Roman tried not to curse or take the Lord’s name in vain for the same reason he’d never gotten a tattoo or taken up chew, although the latter two deeds had verged on a religion to his Ranger brothers.
His mama wouldn’t have liked it.
But Maddie Sheppard was gone and as he’d tried to pretend the next day was as normal as any other day in hiding, as he surveyed the news for nonexistent new info then went for a jog by the lake, made a big country breakfast for everyone, then took his second cold shower in twelve hours, three words kept popping into his head.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Actually, it was four words. Jesus fucking Christ, Cenobia.
Cenobia. He breathed it out, his fingers splayed on the shower’s chill tile, as he thought about the way she looked at breakfast—black hair piled on top of her head, her huge dark eyes watching him with sleepy, shy want. Last night, after she’d given him the most bone-shattering orgasm of his life, she’d vibrated as if she was the one who’d just been decimated, so he’d stripped off her sweater—thankfully she’d been wearing a camisole underneath it—wiped himself off with a mental reminder to burn the borrowed sweater and claim ignorance if Roxanne ever asked, and held her tight under his covers until she fell asleep.
He’d snuck out of bed for his first cold shower, pulled on pajama pants, then slept with her in his arms until he carried her to bed before dawn.
In one of those late night, good-bourbon-sipping online searches he’d fessed up to last night, he’d discovered that Cenobia, or Zenobia in its original Ancient Greek, meant force of Zeus. Cenobia didn’t derive her power from any man. The men in her life generally tried to siphon it off her. But her full name was queenly and majestic; her nickname was... Jesus fucking Christ, he thought as an image of her seared his brain: between his legs, her black curls draped over his naked thigh, her mauve lips wrapped and moving around the head of his dick while she hummed pleasure in her throat.
Last night, she’d become his Cen.
Roman turned his face into the ice-cold spray.
The first time he’d googled her, he’d ignored that lifesaving tickle of warning at the base of his skull as he read the top article. In the three years since he’d rescued her, she’d accomplished so much; she’d already been more than halfway through her combined bachelor’s and master’s degree at Rice while she spent her summers and holidays spearheading various efforts at Trujillo Industries. He kept typing in her name until he had to disable his autofill; just typing CE would make her name pop up. Keeping tabs on her over the years had been easy. The media made sure to feed the world’s fascination about the once-kidnapped girl who raced her way through engineering degrees and into the male-dominated auto industry.
He’d ignored that warning tickle that had saved him and his squad from IEDs and let his curiosity about Cenobia Trujillo go from interest to fanboying then yearning. At least he’d heeded it when “her father” had offered the occasional invites to Mexico.
He’d already been doing enough daydreaming about her when she was a continent away.
Maybe his mama felt the same premonition the first time she got a call from the principal.
Maddie Sheppard had been scared of Roman’s suddenly powerful looks and fists when he’d roared into puberty, and she’d laid out for him the man he could become if he used his powers to hurt people, hurt men, hurt women. His biological father had provided a blueprint for the kind of man Maddie never wanted her son to be. Although she’d been devastated when Roman had enlisted, taking him so far away from her right after high school, she’d ultimately agreed that it was the best way to channel the pain giving that came so easy to him.
With women, he’d always been cautious and careful. They called him considerate. Maybe there was an edge of control he liked to take in bed—enough to recognize that Cenobia had been shaking from the emotional rush of what she’d done to him, not because she was afraid—but he never let his mouth run away from him the way he did last night.
“The Prince’s Dirty Mouth.”
Roman gave a hopeless huff of a laugh through it, put both hands against the wall, and hung his head in the freezing stream.
Trust me to know my capabilities and limits. Don’t make me feel like I’m not worthy.
The hugeness of what he felt for her, the enormity of her worth, and the imperative to wipe any doubt from her mind was why he’d closed his eyes and stepped off his path last night. And who was he kidding, he’d lost all nobility the instant she’d traced her full mauve lips with his knuckle. He’d wanted what he wanted and would have charged into a minefield to get it.
