“I’d hate for that to happen.”

  “And now I’m going to sing for an audience.” He gripped her fingers. “It’s always been my dream, but I didn’t dare pursue it.”

  “Oh, hey…dreams.” She pulled her hands free of his long enough to reach into her oversized bag and produce the manuscript pages she’d printed for him to read. “I wrote this, for you.”

  “You did? Let me see.”

  She handed the pages to him and sat back. Watching someone read your work was the most nerve wracking experience in the world. You kept studying their face, searching for any clue that they liked it. With Kurt, it was agony. Even breathing hurt.

  After a few pages, he laughed and looked up at her. “The hero looks like me.”

  “Of course, he does. You’d make a fabulous pirate.”

  He laughed even louder. “Don’t tell my father that.”

  Now, there was a concept. Her talking to his father, the head of the German cheese industry. “So, do you like it?”

  “The story?” he said. “I’ve only read a few pages, but yes. You’re a wonderful writer, Casey.”

  “I’m so glad.”

  He folded the pages down the middle. “I can keep this, right?”

  “It’s yours.”

  “I want to read it later, when I have more time,” he said. “I hope you’re going to finish the book.”

  “That’s the plan.” It was now, anyway. If he hadn’t liked the story, she wouldn’t have any reason to finish it.

  He leaned toward her. “I want to read the love scenes.”

  “Like the one I told you about on the phone that night?”

  “Yours will be better.”

  He could be right. She’d have him and his lovemaking for inspiration. The author of that other book hadn’t. Come to think of it, he could give her ideas for other novels and other love scenes.

  Her phone buzzed. She checked the number even though she already knew who it was. She’d had incredible luck to get this much time away from her lord and master.

  “Phil,” she said. “I have to get back.”

  “So soon?”

  “He’s a bundle of nerves with his big book party tomorrow.” In which he’d discover that his publisher had given him a clinch cover. She’d better remember to bring the smelling salts. Or a tranquilizer to slip into his drink. The excrement was going to hit the cooling apparatus, and much of it would fall on her. “Do you suppose you could go with me? I could use the moral support.”

  “Is this where my naked chest makes its international debut?” he said. “I don’t see how I could miss that.”

  “Thanks. It’s going to be a night of surprises,” she said.

  *

  Raven Publishing had managed to schedule Comstock’s book party at an expensive uptown store that only stocked blockbusters and literary fiction. Even with his height, Kurt couldn’t see through the crowd outside, waiting for the doors to open. Casey was probably looking at nothing but Adam’s apples. The people would pack the place once the event got underway. Right now, he’d have to find a way to get her inside so her phone would stop buzzing.

  With his hand at her elbow, he guided her through the throng, doing as little as possible to jostle people – especially women – while nevertheless conveying his determination to get to the front. Once there, Casey tapped on the glass. When a store employee opened the door a crack, she called “I work for Mr. Comstock.”

  The employee let them in, past a makeshift bar and hors d’ouevres table. Beyond that stood a tower of books on top of a large table. A veritable pyramid, it reached nearly over Kurt’s head.

  When Casey spotted it, she stopped in her tracks. “Oh, shit.”

  He automatically pulled her closer to him. “What is it?”

  She pointed toward the book. “Look.”

  He did. And then, he stared, and then he gaped. His own portrait, from the waist to the top of his head, stared back at him. Dozens of copies, perhaps hundreds, each on a cover of a book with the title Message from a Corpse in dripping blood red.

  “How…” was all he could get out.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I saw the final cover. It had you and me, up to your chin.”

  “Well, well, it’s the cover model.” A masculine hand came down on Kurt’s shoulder. “Congratulations, pal. You’re the new face of Joe Stark.”

  Kurt turned to find Comstock grinning at him. “Take your hand off me.”

  “Touchy,” Comstock said. “You should be thanking me. This should be great for your modeling career.”

