Her Bodyguard Read online

  Belle

  I wipe a towel across my forehead – navy blue monogrammed with the royal crest in gold stitching. Even the towels in the gym are excessively formal, perfectly placed in a little pyramid on an antique table against the wall.

  Five miles on the treadmill.

  That’s what it took to run off the frustration caused by seeing Albie today at tea. Five miles a day for the past few days, since we got back from the summer estate. If I keep this up, if I keep running until I’m nearly exhausted in order to run off the overpowering attraction and sexual tension between us, I’m going to be a damn marathoner.

  I could go back to the States, I think as I walk back toward my room. I could return to the States and put all of this behind me.

  “Isabella,” my mother calls, her voice echoing down the hallway. I turn around to see her walking toward me in a tailored silk suit and a matching pillbox hat. “I texted you, but you didn’t respond.”

  “My phone is in my room,” I say. “I was in the gym.”

  “There’s a foundation,” Sofia says, handing me a packet of paperwork. “I’d thought you might like to be involved with it.”

  “What is it?”

  She waves her hand dismissively. “Reading?” she asks, absently, pulling out her phone and scrolling over the screen. “Or refugees? I’m really not sure. There’s a packet of information. Charity is your thing. You should organize a dinner, fundraising or something. You can use your time at the summer estate to plan something for the fall, when we return to the palace. Nothing that takes attention away from the wedding, of course.”

  “Fundraising isn’t really my thing, mother,” I say, but she’s looking at her phone, her brow furrowed. And you're assuming I'm going to stay until Fall.

  “I have to run, I’m afraid,” she says. “There’s a crisis with the event tonight.”

  “What event?” I ask, as she draws me in, kissing my cheek.

  “Read the packet, darling,” she says. “I’m late.” I roll my eyes as she starts to walk away. Then she pauses, turning back to me. “Oh, I almost forgot to ask. How are you adjusting to everything?”

  “Fine,” I lie. Thinking about returning home is what I deliberately leave out. Except the problem is that I’ve been living overseas the past two years, so I'm not exactly sure where home is anymore.

  “Protrovia will grow on you,” she says. “Albert is taking care of you?”

  My face flushes and I cover my reaction with a fake cough.

  Albie is not taking care of me, I think. I’ve been taking care of myself. Every night. While thinking about how I’d like Albie to take care of me.

  “Yeah, sure,” I say, my voice faltering.

  She walks toward me, and speaks, her voice quiet. “Alexandra has…problems,” she says. “Albert can show you around. He was in Afghanistan, you know. He’s more serious now. Responsible.”

  I choke back a laugh as my mother whirls around without waiting for a response from me. She walks down the hallway, every step of hers purposeful.

  When I reach my bedroom, I pull open the door and toss the packet of paperwork on the desk. I know my mother wants me to be part of a foundation, to take some kind of administrative or public relations role -- whatever it is that a princess does.

  But that’s just not me.

  I’m hands-on, which is why I went to Africa in the first place. She totally doesn’t understand that.

  I’ll read the paperwork later.

  I turn, my eyes resting on the box in the middle of the bed – bright pink paper embossed with a subtle floral pattern and tied with an ornate gold fabric ribbon. There’s no card attached to the outside, so I sit on the edge of the bed, pulling the ribbon to open the box lid.

  It’s probably a gift from my mother, a bribe to follow the not-so-subtle order to get involved with the foundation. The thought makes me immediately annoyed. If my mother thinks I can be bribed with some stupid gift, she’s mistaken.

  I pull off the lid of the box, expecting to see a purse or new pair of shoes, something my mother thinks someone my age would like.

  It’s definitely not a new purse or a pair of shoes.

  I stare at the inside of the box, blinking several times to make sure I’m actually seeing what I’m seeing.

  That prick did not do this.

  I look at the contents of the box, unsure whether to be appalled or amused. A notecard is perched on top of a small pile of sex toys, and I set it on the bed beside the box. It’s no mystery who left me this ridiculously inappropriate gift.

  I reach inside the box, pulling out the first thing I touch.

  It’s a fucking gold dildo. Or gold-plated or something. It’s so shiny it’s nearly blinding, the end opposite the tip crusted in jewels, red and blue and green. I run my hand down the shaft, my fingertips sliding easily over the smooth cool surface. I should be appalled, I think. Instead, heat pools between my legs as I touch the toy.

  The golden cock comes to life in my hands, vibrating when I accidentally trigger something on it, and I yelp, dropping it onto the bed, where it bounces around in a circle on the mattress. Scrambling to shut it off, a giggle builds up in my throat, escaping my lips despite my best efforts to not be amused by Albie’s antics.

  He sent me a golden cock.

  I peek into the box again, stifling my laughter as I take out the contents one by one and lay them on the bed:

  Another vibrator of some kind, egg-shaped with a remote control

  A glass dildo that looks more like a piece of art than a dick, purple and blue swirls of color through it.

  And…

  I pull out the last piece, unsure what the hell it is, turning it over in my hand for a moment, a long pink piece of hair attached to a glass object that looks like a small dildo.

  Then I realize what it is.

  Oh my God.

  It’s a butt plug. With a fake, bright pink horse’s tail attached.

  I toss it on the bed like it's radioactive, shaking my head as I open the card that came with this way-too-far-over-the-line inappropriate set of gifts.

  Thought you might need a little help with your obvious frustration. If you’d only just ask, you could get more personal assistance.

  I slide open the screen on my cell phone and text the royal bastard who thinks he’s so funny.

  Got your gifts. Using them now. How did you know pink is my color?

  I’m barely finished sending the text when he responds.

  Pictures or it didn’t happen.

  That text is followed immediately by another message:

  Unless you want to show me in person. Just ask me to come down and help.

  I think for a moment, before replying.

  You’re a smart prince. Use your imagination.

  I lay back against the bed for a second, before sending another message to him.

  What’s with the horse tail? Does the Prince of Protrovia secretly have a pony fetish? Are you a Brony?

  It’s a few minutes before he texts back.

  Sorry, I was…busy. Using my imagination, you know. Thought you might like it. Weren't you a big equestrian when you were in high school? I read that somewhere.

  I toss the toys back in the box and put the lid firmly on the top, as if by closing it up I can shut out the inappropriate thoughts I’m having about Prince Albert. It would be so easy to just say yes, to ask him to take the secret passageway between our rooms and show up here to finish what he started that day in the village.

  That’s not going to happen, I tell myself.

  On principle.

  I’m not begging him for anything. The spoiled smug bastard is used to women throwing themselves at him, to people jumping just because he says jump. He thinks I'm going to be completely embarrassed by this little present, or that I'm going to giggle and blush at his inappropriateness. Well, two can play this game.

  I text him back.

  I’m sending you a gift.

  70

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