Tempting the Prince (Sexy Misadventures of Royals)

by Christi Barth

  “Average Joes?”

  Christian winced, sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. “I hate to call anyone average. Everyone has a story. Something that makes them special.” He cocked his head, considering. “Do people named Joe tend to speak their mind more readily? Why should I seek out Joes?”

  Her laughter pealed down the hallway, making the footmen they passed glance up, smiling. “It’s just a saying. In America, Joe’s a common name. A shortcut to describe an utterly average person.”

  “I’m going to find a way to use that on Kelsey. I bet she’ll be impressed at my vast knowledge.”

  “Give it a whirl.”

  “We used to go out, in town, and mingle much more often. This is our city, our people. It’s important to stay in touch. But since Kelsey’s return—the RPS went into overdrive worrying if we’d be targets for whoever originally kidnapped her—and then the shooting, well, security’s been amped up. Which is a long way of explaining that I feel cut off.”

  Mallory peeked over her shoulder at Gregor and Sofia. “We’re not climbing out a window and losing them, are we? I mean, I’m game for whatever. I just need to know the plan.”

  “No. They can do their job. But I still need to do mine, too. And that’s listening to my subjects. I’m not scared of them.”

  Shit. As soon as that assertion came out of his mouth, Christian remembered.

  That a fact he’d so calmly stated—security being increased post-shooting—was personal. It was Mallory who got shot. And it was Mallory who therefore might not be quite so…cavalier about security. Being surrounded in a crowd of strangers.

  “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless. Are you scared to go out because of the shooting?”

  Her fingers tightened around his. “If I were scared, I wouldn’t have come back to Moncriano.”

  “Really? I hear the crown prince is quite the draw,” he said, tongue firmly lodged in his cheek.

  “He’s okay.” She paused. Sighed. “I mean, for a guy who still lives at home with his family.”

  “Ouch. I’d call that a direct hit to my ego.” Christian reeled dramatically through the portico door. Considered his jacket and tie, knew they’d just annoy the fuck out of him, and removed them and gave them to the footman.

  “Look, do I still jump at loud noises? Yes. Do I have more anxiety than an average Joe?” Mallory asked, elbowing him in the ribs. “Yes. But in the U.S.? There we have mass shootings at movie theaters and music festivals. It’s no safer there. At least here I have someone guarding me.”

  “I’m glad to hear you feel…safe enough.”

  “But I am scared about talking to people. The entire country hates me now. Can I just sit in a dark corner while you do your listening?”

  He knew she was braver than that. “Nope. If they’re bent out of shape about the peacock, we’ll hear them out. You’ll apologize. I’ll apologize. And then we’ll move on.” Christian handed her a helmet. “Here. Tuck your hair in. People would put together pretty fast that it’s you and me when they see that fire-bright hair streaming through the twilight.”

  “I’ve never ridden a motorcycle.”

  It gave him a jolt of pleasure to know he was introducing Mallory to something he loved. “Lean into the curves, not away from them. And hang on tight. We’re headed to the docks.”

  “Are we getting on a ship?”

  “No. But take away the title and the job I’m subbing in for, and I’m just a sailor at heart. Navy man, remember? When I want opinions, I head down to the water’s edge.” Christian checked the strap on her helmet. He wasn’t taking any chances with her. Then he tossed a salute of apology at Gregor, who hated motorcycles, but had no choice but to hop on and follow.

  Ten minutes later, they were parked by the entrance to the shipping docks. Not the yacht marina, full of crew members from various countries. No, these men and women were Moncriano through and through, running the tugboats and cranes, fishing and daytripper boats. Hopefully he’d catch a good number in the end-of-day scrum headed into a pub.

  “How’d you like it?” he asked, taking Mallory’s helmet to set on the handlebar opposite his own.

  “Terrifying. Exhilarating. I felt like a sexy badass. The chances of you getting lucky tonight are very, very high.” She shot him an openmouthed look of sensual promise. Which was immediately canceled out by her knees buckling once she got off the bike. Mallory grabbed for him, fingers hooking in his shirt and popping off three buttons.

