His Royal Princess: A Billionaire Boys Club Novella, Page 2

  Luke had tried calling his agent, but his agent was starstruck over this picture. The studio was in love with the concept, his agent said. This one had all the makings of a star vehicle, and Luke was already on the upswing. If this picture performed at the box office? Luke would be on the A-list.

  So he gritted his teeth and endured every inane suggestion. He stopped trying to improve his character. He gave the director exactly what he wanted, even if he hated every moment of it.

  But it was killing his love of acting. He spent a lot of time in his trailer, moping and exercising to burn away some of the frustration.

  The water turned cold, a sign he’d been in the shower for far too long, and Luke sighed, turning it off and grabbing a towel. They’d come looking for him soon enough. The director was busy schmoozing some important person in his office, so Luke had taken the opportunity to head to his trailer to “study” his lines. Not that there was much to study. His “deep, layered” assassin character had all the depth of a caveman.

  Grabbing a towel, he scrubbed at his hair to dry it and then stepped out of the bathroom and into his trailer.

  He wasn’t alone.

  There was a woman standing there, her back to him. She was wearing a prim navy suit, the pencil skirt to her knees, the jacket tailored to fit her slim shoulders. Her hair was covered by an ugly scarf and when she turned her head slightly to the side, he saw she wore sunglasses despite the fact that she was inside. Her shoes were dainty nude heels, and she carried a tiny handbag clutched in her hands. She was staring up at one of the posters on the wall, of him on his last movie. He’d been stoked that he’d actually made the poster for the last one, and his manager had made sure that copies of it were displayed prominently wherever he went.

  Luke quickly wrapped the towel around his waist. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  The woman turned. Her mouth worked silently, and then snapped shut. He couldn’t see her eyes under the enormous sunglasses, but he couldn’t help but feel like she was . . . ogling him. After a moment, she cleared her throat delicately. “The . . . director told me to come in here.”

  Her voice was smooth and cultured . . . and accented. A local, then. He studied her form again. He couldn’t tell how old she was, but she seemed young enough, and her legs were divine. Her tailored jacket hinted at a fine shape underneath. So why was the director sending her in here?

  Unless . . .

  Luke groaned. Since his divorce, Nick had been very “into” hookers. That was one reason why they were shooting in Europe instead of Canada. Europe was very open to prostitution, he’d been told by the twitchy director more than once, and it did wonders for stress levels.

  And Nick had noticed that Luke had been stressed all week.

  Well, that would explain her frumpy outfit and what was obviously a wig. If Nick had sent him a hooker, then it’d be best if she was anonymous, because she was about to get booted out on her ass. The last thing he needed was entanglements of any kind at the moment. “Look, miss. I know why you’re here.”

  “You do?” She sounded surprised.

  “I do. And while that was real nice of Nick and all, I’m not in the mood for . . . company.”

  “Oh, but I’m not here to keep you company,” she said, her voice smooth and charming. A dimple appeared in her cheek.

  Great. Not only was she a hooker, she wasn’t a bright one. He rolled his eyes and moved to the bed at the far end of the trailer, grabbing a pair of boxers. “You wanna get rid of the sunglasses? You’re not fooling anyone.”

  “I’m not?” Her voice sounded wistful.

  “Nope.” He dropped the towel and pulled on his boxers, then turned to face her.

  While he’d turned around, she’d removed the sunglasses, all right, and he was surprised. Strong brows arched over clear blue eyes, and her face was square and regal. Not delicate and pretty like most Hollywood women who had their cheeks sculpted and noses trimmed to perfection. She was elegant, but not a beauty, and younger than he’d expected.

  She also looked utterly shocked, her gaze flicking from his chest back down to his boxers over and over again.

  His eyes narrowed. “Problem?”

  She tilted her head as if considering the question. “No, I’m quite all right. Thank you.” He noticed her grip on that little purse was white-knuckled, though.

