Final Cost (The Winter Trilogy #3)

The Billionaire’s Princess

“Don’t lose your shit,” my brother Ryker says as he emerges from the babbling throng and corners me near the bar, where I have been nursing my second dirty martini and doing my best to avoid all human contact.

I’m entering week four of the nightmare that I’ve begun to think of as Carly-gate. My exhaustion-fueled mood has worsened every day that I scan the endless New York crowds for that single glorious face that I never find. I’m tired of these episodes of low-key cardiac arrest every time I spy the wrong redhead. I’m furious at myself for the ongoing prideful paralysis that prevents me from trying to track her down and see her again when I know I’ll never rest until I do.

In short? I’m pissed at her for putting me through this, myself for my inability to get over it, my brother for dragging me to this excruciating event and refusing to allow me to sulk without interruption and the world in general.

I scowl at him accordingly. “The fuck are you talking about? I never lose my shit.”

“Your shit’s been lost since you met a certain British female. Don’t deny it.”

My scowl deepens. I confessed the pertinent details about Carly’s disappearance during a moment of weakness that I now, obviously, regret.

“Speaking of lost shit, where’s your lovely new squeeze Ella? Why isn’t she here?”

Ryker met said Ella at Bemelmans the same night I met Carly. Let’s just say that, from all appearances, Cupid nailed him between the eyes with a particularly big and sharp arrow. This smitten fool can’t stop talking about her. He’s damn near as out of sorts as I am these days.

“She’s, ah, not into cocktail parties,” he says, his ears turning a satisfying shade of red.

“Too bad.” My brothers and I never miss an opportunity to give each other grief. Generally good-natured, but we show no mercy. “Seems like she’d come if she were more into you.”

“She’s plenty into me. Trust me.”

“If you say so.”

“And don’t try to change the subject. I’ve got information that’s about to change your life.”

Sure he does. And my ass shits gold dust and diamonds.

“The clock’s ticking on any interest I may have in this conversation,” I say, checking my watch.

He smirks at me, never a good sign.

“She’s here,” he says with a subtle tip of his head toward the far end of the room.

The she needs no explanation.

My heart stops. Soaring hope will do that to you when you hardly ever feel it. I forget about my nosy audience of one and nearly give myself whiplash glancing around. And suddenly there it is after weeks of fruitlessly searching for it. Hoping for it. Praying for it.

The fiery auburn hair, pulled back in a sleek ponytail this time. The ivory skin and willowy figure poured into a tight and sexy black suit that bares a healthy amount of cleavage. The patrician profile I feel like I’ve willed into existence again.

Carly .

I marvel at her beauty and her insistence on presenting this hot librarian look to the world when I’ve experienced the unleashed tiger that lives inside. I note the tension in her shoulders and tightness in her expression. I hate her for standing there with her drink as though she’s a normal person at a normal cocktail reception when she’s had my thoughts and my balls in her tight-fisted grasp this whole time.

But I don’t hate her nearly as much as I want her.

I freeze while two opposing factions inside me immediately weapon up and go to battle with each other. The proud and angry part insists that I walk over there, grab her by the arm and demand to know what the hell she thought she was doing by walking out on me when we both know—or should know—that we’re not fucking done with each other. And the humbled and relieved part of me wants me to drop to my knees and thank the God that I don’t even believe in for bringing her back across my path. For giving me the opportunity to apologize if I’ve somehow offended her. For blessing me with another chance to bask in her light and see what she might say or do next.

With any other woman, the angry side would win. No question. She doesn’t want me? No problem. Her loss. The sea is big and full of fish.

But Carly’s invaded my head. She’s like an octopus that has wrapped her tentacles around my brain, and her tentacles have tentacles. She’s been my every waking and sleeping thought for the last three weeks. And I haven’t slept. I haven’t fucking slept .

I register the guy with her for the first time, noting his hungry body language as he leans toward her. My entire body clenches.

“Who’s the loser?” I bark.

“He may or may not be her fiancé,” my brother tells me.

The fuck he is.

Something raw and primitive gives me a vicious shove between the shoulders, propelling me a step or two toward her with no conscious thought. So much for being proud and aloof. But Ryker clamps a hand on my arm, stopping me.

“What?” I snarl, pulling free. I don’t have time for this. What if she slips away again while I’m dealing with this idiot?

“Didn’t I just tell you not to lose your shit?” he asks, incredulous.

“Get out of my way or you’re going to be scraping this floor clean with your teeth.”

Ryker snorts out a laugh that does nothing to improve my mood. “Don’t you want to know who she is before you go off half-cocked?”

I keep one eye on her, but she doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. And my rabid curiosity gets the best of me, because I still don’t even know her last name.

“Who?”

“Her grandmother’s the Queen.”

“Of?” I say blankly.

“England, you stupid fuck. Her father is Prince Edmund. Duke of Montgomery. She introduced herself as Carly, but her full name is Charlotte Montgomery. Princess Charlotte.”

My brain reels while he types something on his phone and presses it into my hand.

“Here you go,” he tells me. “Take a minute to educate yourself.”

I grab the phone, grateful that at least one of us can think clearly.

“You keep eyes on her for me,” I say. “It’s your ass if she walks off before I can talk to her.”

“Aye, cap.”

I quickly read and scroll with growing astonishment, my adrenaline buzz making my hands unsteady. I catch pictures of her throughout her life, from chubby-cheeked cherub until now. Images of her with her father and with— oh, shit— the Queen on the balcony of Buckingham Palace during some big event. Recent snippets about her long-term romance with old Percy over there and speculation about a pending engagement. I also see a recent headline or two about her father’s questionable personal financial situation, which may or may not be dire.

I file all of it away for later. When I have time to do more thorough research.

For now? I have everything I need to know.

“Thanks,” I say, passing the phone back to my brother.

“We good? I don’t want any incidents with you and security tonight.”

“We’re good,” I say, already on my way. I slice my way through the crowd with surgical precision, scrupulously avoiding eye contact with anyone who may want to talk to me.

Now is not the time.

I get there fast. Suddenly there she is, standing right in front of me. Within touching distance, right where I want her. I can’t decide whether I want to wring her elegant neck for putting me through this turmoil or bear-hug her into oblivion.

“Excuse me,” I say, stepping into her line of sight and interrupting Percy mid-sentence. “Haven’t we met before?”

Her breath hitches as soon as I begin to speak, her gaze immediately connecting with mine. I experience a millisecond’s worth of an unguarded reaction from Princess Carly. Her eyes widen. Her cheeks flood with color. A hint of a smile curls her lips before she thinks to stop herself for Percy’s benefit. What do these clues add up to? Unmitigated delight. All of it happens in less than the time it takes for a hummingbird to flap its wings. But it’s plenty of time for me to learn everything I need to know. More than enough time for me to both want her a bit more and hate her a bit more.

If she’s this eager to see me again, why the fuck didn’t she stick around and give me half a chance three weeks ago?