  Christian caught her before she even dropped into a squat, cinching her close with an arm around her waist.

  God, he loved the freedom of holding her close in public. He didn’t care what hell he’d catch from his gran, Sir Kai, and whiny people on Twitter. It was time for the royal family to show real affection, no matter the time or place. Time to prove they weren’t emotionless puppets.

  If he was going to be shanghaied into leading this country, he’d damn well do it his way.

  “Stripping me in the street’s a strong way to get that message across,” he said drily.

  Mallory’s hand flew to cover her mouth. “Oh, God. I’m sorry.”

  “Guess we should be thankful you didn’t make a grab for my fly.”

  “Here. I’ll fix it.” She undid his top button. “There. Now you look like sleazy Euro-trash.”

  “That’s your idea of fixing it?”

  “For me, sure. Because it tickles my funny bone.” Mallory gurgled with laughter.

  It was infectious. And such a drastic change from handlers and advisors and even his bodyguards who would’ve thrown a jacket over him, or offered their own shirt. Because God forbid the crown prince look like a real person at the end of the day—rumpled, tired, and completely fucking undone.

  So he laughed with her.

  No, Christian wallowed in the humor of the moment, throwing an arm around her shoulder, making his shirt gape even farther. When they turned, they stopped short to avoid crashing into a dozen grimy, tired-looking workers.

  He’d guess they did maintenance, from the dark streaks of oil smeared on their clothes. Maybe not sailors, but he wasn’t picky. As long as they were hardworking citizens without a title, they were his target audience.

  Speaking in English, for Mallory’s sake, he called out, “Can I pull you over for a minute? Ask a few questions?”

  “Ah. Welcome to Moncriano.” A tank of a man with hands stuffed in his jacket pockets gave a brisk nod. “But we’re off duty. Most you can get is a recommendation for a place to find a good, cheap meal. The door’s right there.” The man jerked his chin at the pub entrance.

  They thought he was a tourist, probably because of the English and the fancy bike. Wasn’t that fucking hilarious? “Five minutes of your time. That’s all. I’ll stand your drink tab, if so.”

  “We’re not so flush we’d turn down a free round. What do you want to— Holy Mary, Mother of God!” A middle-aged woman crossed herself, then dropped into a curtsy so deep that her knee hit the pavement. “Your Royal Highness.”

  “Right, Leonie. And I’m the old grand duchess.” The big man took off his cap to swat it at her back. She grabbed his belt and yanked him down.

  “Shut it. Can’t you see that’s the prince?”

  Suddenly the entire group was bowing, curtsying, and kneeling, while mumbling apologies.

  Christ. Christian didn’t want them to be in awe. He needed them to be real. “That’s enough of that. Everybody up. There’s no rank tonight. It’s just the end of a very long Wednesday. I want to sit in the bar, share a beer with you, and talk about the upcoming EU vote. Not as your prince. I want to hear what you think.”

  “Why do you care what we think? We’re nobodies,” said a man in the back, taller than Christian and skinny as a streetlight.

  Christian raked his hand through his hair, frustrated at the hundreds
of little digs this man must’ve received over his lifetime to feel this way. And wondered how many unconscious slights his family might’ve telegraphed over the years.

  “First of all, that’s not true. What’s your name?”

  “Amadeo.”

  “Hi, Amadeo. I’m Christian, and this is Mallory.” He shook the man’s hand and waited while Mallory did the same. She hesitated briefly—as did Amadeo.

  “You’re the one who killed the peacock with a bocce ball,” he said accusingly.

  “I did. I’m very sorry about it.”

  “You know they’re special to our country.”

  She cocked her head to the side. “So’s this guy. And I impaled him with a dart a month ago.” She pushed up Christian’s sleeve and lifted his arm to show off the faint pink scar. “He’s been too scared to play a game with me since.”

  There was a roar of laughter. It was fine. If Mallory taking potshots at his ego made the peacock debacle disappear, he’d happily participate.

