Her Bodyguard Read online

  “Max Donnelly,” he repeats. “Not James. Max.”

  “We’ll see how long you last.” I spin around and add over my shoulder: “James.”

  3

  Max

  Pushing through the mass of gyrating bodies, I clear a swath in the crowd with one hand, my other hand out and hovering in front of the princess as we make our way through the bar. Three of my security counterparts are with us, and we surround her on all sides forming a basic military squad. It's just like being a Marine, I think as I let out a laugh under my breath, except this job involves a spoiled rich girl and a bunch of drunk assholes in a bar.

  I can't believe I let Prince Albert talk me into this protection gig of taking care of his sister. I hadn't seen the guy since Afghanistan, yet three weeks ago he showed up unannounced in my hometown. South Hollow, Kentucky hadn’t seen anything like it before. The prince tried to sneak into town under the radar — as if wearing jeans and a baseball cap was some kind of genius disguise. When you show up to a town of fifteen hundred people in Kentucky with two guys in suits, everyone assumes one of two things: either the Feds are coming to take their guns, or the tax man is coming to take their money. Either way, Prince Albert was lucky as hell his ass didn’t get shot.

  He was there to offer me a job. Correction: he was there to guilt me into doing him another favor.

  Because saving your life wasn’t enough of a favor? I’d asked him.

  This one’s bigger, he’d told me.

  I needed the job. I'd moved back to Kentucky after I got out of the Marines because I wanted to be closer to home to help out my parents. The only trouble was, I didn't count on the mine just outside of town getting shut down right after I returned. Losing the mine meant that South Hollow had lost its main source of jobs. That meant I was going to have to leave town to get work anyhow, and the nearest big town was two hours away.

  Then Albie came knocking on my door, offering to pay me a crazy amount of money – more money than I could have ever dreamed of earning when I was a Marine – to move to his country and work for his family. I didn’t see how on God’s green earth going to Europe to babysit a princess was going to be a bigger favor than saving his damned life, especially when he was going to pay me handsomely for doing so. It seemed like a pretty sweet deal.

  Three days into working for the princess, I understand it now.

  Prince Albert is a solid guy. He's down to earth and has a good head on his shoulders. His sister, on the other hand … hell, she’s a walking disaster.

  In the past three days since I’ve been here, I’ve done nothing except follow her ass into situation after un-princess-like situation. I’ve fended off a million paparazzi who have apparently gotten used to tailing the girl like a pack of wild dogs, hungry for any morsel of crazy fucking behavior she gives them.

  And, trust me, there’s apparently no end to the drama that surrounds this woman. She's easy pickings for the tabloid reporters looking for front-page nonsense to satisfy their readers.

  Princess Alexandra pauses in the middle of the crowd and reaches for my arm. “James,” she yells, and a surge of irritation rushes through me. James she calls me, like I’m her personal butler or her concierge. I don’t respond, instead looking ahead at the sea of bodies, people trying to touch the princess or yelling for autographs or even cursing at her.

  Have I mentioned yet how much I fucking hate crowds? No? Well, I hate crowds.

  “James, you can’t continue to ignore me!"

  “That’s not my name, princess,” I growl, shoving a guy to the side who gets too close. This girl is insane, going out to clubs. It’s a potential security disaster, and she seems completely oblivious to any kind of danger.

  You'd have to be stupid or just plain reckless, coming to places like this. And this girl isn't stupid, despite how much she pretends she is. I'm guessing that her bodyguards frequently underestimate her. Well, she doesn't have me fooled.

  The princess flashes a grin at me as she abruptly turns to the side, deviating from the stated plan, which was to enter the club through the back and go straight to the roped-off VIP area. The very least she could do, since she's engaging in high-risk behavior, is adhere to the security plan.

  I know right away that she’s heading toward the bar, a mammoth white monstrosity with colored LED lights that flash in time to the beat of the music pounding through the club.

  Who the hell thinks this kind of thing is fun, anyway? Even when I was only eighteen, I was already too old for this bullshit. Of course, when I was eighteen, I was in boot camp. I wasn’t getting wasted and listening to ear-splitting, headache-inducing techno at a club.

  “You’re not sticking to the plan, princess,” I yell, my hand automatically going to her arm.

  She looks down at my hand, then back up at me with wide eyes. Those damn eyes — they’re unnaturally large, almost like she’s a doll, giving her a young, innocent appearance. In reality, she’s as far from innocent-looking as it gets, especially in the outfit she’s wearing tonight: a black bra that seems several sizes too small, barely able to keep her breasts from spilling out, topped with a shimmery transparent shirt that has the bizarre effect of making her seem even more naked than she is. She's paired them with black leather shorts that cling to her curves like they’re tailor-made for her (of course, since she’s a princess, they probably were made specifically for her), black fish-net stockings, and boots.

  It's taking a lot of effort to keep my eyes focused on my surroundings and not on the way her ass looks in those leather shorts.

  “No touching,” she says, but I don’t need to hear her to read her lips.

  I don’t move my hand. “Excuse me?”

  “Bodyguards don’t touch princesses,” she informs me.

  I’m so taken aback by her snobbery (although I really don’t know why I’m surprised by it; after all, she's royalty, and I’m a guy from Kentucky), that for a second, I just stand there.

  A large part of me considers picking her snobby little ass up and carrying her right out of the nightclub just to teach her a lesson about manners.

  “Excuse me?” I ask the question again, but I don’t care if she repeats what she just said or not because it’s irrelevant. I’m definitely going to touch her. In fact, she’s lucky I don’t bend her over and put my hand across her ass right now.

  The truth is, three days in and I can already tell that what this spoiled brat needs more than anything is a good, hard spanking.

  “I don’t like being touched,” she says. “James.”

  I don’t move my hand. “Well, it's a good thing I’m not James, then,” I reply. “And you're not headed to the bar."

  She raises her eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

  "You heard me. You're going straight over there to the VIP section. That's the plan. If you'd like a drink, I'm sure a waiter can get it for you."

  She gives me a long look, like she's deciding what to do. Then she moves, faster than I'd expect for a girl wearing boots with stiletto heels that have to be at least six inches high. She steps right around me and, with the assistance of two douchey-looking males who hoot their approval, climbs right on top of the bar.

  I make a move toward the bar to pull her down, but one of the other bodyguards stops me. "No interference," he yells as he rolls his eyes and gives me a what-are-you-going-to-do shrug. "Haven't you ever protected someone before?"

  I don't answer. The princess' bodyguards are shockingly blasé about their jobs, more like large thugs in suits than actual competent security personnel, or what a princess' security detail should be. So I just ignore them, pushing aside an asshole who steps too close to the edge of the bar where the princess is dancing.

  Yes, dancing.

  The princess of this kingdom is dancing on top of a bar, wearing leather shorts and a transparent shirt and stiletto boots, as she chugs from a bottle of champagne. Her hips sway side to side, her movements seductive and synced with the throbbing of the music in the club.