Royally Matched, Page 7

  "Sam can go fucking die." She looks right at the camera. "Are you getting this? You can go fucking die, Sam! I hope your prick gets caught in a wood chipper, you cheating bastard!"

  "He cheated on you? Sam?"

  Sam's a great guy. The kind of guy even really good guys want to be more like. He makes Abraham Lincoln look like a lying shit.

  "Your face right now, that's exactly how I looked when I found out--but a hell of a lot angrier. I found receipts, knickers that weren't mine, rubbers. Faithless, worthless son of a bitch."

  She bangs the table and her nails are long enough to double as claws.

  "Now I want Sam to see what it feels like. So I'm going to fuck you. On television. A lot. Hopefully live. You'd better rest up, Henry. I brought lube--a whole bucket of it."

  Wow.

  Ding!

  Penelope Von Titebottum. Her mother's a reclusive countess, but Penny is pleasant, fun, attractive. And her sister is . . . interesting.

  "Hello, Henry, how've you been?"

  "I'm good, Penelope. You look well."

  She bounces in her seat and smooths her hair. "Thank you! I'm just so excited to be here. We're going to have so much fun."

  "That's the plan."

  "And I can't believe we're going to be on television! All over the world. It's amazing."

  "I saw Sarah earlier. We said hello."

  "Oh good. She didn't want to come at first, but I'm glad she did. We have to get her out of her shell. Not too much, just enough to show her a good time, right?"

  I nod. "Count me in."

  Penelope stays.

  And that means Sarah does too.

  Ding!

  Princess Alpacca, pronounced like the animal, first in line to the throne of Alieya Island, a small nation below the south of France. The Queen invited her to Wessco after an attempted coup forced her family into exile last year. She doesn't speak English and I don't know a word of Aliesh. This is going to be a challenge.

  Guermo, her translator, glares at me like I'm the bubonic plague in human form--with a mixture of hatred, disgust, and just a touch of fear.

  She speaks in Aliesh, looking at me.

  And Guermo translates. "She says she thinks you are very ugly."

  Princess Alpacca nods vigorously.

  She's pretty in a cute kind of way. Wild curly hair, round hazel eyes, a tiny bulbous nose, and full cheeks.

  "She says she doesn't like you or your stupid country," Guermo informs me.

  Another nod and a blank but eager smile.

  "She says she would rather throw herself off the rocks to her death in the waves and be devoured by the fish than be your queen."

  I look him in the face. "She barely said anything."

  He shrugs. "She says it with her eyes. I know these things. If you weren't so stupid you would know too."

  More nodding.

  "Fantastic."

  She says something to Guermo in Aliesh, then he says something back--harshly and disapproving. And now, they're arguing.

  But they can stay.

  Guermo is obviously in love with Alpacca and she clearly has no idea. My presence will force him to admit his feelings . . . but does she return his infatuation? It'll be like living in a Latin soap opera--dramatic, passionate, and over the top. I have to see how it ends.

  Ding!

  Lady Libadocious Loutenhiemer. Track and Field Olympian in the last two games. The youngest Wessconian to ever win a gold medal, cousin of a marquess.

  "You can call me Libby. Or Libs. Lulu. Or LL--I pretty much answer to anything."

  She's in amazing shape--everything tight and toned, but still definitely feminine. Wavy blond hair frames an attractive face with high cheekbones and great eyes.

  "In my spare time, I like biking, swimming, running, fucking . . ."

  I smirk. "What a coincidence--those are all my favorite hobbies too."

  Oh, yes.

  Ding!

  And so it goes. Some are bubbly and upbeat, some more ambitious and dramatic, but I enjoy meeting and chatting with all of them. It's difficult to make cuts, but the show must go on. After the dating game, Vanessa hands me a map of the castle, marking the rooms where each of the ladies is staying.

  I do my bit and leave the glass-slipper charms on the pillows of the girls I've chosen. Then I exit filming as the cameras continue to roll, capturing the reactions. Screams of joy and disappointment race down the halls of the stone castle. And then there were ten.

  DRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

  "Stop."

  Drrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

  "Go away."

  Drrrr. Drrrr. Drrrr. Drrrr.

  "Bloody hell."

  DRRRRRRRRR.

  "Shut the fuck up!"

