Sora had been at the charity ball for only half an hour but he was more than ready to leave.
Events like this were painfully predictable. Flat champagne, unidentifiable food, too much bling…and too many women competing for his attention.
"The Keyblade Master" was ready to say goodbye to the whole thing, too. But then, Sora the Manhattan billionaire and the weilder of the mystical keyblade were the same man, though nobody at this party knew it.
It was a tightly guarded secret, known only by his close friends. For the past six months, Sora had been living in New York and enjoying his freedom, but two weeks from now he would return home to Traverse Town and assume his responsibilities.
His homeland was an island kingdom in what seemed like a whole other universe, however it was long destroyed. It was wealthy, but smaller than its neighbors. Sora's friend Riku feared that without a new direction and new leadership, Traverse Town might be swallowed up by a new evil and they had decided that it was time Sora provided that leadership.
Sora knew the importance of duty. He had agreed, but with a price: half a year of anonymity far from Traverse Town.
"A king cannot think of his own needs," Riku had said, when Sora told him he was taking this time alone.
"I am not yet king, Riku" Sora had replied with quiet determination. "I am still myself, free to make my own choices, and I am simply informing you of my plans."
His friend's stern face had softened. "You have the spirit our people require, Sora," he'd said, "but you must be king by the time your friends Donald and Daisy marry. It will be a huge event, viewed by the entire realm, and you should attend as Sora, the leader and protector of Traverse Town."
So Sora moved to a Manhattan penthouse and assumed the carefree existence that went with having good looks and lots of money. Nobody questioned his sudden appearance. He had been protected from the media as a boy and carefully maintained his privacy as a man. Besides, this was New York, a city in which modern fairy tales thrived.
Two weeks more, and Sora's would end. And tonight, he'd realized he was ready for that to happen. Maybe there was truth in the old saying that there could be too much of a good thing.
Sora raised his glass, caught the overly-sweet smell of cheap champagne, changed his mind about drinking any more of it and surreptitiously eyed his watch. Tonight's cause—Save the Pelicans, Save the Penguins, Save Something or Other—was a good one but for the most part, events like this were not. He had the damnedest desire to grab the mike and ask if anyone here had ever considered staying home and just sending a check. Or, even better, volunteering. He'd helped build houses for the poor in an outlying province of Arabia a couple of years ago and he'd enjoyed every sweaty, muscle-building minute.
Grabbing that microphone might not be a bad idea…
Hell.
A waiter sidled by. Sora exchanged his flute of flat champagne for what turned out to be an apple martini. He shuddered, got rid of it and decided it was time to leave. Really leave, maybe move up his return to Traverse Town by a few days. It was time.
Yes, there were things he'd miss. Anonymity. Solitude. The right to be with a woman solely because she wanted him—but then, there was never any guarantee of that, not when you had a lot of money. New York women had been all over him and it would have been even worse if they'd known he had a title. He'd never thought a man could tire of being surrounded by beautiful, eager-to-please females, but he had.
From now on, at least, trying to figure out a woman's motives would not be a problem.
He would find himself a wife.
She would be of royal blood or, at the least, well-bred. She would be from his part of the world. Traverse Town maintained a polite relationship with the sheikhs of Arabia but their culture was too different from that of his own. She would be attractive—he would demand that much—but other than that, royal marriages were about duty. Not love, not passion, not heat and sex and challenge…
It was definitely time to get out of here, out of New York, before he got himself into trouble—although it did seem wrong to end his freedom on a down note. Surely, there was something he could do as a send-off…
"Have you purchased your raffle tickets yet?"
The voice was female and no-nonsense. It reminded him of the icy governesses of his childhood, and he reached for his wallet without bothering to look up.
"How much?" he said, his tone bored and brusque.
"A thousand dollars each."
"Fine. I'll take five."
"Five?" Her voice dripped disdain. "Only five, given your reputation for squandering your money?"
That did make him look up and—surprise, surprise—the woman looked nothing like any governess he'd ever known. Not with that long, lush body, that sexy tumble of brown locks, that spectacular face and those enormous, azure colored eyes. She was looking at him with something close to contempt.
She was beautiful. And unless she was putting on a damned good act, she didn't seem the least impressed by him.
Seducing her into his bed might be the perfect way to say goodbye to his six months of freedom.
