Prince Marcel Frederic DeLoria had a fondness for fast cars and the freedom he enjoyed while executing hairpin turns on winding roads. Yet his greatest pleasure came in the form of more dangerous curves, those that could be found on a woman. He appreciated every nuance of the opposite sexâthe way they looked, the way they smelled, their innate intelligence and, admittedly, the challenges they could present when it came to the chase.
But as much as he loved women, he hated goodbyes and for that reason heâd avoided emotional entanglements. Still, tonight an inevitable parting hung over him like a guillotine, poised to sever ties four years in the making.
A few hours ago, Marc had taken his Harvard diploma and was now set to embrace his independence. However, he did not particularly look forward to saying goodbye to Sheikh Dharr Halim, in line to rule his country one day, and Mitchell Edward Warner III, the son of a United States senator and American royalty in his own right. Three men bound by status, united by all that their legacies entailed, forever joined by a friendship that had grown and strengthened during their time together.
Noisy revelry filtered through the closed door from outside, a celebration signaling the end of an era, the end of their youth in a manner of speaking. The trio had opted to forgo the party and instead sequestered themselves in their shared apartment where they had formed their own fraternity of sorts, spending the past four years discussing culture, world events and their latest adventures skirting the ever-present paparazzi. And their favorite subjectâwomen.
But tonight an uncharacteristic silence prevailed, as if the time-honored topics were inconsequential in light of what now awaited themâa future that no one could predict beyond their familiesâ expectations.
Marc reclined on the black overstuffed chair, his heels propped on the table before him. Dharr sat regally in the tan leather lounger across from Marc, the traditional Arabian kaffiyeh no longer covering his head; yet he still gave the appearance of a born leader. Mitch had opted for his customary roost on the floor reclined against the wall, dressed in jeans and scuffed leather cowboy boots, apparel that stood out from the crowd like a crown on a pauper. But although they were all different, Marc acknowledged, they still shared notoriety, the reason behind their frequent gatherings, a means to cope with the pressures of celebrity.
Mitch tossed aside the magazine heâd been reading since their arrival and picked up the bottle of fine French champagne, compliments of Marcâs brother, the king. âWeâve already toasted our success. Now I suggest we toast a long bachelorhood.â He refilled his glass, then topped off Dharrâs and Marcâs.
Dharr raised his flute. âI would most definitely toast to that.â
With champagne in hand, Marc paused to consider an ideaâan appropriate send-off. One that would pique his friendâs interests. âI prefer to propose a wager.â
Dharr and Mitch glanced at one another then leveled their gazes on Marc. âWhat kind of wager, DeLoria?â Mitch asked.
âWell, since weâve all agreed that weâre not suited for marriage in the immediate future, if ever, I suggest we hold ourselves to those terms by wagering weâll all be unmarried on our tenth reunion.â
âAnd if we are not?â Dharr asked.
Marc saw only one way to ensure the wagerâs success. âWeâll be forced to give away our most prized possession.â
âGive away my gelding?â Mitch grimaced as if heâd swallowed something foul. âThat would be tough.â
Dharr looked even less enthusiastic as his gaze fell on the abstract painting of a woman hanging above Mitchâs head. âI suppose that would be my Modigliani original, and I must admit that giving away the nude would cause me great suffering.â
âThatâs the point, gentlemen,â Marc said. âThe wager would mean nothing if the possessions were meaningless.â
Mitch eyed him with suspicion. âOkay, DeLoria. Whatâs it going to be for you?â