  I'm talking to the cameras mounted in the corners of my room. I'm contractually obligated to let them be there, and while they were installed over a week ago, tonight's the first night they've been on. Boy, are they ever on.

  Drr. Drr. Drr. Drr. Drr. Drr.

  It's the audio version of Chinese water torture. It's slowly and surely driving me mad. Every time I blink, breathe, roll over, scratch my nose or my nuts, the fucking things move. And they're not quiet about it.

  DRRRRRRR. DRRRRRRR. DRRRRRRR.

  I throw my pillow at the one on the left, which seems to be the most active. But the launch falls short. And now I have no pillow. I just lie flat, looking at the ceiling.

  Listening to the last sound I'll hear before I die.

  Drrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrr . . .

  I've been trying to sleep for the last three hours, and now it's a quarter past two in the morning and I have to be dressed and downstairs for filming at half past six. Even for a practiced insomniac like myself, this is going to be rough. I need a few hours at least. At this point, I'd take a few minutes.

  DRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

  And I can't even play my guitar. Because of that fucking sound.

  Knock, knock.

  That's new. I sit up, looking at the cameras to see who's making the strange noise.

  Knock, knock.

  But it's coming from the door. I swing out of bed and cover my bare arse with a pair of sleeping pants--careful not to give the cameras a show. Then I swing the door open.

  And Lady Elizabeth stands on the other side, her vixen-red lips stretched into a salacious smile. "Hello, love. Time to fuck!"

  She's in a black leather bustier and teeny, tiny black knickers that look . . . well, they look fabulous on her. Elizabeth has a stripper's body--a high, firm rack, trim waist, legs for days. She saunters into the room, hips swinging, waving a dildo in one hand and a pair of handcuffs in the other.

  She spots the cameras and squeals. "How bloody perfect! They can get us from all angles!"

  "Elizabeth . . ." I sigh.

  But any further words are momentarily caught in my throat when she bends over the edge of the bed, slapping her arse for the camera. "Go to hell, Sammy."

  Now, my head and my heart are not at all interested . . . but my dick certainly is. He's up for a party. He's a bit of an arsehole.

  Still, I cross my arms over my chest. "This isn't happening, Elizabeth. Sam is a good friend--one of only a few that I have."

  She bats her long, fake eyelashes and tosses her hair. "It's so happening."

  When she tries to put her arms around me, I hold her forearms and step back.

  She pouts. "Then why did you give me a slipper charm? Why am I still here, Henry?"

  "So you don't go out and revenge-fuck anyone else. Not until you and Sam straighten out this misunderstanding."

  She stomps her foot, slips out of my grasp, and lies back in the center of the bed.

  "Fuck me, Henry. I'll beg if you want me to."

  My cock nods. Sick bastard.

  I rub my eyes. "You need to leave."

  She smiles coyly. "Make me, my Prince."

  O-kay.

  I open the door, walk down the hall to
the two security men stationed at the top of the stairs, and hook my thumb toward my room. "Make her leave."

  Sometimes being me isn't so bad.

  Like moments later, when they're gently but physically escorting Elizabeth out the door, so I don't have to.

  "All right," she calls over her shoulder. "Tomorrow then!"

  And I slam the door behind them.

  This isn't how I thought it'd be. The cameras mock me in stereo sound.

  Drrr. Drrr. Drrr. Drrr.

  Christ, I'm tired. I need sleep. I need peace. I need for my balls to not be so blue they're practically purple. As purple as Sarah Von Titebottum's--

  My mind comes to a screeching halt with the unexpected thought. And the image that accompanies it--the odd, blushing lass with her glasses and her books and very tight bottom.

  Sarah's not a contestant on the show, so I'm willing to bet both my indigo balls that there's not a camera in her room. And, I can't believe I'm fucking thinking this, but, even better--none of the other girls will know where to find me--including Elizabeth.

  I let the cameras noisily track me to the lavatory, but then, like an elite operative of the Secret Intelligence Service, I plaster myself to the wall beneath their range and slide my way out the door.

  Less than five minutes later, I'm in my sleeping pants and a white T-shirt, barefoot with my guitar in hand, knocking on Sarah's bedroom door. I checked the map Vanessa gave me earlier. Her room is on the third floor, in the corner of the east wing, removed from the main part of the castle. The door opens just a crack and dark brown eyes peer out.

