King and Kingdom by Danielle Bourdon Page A

her need, the dark haired man presented her with a sparkling flute, exchanging it with the old.
    “Thanks,” Chey said, bringing the flute up for a quick sip. It was chilled, bubbly and smooth on the tongue.
    “Of course.” The man passed off the empty flute and slid his hands into the pockets of his coat. “So, your second event. What do you think, then?”
    The way he kicked his chin toward the dance floor could have been construed to mean Sander and Valentina.
    Either that, Chey thought, or she was reading too much into things.
    “It's very interesting,” she finally said, again reminding herself to be cautious. He could be another like the last, pumping her for information.
    “Indeed. What do you find most interesting about it? The location or the collection of the world's elite?”
    Chey let her gaze skim back to Sander and Valentina. The Princess was stroking her fingers through the end's of Sander's hair at the nape as if she had a right to. It was a small sign of affection, but one that put Chey on edge. Resisting the urge to deliver a blunt retort to the man at her side, she took another sip from the champagne and offered up something less inflammatory.
    “The mystery of who everyone is,” Chey said. “I don't really recognize anyone, yet it's obvious there are some very big players here.”
    “An understatement,” he said with a raspy laugh. “I could point them all out, but that's boring. I'd rather dance, if you would do me the honor.”
    “Absolutely, thank you.” Chey drained another swallow of the champagne and let the man take the flute from her fingers. Why not dance? It would put her closer to Sander and Valentina so that she might overhear whatever conversation had put that disgruntled look on Sander's face.
    The devilish man swung Chey out onto the floor with a chivalrous flourish and settled into a gliding waltz. Skilled and efficient, Chey found she didn't have to concentrate hard on the steps to keep up with him. She caught Sander's eyes when they spun close to him and Valentina; he glared at Chey's dancing partner with something like irritation.
    Chey attempted to convey that Sander had nothing to be irritated about, but found it difficult to shape the right expression. She bubbled an unexpected laugh as her partner led her into another turn.
    “Having a good time?” the man asked.
    Chey realized she didn't even know his name. His face swam above her when she sought his gaze. “Yes. Dancing was a good idea.”
    “It was. You dance well.”
    “Thank you.” She swallowed once, then asked, “What's your name?”
    “Damon.”
    “Just Damon? No Prince or anything in front of it?” Chey wished she could stifle the urge to laugh. Everything was suddenly funny.
    He chuckled. “No, sorry. Just Damon. And you're Miss Sinclair. The gossips made that clear even before I got my hands on my first drink.”
    “Yes. You can call me Chey though.” The room felt so light, so bubbly—like the champagne. The drink must really be going to her head.
    “Chey, then. Careful there,” he said, when she missed a step and stumbled.
    “Sorry. I guess it was that second drink.” A small laugh tittered free.
    “Did you eat? Sometimes if you drink without dinner, it goes to your head faster.”
    Chey couldn't remember if they'd eaten or not. “I...don't know.”
    “No worries, Miss Sinclair. You're in good hands with me. I'll make sure you don't trip or bump into anyone else,” Damon said, tilting his head closer to her own.
    Faces swirled at the edge of the dance floor, blurring into each other. For one startling moment, a sharp pair of ice blue eyes stood out among the other dancers. Sander. Chey realized it was Sander only after he'd turned out of sight. Well, now he knew what it felt like to watch her dance with someone else. What was good for the goose was good for the gander, right?
    “Thank you, Mister Damon.” Chey, lightheaded, stifled another laugh against his shoulder. She felt his