Charming the Prince: A Mistaken Identity and Forbidden Love Romance, Racy Royals #2

  OTHER BOOKS BY GINA L. MAXWELL

  Neverland Novels

  Pan #1

  Hook #2

  Tink #3 (TBD)

  Fighting for Love series

  Seducing Cinderella #1

  Rules of Entanglement #2

  Fighting for Irish #3

  Sweet Victory #4

  Playboys in Love series

  Shameless #1

  Ruthless #2

  Merciless #3

  Stand-Alones

  Hot for the Fireman

  Ask Me Again

  Tempting her Best Friend

  GLM Steamy Shots

  (Kindle Unlimited Erotic Novellas)

  Bad Teacher: An Alpha Student and Hot Teacher Romance

  Kidnapping the Duchess, Racy Royals #1

  Charming the Prince, Racy Royals #2

  NOTE: This story was previously published for a brief period as Perverted Prince by Patience Parks, the former collaborative pen name of Gina L. Maxwell and Laura Wright. Gina L. Maxwell holds the copyright for this story. This version contains edits and significant additional content not in the original edition.

  Copyright © 2021 Gina L. Maxwell

  GLM Steamy Shots

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Photo: stock

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  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Dear Reader,

  Hi there! I’m thrilled you’ve picked up one of my Steamy Shots for a romp on the lusty side of romance. I know how precious your time is, and I deeply appreciate you spending some of it with me and my characters.

  If this is your first Shot (especially if you’re familiar with my regular romances), here’s a few important things to know:

  These are much shorter in length, about 15K words or 65 pages on average. They really are just a “shot” of steamy romance when you’re looking for a quickie. ;)

  These are mostly complete stand-alones. There might be an occasional duet, but I promise on a stack of pancakes that I will never end the first book on a cliffhanger. If there’s a sequel, it’s because I had fun writing the characters and wanted to give them—and you—more.

  Some HEAs & lots of HFNs! I’m not saying I’ll never write a Shot with a Happily Ever After, but due to length, most of these stories will have an HFN—Happy for Now. They might have a sexy fling then gladly go their separate ways, or maybe they’re super in-lust and decide to see where things go from there. Either way I do it, my goal is to write an ending that satisfies you and my characters.

  All right, off you go! Make sure you have a fan or a cool drink nearby. You’re gonna need it! And if you haven’t read my full-length, HEA-heavy (and still scorching hot) romance novels, check out the series lists in the front or back of this book, or head to my website at www.ginalmaxwell.com/books for more info.

  Literary Love & Kitten Kisses,

  ~ G

  To Erin and Miranda:

  My friends for life, superhero assistants I don’t deserve,

  #1 cheerleaders in the world, and two of the sweetest people I know…

  I’ll never be able to repay you for all you do, but I swear I’m gonna die trying.

  Love you both tons-n-tons.

  ~ G ~

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Good morning, your highness. Lovely day for a cruise.”

  I glance up from my phone as I descend the steps of my palatial home and offer my chauffeur, Arthur Hammond, a half-hearted smile. “It’d be even lovelier if it wasn’t a trip to attend yet another charity event I don’t have time for.”

  Opening the back door of the town car, the older gentleman who’s been with my family since before I was born gives me a stern fatherly look. “How many times have I told you to take some time off for yourself?”

  I smirk and slide into the car. “At least several times a week.”

  “That’s because you work too hard, young Preston. You need a vacation.”

  “I’m no longer young at twenty-eight, Art, and there’s no such thing as a vacation, only business trips. Just ask the king.”

  Arthur harrumphs. “The king is the last person you should take recreational advice from, your highness.”

  I chuckle as he shuts the door on me. He’s not wrong. My father is the original workaholic. But where his duties are running our small, powerful country of Danataria, I spend roughly eighteen hours a day running my own company. The other six are divided between mandatory royal appearances and whatever sleep I can grab. It’s safe to say “workaholic” runs in my blood, which is why I started my company to begin with. I wasn’t content merely being an ornamental figurehead. I needed a purpose, a challenge.

  As such, I was the first Atland royal to run my own company and work outside the palace. Some think it’s refreshing and admirable, others think it’s an insult to the crown. But I’ve always had my family’s support—on the condition that I happily take my father’s place on the throne when the time comes. Theirs are the only opinions that matter to me.

  Well, theirs and Arthur’s. He’s been like a second father to me and my younger brother, Izak—or as much as one can be while maintaining a mostly professional relationship with one’s princes.

  Which reminds me, I need to talk with Izak about the security detail for an upcoming company event. Since returning from his three-year sabbatical living anonymously and acting as the personal bodyguard to the wild Duchess of Geneva in our neighboring country of Malvenia, he’s taken on overseeing our royal guard and acting as head of security.

  To say my little brother both surprised and impressed me is an understatement. When he didn’t return after the requisite twelve months for the Real-World Test—our Atland family tradition of kicking the adult royal children out of the nest to live incognito among the people and work a normal job—we weren’t sure what to think.

