Wicked Dirty

by J. Kenner

  Tonight, The Fix looked to be in no danger of going out of business. Even on a Wednesday, he had to push his way through the crowd that clustered near a wooden stage bordered by two walls of windows that gave a view of the corner intersection and the pedestrians and cars humming about outside. There was no performer, not yet, but a man Noah recognized as one of the bartenders was adjusting the height of a microphone in front of a single metal stool.

  On any other night, Noah might have stayed to listen. Right now, he wanted to escape the crowd.

  He wound his way through the throng, passing the long bar that extended deep into the room as he made his way to the smaller--and blissfully quieter--bar area in the back.

  From behind this secluded bar, Tyree waved a greeting. A large black man with broad shoulders and arms as thick as a woman's thigh, he was often mistaken for the bouncer rather than the owner of The Fix. He was, however, more suited for the latter. Tyree had some of the kindest eyes that Noah had ever seen, and an easygoing manner that wasn't suited for tossing rowdy patrons out on their asses.

  "What's your poison, Noah?" he asked after passing something fruity to one of two college girls sitting at the bar. Their blonde heads were bent close together, and Noah could almost make out words as they alternated whispers with stolen glances at the second bartender behind the rail, who seemed unaware of them as he expertly mixed the Manhattan that Noah had requested.

  "Are you new?" Noah asked. "You look familiar, but I'm not sure why."

  "I've been here a few months," he said, wiping his hands on a bar rag. "But I just started working a regular night shift yesterday. Before, I filled in at night or covered lunch. I'm Cam, by the way."

  "Cam's a grad student at UT," Tyree explained as Noah frowned, still trying to place him. He studied the guy's face--young, but not naive, with intelligent blue-gray eyes, dark brown hair, and a single earring--and tried to remember where he'd seen it before.

  He shook his head, still pulling a blank. "What are you studying?" Maybe that would jar his memory. Noah was certain he'd met the guy before, and his inability to place the kid was bothering him more than it should.

  If Cam answered, though, Noah didn't hear it, because at that moment, there was a lull in the din filtering in from the front room, then a smattering of applause before a male voice announced that there was a pre-show surprise. A local performer he hoped they enjoyed.

  Noah tuned it out. When he was younger, he'd loved live music. Now, it just brought back unwelcome memories.

  He glanced at Tyree. "I didn't think you brought bands in on Wednesdays."

  "Usually don't. This one's getting quite a local following, though, and they leave soon on a three-state tour. The lead singer asked if they could do a farewell performance." A wide grin lit his face. "Honestly, I think he mostly wanted his girlfriend to have the chance to try out her new song on a live audience. She's not part of the band, but she's got chops."

  "She's not his--" Cam began, but Noah wasn't listening anymore. Because the voice from the front room had reached him, low and clear and hauntingly familiar.

  It couldn't be. Could it?

  He stood, then moved to the doorway that separated the two areas. He squeezed in between patrons knotted in tight groups, the words seeming to pull him closer even as the voice made him want to draw away.

  "...and when I'm feeling blue, I always circle back to you..."

  He didn't hear anymore. How could he now that he was looking at her? Now that the wild roar of emotion and memory was filling his head?

  Now that he was staring at the woman he'd loved.

  The woman he'd destroyed.

  And the woman whose voice was even now tearing his heart into pieces.

  * * *

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  Logan St. James is a smoldering, sexy beast. Sure, he can be a little broody at times--but Ellie Hammond's willing to overlook that. Because, have you seen him??

  Sexy. As. Hell.

  And Ellie's perky enough for both of them.

  For years, she's had a crush on the intense, protective royal security guard--but she doesn't think he ever saw her, not really.

  To Logan, Ellie was just part of the job--a relative of the royal family he'd sworn to protect. Now, at 22 years old and fresh out of college, she's determined to put aside her X-rated dreams of pat-downs and pillow talk, and find a real life happily ever after.

  The Queen of Wessco encourages Ellie to follow in her sister's footsteps and settle down with a prince of her own. Or a duke, a marquis...a viscount would also do nicely.

  But in the pursuit of a fairy tale ending, Ellie learns that the sweetest crushes can be the hardest to let go.

  * * *

  Logan St. James grew up on the wrong side of the tracks, in a family on the wrong side of the law. But these days, he covers his tattoos and scars with a respectable suit. He's handsome, loyal, brave, skilled with his hands and...other body parts.

  Any woman would be proud to bring him home to her family. But there's only one woman he wants.

  For years he's watched over her, protected her, held her hair back when she was sick, taught her how to throw a punch, and spot a liar.

  He dreams of her. Would lay down his life for her.

  But beautiful Ellie Hammond's off-limits. Everybody knows the bodyguard rules:

  Never lose focus, never let them out of your sight...and never, ever fall in love.

  * * *

  Prologue

  Logan

  Some men think with their cocks.

  You know the type. Quick smooth-talkers, shifty eyes always scanning for a nice pair of legs, a set of full tits, or a tight arse they can pant after.

  Other blokes think too much with their brains. You know that type too. Annoyingly careful, slow-moving, constantly parsing their words like they already know whatever they're saying is going to come back and take a bite out of them.

