Her Bodyguard Read online

  Albie sighs. "Well, you've been here how long? A week?"

  "Five days. But who's counting?"

  It's been five damned days and the girl won't call me by any name other than James, the one she uses for all of her security team. The other bodyguards just shrug and pass it off as something that comes with dealing with royals.

  It's driving me insane. I don't know why the hell it matters whether some spoiled princess knows my name, but the fact that she won't call me by it is getting under my skin.

  "I think one of her bodyguards lasted two weeks," Albie muses.

  "Eighteen days," I correct him. Yesterday, I went and checked with the personnel department. They shouldn't tell me that information since it's all supposed to be confidential. But apparently it's common knowledge now that I have some kind of personal tie to the prince, and the turnover with the princess' security is so rapid that there's a betting pool on how long I'll last. They were only too happy to inform me of its existence.

  I told them to bet long, because I don't intend to go anywhere.

  Nineteen days, and I'll have lasted longer than any of her other bodyguards

  You'd think that security personnel would be better equipped to handle a problem princess. I mean, she's probably one hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet. How hard can it be to spend a couple of weeks guarding a princess?

  * * *

  As it turns out, I may have underestimated her.

  "Rotten brat," I mutter under my breath as two burly men in the crowded street block my path to the alley the princess just ducked into. She turns for a moment and blows me a kiss before a wide grin spreads across her face. Then, she whirls around and heads back through the alley. I speak into my earpiece: "Brat sighted heading into alleyway northeast of the square. Head her off at the other side."

  "Brat?" one of the other bodyguards crackles through the earpiece.

  Shit. Did I say that aloud?

  I clear my throat and use her codename, repeating the order into the earpiece – the real codename, not the one I call her in my head, even though "brat" is a lot more appropriate. The royal brat was supposed to be on her way to an event, but exited the vehicle when we were stopped in the middle of traffic at a stoplight, taking off down the street at a run like she was fleeing the scene of a crime. Of course, she left her phone in the vehicle, making it impossible to track her electronically.

  "Where do you think you're going?" one of the men asks. His thick arms fold across him, resting on his large stomach.

  "Get out of my way or I'll have you arrested," I growl.

  "Says the asshole chasing down his girlfriend," the other one chimes in. "She doesn't want to see you, you know. Maybe you ought to learn to take 'no' for an answer."

  "Yeah, jackass," says Dumbass Number One, glaring at me. "No means no. You should learn how to treat a lady."

  Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my royal identification and shove it in their faces. "I'm not some abusive boyfriend, you tools."

  Dumbass Two squints. "That says 'Royal.' You don't look like a prince."

  "Yeah, she said she was running from her ex-boyfriend," Dumbass One says, shuffling awkwardly as he runs his meaty hand over his closely-cropped hair.

  "She's the princess, you morons," I tell them, shoving Dumbass One and moving through them. In a country this small, how is it I've encountered the only two idiots who don't seem to recognize a member of the royal family? "My ID says 'Royal Security' because I'm protecting her."

  "Huh? The princess? Protecting her from who?" one of them calls after me as I weave through the crowd and burst into the alley at a full running pace. My heart races, but only partly from the physical exertion. It thumps loudly in my chest in response to the adrenaline pouring through my veins, the irritation at the princess for hightailing it out of the vehicle, and anger at myself for not anticipating her move.

  I should have seen that one coming. Obviously we'll need to employ child-proof locks on the princess' transportation now.

  Or you could just sit in the back seat with her.

  The thought pops into my head, and I immediately flash to that image – me in the seat beside her, my hand on her leg, then moving farther up…

  No. I refuse to think about it. I’m not going there again – not right now in the middle of a fucking chase, and not later in the privacy of my bunkroom.

  At the end of the alley, one of the other bodyguards throws his hands up in the air in frustration and shakes his head before darting in the other direction.

  Well, that's fucking awesome. I've been on the job for seven days, and now I've lost the princess. Again.

  Well, not exactly "again". Yesterday evening, I came onto my shift to find that the genius security guards on the morning shift had lost her at a bar an hour before.

  Misplaced. That's the exact word they used. Like she's a piece of luggage at the airport. We misplaced the princess.

  Where did I find the Crown Princess of Protrovia? In the middle of a high-stakes poker game with several members of the Russian mafia.

  Nothing but classy and princess-like behavior from this girl, that's for damned sure.

  Outside of the alley, I pause and scan the crowd for Princess Alexandra. People move past me, mostly young people dressed up to go to the clubs or already pouring half-drunk out of the nearby bars and pubs, apparently oblivious to the fact that several men in suits and earpieces are pushing through the streets looking for someone important.

  Of course, this likely isn't the first time the princess has pulled this type of stunt, and probably in this very town square, so maybe the entire Kingdom of Protovia is used to seeing scenes like this.

  I scan the nearby stores – a mixture of restaurants and bars and clubs and shops selling clothing and shoes and tourist crap – for someplace, anyplace she might have stopped to enter. She had to have planned this, so where would Princess Alexandra be trying to get to that she wouldn't have just cleared with us?

  Someplace shady. Someplace her father wouldn't approve. Someplace dangerous.

  All of the nearby storefronts look appropriate and normal, like upstanding establishments.

  Then I see her not more than ten yards away wearing a baseball cap and a jacket – not what she was wearing when she left the vehicle. The brightly colored strands of hair poking out from her cap are a dead giveaway. Moving quickly through the crowd, I catch her by the arm and pull her into the nearest alley.

  "What the –" she squeals, then her expression changes as she recognizes me and groans in frustration.

  "Are you kidding me with this shit?" I ask, exasperated. "Where the hell were you even going?"

  "None of your business." She turns her face up, her jaw set.

  "None of my business, huh?" My hand is on her other arm before I even realize what I'm doing, and she's looking up at me with a defiant expression. Her lips fall open, her mouth pouty as hell, and all I can think about is kissing that smug look right the hell off her face.

  That is not something I need to be thinking. Kissing this brat shouldn't be anywhere near my thoughts.

  "Yes, James, it's none of your business."

  "I'm your bodyguard."

  "More like my prison guard," she spits.

  "You're my job," I growl. Fuck, why do her eyes have to be so doe-like? I bet she gets away with murder, giving people this wide-eyed look like she's giving me right now. Behind that innocent blinking, she's planning her next poker game with Russian mafia. I'd bet my paycheck on it.

  Hell, the girl is probably stealing my wallet out of my pocket at this very moment. I make a mental note to check my billfold later.

  A slow smirk pulls at the corner of her mouth. "Maybe. Or maybe not for long."

  "Nice try, but no cigar, princess," I tell her. "Your father ain't firing me. Of all people in the world, he definitely knows what a pain in the ass you are."

  She shrugs. "You know, there are a lot of easier security jobs out there for someone like you."