Trumpets boomed a hymn of the king’s royal march. Ryon jolted at the raucous noise and turned to watch his friends much more lavish arrival. Lyle generally attended social events partnerless. However, tonight the sultry Lysse was attached to his arm, a lecherous smile on her red lips. Her appearance did nothing to stoke his desire. All it did was remind him of Pen’s perfectly shaped mouth. He liked the way she kissed, too. She kissed like she did all things in life—with enthusiasm. A man could hurt worse than having an enthusiastic partner.
Stifling a groan, Ryon adjusted his hips to ease the pressure growing in his groin. A release from his own hand had done nothing to reduce the ache in his body. Only one woman could appease him now. His usually stellar patience had begun to slip around the time he’d kissed her again. As soon as he could, he planned to slip from the party unnoticed and go home. Maybe another release would help with the pain in his manhood.
Just as he turned to make his way to King Lyle, a commotion started up.
“Who’s that?” one woman asked nearby, her tone hateful. “Looks like one of those dancer girls.”
Shock froze Ryon in place; the muscles in his shoulders bunched so hard they convulsed in spasms. With a turn, he faced the front of the hall and stopped, rooted in place like a tree. He visibly shook—with rage.
* * *
Here, birdy, birdy, birdy.
Oh, you can be so wicked, Penelope thought.
Tonight she was dressed to kill and she had only one name on her hit list: Ryon Ward.
He wouldn’t stand a chance against tonight’s assault.
Her name wasn’t announced as she entered the military soiree to commemorate an attack-free kingdom. How easy it had been sneaking into the gala, uninvited. All it took was a smile and the guards had let her pass as a “special guest.” It helped that they recognized her from Prima Donna’s club. They’d even asked for her autograph, but she had to decline. There just wasn’t time for that. Not tonight.
Tonight she was here with a purpose. To get a little payback on Ryon. Why, one might ask. Well, she had many reasons. Or, perhaps not many, but one very good one. He’d kissed her in her dressing room, in her private sanctuary, and had gotten her in trouble with her boss. Now all the dancers wouldn’t stop teasing her about “getting it on with the general” during work hours. That just wouldn’t do. So she planned to rectify the situation. Tonight.
Her soon-to-be victim stood on the opposite side of the room scowling with the angriest expression she’d ever seen on his face. Normally, he kept himself rigid with control, but the mask had slipped from place. He’d spotted her surprisingly quickly—as soon as she’d entered the room—as if he had a beacon on her. And he looked downright furious.
She almost giggled.
Penelope made sure she caught his eye before she lifted her chin high and smiled at him. This was her game now and she controlled things. It was something she’d always been good at. Eyes were on her, both appreciative and not.
For such a possessive man, Ryon took things about as well as she’d imagined. His mouth formed the words of a vicious curse but he didn’t speak the word aloud. How delightful he was. She could laugh but it’d surely sound shrill and evil with her devilish thoughts. Rare was it that she ever had so much fun with a man.
Ah, yes, it felt good to hold the reins of power again. Last night he’d tipped the scales in his favor, but she planned to rectify that. Tonight he would pay. She hadn’t quite decided what she would do. It wasn’t in her nature to be vengeful—until now. And it wasn’t in her nature to plan anything. She much preferred on-the-fly thinking. It was exhilarating. In fact she could hardly keep from smiling like the little devil he proclaimed her to be.
Behaving badly had never felt so wicked.
Penelope began to make a pass around the hall as was customary at a gathering of this magnitude. As she came to the bottom of the grand staircase, she froze. Standing before her was none other than the King of Tarlè, Lionel Hargrowe, His Majesty. Sucking in a petrified breath, she dropped into a deep bow, even remembering to lower her gaze at the last second. Hopefully she hadn’t made an affront.
“Your Majesty!” Only after her slight outburst, did she blush furiously. Surely, she was supposed to quietly and daintily whisper to him in greeting, if saying anything at all.
She could feel the eyes on her, looking at her, sneering, judging and assessing. She thought quickly of something to say, but the king beat her to it.
“My lady, Penelope Farris. I would recognize that graceful bow anywhere. The finest ballet dancer in the kingdom,” the king said. He had the charming demeanor of a debonair gent. He oozed sexual competency in his bold movements and keen intellect. His smile was disarming, which he seemed to know how to use smartly. This wasn’t a man you would want to cross.