But that blind stumbling wasn’t good for her. He’d kept his family in the Monte safe for ten years by firmly sticking to his chosen tightrope.
You can have whatever you want.
He really couldn’t.
His dick, still bobbing in the frigid water, didn’t give a damn.
Later that afternoon, he stood in the huge, well-lit garage in a denim shirt, old jeans, and work boots with Cenobia. Although she wore tight jeans, canvas sneakers, and a fuzzy pink sweater that offered up her breasts like cotton candy, his erection was finally under control thanks to the presence of a frowning Bartolo and an excited Adán, who was bouncing a skinny leg.
Gone was the sullen kid. Instead, Adán was wide-eyed and hope-filled when he pointed a finger at a fiery red Porsche Boxster, one of the ten cars parked in the long garage along with a boat trailer, a couple of four-wheelers, and an all-purpose Kubota tractor that made Roman useful whenever he’d overstayed his welcome.
“That one?” Adán asked, his grey-blue eyes lit up like school was out for the summer. Right then he reminded Roman so much of his nephew, a happy-go-lucky kid. They even shared the same floppy curls, although Gabriel’s hair was dark, as dark as Roman’s. People sometimes said Gabriel looked like Roman’s son.
Cenobia tapped her soft lips consideringly while Bartolo adamantly shook his head.
“Nice choice,” she said. “But maybe we pick something with less power for your first lesson.”
Bartolo scowled. “Or maybe we wait for the lesson until he’s legal driving age.” The heavy frowning forehead over the ex-luchador’s mashed nose would have scared anyone else off.
But Cenobia, whose ponytail kept flicking Roman’s arm, was on a mission. “He’s past age,” she exclaimed. “I can’t believe you or my father haven’t put him behind the wheel already.”
“He’s twelve,” Bartolo said. The glossy whites of his big eyes bulged a little when he was outraged. “He can’t drive in Mexico for another six years.”
“In Kansas, you can get a license at fourteen,” Roman said quietly.
When Cenobia swung her head to beam at him, he was glad he picked a side. Adán, who’d switched to bouncing the other leg, watched the back-and-forth like it was a death match.
Roman had no doubt who was going to win.
Cenobia hadn’t been faking her shock when she discovered her twelve-year-old brother hadn’t driven yet. She’d immediately marched them all out to the garage with an insistence to begin his lessons right away, to Roman’s bemusement, Bartolo’s irritation, and Adán’s complete and total joy. Cenobia and Adán’s mutual adoration society was growing more and more powerful every day, and if it meant that he and Bartolo were getting outvoted more often in matters of dinner planning, hiking trail selection, and board game choosing, he was okay with that. If a better connection between these siblings separated by eighteen years was something that came out of this shit show, he’d take it.
“Papá put me in the driver’s seat the moment I could reach the pedals,” Cenobia prodded Bartolo. She enjoyed teasing the big guy. “We run una companía de coches.”
“Sí, claro. A car company that will still be in operation when he’s of legal driving age.”
Cenobia flapped her hands at him. “When did you become una vieja?” she asked, accusing him of becoming an old lady.
Bartolo’s wide, dark face went still. “Sabes cuando.”
You know when.
Cenobia dropped her grin. She reached out and squeezed his thick arm. “Pues, lo siento, compadre,” she apologized. “I took my teasing too far.”
The ex-luchador had been with Cenobia’s family a long time; he’d been head of her protective detail when she’d been at Rice. It was known famously that Cenobia had snuck away from her security to meet friends when she’d been kidnapped. Did Bartolo blame himself for that?
The bodyguard’s quick thinking had saved the lives of Daniel, Adán, and all their staff. Roman had been impressed when he’d fully questioned them about the attack; he would have tried to lure Bartolo away to Shepherd Security if he hadn’t known it was a waste of hot air. Whether Bartolo and the Trujillos realized it or not, he was more than a bodyguard to them, and they were more than his clients. But the lives in the plus column still didn’t let Bartolo take himself off the hook for whatever error he thought he’d made thirteen years ago.