  But once he returned with the lovely Daria Copeland on his arm and announced their engagement, his reason for staying away for so long made perfect sense. I’m happy for Izak and Daria, and I love that their pending nuptials gets my mother off my back about doing the same for a while. Lord knows I don’t have time to date, much less fall in love.

  By the time Art slides behind the wheel, I’ve already returned to my phone. My inbox is flooded with emails marked URGENT, demanding my immediate attention. When you’re the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar tech empire, there’s always a fire or ten that needs putting out.

  Today is a ten-fire day.

  As we pull away from the palace, I absently ask Arthur how his family’s doing. I know his wife, Annie, extremely well; she’s a primary school teacher and accompanies her husband to all the palace events. They have three daughters—Jessica, Andrea, and Maggie. The first two are a few years older than me, but Maggie was an unexpected blessing that arrived almost ten years after the other girls.

  I can picture little Maggie bouncing around the gardens when our mothers got together, but by the time she hit h
er gangly teen years, I was off on my own RWT, then away at university, and finally starting my company after that. Now that I think of it, I can’t even remember the last time I saw any of Art’s girls. I should mention something to Mum about that; I’m sure she’d love an excuse to throw a garden party.

  It isn’t until we pull to a stop in front of my Superyacht, the Prince At-Sea (a clever play on my name that amuses me), that I realize I only retained snippets of what Art was saying between responding to emails and texts. I immediately feel like an asshole and make a mental note to keep my phone in my pocket until after we’ve chatted in the future.

  He opens my door with an almost sheepish grin, which I don’t understand the context of because I was too distracted to listen properly. “I don’t know who was more nervous for her first day, her or me,” he says with a self-conscious chuckle. “I know it’s only a summer job, but I hope she does well all the same.”

  Oh, right. He said something about Maggie getting a job somewhere before her final year of university starts. “Of course she’ll do well. She’s a Hammond,” I say as I climb out and clap a friendly hand on his shoulder. “See you on Sunday. We should dock early afternoon, but I’ll let you know.”

  “Very good, your highness. And if I may offer a small piece of advice, try not to let the paparazzi take shots of you catching flies this time.”

  The smartass is referring to the last charity event I attended. As usual, I was running on little to no sleep and got caught yawning like a Danatarian bear preparing for winter hibernation. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say wryly, then leave him to coordinate getting my things onboard with Rolf, the best bodyguard-slash-personal assistant in the kingdom, who’s been waiting for us to arrive. I’d take my bags myself, but I learned long ago that Arthur and Rolf get pissy if I don’t let them do their jobs.

  Composing emails in my head that need to be sent out, I head straight to my room, offering friendly hellos to the crew I see along the way. Since I have to wait for my laptop to catch up with me, I pass through the sitting area and ignore the desk to settle on my bed against the plush pillows and upholstered headboard.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m hanging up from a call with my CFO when my door suddenly bursts open like our Special Forces kicked it in.

  But there are no armed men in bullet-proof vests like I expect. Just a woman in a steward uniform fighting with my luggage.

  It’s not that I brought a lot for a weekend trip, but she doesn’t have them fit together as they were designed. Instead, the laptop bag is strapped across her body, the garment bag is fully extended and hanging from the hand she’s holding up as high as it goes, and her other hand is tugging the rolling suitcase behind her. And all of that while trying to prop the door open long enough to get herself and the luggage into the room is apparently one too many demands on her limited coordination skills.

  “Fuck a dilly-duck!”

  My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline, and I press a fist against my mouth to hide the smile I can’t hold back. People generally don’t curse in my presence, and I can’t recall a time when I’ve heard such a ridiculous phrase. I wonder if she has any other colorful expressions.

  “Here, let me help you,” I finally say, my gentlemanly upbringing cringing at the idea of leaving her to do it herself like Art and Rolf insist. The petite blond yelps, dropping the garment bag and suitcase to clutch at her heart. I stop and put my hands up in surrender. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you didn’t see me. You all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m good,” she says with a light chuckle, sagging in relief…for all of two seconds before snapping to attention with a horrified expression on her face. “Oh my God, you’re here.”

  Again, I find it hard not to smile, but I somehow manage a dignified nod. “I am here, yes.”

  “Oh, God, I didn’t even knock. I’m so sorry, your highness! They told me you always stand on the deck and enjoy a whisky as we depart so I thought—”

  “Hold on, there,” I glance at the gold nametag pinned on her shirt, “Marguerite. It’s quite all right. I’m not nearly the hardass my father is about formalities, and it’s not like you burst into my cabin while I was naked.”

  She sucks in a shocked breath as her golden-brown eyes settle on the fly of my tan slacks. This time I don’t bother hiding my lopsided grin. I’ve never encountered a woman so unaware of proper royal etiquette. She’s either brand new or transferred from another position that didn’t deal with me or my parents directly. Either way, I find her semi-oblivious demeanor charming as hell.