  “I don’t have a modeling career.” Kurt glowered at the fool. The men of his family knew how to reduce people to abject apologies with a look. Even Comstock backed up, his hands high in surrender.

  “How did you do this, Phil?” Casey demanded.

  “Well you see, my dear assistant, the person I trust most in the world, I found out about the cover you and prince charming here posed for behind my back.”

  Kurt could almost have laughed at his reference to a prince if he wasn’t in the middle of the biggest catastrophe of his adult life. What had Dev said? Their father would have a brain event. Kurt was having one right now, throbbing above his left eye.

  “Raven Publishing sent it to me for approval,” Comstock went on. “What a concept…asking the author what he thinks.”

  “Is something wrong here?” A small man with a mustache that appeared to twitch approached them.

  “It seems our new Joe Stark doesn’t like the way he’s portrayed on the cover.” Comstock crossed his arms over his chest and struck a casual pose that wouldn’t fool a child.

  “I see.” The shorter man turned toward Kurt and extended his hand. “Bill DeCosta of Raven Publishing.”

  “Kurt…” Schmidt or VonRamsberg? Thanks to the publicity of the cover, his identity would come out the minute someone in the press put the new face of Joe Stark together with Danislova’s ambassador to the UN.

  “Well, you see, Kurt.” DeCosta lowered his hand. “We all strive to please all concerned parties, but I’m afraid models don’t have to approve covers.”

  “I didn’t give you permission to use my image.”

  DeCosta’s eyes went round. “You signed a release.”

  “Oh, but I didn’t,” Kurt answered.

  DeCosta glared at Comstock. “What the fuck, Phil. You didn’t get a release?”

  “Casey,” Comstock barked. “You didn’t get a release?”

  “I, I, I,” she stuttered for a minute. “I figured the agency got one.”

  “I don’t work for an agency,” Kurt said.

  “Holy shit.” DeCosta sat, or collapsed, on the edge of the table. “I don’t believe it. Nobody got a release to use his image?”

  “But wait.” Casey gripped his arm, her fingers digging into the wool of his sleeve. “You gave me verbal permission that day in the café.”

  “To use my chest only,” he said. “Not my face.”

  Just then, the doors opened, allowing Comstock’s adoring fans inside. Before Kurt could stop them, dozens of people had picked up copies of the book. Including a few women who glanced at his image and then at him and giggled. One of them wiggled her fingers at him.

  “We have to stop this,” he said.

  Now, someone from the store came over from where he’d stood at the cash register. “What’s going on here?”

  “Nothing.” DeCosta held up his hands in a calming gesture. Seeing as he’d broken into a sweat, it wasn’t too convincing.

  “We’ve made expensive arrangements for this party,” the man from the store said. “It needs to be a success.”

  “It will be. Let me go talk to my readers.” Comstock walked away, leaving the rest of them to deal with this catastrophe. And all the while, more and more books disappeared from the pyramid.

  “Stop!” Kurt shouted.

  Dead silence followed as everyone in the store turned to see what the crazy cover model was screaming about. Lieber Gott, he’d made a fool of himself in public. That might get into the press, too. They’d probably assume he was drunk or on drugs. All his hard work to represent his country with dignity, up in smoke within the period of a few minutes. Earning respect for a tiny country was no easy matter, but he’d managed. Until now. Damn it all. Damn it all to hell.

  DeCosta leaned toward Casey. “Is he okay?”

  “Fine. I’ll talk to him.” She took his hand and led him toward a quiet corner, or as quiet as the store offered with more and more people streaming in. She looked up into his face. “I’m really sorry about this.”

  “It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have posed. I shouldn’t have let you use any image of me at all.”

  “Nice, but you’re wrong,” she said. “I should have honored your wishes. I shouldn’t have dragged you into the shoot to begin with.”

  And not met her? Not had the most wonderful sex of his life…of anyone’s life? Not read himself on the pages of her novel? “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  She gave him a sheepish smile. “Is it so awful to be on the cover of a book? It might help your singing career.”

