Prince Albert: A Billionaire Stepbrother Romance Read online

  I shrug. “What can I say?” I ask. “You’re amusing. I enjoy a challenge.”

  I can’t even recall the last time anyone told me no. That’s one of the benefits – or drawbacks, depending on your perspective – of being royalty, too. No one ever says no, no matter how ridiculous the request. You have hundreds of people dedicated to carrying out your every ridiculous whim.

  It sounds fantastic. But honestly, it’s really fucking boring.

  When was the last time a girl told me no?

  When was the last time a girl didn’t know who I was when she met me? Or spent a night with me, laughing and talking drunkenly because she thought she’d never see me again?

  That’s happened exactly once in my life.

  It just doesn’t happen when you’re a prince.

  “That’s so patronizing,” she says.

  “What is?”

  “Calling me amusing. Implying that I’m a challenge,” she says. “I’m not an obstacle course.”

  I open my mouth to say something about exactly what obstacles on her I’d like to climb, but she glares at me, speaking before I can.

  “Don’t even say it.”

  “What?” I ask innocently.

  “You were about to make some disgusting, reprehensible comment,” she says.

  “You’re so observant,” I say. “Don’t you want to know what I’m thinking?”

  “Ugh. No,” she says. “How are you even a prince? Aren’t princes required to maintain some sort of regal bearing?”

  “That’s for public, luv,” I say. “All bets are off in private.”

  “Somehow I doubt you’re any different in a public setting,” she says. “So how are we going to take care of this catastrophe?”

  “What catastrophe are you referring to, exactly?” I ask. “The one where are parents are getting married, sis?”

  “Do not speak that word again,” she says.

  “Sis?” I ask. “But we’re going to be related now. Would you prefer that I call you wife?”

  “Both of those words are off-limits.”

  “There’s a giant list of things that are off-limits with you, aren’t there?” I ask. “Has anyone told you that life’s a lot more fun if you loosen up a little bit?”

  “You’re loose enough for both of us.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say to your husband.”

  “Stop calling yourself that,” she says. “It’s a fake marriage. We were intoxicated. How could they marry us? I don’t think it’s even legal to get married while drunk.”

  I shrug. “You’d be surprised what a little extra cash will do.”

  “You bribed a wedding chapel?” she asks, disbelief evident in her voice. “Why in the world would you do that?”

  Why, indeed?

  “What’s that saying -- when in Rome?” I ask. “When in Vegas. I figured I’d never have the opportunity to get married by Elvis again.”

  “It’s not legal,” she says. “It was a dare. A joke. It should be easy enough to annul.”

  “I’m sure you have someone you can trust to do that. Someone who won’t leak it to the press,” I point out.

  “No, I –“ She stops. “Of course I don’t. I’ve been in Africa for the past two years. I was only in Vegas for a few days before – well, all of this with you. You have to get it annulled.”

  “No,” I say. The word escapes my lips before I’m even sure of what I’m saying, before I’ve had a chance to think it through. But as soon as I speak it, I’m certain. “I don’t think I will, actually.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t think you will?” she asks, her voice rising again, the way it did when she first saw me.

  I shrug. “I don’t think I feel like it right now,” I say. “Maybe I will later, if you ask politely.”

  “I just asked nicely,” she says, through clenched teeth. “You’re really not going to get it annulled?”

  “Come on, luv,” I say, not bothering to hide my grin. “Isn’t it more fun this way?”

  I don’t wait for her response before I press on the electronic keypad that opens the door to the passageway. I think I hear her protest, but I don’t wait for her response.

  I’m whistling as I walk down the hallway, my footsteps on the plush carpeting suddenly light as air. I’d only come back to the palace because my term of service in the Royal Protrovian Army was up, and my father had a heart scare that turned out to be an ulcer, not a heart attack. And because he wanted me to get to know his future wife – Sofia Kensington.

  Even in the military, I was treated with kid gloves, as the son of the king. So I’m enjoying the fact that Little Miss Do-Gooder isn’t taking any shit. She gives back as good as I dish out.

  Maybe coming back to the palace won’t be as damn boring as I anticipated.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Belle

  That dickhead.

  That stupid, arrogant, childish, irresponsible ass.

  I pull open the drawer that holds the clothes I arrived with – one duffel bag, nothing fancy. In fact, it was so un-fancy that the butler who escorted me to my room when I arrived a few hours ago practically sniffed at me, disdain written all over his face. I wonder if my bag has already been burned, so as not to contaminate the palace.

  Rummaging through my clothes – perfectly folded and placed in the drawers for me, each item separated by fancy lavender tissue paper embossed with the royal crest in gold filigree -- I yank on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. I want out of this stupid dress and these uncomfortable heels.

  In fact, I should just get a flight out of here. I could head back to the States.

  I mean, sure, everything is different now. It's been two years since I've lived in the States. I was supposed to go back and move in with Derek.

  Derek and I had been in a long-distance relationship while I was in Africa, which seemed like the thing to do at the time, although in retrospect, it was obviously a stupid idea. But we'd dated throughout college, and my mother and his parents were friends. It's not as if we had no history together.

  It was expected that we’d be together. But if I were being honest with myself, I’d admit to myself that I was never in love with him. Not really.

  It was far too easy to leave him for two years to go to Africa. It shouldn’t be that easy to walk away from someone you love.

  To say that my mother will be disappointed with my breakup will be an understatement. It’s the reason I’d been avoiding her phone calls for the past week, hiding out while I got my shit together after the Vegas debacle. She had to send bodyguards and a private plane to escort me to Protrovia, ostensibly because I was avoiding her calls, but also because that’s just like her, to do something like that for dramatic effect.

  There’s a single knock on the door, and the door swings open without hesitation. My mother closes it swiftly behind her, standing with her hands on the doorknob behind her back as if she needs it to support her. “Isabella Kensington,” she says, her tone harsh.

  “I understand you're upset, Mother," I start. "I had planned on telling you about what happened with Derek. I just needed some time."

  "No," she says, walking toward me with long strides, her expression calm. You'd never know she was upset in the least, not to look at her. "Upset isn't the right word to use in a situation like this. Right now, I’m devastated."

  I choke back a laugh. "Devastated?" I ask. "You're devastated about my broken engagement? I think that's how I should feel."

  She holds her hand up, making a silence gesture. "I tolerated your need to run off to that God-forsaken continent to save the world. I was more than understanding."

  "Yes, you were the epitome of support," I say, my tone bitter. I applied for the two-year position without telling anyone, using my mother’s maiden name and keeping my secret until I knew I’d gotten it without any connection to my mother or the Kensington fortune. I only told her after I’d already made the decision and accepted the position.

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