The Prince I Love to Hate: A Steamy Romantic Comedy (The Heir Affair Book 1) by Iris Morland (learn to read books TXT) 📗

“Oh, they have a few.” Olivier waved a hand. “One is going to inherit her father’s fortune; the other is the daughter of a grand duke of Luxembourg or something as small as Salasia. All very nice women.”

“Why do they sound like they’re the literal worst, then?”

He grimaced. “They’re fine.”

“‘Fine’ is a four-letter word, my dude.”

“A marriage with either of them would be acceptable.” He stopped to pluck a wildflower from a tiny garden alongside the street. He twirled it between his fingers.

“Acceptable? Don’t you want to marry for love?”

The flower stopped twirling. “People like me don’t marry for love.” He let the flower fall to the ground, but when he turned away, I picked it back up and placed it in my pocket.

What? I was sentimental, okay?

On our way back to our hotel, I stewed over what Olivier had told me. Although a part of me struggled to feel too much sympathy for a man who was rich and handsome and was born into privilege, the other part of me pitied him. He was born into this life, but he hadn’t chosen it, either. If he’d been born a regular person, what would he have become? Would he have married for love, gotten a decent job, traveled when they had money, and had lived a normal, boring life?

Most of all, it reminded me that my blossoming infatuation for him could go nowhere. His parents would never approve of me, a nobody Irish-American who hadn’t worn a dress since junior high homecoming. I wasn’t ashamed of any of those facets of my life, either.

It merely meant that I would be unsuitable for Olivier, and vice versa.

Even as I told myself that, it still stung. Maybe because I was stubborn, but I almost wanted to prove his parents wrong. Which was stupid, because Olivier only liked my boobs and not much else. Hardly a great start to a legitimate relationship.

Who said anything about marriage? my brain said coyly. Sleep with the guy and get him out of your system. He’s clearly attracted to you. And you can go back to America and tell everyone you had sex with an actual prince.

I hadn’t had sex in way too long. Clearly, I was just horny and desperate. But then my mind decided to fill it with all kinds of lurid images—Olivier cupping my breasts, Olivier pulling my jeans down to my ankles as he parted my legs, Olivier pressing a finger inside my pussy—and I had to squeeze my legs together to keep from getting seriously aroused.

I considered seeing if I could get Olivier into bed tonight, but I realized early on that he was too distracted with getting ahold of the antiques dealer’s widow. He called her in the taxi on the way back to our hotel, but no one had picked up, and there’d been no voicemail. Throughout the evening, Olivier had kept calling, despite me telling him that his constant calls would only deter someone from calling him back.

“She’s going to block your number,” I said for what felt like the thousandth time.

Olivier growled, glaring at his phone. Then he saw my phone in my hand and said, “We’ll call from yours.”

“Yes, I’m sure she’ll be more inclined to answer from a Washington State number.” But I handed over my phone regardless. I just hoped it didn’t cost me a million dollars in roaming fees.

Olivier tried on my phone twice before calling it a night. As we lay in our respective beds that night, he said, “If we can’t find this woman, I don’t know where else to go.”

I’d thought the same thing. Turning over, I said, “We’ll call her from the hotel phone. Then a pay phone. And if all else fails, we’ll go back to the store where you got the number to make sure it’s right.”

He sighed. “Then what? If that doesn’t work?”

“Now you’re just being a Debbie Downer. We’ll figure something out.”

“I don’t know what a Debbie Downer is.”

“It’s an expression. It’s somebody who’s always seeing the glass as half empty.”

His expression was wry. “Sometimes the glass is just that: half empty.”

I put in my headphones. “Good night, Prince Olivier. Tomorrow is another day.”

I didn’t hear what he said in reply.

Chapter Ten

“He says it’s the right phone number,” said Olivier in exasperation. He returned to speaking French with the shopkeeper, a middle-aged man with his hair parted right down the middle and smoothed down with an excessive amount of hair gel.

We’d returned to the bookshop where Olivier had gotten the phone number yesterday. Apparently, the shop owner was insisting that the number was correct. I could see Olivier getting frustrated, mostly that the man didn’t seem inclined to double-check.

I began to wander through the aisles of books. Most of them were in French, obviously, but I found the small section of English books. Most of the selection consisted of French authors translated into English, along with various classics. At the bottom of the shelf, though, were a handful of romance novels—in English, no less.

I pulled out a historical romance by a favorite author of mine. I hadn’t read this one, and I’d already finished the one romance I’d brought with me. I was a total bore and preferred to read printed books still. Probably because they smelled nice. If e-readers could let out a puff of new-book scent, though, I’d buy one in a heartbeat.

“The Seduction of Miss Emily Morris,” Olivier read over my shoulder. “That rather gives the plot away, no?”

I laughed. “Romance novels aren’t known for being subtle.”

He plucked the book from my fingers before I could react. He held it over my head as he flipped through it. “Where are the love scenes? Ah, found one.” He raised one golden eyebrow as he began to read aloud: “‘A fire lit in her belly. Damian’s hands were magic. Everywhere he touched, it was like fire across her skin.’”

“Oh my God, stop—”

He