  “I’m afraid it is. More awful than I can explain in front of a crowd.” He’d have to tell her who he was. If he’d been honest with her from the beginning, she’d never have used his image. “I’ll explain later. Right now, what do we have to do to get me off the cover?”

  “I’m afraid the books have already shipped. They’re selling in bookstores all over the country.”

  He groaned. “Thousands of books?”

  “Hundreds of thousands.”

  “Shit.”

  Her head snapped up. He’d uttered a few curse words in German, but she’d never heard him use true profanity.

  “What about Europe?” he asked.

  “They may not have shipped those yet.”

  Thank Heaven for small favors. “I want the covers changed on those. And future printings of the American version. Can you make them do that?”

  “You can sue them if they don’t.” She was silent for a moment. “That’d probably cost my job.”

  He studied her expression. It resembled someone going to the gallows but determined to put on a good face. “We can’t have that.”

  “We can threaten to sue. I’m game.”

  “Yes. Do that.”

  She lifted her chin, turned on her heel, and went to where DeCosta stood, watching their conversation. They huddled together, Casey speaking softly and DeCosta answering in an angry whisper. After a while, he grew red in the face, but Casey stayed with him, toe to toe. Finally, he threw his hands in the air and stalked away toward where Comstock now sat at a table, smiling up at his fans and autographing books. Books they’d all take home with the picture of a Prince of Danislova with his shirt undone.

  Kurt rubbed the bridge of his nose and did his best to take even breaths. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t go to the customers’ homes and remove the books from their shelves. He was Joe Stark in the United States. He could only hope no one in Europe would find out.

  Casey returned. “DeCosta just about had kittens, but he agreed.”

  “And your job?”

  “Phil’s too busy to fire me right now,” she said. “We’ll find out later.”

  “Great.”

  “Now how about that explanation,” she said. “I’d like to know why it was so God-awful for you to be on that cover.”

  “All right, but not here. Let’s go to my apartment.

  *

  Kurt lived in a freaking palace. Not far from Phil’s place, the apartment also had a view of the river. It occupied part of the top two floors of the building with the ceiling in the living room soaring up to where a grand staircase led to the bedrooms above. She let out a soft whistle as she crossed carpeting that felt like it swallowed up her shoes.

  From time to time, she’d wondered why they always stayed at her place. But then, they’d been comfortable there. And he’d kept her so occupied with great sex, she had little energy left for worrying about unimportant things. Such as how much money did the guy have? And was she totally out of his league?

  “Something to drink?” he asked.

  “Whatever you’re having.”

  “Under the circumstances, it’ll be strong.” He went to a bar and set up two brandy snifters and a crystal decanter. After pouring half-an-inch of liquor into each glass, he brought them both over and handed one to her.

  He clinked his snifter against hers. “Here’s to disaster.”

  She shouldn’t drink to that, but disaster had brought them together. Besides, she wouldn’t understand what the ginormously huge deal was about him being on a book cover—even bare chested—until he explained it to her.

  She took a sip of her drink, inhaling the fumes first. Not knowing anything about brandy, she couldn’t really comment on its quality. But it tasted complex and smooth. “Delicious.”

  “Made by my father’s monks.”

  “He owns monks?”

  “It’s complicated.” He tugged at the knot of his tie, pulling it loose, and then undid the top button of his shirt. She’d never seen him in any sort of disheveled state. Naked, yes, but when he was dressed, every garment was in perfect order. He had to be really upset.

  “Take your time explaining,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  He took a healthy swig of his brandy. “I’m not who you think I am.”

  She could only stare at him. What did he expect her to make of that statement? Would he now reveal a criminal past? Maybe a mob connection. That could explain his money and the luxury of this apartment. Holy shit, had she gotten herself involved with the godfather?

  “Kurt, you’re scaring me.”