  A nervous hooker who looked more like Mary Poppins than an escort? Either Nick thought he had some weird fucking fetish, or something was lost in translation. “Do all European escorts dress like you? With the schoolmarm getup?”

  Again, her mouth opened silently, as if she wanted to respond and had no answer prepared. She quickly covered the shocked look and a small smile spread on her face, making her seem downright impish. The dimple reappeared. “I don’t really know. Do most escorts not dress in similar attire?”

  “Not that I’ve seen.” Why was he conversing with her instead of shooing her out of his trailer? Was it because she was smiling as if she were so very amused by things? There was something about that flash of naughty dimple that intrigued him.

  “Is there a dress code?” Her face was utterly serious as she asked.

  “I guess not, huh?” When that smile returned, Luke couldn’t decide if he wanted to smile along with her or if he wanted to scowl. A damn hooker in his trailer. He’d really come up the ranks, hadn’t he? He should have been flattered, but he was mostly insulted. “Why do you think this is so amusing?”

  She smiled again and gave a shrug of her shoulders. “I just . . . This isn’t how I pictured it.”

  “Meeting me?” He tried to imagine how she had pictured it. Maybe on her knees in those prim little heels in front of him, with his dick in her mouth? Him pushing her over the arm of the sofa in his trailer and fucking her until she was screaming his name? His dick grew hard at the thought, and he grabbed a nearby T-shirt to hold in front of him so she couldn’t see how his daydreams affected him.

  “I thought you’d be . . . taller.” She bit her lip and looked almost apologetic.

  “You must not know a lot of Hollywood types.” He sauntered toward her.

  “I don’t.” There was an almost kittenlike curiosity in her bright eyes as she watched him.

  “We’re all short.” Luke leaned in toward her, a bit too close. He’d found long ago that getting into people’s personal space forced them to really concentrate on you, and they usually gave you what you wanted. He watched as her eyes zoomed in on his face, and her lashes fluttered. “Guess the reality isn’t good enough for you?”

  Her lips parted, and for a moment, he wanted to plunder that pretty mouth and take control of the situation. “I . . . I didn’t say that.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t.” He leaned in a bit closer. “You’re a bit like me, aren’t you? Paid to spin a story for your customers. To pretend to be whatever they think you should be instead of who you really are.”

  For some reason, that made her grin again. “I suppose I am.”

  He found himself grinning back at her. She was so . . . pleasant. It was hard to stay angry. “Well, you can tell Nick that I appreciate the gesture but I’m really not into”—he waved a hand, indicating her— “escorts.”

  “I don’t know if I should be thrilled or hurt.”

  “Don’t worry, this is a first for me, too.”

  Again with the attentive head tilt. “First time turning away an . . . escort?”

  “First time I’ve been offered one. I’m normally eating out at food service with everyone else. Guess I should be pleased I finally hit it big.”

  She looked pleased as well. “It’s because you were so wonderful in your last movie. So very heartbroken.”

  Luke stilled. This woman constantly surprised him. “In Pirates?”

  She nodded enthusiastically, her hands tight on that little purse she held before her like
armor.

  “You’ve seen it?” Of course, he immediately felt stupid for asking that. Everyone had seen Pirates! Ahoy!, if only for the beautiful Estrella George.

  “Several times.”

  He felt a frown crease his face. “My character was the romantic lead.”

  “But it was obvious he was recovering from a past heartbreak. The way he looked at her . . . in the beginning of the movie, it was clear he was seeing someone else.” Her expression grew dreamy. “You were so forlorn.”

  Luke rubbed his jaw, feeling a mix of weird pride and awkwardness. He had played his character as one coming out the other side of heartbreak. The background for his role had been paper-thin, so he’d tried to make it more emotional. No one had ever picked up on that until now. Until her. “Well . . . thanks.”

  She just gave him another one of those serene smiles. “You are most welcome.”

