Page 13 of A Curvy Girl for the Prince
“Get the car,” I growl. “We’re headed to the driving range.”
“Of course, my prince,” the pageboy nods, already scurrying off. “We’ll meet you in front in fifteen.”
“Make it ten,” I rasp. After all, there’s no way I’m letting some asshole put his hands on Martha’s curves. I don’t know where this sense of possession is coming from, but if I’m alive and breathing, there’s no way she’ll be tussling with another man in bed.
Within minutes, my car is pulling away from the curb and soon, I’m at the Lysenian Driving Range. Actually, the royal family owns this outfit and I’ve been here many times in the past.
“Your Highness!” the doorman exclaims, rushing forward to open the car door. “We didn’t know you’d be stopping by tonight!”
I get out of the vehicle, my mood still grim. The night air is crisp and the gloom of the evening is lit up by the powerful spotlights of the driving range. An emerald lawn undulates in front of the players, and sure enough, as I inhale deeply, there’s the thwack-thwack-thwack of golf balls soaring through the air. Come to think of it, it’s quite crowded at the moment, seeing that a certain subset of the Lysenian upper class likes to relax and socialize here.
“Where is she?” I grunt.
“Where is who?” a concierge asks, a confused look on his face. “Highness, we had no idea that you were coming tonight—”
I nod curtly, cutting him off.
“I believe the customer’s name is Albert,” I say. “A young man.”
The concierge nods as recognition dawns in his eyes.
“Yes, Albert Ray, John Ray’s son.”
That makes me pull up short.
“John Ray of Ray Shipping?” Everyone knows that Ray Shipping had a blockbuster year last year, and the rumor is that John’s looking to get into politics, leaving his son in charge of operations.
“Yes, sire,” the concierge nods again. “Of course, we understand that you’re here to talk business with Mr. Ray tonight. Right this way.”
Obviously, the man has the wrong idea, but I don’t bother to correct him. Instead, I follow as we’re led to a semi-private area of the driving range where the stalls are bigger, the refreshments fancier, and the green a perfectly manicured emerald lawn. Laughter and the clinking of glasses rise in the air as attractive couples enjoy their Friday nights.
But I know what I’m here for, and my blood pressure rockets as I approach the VIP area. At the end of the tee boxes is a stall occupied by none other than Albert Ray himself, along with my gorgeous girl. The blood begins to boil in my veins because Martha’s hands-down the most beautiful woman here tonight. She’s wearing a short, white pleated skirt that stops mid-thigh, paired with a pink polo top that hugs her big breasts. Long tan legs, and a cute pair of white sneakers finish the look, and she’s got her curly hair tied into a jaunty ponytail. In other words, she’s completely fuckable and I’m the man who plans on doing the job.
Yet they don’t notice us approaching at first. Martha and her date are laughing and chatting as they take swings at the ball, and I note with a rueful expression that this Albert kid is actually quite good-looking and athletic. He appears to be one of those cocky frat types, with a powder blue polo with the collar popped up around his neck. Not only that, but the underside of the collar reveals the word “Ray” in gothic script. Clearly, the boy’s proud of his family’s success and not afraid to show his allegiance.
Still, this is a weird scenario because Martha’s a whore while Albert Ray is clearly a member of the Lysenian upper class. I had no idea that the Ray men were into bringing working girls out into the open, but then again, rich men are unpredictable when it comes to beautiful women. I know I am, at least.
But there’s business to be conducted, and finally, we’re upon them. The two don’t even look up at first because they’re so busy with their flirting and conversation. Grimly, I see Ray Junior eyeing Martha’s curvaceous figure, and he looks ready to stroke a creamy thigh and attach himself to a nipple, given the chance.
“Martha,” I growl. “A word?”
Her brown eyes flicker up from where she’s lining the ball up at the tee, and a breathy gasp escapes her lips.
“Haakon?” she asks in a faint voice. “What are you doing here?”
Albert looks up, just as stunned.
“My prince?” he asks. “Um, was there something wrong with that trade agreement we just signed?”
I manage a fake smile at the boy.
“No, not at all,” I say in a smooth tone. “If you’d just give me a second with Martha here.”
Albert shoots the brunette a confused look.
“Martha? I thought you were Matilda.”
The pretty girl blushes all the way to her hairline.