  “You let a woman beat you at darts, Your Highness?”

  “I did not. Why do you think she took out the peacock?” He put his hand to the side of his mouth and in an exaggerated whisper said, “Sore loser, this one.”

  Christ. That was risky. It could escalate things. If Sir Kai was here, he’d be sweating bullets right now. But this was the whole point of the night. To talk with his people at an equal level, not from up on a stuffy pedestal. And humor worked at knocking down pedestals.

  “We’ve heard that about Americans. Look at how they pouted when they came in third in the World Cup.” There was more laughter, but it didn’t feel mean-spirited. Mallory joined in as Leonie finally shook her hand.

  Christian raised his hand to quiet them. “Every man, woman, and child in this realm is important. Secondly, you all care about making sure you can support yourselves. That you pay fair taxes. Earn a good wage, live in a safe place. The vote to join the EU could affect all of that.”

  Leonie hunched her shoulders forward under her heavy brown work jacket. “It doesn’t matter what we say. It doesn’t matter if we vote.”

  Mallory stepped forward. “Don’t think that for a second. My country’s still young enough I can point to when we made huge changes by voting. Abolishing slavery. Abolishing Prohibition. Women getting the vote. Every vote matters. You know how much?” She hooked her thumb at Christian. “This guy doesn’t even get to vote. In this case, you’re way more special than him.”

  He appreciated the assist. Wanted to cheer for the way she’d bravely waded in to defend voter rights in a crowd of strangers, when she had no idea how they’d react. It showed she was passionate on the subject.

  He’d never been more proud.

  Although Christian didn’t entirely love the way she’d written him off as less special. But he wasn’t here to pump up his ego. Especially not once he asked them how they felt about him taking over for King Julian. Really good chance they’d tell him he’d mucked it all up.

  A short man with a bushy yellow beard elbowed forward. “The name’s Timo.”

  “Good to meet you.”

  “Before we go inside, tell me this: are you going to try and change our minds? Push our votes one way or the other?”

  “Hell, no!” The answer burst out of him.

  Everybody laughed at his casual vehemence. Christian felt Mallory’s hand on his back, a steady pressure reminding him that he wasn’t alone. Which helped. A lot. This could be a very stupid thing he was about to do. He was certain that Sir Kai would tell him not to let down his guard, or risk being open.

  That wasn’t who he wanted to be. He wanted to take risks. He wanted to do whatever it took to stay connected to his people.

  And Mallory, with all her brash, young democracy, seemed like she wanted him to do the very same thing.

  It was all he needed.

  She was all he needed.

  “I want to hear your opinions. Good, bad, pissed-off, frustrated, disinterested—just tell me: do you want this? For us to join the European Union? Or not?”

  “That’s it?” Timo asked, squinting in suspicion.

  “If you’re willing to let me buy you all dinner, I’d like to hang around and keep going. Hear you explain why you want to vote that way. And after I’ve had a beer or two to cushion the blow, then I want to ask what you think about me taking over for my father in the next year.”

  “You don’t have to buy us dinner, Your Highness. Christian,” a redheaded youngster quickly corrected himself. “It’s an honor to get to talk to you.”

  “And your name?”

  “Marek.”

  “Well, Marek, the thing is, it’s an honor for me to talk to all of you. I don’t want you to hold back. We’ll start with the vote. I won’t influence you one way or the other. Except”—he held up a hand in the air—“to say that however the vote turns out, our country will stay the same as it has for almost seven hundred years. It will be a country full of proud, caring people who are quite literally the best in the world.”

  A few more people had pushed out of the pub and joined the circle to listen. They all broke into applause and cheers of Moncriano, pumping their fists in the air.

  Mallory stood on tiptoe to whisper into his ear. “You are so ready to be king.”

  Christian wasn’t as certain. What he did know was how terrific it felt to be talking to his subjects. To not have stuffed shirts talking at him. What had been a shitty, dragged-out day was turning into a productive, important night.

  Because of Mallory by his side.