  So formal. A chuckle rose in his throat, and he leaned forward and gave her a peck on the cheek. It was obvious she was a fan, so he’d give her a little something to go home with, even if it wasn’t his dick. “I appreciate the flattery, but nothing’s changed. I’m still not interested.”

  She touched her cheek and a faint flush crept over her face. “I’m almost disappointed.”

  He was, too. Luke pointed at the door, and she nodded and exited the trailer. He flung himself down on the couch and rubbed his aching groin absently. She wasn’t his type: too oddly elegant, too interested in his career, and too much of a sex professional.

  But sometimes . . . He sighed. Sometimes it was nice to be appreciated for your work, rather than if you could connect someone with a director or agent. Luke rubbed his face. He must really be on edge if he was assuming all that out of a freaking hired escort.

  His phone buzzed with an incoming text. He reached over and picked it up, glancing at the screen. His publicist.

  Beckee here! Just heard Steve’s looking for someone to date Janella Davidson for some press. Few red carpets, few photo ops, etc. She’s A-list! U interested??

  Luke groaned. He knew Janella. Nice girl, but she slept with all her directors. He didn’t want to be a public cuckold, no matter how fake the “relationship” was. Pass.

  Ok but we have to get u someone on ur arm! Get u in those tabloids!!

  I’ll think about it, he sent back, and then tossed his phone away. He couldn’t even be angry at Beckee. She was just doing her job. It was him who was suddenly balking at everything.

  He was finally getting everything he’d worked so hard for. Why was it that it left him so cold?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Alex dreamily sipped her tea over breakfast with her mother.

  “You’re not eating, darling.” Her Royal Highness Alexandra Olivia II gave her daughter a look of mild concern as she delicately nibbled on a triangle of toast. “Are you well?”

  “I’m fine.” Alex put down her tea and dutifully picked up her knife and fork. “Just distracted.”

  “Too much work? Shall I tell Mother she is giving you too much to do?”

  Alex shook her head and cut into a sausage. “It’s not crown related.”

  “Then you don’t mind if I take off and have myself a wild weekend in Monte Carlo?” She wiggled her eyebrows at Alex and grinned. “Spreading my royal oats and all that.”

  “Mother, please, I’m trying to eat.” Alex gestured at her sausage, but she was smiling.

  The last year had been one of change for both mother and daughter. Four years earlier, Alex’s father, Duke Jerome Von Schessel of Saxe-Gallia, had died in a boating accident. Her mother had dutifully mourned him, even though the marriage had been an arranged one and not always happy. After three years of “appropriate widowhood” had passed, the elder Princess Alex had gone to her daughter and had a heart-to-heart. She’d given the first half of her life to the throne, but now she wanted the second half to be about herself. She’d decided to abdicate from the line of succession and live life on her own terms.

  And while that was perfectly fine with Alex, because she loved her mother and wanted her to be happy . . . she didn’t necessarily want to hear the details of her mother’s trysts with the royal gardeners, stable-keepers, gamblers in Monaco, and what have you. She was always discreet in public, but Alex heard far too much about all of it.

  Her mother sighed again and put down her toast. “I just worry about you, darling.”

  Alex took a bite of her food, chewed, and then tapped her mouth with a napkin. “I assure you, I’m fine, Mother. Grandmama has been giving me just enough to do so I can take over her duties slowly. It’s not as if I haven’t been groomed for this all my life.”

  “Yes, but before you were second in line to the throne. Now you’re the heir. I just worry you’re going to resent me.” Her mother’s sparkling eyes looked unhappy.

  “Never. I want you to enjoy yourself. And I like being crown princess. It gives me purpose.”

  Her mother smiled. “Just don’t let it define you. You’re always so serious. Haven’t you ever met someone who just made you want to forget all about propriety and be normal?”

  Alex ate another chunk of sausage so she wouldn’t have to answer that. The truth was, she had. She thought about Luke Houston and his bare chest. Luke Houston giving her a kiss on the cheek. Luke Houston stripping off his towel and stepping into boxers right in front of her eyes.