  “Nothing to be frightened of, it’s only—”

  The cordless phone on the bar chose that moment to ring. He glanced at the caller ID. “Oh no. It can’t be.”

  Her stomach went cold. “Kurt? Who is that?”

  “I’m sorry. I have to take it.” He picked up the receiver and spoke into it. “VonRamsberg.”

  Was that his real name? It was familiar somehow. Something she’d read in the paper or heard on the news. Was there a German mafia? Would her body end up stuffed into a barrel of sauerkraut?

  “Dev?” he said. Then, he listened, and the color drained from his face. “Unmöglish. ”

  She remembered enough of her high school German to recognize that word. Impossible. He went to a chair and sank onto it. “How?”

  He listened again, taking another gulp of his brandy. “Vaclav?”

  Her stomach thawed out enough to do a flip-flop. “Kurt, what’s going on?”

  “It’s my brother. A cousin of my father’s has seen the book cover.”

  “In Germany? That can’t be. They haven’t shipped to Europe yet.”

  “Our cousin found the cover on one of the internet bookstore sites,” he said.

  “No,” she said. “I checked them all this morning. They had the old cover up.”

  “Come. There’s a computer in the study.” He rose and led her into a smaller room. He nodded toward a desk with a laptop. “Check it, please.”

  After setting her drink down, she took a seat in front of the computer and called up one of the main retailers. Sure enough, when she clicked through to the book’s page, Kurt’s face stared back at her.

  “Son of a bitch,” she said. “They must have changed it this afternoon.”

  “It’s true, then.” Kurt said a bunch of German into the phone. She only caught a word here and there. A bunch of Gotts and other things that expressed dismay at the very least. Then he listened some more and concluded with a string of jas. After a while, he broke the connection, set the phone on the desk, and downed the rest of his drink in one swallow. “That’s done it. My father knows.”

  “Is he really upset?” Was Kurt’s father the capo of the Deutsche mafia? “Is he going to put out a hit on me?”

  Kurt’s brows crinkled. “What? Oh God, no. Why would you think that?”

  “You still haven’t told me anything.”

  He rested his butt on the end of the desk. “Come here.”

  She obeyed. When she stood before him, he parted his legs and pulled her into an embrace between them. “I’m not Kurt Schmidt. I’m not German. And I’m not a cheese maker.”

  “That’s becoming clear,” she said. “Is your name VonRamsberg?”

  “Good,” he said. “You understand.”

  “Not at all. The name’s familiar…”

  “For generations, my family has ruled a small country called Danislova.”

  “Danislova!” Finally, things started making sense. Not complete sense, just a memory here and there. “An American woman married a prince from Danislova a few months ago. His name was VonRamsberg.”

  “Yes.”

  “You look like him.” The marriage had dominated the celebrity news for some time, although Phil had kept her too busy to pay much attention to it. But she had seen a picture or two, and the other prince did resemble Kurt, with the same dark skin and handsome features.

  “He’s my brother. First in line to the throne.”

  “You’re a prince?” Holy shit. She’d been sleeping with a prince, when they did sleep. She wasn’t going to end up with the German equivalent of cement overshoes, but dating royalty had its own complications. Such as paparazzi and the entire world knowing every detail of your life. “Were you ever going to mention this little detail?”

  “Of course.” He had the decency to look ashamed of himself, his gaze cast downward. “I was going to tell you.”

  “Like, maybe before we had sex? You missed that deadline.”

  “Casey, I care very much about you.” He took her face in his hands and stared into her eyes. “But my brothers and I have to be cautious. There are many women who’d like to become involved with a VonRamsberg for the wrong reasons.”

  “Money and social status.”

  “In a nutshell, yes,” he said. “I know you’re not like that. I just hadn’t found the words yet.”

  “All right.” She could accept that explanation, especially since it came with a confession that he cared very much for her. At some point, she’d tell him that the caring was mutual. “So, if your family rules in Danislova, why do you live in New York?”