Royal Pain, Page 2

  Besides, can you really blame me? Who wouldn’t rather spend the evening in bed with a couple of supermodels instead of lying their ass off at some boring charity gala?

  But that’s not how it works when you’re next in line for the throne.

  The crown prince doesn’t get to hang out with supermodels. He doesn’t get to have wild parties in Monte Carlo or Vegas. And he sure as hell doesn’t get to do what he wants.

  Instead, he does what the king wants.

  What the people expect.

  And what the title demands.

  Right now, the title is demanding that I work the room, holding court with the privileged masses but never actually mingling with them. Never lowering myself to their level.

  A prince is to appear interested but not too interested, accessible but not too accessible. Concerned, but—you guessed it—not too concerned.

  It’s a rule I learned at an early age, but for me, it’s always been harder to follow than it should be. Then again, for me, most rules are.

  I make it a few steps closer to the bar when Roland—who might be ancient but is also quite sneaky and spry—intercepts me. He delicately clears his throat, nervously glances left and right. And though he avoids eye contact, I don’t have to look him in the eyes to know what he wants. Namely, to remind me that I’m not here to get drunk, no matter how good that sounds right now.

  And it sounds really, really good.

  But that’s what the spare would do. He’d charm the bartender into giving him a bottle of the best scotch in the place, grab a couple of beautiful—and unattached—women and head out to the gardens or up to a hotel suite, depending on how many fucks he had to give. Which, more often than not, was absolutely none.

  I’ve screwed women in every corner of this hotel’s very extensive gardens, in the elaborate restrooms, in any number of suites and, one memorable night, in the coat-check room.

  I nod to Roland to let him know I understand, then take a few more steps toward the drink that’s calling my name. Not getting drunk does not mean not drinking. Or at least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

  Too bad Madame Aguillard has a different plan as she latches onto me.

  She’s an older woman, fifty-five or so, with ruby red talons for nails and a tower of fake blond hair. She’s also got the instincts of a shark and it’s obvious she scents blood in the water tonight…

  This is far from my first run-in with her. Her husband used to be minister of finance, and when I was fifteen, she cornered me in the family wing of the castle and tried to talk me out of my very rebellious ripped jeans. The fact that I almost let her makes this meeting—and every other one we’ve had through the years—exceedingly uncomfortable for me.

  But when she grabs on to my biceps—her long, pointed fingernails digging in a little as she holds tight—I realize this meeting is going to be even more awkward than the others. Because this meeting isn’t about getting me into her bed; it’s about currying favor with the crown prince. More, it’s about trying to attract my interest—not in her, but in the woman standing next to her. Her youngest daughter, Marigold. Or Mariana. Or Merriweather…

  Whatever her name is, this whole ambush is all kinds of fucked up. Thirteen years ago, she wanted to fuck me as her dirty little secret. Now she wants me to fuck her daughter in front of the whole world. Within the boundaries of matrimony, of course, but still…totally fucked up.

  Besides, it’s not going to happen. The daughter may be hot, but no one is hot enough to make getting tangled up with this family a good idea.

  Which leaves me at something of a disadvantage, considering the whole room is watching and I have absolutely no idea what to do right now.

  It’s not that I can’t handle situations like this normally (it’s hard to be a prince and not know how to deal with scheming mothers and their scheming daughters) but that’s when I’m the spare. It’s easy to extricate myself from sticky situations when everyone is looking at Garrett. But now that they’re looking at me it becomes exponentially harder…especially since the fate of government alliances often rests with the crown prince.

  Whatever I do, I have to do it quickly. Because the longer we stand here, the more people begin to notice what’s going on. And the more people begin to notice, the more likely my name is to be linked with Mariely…Maria…Mariella—yes, that’s her name, Mariella Aguillard. And that is definitely not something I want to happen. Some fucked-up version of Royal Wedding Watch here in Wildemar would pretty much be the icing on the cake of the shitty last three months.