  But then she licks her lips, and my amusement goes up in a puff of smoke.

  I’m sure it’s purely innocent, but my sex-deprived brain spins it into something much more wicked. Like she’s imagining her mouth wrapped around my cock and salivating at the thought of my salty come coating her tongue and sliding down the back of her throat…

  Fucking Christ. I’ll end up with a sexual harassment suit for pitching a tent in front of my cabin attendant if I don’t get myself under control. Clearing my throat brings her gaze back up where it can’t do any further damage. It also makes her flush with embarrassment. Remembering her reason for being here, she retrieves my bags from the floor and begins apologizing again while barreling her way into the room, presumably to put my things away.

  “Marguerite, please stop.” That has her halting mid-step and facing me with wide, worried eyes. “There’s no need to apologize or do anything more with my cumbersome luggage. I can take it from here, I assure you.”

  She nods and reluctantly hands it all over. After I set the laptop on the desk and drape the garment bag over the chair, I offer a reassuring smile. “Thank you, I appreciate you bringing these to me, especially my laptop. I have a long day of work ahead of me.”

  “My pleasure, your highness. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Yes, you can call me Preston.”

  “Oh, no, I could never do that. It wouldn’t be proper, your highness. Besides that, I’d lose my job if anyone heard me being so familiar with the crown prince, not to mention my employer.”

  I don’t mention the obvious, that as said prince-slash-employer, I could easily override any such ruling about her position. It’s clear she’s not the type to be comfortable with receiving special treatment; another trait in her favor.

  “Then we’ll compromise,” I insist, still determined to get my way. “When others are around, you address me formally as expected. Otherwise, I’m Preston. How does that sound?”

  After a few eternal seconds, the corners of her mouth tug up slowly until I’m hit with the brilliance of her full smile. It punches a dimple into her right cheek and dances in the golden-brown pools of her eyes, transforming her from lovely to positively stunning.

  “That sounds just fine…Preston.”

  She spoke my name softly as though still hesitant to be so casual with me, but all I can think about is hearing her whisper it in my ear as I thrust home between her thighs.

  Before I can say something monumentally offensive due to my blood rushing south of my belt, Marguerite exits my room a hundred times quieter than she entered and leaves me at least a hundred times hornier.

  CHAPTER TWO

  When my eyes start to burn from staring at my screen too long, I force myself to close the laptop. Glancing at my watch, I’m shocked to discover it’s after ten o’clock. I’ve been working since I boarded, only taking a short break to eat a late lunch, and only then because I knew it would be Marguerite who brought it to me.

  Unfortunately, she was accompanied by the Chief Steward who wanted to ensure I had everything I needed, so it was all lowered eyes, shallow bows, and formal “your highnesses.” I much preferred her curiously steady attention, shy smiles, and the breathy way she said my name.

  My stomach complains loudly about missing dinner. I briefly entertain the idea of ringing for room service just so I can see her again. But she’s likely done with her duties for the day, so that’d be a
dick move. Coincidentally, it’s my dick that wants her back in my room. Which is even more reason for me to go make a damn sandwich for myself.

  I stretch my arms out and attempt to unlock my muscles, but it’s no use. Guess I’ll sit in the hot tub first and then go grab a sandwich. I throw on my swim shorts and an old sleeveless workout shirt then head up to the open deck. Anticipating a relaxing soak under the stars, it takes me a second to register the shadowed couple standing near the small pool.

  I stop, not wanting to disturb them. This might be my yacht, but I’ve never been the kind of prince—or employer—to throw my position around and make the staff scramble away in alarm. I know the Chief Steward holds them to near impossible standards, so they deserve a little uninterrupted downtime when they can manage it.

  Turning, I start for the kitchen when I hear an exchange that freezes me in my tracks.

  “Stop being such a cock-tease and give me a kiss.”

  “I said no, Paulo, now please let me by.”

  It isn’t shouted or even spoken loudly; it’s a harsh whisper that breaks at the end as though choked out from mounting fear. But I recognize the voice and knowing Marguerite’s in trouble turns my blood to boiling.

  In a flash, I’m across the deck, my fingers digging into Paulo’s neck and tossing him to the side like a ragdoll. Reflexively, he pops back up with a string of curses and raised fists.

  Placing my body between him and Marguerite, I cock my head and arch a challenging brow. “I wouldn’t suggest taking a swing at me, but I really hope you fucking do.”

  “Please, your royal highness, I apologize. Y-you startled me is all.” Paulo continues to ramble with his palms up in an attempt to placate me. Disappointment that the fucker isn’t going to give me an excuse to pummel him into the ground fills me. “I’m sorry we disturbed you, Prince Preston, we’ll get out of your way.” His eyes flick off to the side to the woman behind me. “Come on, Mags, it’s late. Time for us to head back to our cabins.”