Her Bodyguard Read online

  At some point in the flight, even Alexandra puts down her cell phone and looks outside.

  I’m not sure how long we’re in the air, before Albie tells us we’re going to land. “This is the summer house,” he says, as an estate, spread across acres of land, comes into view.

  “Isn’t it summer now?” I ask.

  “We’ll be there in a few weeks,” Alexandra says. “Once the royal couple makes their engagement announcement. The engagement party will be at the palace, and then we’ll retreat to the countryside. Fewer public appearances and all that. Way more boring, too.” I can’t see her expression, but if I had to guess, she’d be rolling her eyes.

  No sooner does the helicopter touch down on the pad then a red convertible speeds up, driven by a guy in sunglasses I can tell is gorgeous even from where I’m sitting. Beside me, Alex scrambles out of her seatbelt. “Tell dad I’ll be back in a few days,” she yells at Albie.

  “I’m not covering for you, shithead,” he says.

  One of the bodyguards mutters under his breath, “Your sister,” and curses into his microphone before ripping it off his head. He follows Alex out of the helicopter, and I see her arguing with him outside, flipping him the bird as she hops into a convertible that pulls away.

  So much for the summerhouse being boring, I guess.

  64

  Albie

  My sister’s bodyguard, Max, darts down the drive. I know he’s smart enough to have a vehicle here on standby, one of the dark-tinted black SUVs the security detail drives that are supposed to be inconspicuous but stick out anymore like a sore thumb.

  My bodyguard, Noah, shakes his head. “Do you know where she’s going, sir?” he asks.

  He insists on calling me “sir,” despite the fact that he’s been my security detail forever. And despite the fact that I’ve asked him a hundred times to call me by my name. Noah knows more about me than anyone, and he also knows I’m not about to rat out my sister, even if she’s off running around with a spoiled asshole like Finn Asher.

  Belle stands beside me, her hair tousled from the wind, looking sexy and disheveled and basically confused as hell. “Is everything okay?” she asks.

  “I have no idea where she’s headed, Noah,” I lie, shrugging. “Besides, I’m sure Max is on it.”

  As if on cue, the bodyguard peels past us in an SUV, kicking dust up behind his wheels as he flies down the driveway after Alex and Finn.

  Noah narrows his eyes as he looks at me. “Yes, I’m sure he’s on it, sir.”

  “We’re going to tour the grounds, Noah,” I say. “I’m sure we don’t need an escort.”

  He gives me a stern look before issuing a “yes, sir” in response, walking ahead of us. The estate is fully staffed, with its own security detail.

  “You should go have a beer or something, Noah,” I call to his retreating figure, and he flips me off behind his head.

  Beside me, Belle laughs. “Do your bodyguards usually give you the finger?” she asks.

  “Only Noah,” I tell her. “He’s been with me for along time. He’s probably the closest thing I have to a best friend.”

  “A best friend that calls you sir?” she asks.

  “He does it because he knows it pisses me off,” I say. “He only does it when he’s annoyed with me.”

  “So he calls you ‘sir’ pretty much all the time, then?”

  “You're so quick-witted," I say, rolling my eyes. "Do people tell you that all the time?"

  “Constantly,” she says, sticking her tongue out at me. It’s a childish response, but it makes me laugh. We walk in silence across the expanse of lawn from the helicopter pad toward the summerhouse, and from the corner of my eye, I can see Belle breathing in deeply, visibly relaxing as we walk.

  I don't know quite why, but it makes me satisfied to see her happy here.

  "So, do you always fly your wives out to your estates?" she asks.

  "You're the first, actually," I say.

  "So I'm special, then," she says. "I feel flattered."

  "Well, we were married by Fake Elvis, so that automatically puts you leaps and bounds ahead of my other marriages," I joke.

  "I'm overjoyed," she says sarcastically, then falls silent as we walk across the lawn. I point out various places on the estate – the stables, gardens, and the lake to the south, just barely visible on the horizon.

  "When Alex and I were kids, my father used to take us out there to fish on Sunday mornings in the summer, early," I say. "No matter how busy he was. We'd get up at six in the morning, and return a few hours later and wake up my mother."

  "Your father seems like a good man," she says. "Like...a normal guy, almost."

  "He's the people's king," I say. "It's what they call him.”

  "Was it weird, growing up like this?" she asks.

  I shrug. "I don't know," I say. "Was it weird growing up the way you did?"

  "Touché," she says.

  "I don't know any other way of life," I tell her.

  Inside the castle, I show her my favorite places, the things that are a part of my family history -- the Chinese pottery that I broke when Alex and I were running through the house when I was nine, thousands of years old and super-glued back together; and the place where my sister and I shimmied off a low overhang from one of the windows when I was twelve and Alex broke her arm. It was the first time I'd gotten in real trouble, grounded from everything.

  Belle and I stand on the roof, looking out over the expanse of the estate, the lawn so vivid it's nearly emerald-colored. Everything out here, in the country, is more vivid and intense than the city.

  This place holds all of the important memories of my life.

  "This is where Alex and I would come up and get high, before I left for the army," I tell her.

  Belle laughs. "This isn't what I pictured," she says. "It's different from what I expected from a royal family."

  "It's all trappings, you know," I say. "All of this -- the castles, and the cars, and the planes, and --"

  "The media stories?" she asks. She stands a foot away from me -- too far, I think -- and glances at me, and I think I see her smile. Teasing me about my reputation.

  "I'd say those stories in the media are greatly exaggerated, but they're probably not," I tell her.

  She laughs. "At least you're honest," she says. Then, abruptly: "Why did you bring me here?"

  "I'm sharing royal stories -- the good ones, not the PR-friendly ones -- and you're not having fun?"

  "No, I. That's not what I meant at all."

  "Relax, luv, I'm just giving you crap," I say. "Other than playing hooky at tea? I wanted to show you the real Protrovia."

  "This is the real Protrovia?" she asks, her voice lilting. "Palatial summer estates?"

  "No, smarty," I say. "I'm just giving you a tour of the summer house. Come on. Now I'll show you the real Protrovia. That way, if you decide to go back to the States, at least you know what you're missing."

  But I don't turn to leave. Not yet. I stand there, and she looks at me for a minute, the expression on her face unreadable. "I'm starting to get an idea of what I'd be missing," she says, her eyes lingering on my face for a split second too long. Then the moment passes, and she clears her throat. "All right, Prince Albert. Sell me on Protrovia."

  65

  Belle

  “I’m not sure what I thought I was going to get when I told a prince to sell me on his country, but this was definitely not it.”

  “What?” he asks innocently. “Is it the shoes? Not flattering?”

  “Yeah, it’s definitely the shoes,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. But I can't quite stifle the giggle that erupts in my throat when I look at him.

  Albie is wearing jeans and a grey t-shirt, a navy blue baseball cap pulled down low on his head, looking like any other guy his age.

  Except for the ridiculous, bushy, dark fake mustache over his lips.

  “You need a hat, too,” he says, producing a black baseball cap fro