  Panic whips through me at the thought of having to lay those rumors to rest. Then again, panic has been my default mode since Garrett disappeared. Panicked, pissed off and abjectly, violently, overwhelmingly terrified.

  It’s not a good look—for me or the country.

  Then again, neither is having the crown prince vanish from a public appearance. Especially when the only traces left of him are a royal limousine shot full of holes—and three dead bodyguards.

  I shove the thought—and the rage it engenders—down deep and concentrate instead on the situation at hand. Goddamn it. I need a drink, not another conversation with a predatory mama and her vapid daughter.

  Still, I work up a smile—praying that it doesn’t look as much like a grimace as I think it does—when Mariella lays a familiar hand on my forearm.

  “Kian, how are you?” she asks, batting her eyes so hard I can feel a breeze from her fake lashes.

  “I’m good.” I subtly twist so that her hand slips off my arm. Then, to cover the movement, I brush our palms together in a brief handshake. “How are you?”

  “Excellent now that I get to see you again.” It’s practically a purr, the sound of a cat who thinks she’s finally cornered her prey. But I’m no mouse and I never will be.

  She’s too self-absorbed to realize that, though. Too caught up in the game of her own making to figure out that I have no interest in playing along.

  She steps closer, brushes her breasts against my arm—all in clear view of her mother and everyone else in the ballroom. “How are you really doing, darling? I know losing Garrett has been so hard for you and I’ve been worried. We all have been.”

  “I didn’t lose him,” I tell her through teeth locked tightly together. “He’s not my keys or my wallet.”

  “Oh, of course not,” she trills, and now her hand is resting against my chest. I want to put her in her place, but I’ve never been one to use my position to savage a woman, even verbally. No matter how much of a predator she might be.

  But dozens of people are straining to hear what we’re speaking about and hundreds more are watching us like hawks. I need to say something, need to do something, or the rumor mill will explode.

  But before I can come up with anything that isn’t rude or inflammatory, a waitress swoops by with a tray full of champagne glasses.

  “Would you like a drink, Your Highness?” she asks, her voice low and husky. The sound draws my attention despite myself and I turn to grab a champagne flute—tequila’s more my drink of choice, but right now beggars can’t be choosers—and I find myself staring into the most beautiful pair of brown eyes I’ve ever seen.

  The glance—and the awareness it sparks—only lasts a moment, though, because suddenly she’s jerking forward…and dumping the entire tray of drinks straight down the front of this damn Tom Ford tuxedo.

  Chapter 2

  All around me, people gasp. Madame Aguillard—and her daughter—jump back like they’ve been burned. Or worse, like a little clumsiness is a contagious disease. Over the waitress’s head, I see Lucas and Niall poised to swoop in.

  I stop them with a sharp shake of my head—spilled champagne isn’t exactly a national security crisis—then reach out and take hold of the waitress’s hand, which is currently dabbing a napkin up and down my stomach as she apologizes profusely.

  “I’m so sorry, Your Highness,” she says for what has to be the fifth time in as many
seconds. “I’m so—”

  “Please,” I say, divesting her of the napkin before she starts swiping it across my crotch in full view of Wildemar’s upper crust. Talk about a whole different kind of spectacle…The fact that my dick perks up a little at the thought makes this whole thing even more disastrous. And intriguing.

  But that’s the old Kian, I remind myself. The one who isn’t first in line to govern an entire country. The new Kian is supposed to be kingly, circumspect and definitely not a pervert who can’t help thinking about what’s going on under this waitress’s sheer blouse. Even if it looks like a lot is going on under there, in the best possible way.

  “Please, stop apologizing,” I tell her as I use the napkin to sop up the worst of the champagne. “Accidents happen.”

  I turn to Madame Aguillard and her daughter. “I’m sorry, but I need to go take care of this.” I gesture to the giant wet spot on the front of my tuxedo.

  “Of course,” they both coo as one, even as they send venomous looks toward the waitress.