  Oh, she thought about someone who made her want to forget propriety a lot.

  And she was still thinking about him. In fact, she was constantly thinking about ways to see him again. “So you’re going to Monte Carlo this weekend, Mother?” She kept her tone mild, but the wheels in her head were spinning.

  Perhaps she might invite the cast of the movie to come and tour the royal palace? It wouldn’t be so out of place. Important dignitaries and famous visitors to Bellissime were often invited for dinner and a visit.

  She’d just . . . make sure both her grandmama and her mother were away when the palace invitation was sent.

  ***

  Two days later, her mother was in Monte Carlo, her grandmother was out at her country estate for a weekend of fresh air, and Alex had the royal palace to herself . . . well, herself and a hundred staffers. But that was close enough. She sent out a personal courier with a handwritten invitation to dine and receive a personal tour of the royal palace of Bellissime. Her messenger was instructed to invite the director and the main cast and to return with a headcount of who would be coming. Silently, she fretted, hoping that thirty people didn’t show up when she only cared about one. But propriety must be served, and so she ignored her worries.

  While she waited for responses, Alex tore through the clothing in her closet. Everything she had was . . . well, goodness, it was demure. It was all made of the highest quality, but her skirts were fitted (so as not to fly in a breeze) and long, her dresses were either extremely formal or more along the lines of power suits. She had nothing suitable for a “casual” evening at the royal palace.

  Actually, she had nothing casual at all.

  She pulled out a new de la Renta and then rang for her assistant. “Call the messenger and tell him the party has changed to formalwear.”

  “Right away, Your Grace.” The woman exited quickly, and Alex returned to studying her dresses. Then she called down to the kitchen to let them know of the impromptu dinner party. The staff had to be notified to prepare the Chesterfield drawing room, the dining staff of how to handle the dinner, and then there were additional servants who would do everything from take coats to ensure that muddy footprints did not remain on the marble floors for longer than a moment. Soon the palace was a flurry of preparations, and Alex herself dressed carefully.

  Instead of her normal chignon, she left her hair down and loosely curled. Her makeup was light, and she wore only the barest jewels, and no crown. A crown would be gauche. The dress she p
icked out was a lovely floor-length gown with a bell skirt that was slightly shorter in the front and longer in the back, so her heels peeped out. It was a lovely taupe-colored brocade that should have been ugly, except for the exquisite, tiny flowers that had been delicately embroidered in vines up the skirt and on the bodice. The dress itself had a tight bodice that went from hip to breast, and was cut straight across the chest so as not to give her cleavage (princesses never had cleavage). Because it was strapless and sleeveless, the designer had made her a matching bolero jacket, because she wasn’t allowed to show too much skin. For a moment, Alex considered ditching it, but the party was bound to be in the news the next morning, and she didn’t want to give them more to write about than they already had. So on it went.

  When she descended from her room, the guests were to arrive in a half hour. She didn’t worry that they were coming. Of course they would—who turned down an invitation from the royal palace? She adjusted her sleeve just as her messenger came up to meet her.

  “How many are coming?” Alex inquired.

  “Four, Your Grace. Would you like their names?”

  And make herself seem too eager? That wouldn’t do. She gave a quick shake of her head, even though she was dying to ask if Luke Houston would be coming. “I shall see them at dinner. Please let the staff know how many they will be receiving.”

  He nodded and bowed, zipping away.

  Alex smoothed her skirts and went to her private parlor, where she could fidget in peace. There was a parlor for guests, and then the immediate royal family had their own room to relax in. She went there and picked up a book, but she couldn’t concentrate. All she wanted to know was who would be coming. Would it be the director and three strangers? She hoped not. If Luke Houston wasn’t there tonight, it’d take everything she had not to be utterly crushed. She wanted him to see her, and to see the look on his face when he realized who she was and who he’d met in his trailer.