Rich, Rugged And Royal: The Maverick Prince. Catherine Mann

the GlobalIntruder.com’s very own photojournalists, we’ve successfully landed the scoop of the year. The deposed Medina monarchy has not, as was rumored, set up shop in a highly secured fortress in Argentina. The three Medina heirs—with their billions—have been living under assumed names and rubbing elbows with everyday Americans for decades.

      We hear the sexy baby of the family, Antonio, is already taken in Texas by his waitress girlfriend Shannon Crawford. She’d better watch her back now that word is out about her secret shipping magnate!

      Meanwhile, never fear, ladies. There are still two single and studly Medina men left. Our sources reveal that Duarte dwells in his plush resort in Martha’s Vineyard. Carlos—a surgeon, no less—resides in Tacoma. Wonder if he makes house calls?

      No word yet on their father, King Enrique Medina, former ruler of San Rinaldo, an island off the coast of Spain. But our best reporters are hot on the trail.

      For the latest update on how to nab a prince, check back in with the GlobalIntruder.com. And remember, you heard it here first!

       One

       Galveston Bay, Texas

      “King takes the queen.” Antonio Medina declared his victory and raked in the chips, having bluffed with a simple high-card hand in Texas Hold’Em.

      Ignoring an incoming call on his iPhone, he stacked his winnings. He didn’t often have time for poker since his fishing charter company went global, but joining backroom games at his pal Vernon’s Galveston Bay Grille had become a more frequent occurrence of late. Since Shannon. His gaze snapped to the long skinny windows on either side of the door leading out to the main dining area where she worked.

      No sign of Shannon’s slim body, winding her way through the brass, crystal and white linen of the five-star restaurant. Disappointment chewed at him in spite of his win.

      A cell phone chime cut the air, then a second right afterward. Not his either time, although the noise still forced his focus back to the private table while two of Vernon Wolfe’s cronies pressed the ignore button, cutting the ringing short. Vernon’s poker pals were all about forty years senior to Antonio. But the old shrimp-boat captain turned restaurateur had saved Antonio’s bacon back when he’d been a teen. So if Vernon beckoned, Antonio did his damnedest to show. The fact that Shannon also worked here provided extra oomph to the request.

      Vernon creaked back in the leather chair, also disregarding his cell phone currently crooning “Son of a Sailor” from his belt. “Ballsy move holding with just a king, Tony,” he said, his voice perpetually raspy from years of shouting on deck. His face still sported a year-round tan, eyes raccoon ringed from sunglasses. “I thought Glenn had a royal flush with his queen and jack showing.”

      “I was taught to bluff by the best.” Antonio—or Tony Castillo as he was known these days—grinned.

      A smile was more disarming than a scowl. He always smiled so nobody knew what he was thinking. Not that even his best grin had gained him forgiveness from Shannon after their fight last weekend.

      Resisting the urge to frown, Tony stacked his chips on the scarred wooden table Vernon had pried from his boat before docking himself permanently at the restaurant. “Your pal Glenn needs to bluff better.”

      Glenn—a coffee addict—chugged his java faster when bluffing. For some reason no one else seemed to notice as the high-priced attorney banged back his third brew laced with Irish whiskey. He then simply shrugged, loosened his silk tie and hooked it on the back of the chair, settling in for the next round.

      Vernon swept up the played cards, flipping the king of hearts between his fingers until the cell stopped singing vintage Jimmy Buffett. “Keep winning and they’re not going to let me deal you in anymore.”

      Tony went through the motions of laughing along, but he knew he wasn’t going anywhere. This was his world now. He’d built a life of his own and wanted nothing to do with the Medina name. He was Tony Castillo now. His father had honored that. Until recently.

      For the past six months, his deposed king of a dad had sent message after message demanding his presence at the secluded island compound off the coast of Florida. Tony had left that gilded prison the second he’d turned eighteen and never looked back. If Enrique was as sick as he claimed, then their problems would have to be sorted out in heaven … or more likely in somewhere hotter even than Texas.

      While October meant autumn chills for folks like his two brothers, he preferred the lengthened summers in Galveston Bay. The air conditioner still cranked in the redbrick waterside restaurant in the historic district.

      Muffled live music from a flamenco guitarist drifted through the wall along with the drone of dining clientele. Business was booming for Vernon. Tony made sure of that. Vernon had given Antonio a job at eighteen when no one else would trust a kid with sketchy ID. Fourteen years and many millions of dollars later, Tony figured it was only fair some of the proceeds from the shipping business he’d built should buy the aging shrimp-boat captain a retirement plan.

      Vernon nudged the deck toward Glenn to cut, then dealt the next hand. Glenn shoved his buzzing BlackBerry beside his spiked coffee and thumbed his cards up for a peek.

      Tony reached for his … and stopped … tipping his ear toward the sound from outside the door. A light laugh cut through the clanging dishes and fluttering strum of the Spanish guitar. Her laugh. Finally. The simple sound made him ache after a week without her.

      His gaze shot straight to the door again, bracketed by two windows showcasing the dining area. Shannon stepped in view of the left lengthy pane, pausing to punch in an order at the servers’ station. She squinted behind her cat-eye glasses, the retros giving her a naughty schoolmarm look that never failed to send his libido surging.

      Light from the globed sconces glinted on her pale blond hair. She wore her long locks in a messy updo, as much a part of her work uniform as the knee-length black skirt and form-fitting tuxedo vest. She looked sexy as hell—and exhausted.

      Damn it all, he would help her without hesitation. Just last weekend he’d suggested as much when she’d pulled on her clothes after they’d made love at his Bay Shore mansion. She’d shut him down faster than the next heartbeat. In fact, she hadn’t spoken to him or returned his calls since.

      Stubborn, sexy woman. It wasn’t like he’d offered to set her up as his mistress, for crying out loud. He was only trying to help her and her three-year-old son. She always vowed she would do anything for Kolby.

      Mentioning that part hadn’t gone well for him, either.

      Her lips had pursed tight, but her eyes behind those sexy black glasses had told him she wanted to throw his offer back in his face. His ears still rang from the slamming door when she’d walked out. Most women he knew would have jumped at the prospect of money or expensive gifts. Not Shannon. If anything, she seemed put off by his wealth. It had taken him two months to persuade her just to have coffee with him. Then two more months to work his way into bed with her. And after nearly four weeks of mind-bending sex, he was still no closer to understanding her.

      Okay, so he’d built a fortune from Galveston Bay being one of the largest importers of seafood. Luck had played a part by landing him here in the first place. He’d simply been looking for a coastal community that reminded him of home.

      His real home, off the coast of Spain. Not the island fortress his father had built off the U.S. The one he’d escaped the day he’d turned eighteen and swapped his last name from Medina to Castillo. The new surname had been plucked from one of the many branches twigging off his regal family tree. Tony Castillo had vowed never to return, a vow he’d kept.

      And he didn’t even want to think about how spooked Shannon would be if she knew the well-kept secret of his royal heritage. Not that the secret was his to share.

      Vernon tapped the scarred wooden table in front of him.