Of Royal Blood. Carolyn Zane

of France—squeezed between her two older sisters in order to better view the amazing physique of Sebastian LeMarc: playboy, aristocrat, successful import/export trade businessman. Clutching her sisters’ arms to keep from falling too far back in the crowd, she watched with rapt fascination as he paused in his approach to the seventeenth hole to sign an autograph for a giggly young fan.

      In St. Michel, Sebastian was a local celebrity. A good-natured philanthropist, a sex symbol and an all around hotty.

      “Hotty, hot-hot,” Marie-Claire murmured, loving faddish American slang nearly as much as she loved American movies, TV and cheeseburgers.

      “Get away, Marie-Claire.” Her oldest sister, the newly married Lise batted at her. “You are breathing down my neck.”

      Obligingly, Marie-Claire popped up over her middle sister, Ariane’s, shoulder and allowed her gaze to follow the handsome Sebastian as he signaled his caddie.

      In homes all over the globe, golf enthusiasts followed this action on a cable sports channel. Color and comment announcers strained toward a bank of television monitors and murmured, “He’s approaching the tee…uh-oh.” Muffled laughter.

      “We seem to have a bit of a problem on the course. Sebastian LeMarc’s caddie has taken a spill.”

      “That’s right, Frank. Looks like it’ll be a minute.”

      “From what we are able to gather here in the press box, LeMarc’s regular caddie was under the weather…”

      “Too much celebration after yesterday’s rounds?”

      More male laughter. Papers rustled.

      “Rob, the caddie pinch-hitting for LeMarc today is, believe it or not, the son of the de Bergeron palace gardener, eighteen-year-old Eduardo Van Groober from St. Michel. Eduardo was on his high school’s golf team last year and hopes one day to be the next Tiger Woods.”

      “Let’s see if he can stay on his feet.”

      More chuckling.

      “I think he was distracted.”

      “The king’s daughters would do that to the most seasoned caddie, I’m afraid.”

      On television, cutaways of Marie-Claire and her attractive sisters filled the screen.

      Marie-Claire watched as the flame-faced Eduardo fumbled with the golf bag, rushing to insert the clubs and frantically searching for one to offer Sebastian.

      Sebastian found a club lying on the ground and, stepping over the still-flailing Eduardo, moved to the tee.

      “Frank, Sebastian LeMarc looks to be using a seven iron, an excellent choice. With his powerful swing and ability to focus, this next shot could put his team in the lead.”

      Marie-Claire wriggled with excitement, but when a thoughtless member of the press obscured her view, she dropped down and poked her head under Lise’s elbow, only to receive a glare of exasperation for her effort.

      “Stop skulking around beneath us, Marie-Claire,” Lise admonished in low tones. “Your hair is so filled with static, you look as if you’ve been electrocuted.”

      I feel that way, Marie-Claire thought, catching an exhilarating glimpse of her hero from between the reporter’s lanky legs as Sebastian took a few practice swings.

      “Ouch! What in heaven’s name are you doing?” Ariane demanded as Marie-Claire’s knees found the tips of her toes.

      “Trying to see…him.”

      Ariane guffawed. “He’s got to be what, twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?”

      “Thirty-two.”

      “Mon Dieu! You’re too young for him.”

      “I am not.”

      “Are too. Just look at you now.”

      “He’s noticed me before.”

      Lise and Ariane exchanged droll glances. “When?”

      Marie-Claire considered silence but their expressions spurred her to divulge. “It began five years ago. When I was sixteen, and we had a…moment.”

      “A…moment?” Lise asked.

      “Sixteen? You are hallucinating.” Ariane smirked.

      “No. He remembers me, I know it.”

      “What kind of moment? Did you run over him in driver’s training?” Pretty heads together, Lise and Ariane hooted. Marie-Claire pulled herself to her feet and, eyes blazing, attempted to tame her flyaway hair.

      “He knows who I am, I tell you.”

      “He knows all of Papa’s offspring.”

      “That’s not what I mean. This is a special connection. You wouldn’t understand.”

      Ariane snorted. “Marie-Claire, you are such a dreamer.”

      “Be that as it may, he carries a tiny place in his heart just for me.” Marie-Claire turned her back on her skeptical sisters and focused on Sebastian, who in that moment, turned, caught her eye, and shot her a sexy wink. “See? Did you see that?” Her voice a tinny squeak, she yanked on her sisters’ arms. “He winked at me!”

      Lise lifted her nose. “He was not winking at you. The sun was merely in his eyes.”

      “The sun is behind his head!”

      Ariane had to give her that. “Then he winks at all the pesky little kids in the kingdom. See? He just winked at Eduardo.”

      “And,” Lise pointed out, “if I’m not mistaken, Eduardo just winked at you, Marie-Claire.”

      “He wants you, Marie-Claire.” Ariane laughed.

      “Shut up.”

      “Marie-Claire Van Groober. That’s very pretty, don’t you think?” Lise and Ariane made slobbery smooching sounds and then snickered into their hands.

      Marie-Claire decided to ignore them.

      Sebastian…LeMarc.

      Marie-Claire LeMarc. Mentally, she traced the letters of his surname in her mind. For five long years he’d starred in her fantasy life, playing the part of her future husband and the father of their four yet-to-be-conceived children, three sons and a beautiful daughter.

      Oh, that he would only notice her again, the way he had that night. She flushed, as those memories came flooding back. She knew he remembered. He must. How could he forget?

      As he surveyed the fairway, she studied the confident curl of amusement that seemed so permanently etched in his upper lip. She took in the slightly cynical, yet thoroughly charming creases that bracketed the corners of his mouth. The thick, dark-brown hair with the tiniest smattering of silver at the temples. The squarish, masculine chin that sported an angel’s thumbprint. The velvety midnight-blue eyes and the come-hither look he seemed completely unaware he exuded from beneath the thick fringe of his lashes. Somehow, he looked more like George Clooney than George Clooney.

      All around her, women were salivating, posing to attract his attention, applying lipstick and nudging each other. Marie-Claire’s shoulders flagged. Her sisters were right. He had no time for her. Sebastian was an experienced, sophisticated man. And she? Well, at twenty-one, she was surely an overly sheltered case of arrested development. It was hard to become an independent, worldly wise woman with bodyguards and security cameras monitoring her every move.

      Wildflowers need air. Light.

      Hunkering low, Sebastian peered down his club, a thoughtful expression on his boyish mug. With a nod and a last murmured confab with Marie-Claire’s father, King Philippe, he stood, pressed his tee into the grass and set his ball atop. Carefully, he positioned his feet and squinted once again down the fairway.

      Oh, this was so exciting. Even the back of