She had sworn never to be pulled into that particular obsession. She hadn’t, either, in spite of childish dreams and play-acting. She’d become more serious, more practical as she grew up. Times had changed, too, so the idea seemed frivolous. She’d also known her prospects were slim given her dad never had time for Mardi Gras hoopla and carnival krewe membership. He might have married a Mardi Gras queen, but he’d been too busy making a living to care about such things. Never say never, her French-Creole grandmother always told her. Wise woman. A light wind off the bayou sent a strand of her dark blonde hair drifting across her face. She snagged it and tucked it behind her ear before shading her eyes with her hand against the setting sun’s glare. There he was, Ross McDougall, outlined in fiery light as he knelt on the deck of his white yacht. The man she had come to see, the one who might offer her a chance to be queen to his king.