Bartolo sighed heavily and patted her hand. “Maybe I have become an old woman.”
They ended up picking a Ford F-150 for Adán’s first lesson. It had an extended cab, so Cenobia jumped in the back as Bartolo waved goodbye and Roman drove them to a flat stretch of road on the private property with no ditch and no chance of oncoming traffic. He’d never been more conscience of keeping his hands at two and ten as Cenobia pointed out the speedometer, the turn signals, mirror position, and other details of the truck.
When they all switched positions, it did something to Roman to watch Cenobia jump into the front passenger seat in her rolled up jeans and fuzzy sweater, wearing the same sparkly eyed, rounded-cheek, dimpled-grin look of excitement as her little brother in the driver’s seat. As she took Adán through the steps of checking the seat position, steering wheel height, and mirror, then turning on his signal and looking over his shoulder, the boy looked like she was explaining how to turn lead into gold.
Cenobia and Roman surreptitiously checked their seatbelts, and Adán stepped on the gas. The truck started forward slowly, began gaining some momentum, then lurched to a quick, hard stop.
“That’s fine,” Cenobia instantly soothed. “It’s a big machine in your hands, isn’t it?”
Adán nodded, wide-eyed. “It’s doesn’t feel like Gran Turismo.”
Roman caught Adán’s quick, nervous glance in the rearview mirror. “Remember, buddy, assendup,” he said. “It’s okay to make mistakes. You’d pretty much have to flip this truck to earn an embarrassing nickname today.”
When Adán giggled and Cenobia shot him a grateful look, Roman felt about twenty feet tall.
Adán’s shoulders relaxed and he tried again.
Twice more the truck built up a small amount of speed before Adán hit the brakes with too much force.
Cenobia spoke in a logical voice. “Instead of relying on the brake to slow down, it’s easier to gently ease off the gas.” Her hands showed the movement like a release of bellows. “Try it.”
At her confident nod, Adán got them up to the breakneck speed of fifteen miles per hour then slowly eased off the pedal. He snuck a grin at Cenobia before returning his eyes to the road as the truck slowed down. When he hit the break this time, the lurch involved less whiplash.
“Muy bien, guapo,” she praised, grin huge and clapping. “That move will help you make friends with your car. It’s more fuel efficient and easier on the tires and breaks. Imagine the car crying ‘¡Ay, mis patas!’ whenever you hit the brakes too hard.”
Of course, she would talk about a vehicle like it was a pet. Adán giggled in the front seat, and Roman had a sense again of how young and innocent this junior billionaire was. Roman had protected enough children born into wealth to know how rare it was to find a twelve-year-old richling who acted twelve. Like his brother and sister-in-law, Adán’s family had done a great job normalizing the life of a kid growing up in an extraordinary situation.
Outside the truck, the unseasonably warm November day was grey and blustery. But inside, Adán and Cenobia’s smiles made it feel like the sun was out.
Adán practiced driving and braking until they reached a “T” in the road. Adán and Cenobia switched positions, and she performed a tight-and-fast turn-reverse-turn to get the cumbersome truck turned around in the narrow country lane that was a thing of beauty.
Adán drove back the way they came as Cenobia gave him spare, gentle notes about staying in the center of the lane and glancing at the speedometer instead of focusing on it.
Then she laid her arm across the seat back. “What do you drive?” she turned to ask Roman.
Adán shot a quick glance at her, shaking his curls out of his eyes, before focusing back on the road.
Roman had been using his psychic powers to steer the car back into the center of the road and wasn’t sure he wanted to give up that control. But she gave him a steady look with her pretty feline eyes, and he understood that easing up was going to be the best way for Adán to get comfortable with driving.
“A Range Rover Westminster in the Monte. With all the mountain driving I gotta do. And then in Tallahassee, I’ve got a few: a Lexus RC F, a Chevy Colorado ZR2, and a couple of bikes.”