  He needed to do everything in his power to keep her right there.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Footsteps dully thudded on the checkerboard marble floors of the Statuary Hall. Mallory listened, considering. It was a double set, perfectly matched in rhythm, with one far heavier than the other.

  She’d put ten dollars on it being a member of the House of Villani and a bodyguard. From the hesitation, she further deduced it to be Kelsey.

  So—after removing her Sherlock Holmes deduction cap—Mallory was tempted to run. They’d been sort of avoiding each other. Nothing overt. Nothing the staff, for example, would pick up on. But anyone who truly knew them, knew how much they were two pieces that made a whole, would be able to tell that things were off.

  Drastically off.

  Painfully off.

  Mallory was holding firm, though. She wouldn’t give Christian up to appease Kelsey. Nor to appease his advisors, or his grandmother. Their relationship got exactly two votes—hers and Christian’s.

  But seeing that disapproval in Kelsey’s eyes…hearing an icy overtone in her voice worse than Lake Michigan in January…it was hard. It hurt. Avoiding her was the only workaround.

  Immature? Yes.

  Still tempting? Yes.

  On the other hand, it sounded like Kelsey was in high heels. Mallory had the advantage of pairing her red-and-cream paisley skirt with red flats. Not to mention the five inches in height she had over her. Long legs and sensible shoes would win the day without any visible running away.

  “Mallory! Mal, wait up!”

  Except for that.

  She wouldn’t run away in a snit after being called out. No doubt the protocol binder stated that ignoring someone of higher rank could get you banned from the palace. Double awkward since she lived in the palace.

  Mallory slowly turned around, a polite smile welded in place. “Hey there.”

  “Are you busy?”

  “Yes. I made some changes in my approach, and I’m getting flooded with responses for the orphan gala. It’s a little hard to keep on top of it.”

  “Oh, that’s great!”

  Following protocol, Mallory lobbed back a bit more inane small talk. “And you?”

  Kelsey waved a hand at her gray cardigan with lacy panels,
pink shirt, and white jeans. “I’m off to change. I’m headed to the theater tonight with the grand duchess and this won’t cut it. Except for the shoes.”

  Hmm. Gray-felted ankle booties with needle sharp, five-inch heels. “Why on earth are you wearing stilettos with jeans?”

  Kelsey’s pink-glossed lips plumped into a pout. “Genevieve took all my flats. Had her maid hide them. She says the way my ankles still wobble in heels is an embarrassment, and that our dead mother is turning in her grave at my inability to walk like a lady.”

  “That’s teasing, right?” Hard to tell with Genevieve. Mallory wanted to get to know her better, now that she’d apparently realized that Kelsey’s reappearance was not a targeted attempt to bring down the House of Villani. But Genny was head over heels for Theo, spending all her free time with him. Bonding opportunities, aside from the road trip, were rare. “Because five months ago, she would’ve said it bristling with outrage.”

  “She’s…mostly teasing. But she’s also seen how often I slip them off. Laid the whole ‘practice makes perfect’ line on me. I have one pair of sneakers in the gym, and that is it. Until the day she sees me walk the length of the throne room without a single wobble.”

  “That is some hard-core big-sistering going on there.”

  “About that…” Kelsey looked down at the square of black marble beneath her feet. Then over to the white square under Mallory’s. “I miss my big sister. A lot.”

  Oh. Oh. They’d studiously avoided using the word “sister” to describe each other since…well, since the day Kelsey had been officially reintroduced as the missing Villani princess. The day she’d officially stopped being a Wishner.

  It was an olive branch.

  Thank goodness.

  “What a coincidence. I miss my little sister,” Mallory offered.

  “I’m sorry.” Kelsey bit her lip. She tugged on the ruffles of her pink blouse. “I’ll get to the rest, but can I just say sorry and give you a hug?”

  Mallory could barely talk over the sudden lump in her throat. “That’d be awesome.”

  They rushed into each other’s arms. Yes, Kelsey fell off her shoe, but Mallory caught her. They were hugging and laughing and sobbing.