  I'm not either of those.

  I always go with my gut. When it clenches with a warning, I act--no hesitation. When it tugs and nudges, I pause and reevaluate. When it twists and writhes, I know, guaranteed, I've cocked up big-time.

  My gut is my best friend, my conscience, my most lethal asset.

  And it has never let me down.

  It's my gut that drags me to her door. That roots me in place as I knock. That gives me the words--pleading, unfamiliar remorseful words--I'll gladly say to make this right.

  To get her back.

  Because while my gut is brilliant, sometimes I can be a real fucking idiot.

  Yesterday was one of those times.

  "Ellie. It's me--open up, we need to talk."

  I sense movement on the other side of the solid oak door--not in sounds or shifting shadows beneath it, but more of an awareness. I can feel her in there. Nearby and listening.

  "Go away, Logan."

  Her voice is tight, higher-pitched than usual. Upset.

  "Ellie, please. I was a twat, I know . . ." I'm not keen on begging from the hallway, but if that's what it takes . . . "I'm sorry. Let me in."

  Ellie is difficult to anger, quick to forgive; she just doesn't have it in her to hold a grudge. So her next words fall like an axe--cutting my legs right off from under me.

  "No, you were right. The princess's sister and the East Amboy bodyguard don't make sense--we'll never last."

  Did I actually say that to her? What the fuck is wrong with me? What I feel for her is the one thing in my life that makes sense. That matters.

  But I never told her that.

  Instead . . . instead, I said all the wrong things.

  I brace my palm against the smooth wood, leaning forward, wanting to be as near to her as possible. "Elle . . ."

  "I've changed my mind, Log
an."

  If a corpse could speak, it would sound exactly like my Ellie does now. Flat, lifeless.

  "I want the fairy tale. I want what Olivia has . . . castles and carriages . . . and you'll never be able to give me that. I would just be settling for you. You'll never be able to make me happy."

  She doesn't mean that. They're my words--the insecurities I put on her--that she's hurling back in my face.

  But God, it fucking hurts to hear. Physically hurts--stabbing deep into the pit of my stomach, crushing my chest, grinding my bones. I meant it when I said I would die for her . . . and right now, it feels like I am.

  I grab the doorknob to walk inside, to see her face. To see that she doesn't mean it.

  "Ellie--"

  "Don't come in!" she screeches like I've never heard her before. "I don't want to see you! Go away, Logan. We're done--just go!"

  I breathe hard--that's what you do when pain wrecks you, breathe through it. Then I swallow bile, straighten up, turn around and walk down the hall. Away from her. Just like she wants, like she asked. Like she screamed.

  My brain tells me to move faster--get the hell out of there, cut my losses and lick my wounds. And my heart--Christ--that poor bastard's too battered and bloody to express anything at all.

  But then, just over halfway down the hall, my steps slow until I stop completely.

  Because my gut . . . it strains through the hurt. Rebels. It shouts that this isn't right. This isn't her. Something's off.

  And even more than that . . . something is very, very wrong.

  I glance up and down the quiet hall--not a guard or a maid in sight. I look back at the door. Closed and silent and still.

  Then I turn and march straight back to it. I don't knock, or wait, or ask for permission. In one move, I turn the knob and step inside.

  What I see there stops me cold.

  Because whatever I was expecting, it sure as fuck wasn't this. Not at all . . .

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  Logan

  Five years earlier

  "You wanted to see me, Prince Nicholas?"

  Here's a confession: when the powers that be first offered me a position on the royal security team, I wasn't interested. The idea of following around some self-important aristocrats who were in love with the sound of their own voices--and the smell of their own arses--didn't appeal to me. The way I saw it, guards were only a step above servant-boys--and I'm no one's servant.

  I wanted action. A blaze of glory. Purpose. I wanted to be a part of something that was bigger than myself. Something noble and lasting.

  "Yes, Logan--have a seat."

  I'd distinguished myself in the military pretty quickly. And Winston--the head of Palace Security--had taken notice. They were looking for very particular qualities in Prince Nicholas's personal team, he'd said. Young lads who were quick on their feet, loyal and ferocious when required. The type who'd be just fine bringing a knife to a gunfight--'cause he wouldn't be needing a fucking knife or gun to win.

  After only a few weeks, I had a different take on the position. It came to feel like a calling, a duty. Important men make things happen, get things done--they have the power to make life easier for the not-so-important people.

  I protect them, so they can do that.

  And the young prince sitting across from me, behind the desk in the library of this luxurious penthouse suite--he's an important man.

  "How old are you, Logan?"

  "My file says I'm twenty-five."

  If Saint Peter was a fisher of men, I'm a reader of them. It's a skill that's essential to this occupation--possessing a gut feeling for what someone else's intentions are. The ability to read a man's eyes, the shifting of his feet--to know what he's capable of and just what kind of man he is.

  Nicholas Pembrook is a good man. To his core.

  And that's a rare thing.

  More often than not, important men are prime scumbags.

  His mouth twitches. "I know what your file says. That's not what I asked." He's also not a fool--and he's been lied to enough in his life that he's got an ear for things that don't ring true.

