Prince Rainier
Week One. Day One.
I once walked through the deserts of Africa in the summer sun with no water on hand. Everywhere I looked, there was nothing but the red sand, too hot to walk on—even the snakes slithered carefully so the sand touched the smallest amount of their bodies at a time as possible. The birds flying overhead flew quickly, to put as much distance between themselves and that great valley of death as they could. What a morning that was! I nearly died that day. It wasn't until my valet Ivan found me half dead on the ground that I awakened from the brink of death.
No. I've never walked through the deserts of Africa in the summer sun with no water on hand. But I once had a Bolbec induced hangover, and that's sort of the same thing.
I'm a very attentive person. I'm famous for good judgment. So of course I know if someone's boring when my mind has wondered to my Bolbec hangover—a morning so horrible and traumatizing that I told God I'd never think of it again.
My Bolbec hangover came about on the morning after a ball like this, actually. Who on earth would dare to awaken that memory from the crypt I had long since buried it in? I look down at the guilty party. A young woman. That's odd. I never get bored of hearing women talk. I never get bored of women, period. They're so bloody magical.
Personally, I've always believed women to be one of God's greater creations. Cleavage, a lively giggle and a pretty smile have nothing to do with it. Really. Men annoy me. They bore me. Women always seem to be having so much more fun. Have you ever been in a position where you're stuck with the most insipid company of people, and then suddenly your eyes land upon the throng of fellows who seem to be enjoying every moment of their lives? Well, for me, it's always been the ladies. Their life is contagious, their cheer infectious, their beauty and perfection placing them above all other creatures in the world. I've never been upset in the company of a woman—whether she's laughing with me, walking with me, or climbing on top of me—no woman has ever truly bored me before. But it's not until I see a new, strange face across the ballroom that I realize no woman has ever captivated me before, either.
The girl is tired, I can see that on her face. Her eyes are on the floor as she leans against the wall with champagne in her hand. People laugh and dance and pass her by, but she doesn't even notice them. I can't explain what it is about her that seems to draw my step towards her. She has this...air about her. But there's nothing special about her individual traits. Dark brown hair. I've seen it before. Pale skin dotted with beauty marks. I've seen that, too. In fact I saw it in my chambers last night. She's not too tall. But somehow, on this girl…it's mesmerizing. I can't put a finger on what it is—not until a pair of eyes snap up and meet mine. Her eyes floor me. They glitter. Like the facets of diamonds. Slate and stormy gray, dazzling and twinkling enticingly in the light. I don't know what to do. I've been caught staring—hardly attractive. She looks ready to take flight if I come any closer. Our eyes lock. She's still as long as I stay put, I stay put as long as she's still.
So…what now?
I lower my gaze for a moment. Not backing down—asking permission. Please let me get close enough to hear your voice. Please let me get close enough to hear your laugh. Please let me get close enough to see your smile.
I look back up. Her eyes have never left me. She gives—in the candlelight—the smallest of smiles, and then I blink. When I open my eyes, she is gone.