  "Sanctuary," I plead.

  Her brow crinkles and the door opens just a bit wider. "I beg your pardon?"

  "I haven't slept in almost forty-eight hours. My best friend's girlfriend is trying to praying-mantis me and the sound of the cameras following me around my room is literally driving me mad. I'm asking you to take me in."

  And she blushes. Great.

  "You want to sleep in here? With me?"

  I scoff. "No, not with you--just in your room, love."

  I don't think about how callous the words sound--insulting--until they're out of my mouth. Could I be any more of a dick?

  Thankfully, Sarah doesn't look offended.

  "Why here?" she asks.

  "Back in the day, the religious orders used to give sanctuary to anyone who asked. And since you dress like a nun, it seemed like the logical choice."

  I don't know why I said that. I don't know what's wrong with me. Somebody just fucking shoot me and be done with it.

  Sarah's lips tighten, her head tilts, and her eyes take on a dangerous glint.

  I think Scooby-Doo put it best when he said, Ruh-roh.

  "Let me make sure I've got this right--you need my help?"

  "Correct."

  "You need shelter, protection, sanctuary that only I can give?"

  "Yes."

  "And you think teasing me about my clothes is a wise strategy?"

  I hold up my palms. "I never said I was wise. Exhausted, defenseless, and desperate."

  I pout . . . but in a manly kind of way.

  "Pity me."

  A smile tugs at her lips. And that's when I know she's done for. With a sigh, she opens the door wide. "Well, it is your castle. Come in."

  Huh. She's right--it is my castle. I really need to start remembering that.

  I stand a bit taller as I walk in and look around. It's one of the smaller rooms, not as ornate as the ones on the second floor--it's used for servants when the castle is fully staffed. But the bed is large--a king--and takes up much of the room, with a small sofa and side table near the fireplace.

  "How did you get stuck in here?" I ask. "Weren't any other rooms available?"

  "They were, but I picked this one."

  "Why?"

  Her eyes go wide and light. "Because it has the best feature ever." She extends her right arm, presenting the cushioned window seat like a game-show hostess presenting a brand-new automobile.

  "A window seat is the best feature ever?"

  She shakes her head at me in a pitying way and I remember it--last year when we first met in that little pub, she did the exact same thing.

  "It's not just a window seat--it's a nook!"

  My eyebrows rise. "A nook?"

  "A reading nook!"

  It's only then that I notice the curved arch above the window, creating a little alcove, the worn leather satchel in the corner and a carefully stacked pile of old books at one end of the cushioned seat, that must belong to Sarah.

  "A reading nook is a magical thing," Sarah explains, color rising in her pale cheeks from excitement. It's a nice look on her. "Every true reader appreciates a comfy, quiet space built just for reading."

  I nod. "A nook. Got it."

  I prop my guitar up against the nightstand. Then I turn toward the bed and fall into it face first. The mattress is soft but firm, like a sheet of steel wrapped in a cloud. I roll around, moaning loud and long.

  "Oh, that's good. Really, really good. What a grand bed!"

  Sarah clears her throat. "Well. We should probably get to sleep, then. Big day tomorrow."

  The pillow smells sweet, like candy. I can only imagine it's from her. I wonder if I pressed my nose to the crook of her neck, would her skin smell as delicious?

  I brush away the thought as I watch her stiffly gather a pillow and blanket from the other side of the bed, dragging them to . . . the nook.

  "What are you doing?"

  She looks up, her doe eyes widening. "Getting ready for bed."

  "You're going to sleep there?"

  "Of course. The sofa's very uncomfortable."

  "Why can't we share the bed?"

  She chokes . . . stutters. "I . . . I can't sleep with you. I don't even know you."

  I throw my arms out wide. "What do you want to know? Ask me anything--I'm an open book."

  "That's not what I mean."

  "You're being ridiculous! It's a huge bed. You could let one rip and I wouldn't hear it."

  And the blush is back. With a vengeance.

  "I'm not . . . I don't . . ."

  "You don't fart?" I scoff. "Really? Are you not human?"

  She curses under her breath, but I'd love to hear it out loud. I bet uninhibited Sarah Von Titebottum would be a stunning sight. And very entertaining.