  "How old are you really?"

  I look him in the eye, wondering where he's going with this.

  "Twenty-two."

  He nods slowly, massaging his thumb into the palm of his other hand, thinking. "So you signed up for the military at . . . fifteen? Lied about your age? That's young."

  I shrug. "They weren't real discerning at the recruitment office. I was tall, solid and good with my fists."

  "You were still a child."

  "I was never a child, Your Highness. Any more than you were."

  Childhood is when you're supposed to muck up, figure out who you are, what you want to be. You're given permission to be a jackarse. I didn't have that privilege; neither did Nicholas. Our paths were set before we were born. Opposite paths, sure--but whether you grow up in a shack or a palace, the expectations and demands of those around you tend to snuff out innocence pretty damn fast.

  "Why'd you leave home so young?"

  Now it's my turn to smirk. Because I'm not a fool either. "You know why. That's in the file too."

  I'm good at identifying scumbags because I come from a long line of them. Criminals--not especially successful ones. Petty, scrounging, desperate enough to be dangerous--the kind who'll smile to your face, pat you on the back, then stab you as soon as you're not looking.

  My grandfather died in prison--he was in for murder committed during an armed robbery. My dad will die there too, hopefully sooner rather than later--he's in for manslaughter. I've got uncles who've done stints for a whole range of criminal activities, cousins who've been killed in broad daylight in the middle of the street and aunts who've pimped out their daughters without a second thought.

  By the time I was fifteen I knew if I stayed in that shit-hole, I'd start to stink. And then I'd have only two options: prison or the cemetery.

  Neither one of those worked for me.

  "What's this really about? All the questions?"

  It's always better to cut to the chase, deep and quick.

  His gray-green eyes focus on me, his face probing, his shoulders slightly hunched, like an elephant's sitting on them.

  "Now that I have Henry in hand, the Queen wants us back in Wessco, in two days. You know this."

  I nod.

  "I want to bring Olivia home with me, for the summer."

  For a time, I was on the fence about the pretty New York baker. She put ideas in Nicholas's head, made him reckless. But she's a good lass--hardworking, honest--and she cares about him. Not about his title or his bank account. She couldn't give a shit about those and probably would prefer him without them. She makes him happy.

  And in the two-odd years I've worked with the Crown Prince, truly happy is something I don't think I've ever seen him be.

  "Is that wise?" I ask.

  Olivia Hammond is a sweet girl. And the Palace . . . has a knack for turning sweet to sour.

  "No. But I want to do it anyway."

  And the look on his face--it's raw and exposed. It's yearning. From the outside looking in, you'd think there's nothing a royal could want that he can't have. Nicholas has private planes, servants, castles and more money than he can spend in a lifetime--but I can't think of a single instance when he did what he wanted, just for the hell of it. Or when he let himself do something he knew he shouldn't.

  I admire him, but I don't envy him.

  "Olivia wants to come, but she's worried about leaving her sister alone for the summer. Ellie's young, still in school and . . . naive."

  She's got a wild streak in her too. As bright as the pink in her blond hair, which has been joined by blue, then green, during the two months we've been in New York.

  "I could see her attracting trouble," I comment.

  "Exactly. Also, Ellie will have to run the coffee shop on her own, with just Marty for help. Olivia's father is--"

  "He's a drunk.
"

  I'm good at spotting them too--can smell them from a mile away.

  "Yes." Nicholas sighs. "Look, Logan, you've been around long enough to know that I don't trust easily, or often. But I trust you." He pushes a hand through his black hair and meets my eyes. "Which is why I'm asking you. Will you stay in New York? Will you help Ellie, watch over her . . . make sure she's safe?"

  She seems like a decent girl, but I already said I wasn't a servant--and I'm also not a nanny. Protecting the royal family is a duty I've chosen; keeping tabs on an American teenage girl is a fucking headache waiting to happen.

  Nicholas glances out the window. "I know it's a lot to ask. It's not your job; you can say no. But there's no one else I would choose . . . no one else I can depend on. So, I'd consider it a personal favor if you say yes."

  Ah . . . hell.

  I have a brother. To say I wish I didn't would be an understatement. And not in the same way Nicholas wishes his royal snot of a brother would grow the hell up, or how Miss Olivia seems put out by her younger sister at times. The world would be a better place if my brother weren't in it--and that's a stance shared by others.

  But if I had a choice, if I could assemble a brother from the ground up, I would build the man sitting across from me right now.

  Which is why, even though I'm going to bloody regret it, it takes only a moment before I give him my answer.

  "James has a boy back home--about a year old, so he'll want to go home with you. Tommy'll be happy to stay--the Bronx is like his own personal harem. Between the two of us, and two more men, Cory and Liam maybe, we'll keep the girl out of trouble and the business afloat for the summer."

  Nicholas's face splits into the biggest smile and relief lights up his eyes. He stands, holding out his hand to shake mine, pounding my shoulder with gratitude.

  "Thank you, Logan. Truly. I won't forget this."

  If nothing else, this summer will be . . . different.

  * * *

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  The first time I met her I wanted to slap her.