“You’re not worried about your U.S. carbon footprint,” she smirked, flicking her high ponytail in his direction.
He gave her his look. “If it’s any consolation, I can’t remember the last time I drove any of ’em.”
“I forget that you have a home in Florida,” she said.
So did he. Tallahassee was home to Sheppard Security’s corporate headquarters and a forty-five-minute drive from the camp in the Florida swamps where they trained clients in defensive shooting, scenario defense, and tactical mobility. But with the international nature of their work, Sheppard Security’s conference-room meetings were usually held over the Internet.
And with his home and family in the Monte... “Mateo’s mentioned me selling my Florida place a couple of times. I think he’s afraid I’m going to slip away and not come back.”
Cenobia looked at him a little longer before glancing at how Adán was doing. It was supposed to have come out funnier than it had.
“Why would he think that?” Adán asked, hunched close to the steering wheel as they crawled along.
“He doesn’t,” Roman said. “I’m kidding.”
“You’re a prince of the Monte del Vino Real,” Adán said, with that child’s lack of irony Roman had learned from his niece and nephew. “That’s where you’re supposed to be. And now that you’re the king’s advisor, they’re really depending on you.”
The kid knew exactly where to jiggle the knife. The Monte was growing at a fast clip and, right now, there were emails waiting for Roman’s response and contracts on his centuries-old desk needing signatures. His brother would finally understand the mistake he made. Roman already had a mission.
He used his thumb to scratch the itchy skin under the gold ring.
“I hope I can visit one day,” Adán whispered to the windshield.
Cenobia met Roman’s eyes.
“Why don’t you stop for a second,” she said gently. Adán brought the truck to an almost smooth brake, then put it in park. He leaned back against the seat, looked down at his lap, and let his curls flop into his eyes.
Roman put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. It felt bird thin under the kid’s hoodie.
“Hey,” he said, although the kid didn’t look up. “You can come to the Monte anytime.”
“Are you sure? We’ve never been and then Cici went as a surprise and I didn’t know if we could go again...”
Huh. This was about more than an invite.
“Adán, are you upset I didn’t take you with me?” Cenobia asked, eyes wide.
Adán shrugged his shoulders and shook his head in a way that said yes without committing to it.
Cenobia wilted for a second before she gently reached out to take Adán’s hand. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Of course, I should have brought you.”
“It’s okay,” he mumbled.
“No, no it’s not,” she said fervently. “You know more about the kingdom than I do.”
Adán moved out from Roman’s hand, but it was to turn and peek over his shoulder at him. “I think it would be a good place to bring my telescope.”
“Hell, yeah,” Roman said. Sometimes the stars were so clear and close in the Monte he felt like he could touch them. “I’ve been over every inch of the kingdom, but I don’t know anything about its skies. You can teach me.”
Adán gave him a shy smile until Cenobia said, “And you could have Aish Salinger autograph your ticket stub.”
She looked at Roman and whispered, “He’s a fan.”
Roman calmed Adán’s horror-stricken face with a manly nod before he said, “Aish would definitely come stargazing with us.”
He needed to remind Cenobia how uncool it was to out a dude’s fanboying.
“Yes,” Cenobia said declaratively. “Once La Primera is launched, we will go for a visit.” She smiled at Adán, who looked thrilled at the turn of events, but her gaze on Roman was quick and hesitant. She instructed Adán to start driving again, and she moved her arm off the top of the seat to face forward.
Every single heart-pounding moment since she’d asked for his help had been focused on the here-and-now. Roman hadn’t had one clear thought about the future. But Cenobia was as woven into the Monte as he or his musician brother-in-law was. Even when she no longer needed his protection, she would always have a connection with the kingdom she helped save.
She would always be present in his life.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll give you a tour of the Monte. Liliana and Gabriel can show you around the castle.”
Adán quickly shot Cenobia a dazzling bright smile that she answered with its twin.
Then she looked over her shoulder at Roman. Her smile warmed. And her eyes said thank you with a promise to properly thank him later.