  “Maybe we can have a dance later?” Mariella asks, running a hand down the lapel of my tuxedo that didn’t get doused in champagne.

  “I’ll look forward to it,” I answer, even as I promise myself to stay far, far away from this less than dynamic duo for the rest of the night. A fly only has so many chances to escape a spider’s web, after all, and I feel like I’ve already used mine up.

  “Maybe we could—”

  “I have some club soda for that,” the waitress interrupts just in time. Then she’s grabbing my hand in her free hand and starts all but dragging me through the ballroom.

  “Thank you, but that’s not—”

  She shoots me a look that has the words freezing in my throat. Half-amused, half-wicked, it’s sexy as fuck. And suddenly, gala or no, I find myself more than willing to be dragged wherever she wants to take me.

  I glance behind me, and sure enough Lucas is winding his way through the crowd to follow us. I shake my head, but he just glares at me and keeps coming. Another difference between being the heir and being the spare. What little part of my life once belonged to me no longer exists.

  I don’t stop, though. There’s something quite refreshing about being manhandled by a woman who doesn’t seem all that impressed with my title.

  We wind our way down a small hallway, where she drops the tray she’s still carrying on a large banquet server. Then she picks up a few more cloth napkins and continues pulling me along.

  “I usually make a habit of learning a woman’s name before I let her abscond with me,” I say, as we make our way down a second hallway.

  “No, you don’t.” She shoots another amused look over her shoulder, this one complete with a little eyebrow raise that has my cock all kinds of interested.

  And can you blame it—or me? The woman is hot with a capital H-O-T.

  Long black hair that looks like any second it’s going to tumble down from the updo she’s got it twisted into.

  Big brown eyes framed with dark lashes that put Mariella’s fake ones to shame.

  Add full pink lips, that husky voice and a body that’s all lush curves and smooth olive skin, and what’s not to love? The old Kian would already be trying to talk her out of her black work pants and onto his dick.

  Hell, who am I kidding? Once we get somewhere private, the new Kian is going to be doing the same damn thing.

  We finally come to a door and she stops just long enough to swipe her badge through the reader. Then she pushes the door open and we’re on a small, half moon–shaped balcony—one that has a cooler on one side and a small table with two chairs on the other.

  “Breakroom?” I ask as I turn to shut the door in Lucas’s face. He looks furious, but he’s just going to have to suck it up. Normally I don’t mind audiences when I fuck, but there’s something about this woman that makes me want to keep whatever happens next just between us.

  “Something like that.” She drops my hand and I try not to miss the warmth of her palm against mine. Then she walks over to the cooler and lifts the lid. Pulls out a small bottle of club soda and brandishes it triumphantly.

  “You keep club soda out here on the off chance you might drop a drink on someone?” I ask, a little incredulous. “Or is this a nightly thing for you?”

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disappointed. I thought the club soda thing was just a ruse.

  She laughs then, a rich, warm sound that shoots straight through my bloodstream to my dick. I shift a little, trying to disguise the fact that I’m suddenly rock-hard and raring to go.

  “I keep the club soda out here because this is where the scotch is.” She pulls out a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label and sets it on the table. Then takes two red plastic cups from a sleeve sitting next to the cooler. “Want a drink?”

  “You brought me out here for a drink?” I ask, relaxing a little as all the pieces fall into place. She’s not the first star-fucker I’ve run across at one of these things, and she won’t be the last. Suddenly the night is looking waaaaay up. At least my cock will be happy for the rest of the night, even if the rest of me dies of boredom.

  “I brought you out here because that barracuda looked like she was going to eat you for a midnight snack—and not in a good way.”

  “Mariella?” That surprises a laugh out of me. “I could have handled her.”

  “You looked like a virgin sacrifice about to be tossed into a volcano,” she says with a snort. “I figured it was my patriotic duty to rescue you.”

