Her Bodyguard Read online

  “Is that what you’re into?” I ask, looking her over. “I could have guessed that you’d be into some kinky shit.”

  “Oh my God, I am not into any kinky shit,” she says.

  “I don’t believe you, luv,” I say. It’s always the nice-looking ones, the most straight-laced, prim-and-proper ones, who are the wildest in the sack. Although that might not be true in this case. Little Miss Do-Gooder seems to have quite the stick up her ass.

  “Well, you’re never going to find out,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest as she shakes her head. She looks at me, her nose wrinkling like she’s smelling something bad. “Do women fall for this whole Casanova act?”

  “Works like a charm,” I say. I don’t have to do much actual work to get women to take off their panties. It’s one of the benefits of being royalty.

  Life is a buffet of pussy, and I’m a damn connoisseur.

  “Well, just so you know,” she says. “That is not on the table here.”

  “What’s not on the table?” I ask. “Sex? I wasn’t thinking of fucking you on the table, luv. Not the first time, anyway. I’d take my time with you, the first time. Or maybe not. You seem like you'd like it hard and rough – something public, maybe? The threat of getting caught turns you on, doesn’t it?”

  She interrupts, holding up her hand to silence me. “I just left an irresponsible, no-good, womanizing dickhead. And, well, okay, so I apparently drunkenly married another one in what’s, in retrospect, an extremely regrettable incident. But there’s not going to be any fucking happening here. There’s going to be no coming. In fact, I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were literally the last prince on earth.”

  I can’t help but smile, and I don’t even try to hide it. “I’m going to remind you that you said that.”

  “You won’t need to remind me,” she says. “Because I’m not going to forget it. Why are you smirking? It’s so annoying. I just said I wasn’t going to sleep with you. How is that remotely funny?”

  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.

  57

  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 pare