The Prince's Stolen Virgin. Maisey Yates

most of her friends possessed. It took serious salon treatments to get it straight and she often questioned if it was worth it. Though, her mother insisted it was.

      She was the opposite of the typical blonde beauty queen in her sorority or at any of the private schools she had attended growing up.

      She stood out. And when you were a teenager, it was the last thing you wanted.

      Though, now that she was in her early twenties, she was beginning to come to terms with herself. Her first instinct still wasn’t to assume someone was staring because they liked what they saw. No, she always assumed they were staring because she was out of place.

      “Not especially,” she said, because it was honest.

      “I don’t believe that,” he said. “You’re far too beautiful to walk around not having men snap their necks trying to get a look.”

      Her face grew warm, her heart beginning to beat faster, harder. “I’m not really... I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

      That earned her a chuckle. “Then perhaps we should make sure to become something other than strangers.”

      She hesitated. “Briar. My name is Briar.”

      A strange expression crosssed his face, though it was fleeting. “A nice name. Different.”

      “I suppose it is.” She knew it was. Yet another thing that made her feel like she stood out.

      “José,” he said, extending his hand.

      She simply stared at it for a moment, as if she wasn’t quite sure what he intended her to do. But of course she did know. He wanted to shake her hand. That wasn’t weird. It was what people did when they met. She sucked in a sharp breath and allowed her fingers to meet his.

      It was like she’d been hit by lightning. The electricity was so acute, so startling, that she immediately dropped his hand, taking a step back. She had never felt anything like that before in her life. And she didn’t know if she wanted to feel it again.

      “I have to go.”

      “No, you don’t,” he said, insistent.

      “Yes. I do. I was on my way to... I was just going to...to a hair appointment.” A lie easily thought of because she’d just been pondering her hair. But she could hardly tell him she was going to the museum. He might offer to walk with her. Though she supposed he could offer to take her to a salon, too.

      “Is that so?”

      “Yes. I have to go.” She turned away, walking away from him quickly.

      “Wait! I don’t even know how to get in touch with you. At least give me your phone number.”

      “I can’t.” For a whole variety of reasons, but mostly because of the tingling sensation that still lingered on her hand.

      She turned again, taking too-long strides away from him.

      “Wait!”

      She didn’t. She kept on walking. And the last thing she saw was a bright yellow taxi barreling down on her.

      * * *

      Warmth flooded her. The strangest sensation assaulted her. Like she was being filled with oxygen, her extremities beginning to tingle. She felt disembodied, like she was floating in a dark space.

      Except then it wasn’t so dark. There was light. Marble walls. White. With ornate golden details. It was so clear. A place she’d never seen before, and yet...she must have.

      Slowly, ever so slowly, she felt like she was being brought back to herself.

      First, she could wiggle her fingertips. And then, she became aware of other things. Of the source of the warmth.

      Lips against hers. She was being kissed.

      Her eyes fluttered open, and in that instant she recognized the dark head bent over hers.

      The man from the street.

      The street. She had been crossing the street.

      Was she in the street still? She couldn’t remember leaving it. But she felt... Tied down.

      She opened her eyes wider, looking around. There was a bright, fluorescent light directly above her, monitors all to her side. And she was tethered to something.

      She curled her fingers into a fist and felt a sharp, stinging sensation.

      She looked down at her arm and saw an IV.

      And then, all her focus went straight back to the fact that she was still being kissed. In a hospital bed, presumably.

      She put her hand up, her fingers brushing against his cheek, and then he pulled away.

      “Querida, you’re awake.” He looked so relieved. Not like a stranger at all. But then, he was kissing her, which was also unlike a stranger.

      “Yes. How long was I...? How long was I asleep?” She posed the question to the nurse that she noticed standing just behind him. It was weird that he had kissed her. And she was going to get to that in a moment. But first she was trying to get a handle on how disoriented she felt.

      “You were unconscious. Only for an hour or so.”

      “Oh.” She pushed down on the mattress, trying to sit up.

      “Now be careful,” he said. “You might have a concussion.”

      “What happened?”

      “You crossed the street right in front of a taxi. I was unable to stop you.”

      She vaguely remembered him calling after her, and her continuing to walk on. Feeling slightly frantic as she did. Logically, she knew that her parents were overprotective. She knew that they had been hypervigilant in instilling the concept of stranger danger to her, but she had taken it on board, even knowing that it was a little bit over the top.

      They had told her that she had to be particularly careful because Robert was a high-profile physician who often worked with politicians and helped write legislation pertaining to the healthcare system, and that made him something of a target. She had to be extra vigilant because of that, and because of the fact that they were wealthy.

      It had made her see the bogeyman in any overly friendly stranger on the street as a child, but she supposed it had kept her safe. Until she had met him and run out in front of a car.

      Her parents. She wondered if anyone had called them. They wouldn’t be expecting her home until evening.

      “Excuse me...” But the nurse had rushed out of the room, presumably to get a doctor? She didn’t know why the woman hadn’t stopped to check her vitals.

      “My father is a doctor,” she said, looking back up at José. That was his name. That was what he had said his name was.

      “That is good to know,” he said, a slight edge in his voice that she hadn’t heard earlier.

      “If he hasn’t been called already, somebody should get in touch with him. He’s going to want input on my treatment.”

      “I’m sorry,” José said, straightening.

      Suddenly, his face looked different to her. Sharper, harder. Her heart thundered dully, a strange lick of fear moving through her body.

      “You’re sorry about what?”

      “It isn’t going to be possible for your father to have input on your treatment. Because you’re going to be moved.”

      “I am?”

      “Yes. It seems to me that you are stable, and that has been confirmed by my nurse.”

      “Your nurse?”

      He sighed heavily, lifting his hand and checking his watch. Then he adjusted the cuff on his jacket, the mannerism curt and officious. “Yes. My nurse,” he said, sounding exasperated