive was over an hour. An hour stuck in close quarters with the world’s favorite barbarian princess.

Not that she looked like she had the strength to hurt a ladybug. Of course, on Dark Castle she possessed magic and could melt the faces off poor unfortunate souls. Fiction or not, it made a man tread lightly.

Rolling a crick out of my neck, I got into the truck. And was hit by her scent. Five seconds in the damn vehicle, and the entire thing was imbued with the fragrance of her, rich and sweet, poached pears in crème anglaise. No, do not think of pastry cream. Or licking it.

My response to her was unnerving as hell. For a year I hadn’t felt a glimmer of sexual need or attraction. Hadn’t even missed it—which was cause for concern as well. But I’d been resigned to my apathetic state. As effectively as sticking a plug into a socket, Emma Maron had shocked my system into wakefulness. And I didn’t like it.

“So how far is it to the house?” she asked as I started the truck.

Too long. Forever.

“About an hour.”

I didn’t miss the little wrinkle of alarm that knitted her brow. But she quickly smoothed it out and sat back. We made it all the way outside of the airport before she broke the silence. “This will be fun.”

The dry sarcasm had an unfamiliar urge to smile rising up within. I swallowed it down. “Oh, definitely.”

“What word did you use before?” Her plush mouth curved on a sly smile. “A hoot, was it?”

“A hoot and a holler,” I deadpanned, making her laugh. Jesus, her laugh. Husky and easy. A bedroom laugh. I shifted in my seat and concentrated on the road.

But I couldn’t stop myself from glancing her way. Mistake.

God, she was gorgeous. Pure and cleanly beautiful. From the rounded crests of her cheeks to the delicate sweep of her jaw, she had the kind of face sculptors memorialized in marble and the rest of us gazed upon for centuries to come.

Of course she was beautiful. She was an actress. Meant to be idolized on the screen. Emma Maron, a.k.a. Princess Anya, future queen and conqueror on Dark Castle. The guys and I used to watch the show while traveling between games. Anya was a favorite. Particularly since . . .