He sighed lustily, considering. “Not tonight,” he decided. “Tonight is for laughter and music and the beautiful American woman who has stood by my side no matter what.”
Fran shot him a glance. “Your side is certainly no hardship,” she said.
“No, no! I refuse to let you downplay it.” Ari’s voice was growing boisterous, and a few tourists turned their way, lifting their glasses. Fran quickly shifted into the shadows, tugging Ari with her.
As the moved deeper into the city the music grew louder, a mix of international house music and tunes that almost sounded like country reels. As the city’s center opened up into a series of mini town squares, she spied food carts and drink stands, open doors on bars and cafes alike, and everywhere, tourists.
Not solely tourists, either. Fran was no expert on native Garronois features, but there were enough olive-skinned, dark-eyed revelers of every age in the mix that she was sure the celebration wasn’t merely for vacationers. The decibel level rose to dangerous heights as conversation vied with the crashing music, but it all served to form a cocoon of sights and sounds around Ari, who’d pulled her yet closer the nearer they got to the center of the celebrations.
She stepped up on tip toe. “Do you know what they’re celebrating?”
He shrugged. “In Garronia, you do not need a reason, only a few like-minded friends. Celebrations like these—”
He drew in a sharp breath and Francesca’s hands immediately went to his temple, his wrist, her body pressing in close against his in case he should need her to brace himself.
“It’s fine—it’s fine,” he said, breathing in a measured cadence as she watched him with a critical eye. “A memory that was important—might become more important. But nothing I could pin down.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Perhaps there was a similar celebration the day I took off. Something like this.”
Fran pursed her lips, considering that possibility. “I don’t think so. It was raining right? Unless there’d been some sort of holiday in progress, I’d think that’d put an end to any serious revelry.”
“Fair enough. But if the storm wasn’t expected until later…” he shrugged. “I don’t know. But it would be interesting to match the timetable of the crash with what came before it, to see if there is anything that matches up.”
Francesca grimaced. With the added ripple of Ari believing foul play was involved in his crash, or at least being angry with someone related to the night of that event, she couldn’t let him continue not knowing who he was. But how did you tell someone they were a dead prince?
They walked along for another block, and Ari stopped, buying them both drinks with Fran’s euros. He crinkled a grin at her as he handed her the plastic cup. “It seems like we should toast to something,” he said. “Every time I lift a glass it feels like a celebration.”
She eyed the clear liquid in the cup, and swirled it around.
“This istsipouro, isn’t it?” she asked. “So I know what to tell the nice police officer when we fall down in the gutter?”
He laughed. “It’s not so bad.” He lifted the cup higher. “Here’s to many reasons for celebration,” he suggested, and Fran clicked her cup to his, trying to follow suit as Ari tossed his drink back. She drank, but more slowly, allowing the fiery burst of flavor to take its time as it hit her stomach and nervous system.
Then they were off again, weaving through the crowd hand in hand, standing close together as music played and laughter flowed around them. Another street vendor yielded a sticky pastry, and Fran suddenly felt like she was at the county fair again, wandering past the rides on her way to her father’s beer truck. There were no funnel cakes or frozen lemonades on the city streets of Garronia’s capital, but the mood was the same.
“Ari?”
The voice was startled and feminine, and Ari paid no attention to it, since of all the names he was focusing on tonight, that wasn’t one of them. But Fran’s entire body jolted, every sense on high alert. She swung around in a careless arc and grabbed both of Ari’s hands, tugging him toward her as she scanned the crowd.
Sure enough, there was a woman standing not ten feet away, her own cup forgotten in her hand as she stared. She was beautiful and she looked rich, her thick, dark flowing hair cascading over her shoulders, her tunic and pants an expensive drape of cream fabric, and her beaded high-heeled sandals like something out of a fashion magazine. She shook her head, stepping forward, and Fran did the one thing she could think of.
She dropped Ari’s hands as he blinked down at her, then pressed in close, her hands flat on his powerful pecs, her face straining up toward his.
“Kiss me,” she implored.
Ryker stareddown at the impossibly beautiful Francesca, her lips traced with sugar but her eyes full of passion for him, and thought he was quite possibly the luckiest bastard who’d ever been born.
“If I must.” He grinned and did her one better, picking her up and swinging her around, tucking her tight to his body as he bent toward her. When their mouths touched another surge of desire shot through him, quick and hot, and he found he didn’t want to let Francesca go.
They broke apart and she leaned up against him, apparently as content to stand with him as he with her. He looked up and around. They’d stumbled into a small gallery-like city park off the main square of the festival. There were others here, mostly couples, walking and talking under sparkling pin lights. Ryker bent down for another kiss, embracing Francesca in the shadows, then she whispered against him.
“Is there somewhere quieter we could go?” she murmured, and he tensed with anticipation, his body responding immediately to her feminine entreaty. The beach was too far, their hotel was too far, and he didn’t know the city so well to find another park like this, but less crowded.
“No one is bothering us here,” he said. She leaned back in his arms, wrinkling her nose.
“But anyone could come by.”
“Then we should let them,” he said. “I am Conti Goba, squiring around the prettiest girl at the festival.”
She snorted. “Not the prettiest.”