  She shakes her head, pinning me with her eyes.

  "There's something wrong with you."

  "No." I explain calmly, "I'm just free. Honest with myself and others. You should try it sometime."

  She folds her arms, all tight, trembling indignation. It's adorable.

  "I'm sleeping in the nook, Your Highness. And that's that."

  I sit up, pinning her gaze right back at her.

  "Henry."

  "What?"

  "My name is not Highness, it's fucking Henry, and I'd prefer you use it."

  And she snaps.

  "Fine! Fucking Henry--happy?"

  I smile.

  "Yes. Yes, I am." I flop back on the magnificent bed. "Sleep tight, Titebottum."

  I think she growls at me, but it's muffled by the sound of rustling bed linens and pillows. And then . . . there's silence. Beautiful, blessed silence.

  I wiggle around, getting comfy.

  I turn on my side and fluff the pillow.

  I squeeze my eyes tight . . . but it's hopeless.

  "Fucking hell!" I sit up.

  And Sarah springs to her feet. "What? What's wrong?"

  It's the guilt. I've barged into this poor girl's room, confiscated her bed, and have forced her to sleep in a cranny in the wall. I may not be the man my father was or the gentleman my brother is, but I'm not that much of a prick.

  I stand up, rip my shirt over my head. and march toward the window seat. I feel Sarah's eyes graze my bare chest, arms. and stomach, but she circles around me, keeping her distance.

  "You take the bloody bed," I tell her. "I'll sleep in the bloody nook."
r />   "You don't have to do that."

  I push my hand through my hair. "Yes, I do." Then I stand up straight and proper, an impersonation of Hugh Grant in one of his classic royal roles. "Please, Lady Sarah."

  She blinks, her little mouth pursed. "Okay."

  Then she climbs onto the bed, under the covers. And I squeeze onto the window bench, knees bent, my elbow jammed against the icy windowpane, and my neck bent at an odd angle that I'm going to be feeling tomorrow.

  The light is turned down to a very low dim, and for several moments all I hear is Sarah's soft breaths.

  But then, in the near darkness, her delicate voice floats out on a sigh.

  "All right, we can sleep in the bed together."

  Music to my ears. I don't make her tell me twice--I've fulfilled my noble quota for the evening. I stumble from the nook and crash onto the bed.

  That's better.

  The light on the bedside table next to Sarah brightens. "I'm awake now. I'm going to read for a bit, if it doesn't bother you."

  "Wuthering Heights?" I yawn.

  "Yes. Sleep well, Henry."

  And something about the way she says my name this time--the sweetness of her voice--makes me smile. Until . . .

  "Hmm, hmmm, hmmm, hmmm, hmmmmm, hmm, hmm . . ."

  And I'm once again staring at the ceiling. "What is that sound?"

  "What? Oh, that's me--sorry--I hum when I read." The bed shakes as she shrugs. "Habit."

  "Well for Christ's sake, don't."

  I'm being an arse. When she doesn't reply for a few seconds, I start to worry I've upset her. It's not Sarah's fault I'm tired--and horny. So horny. She doesn't deserve to have her head ripped off.

  But before I can apologize, she says, "And here I thought you were the type who'd enjoy a good hummer."

  And for a moment I'm stunned. And then I laugh, turning on my side, facing her. "Was that a joke, Sarah Titty-teet-butt-um?"

  "It was supposed to be, yes."

  "And it was a dirty joke. I'm impressed. I'll have to completely reevaluate my impression of you."

  She covers her lovely mouth with her hands. "They slip out from time to time, but usually only with Penny or Willard and Annie."

  And suddenly, I don't feel tired anymore.

  "Willard and Annie?"

  "My best friends. They work with me at the library."

  "You're a librarian?"

  She nods. "Mmm-hmm. At Concordia Library."

  I fold my hands behind my head. Letting my imagination run wild.

  "I've always wanted to fuck standing up in the stacks. Have you ever tried it?"

  And without looking, I can feel her blush--like the rays of the red sun of Krypton.

  "No."

  I glance at her, my eyes raking up and down her body.

  "I can see it. The long dark hair, the glasses, a tight gray pencil skirt and a snug white blouse with the top two . . ." I glance down at her impressive breasts, ". . . three buttons undone. You're the epitome of the sexy librarian."