  “Oh, yeah? And what else do you consider your patriotic duty?” As soon as the words are out, I want to kick my own ass. Shit. Three months as crown prince and apparently I’ve lost every ounce of my game. Goddamn it.

  But she just laughs as she pours a healthy amount of scotch into both cups and then tops it off with club soda. “Not sucking your cock, if that’s what you’re getting at.” She holds one of the cups out to me, waits for me to take it. Then clinks the plastic glasses together and says “Cheers.”

  I start to take a sip, but she barks out, “Wait!” at the last second.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Aren’t you afraid I poisoned it? Shouldn’t you wait for me to drink first?”

  I settle a shoulder against the stone wall, surprised at just how much I’m enjoying myself. Normally, sex is the only thing that feels this good—or gets me this relaxed. “Did you poison it?”

  “No.” She takes a long, deliberate sip of her drink. “But you didn’t know that.”

  I follow suit, draining the cup in one long swallow. “Sure, I did.”

  “Oh, yeah? How?”

  “Because that shit only happens in James Bond movies and Shakespearean tragedies.” Even as I say it, I try not to think about my brother. Or about how his three bodyguards were found lying in pools of their own blood.

  “Heavy is the head that wears the crown.” When I look at her blankly, a little shocked at how easily she can tell how I feel, she shrugs. “It’s one of the few Shakespearean quotes I know.”

  Relief sweeps through me. “Uneasy.”

  “What?”

  “ ‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.’ It’s from Henry IV, Part II which—strictly speaking—is a history, not a tragedy.”

  She laughs then, and it’s so deep, so full-bodied, so sexy that I feel it in every cell. “I guess I should have gone with ‘Out damned spot.’ ” She gestures to my champagne-soaked tuxedo.

  It’s my turn to laugh, which surprises me, considering I can’t remember the last time I did. “Only if you’re actively colluding to get the throne.”

  “Definitely not.”

  Her nose crinkles adorably, and I can’t help laughing again. She looks so horrified at just the thought of being royal—something I can relate to right about now. “What’s your name?”

  It’s an easy question, but for long seconds she doesn’t answer. Just eyes me over the rim of her cup as she taps her fingers against the
plastic in an unsteady rhythm. But then she shrugs, as if to say, what the hell. “Savvy.”

  “Savvy?”

  “It’s short for Savannah, but that never really suited me—much to my mother’s dismay.”

  “And Savvy does? Suit you?”

  She shrugs. “Better than Savannah, anyway. Being named after a city that once held slaves doesn’t exactly do it for me.”

  “So you’re American. I couldn’t quite tell. Your accent is…”

  “Nonexistent, I know. My parents were theater gypsies. I was born in America, but I’m pretty much from everywhere.”

  “Even Wildemar?”

  “Definitely Wildemar. I was an exchange student here my second year in college. I loved it so much, I came back as soon as I could.”

  “Really? We’re not too formal and autocratic for you with our constitutional monarchy?” I hold out my cup for a refill.

  She rolls her eyes even as she pours more scotch, for both of us. “I’m sitting here drinking scotch with the prince—who had to be rescued from the evil clutches of his over amorous subjects, if you remember correctly. How formal—or autocratic—could you possibly be?”

  “You make a good point—and a mean scotch and soda.” She’s the first one tonight to call me a prince and not THE CROWN PRINCE. It’s a subtle difference, but I like it. Probably more than I should.

  “I’d better, considering my other gig is as a bartender.”

  That startles a laugh out of me. “Waitress, bartender, theater gypsy, college student…you’re quite the Renaissance woman.”

  “Not a theater gypsy or a college student anymore.”

  “Oh, yeah? Why is that?”

  “The theater was never my thing. And I graduated from college two years ago. They tend to make you leave after you get a degree, so…”

  “And yet you’re not settled down in some office somewhere, using that degree?”

  “I’m still a gypsy, even if it’s not for the theater. And my degree’s in creative writing—I use it every day. Just not in some stuffy office.”