The Queen's Dance (Emerging Queens) by Jamie K. Schmidt

sun’s warmth bored into her every pore, and the headache eased to a mild throb. Margery stretched and rolled over so she wouldn’t get sunburned.
    Too bad she’d passed out. She didn’t quite get the politics of the consort thing, but if it was a choice between Remy, Casimiro, and a total stranger, her best bet was Remy. It didn’t have to be love, after all. Not yet, anyway. It would have been nice to have a night of mind-blowing sex and fall asleep cuddled up in a man’s arms. Ever since Casimiro did a number on her heart, Margery wasn’t too keen on letting that organ decide her bed partners. Her libido had good taste, and right now Remy would fit the bill. If she could stay conscious for it.
    A big wave lifted the boat, and she clutched at the deck as the vessel swayed nearly to tipping. Then Remy launched onto the deck. He was fully dressed and not even dripping.
    She squinted up at him. “How do you do that?”
    “Did you have a nice night?” he asked, turning his back on her to go to the helm and raise the
    anchor.
    Picturing an outfit in her mind, the sheet shifted into navy chinos and a peach sweater set.
    She could get used to this. No more digging through her closet trying to find something to wear. Getting up, though, was harder.
    “What do you mean, all night?” She had to shout to be heard over the roaring of the engines as he started them up. It didn’t do the pounding in her head any good.
    Sinking into the seat next to him, she held on while he took them around in a circle at a fast clip. Averting her eyes from the lake water so she wouldn’t freak out, she tried to judge his mood. “I have a feeling I’m missing something.”
    “You passed out and slept the entire night, and now we’re late for a meeting with Viola and Sergei.”
    “I’m sorr—” She cut off her words at the enraged glare he shot her. “What?”
    “Let’s just get through this meeting and then we can figure out where to go from here.”
    Margery sat on her hands so she wouldn’t strangle him. “Can you at least tell me what I did wrong?”
    A muscle flexed in his jaw. “Nothing.”
    “Whatever.” She could do passive-aggressive, too.
    It was a long trip down to Burlington Bay, made even longer by Remy’s stone-cold visage. She wanted to tell him she hadn’t meant to pass out, but did he actually think she’d done it on purpose? Margery had an argument with him in her head that made her feel marginally better by the time he docked his thirty-eight-foot yacht. Her headache faded to a dull pain behind her eyes, which left her feeling drowsy and a little bitchy. She could use a cup of tea.
    When he cut the engines, she climbed out of the boat unassisted, too mad at him to wait. But she did turn around for him when she realized she had no idea where they were going. She noticed the boat’s name was Nessie .
    Margery smiled. He can’t be all bad. He named his boat after his mama. His grim expression, though, didn’t budge, and it scared off a few of the autograph seekers. Jamming a ball cap on his head, Remy pointed up to the parking lot.
    “Blue truck,” he said.
    Well, that was a start. It was two more words than he’d spoken to her for the past hour. She climbed into it after he unlocked it, and they maneuvered around the pedestrians as they made their way up past College Street.
    The farm was only about fifteen minutes away. It was a shock after the busy commercial streets they’d just left to be surrounded by parks and other farms. Remy took a dirt road that had seen better days farther into the forest, and she held on as the trail bounced her around the cab of the truck. The sight of sheep grazing in the pasture made her stomach growl.
    “You can’t eat the sheep,” Remy said.
    “I remembered that part.” Margery wished they’d stopped for breakfast, but they were already running late, apparently. Her stomach didn’t settle down until they were in Burlington Bay.
    A biker dude with lots of scars