Maid for the Royal Prince

by Winter James

  MAID FOR THE ROYAL PRINCE

  Winter James

  Tessa doesn’t have a choice. She has to spy on the crown or risk certain death. Except Prince Sebastian would have no mercy on a traitor. He’s known for being harsh. Even cruel. The only thing he wants is to protect his country with honor. That means keeping his hands off the help, no matter how enticing she looks in her uniform. When he learns what she’s really after, he’ll extract his punishment from every square inch of her.

  Chapter One

  Tessa

  The man at the door of the hostel should have been my first clue.

  I know what you’re thinking—a guy at the check-in desk at a hostel isn’t that strange. Men love real estate, and they especially love real estate that they can rent out by the parcel. If this were the USA instead of Belleza, a cut of my money would have gone all the way up the chain to the guy who’s ultimately in charge of whatever massive holding company owns the local Econo Lodge. But this isn’t the USA, and this is no Econo Lodge.

  This is...a basement.

  I’m not sure exactly how I got here. Stairs probably, because the hole-in-the-wall hostel didn’t have an elevator. What it did have was a guy sitting on a folding chair behind a desk that looked like hardwood but was probably particle board painted over. In other words, a step down from the kind of hostel I normally book online, which is the cheapest one in any given city that doesn’t look like it’s part of a crime ring.

  This one didn’t, in the pictures. It looked small, which isn’t a dealbreaker, but welcoming with flower boxes on the windows. Its best selling point was being a women’s-only hostel. The price, combined with the added safety, caught my eye when I was booking it in France. And normally I’d take my time reading all the reviews on all the sites before I checked in.

  Nothing about this trip has been normal.

  Except the train out of Spain was delayed.

  First a wandering herd of cows stopped us fifteen miles from the French border, and then the border police. My bus into the city was long gone by the time I got here. A person can’t be blamed for what they do when they’re tired, but there are consequences.

  Like getting tied to a chair in the basement of a hostel.

  In retrospect, the flowers should have been the very first clue, even before the guy at the check-in desk. The front of this building boasted precisely zero flower boxes, a fact that I noticed but dismissed. Then...the guy. The folding chair. The way he looked me up and down, assessing. My feet ached from carrying my oversized backpack on foot from the train station, and my head hurt from being up in the middle of the night. All I wanted was to lie down. So I ignored the missing flower boxes and the fingernail-scratch of nerves on the back of my neck.

  And then there was the shower.

  I don’t expect Marriott-levels of fancy from hostel showers as a general rule. That kind of expectation only sets a person up for disappointment. All I hope for is clean, serviceable, and private—as private as you can get in a communal bathroom. The hostel’s bathroom had clearly been retrofitted from when the building was a family home. A big metal stall took up most of the space with the sink and shower taking up the rest. The only reason the shower fit at all was because it was built into the wall. Inlaid bricks. They were probably original, which would have been fascinating if it weren’t for the creeping, intensifying sensation of being watched.

  The thin, mildewed curtain didn’t provide a lot of privacy and I didn’t quite trust the flimsy lock on the door, but have you ever climbed into clean sheets with road grime all over you? It’s not ideal and I wanted to avoid it. So I stashed my backpack under the bottom bunk in the empty sleeping room and took my shower caddy down the hall to the bathroom. I never saw another person, but while I was rinsing the shampoo out of my hair at double-speed I swear I felt eyes on me.

  Eyes.

  My wrists are tight down tight to the arms of the chair. Rope, not zip ties. If they were zip ties, I could try the technique I saw in a YouTube video for escaping using only my shoelaces...if I had shoelaces. Or shoes.

  Nobody should have been watching me in the shower but I whirled around under the lukewarm stream and got shampoo in my eyes in the process. There was nothing on the back wall but a slim crack, far enough away from the water that mold probably wouldn’t be a huge issue but wide enough to creep me out. I didn’t look to see if there was a camera hidden inside that crack.

  Obviously, I should have. The odds are pretty good now.

  I would stop dwelling on the long series of mistakes that led me here—really, I would—except there’s nothing else to do but dwell on them. I test the ropes around my wrists one more time. There’s no give. Not in the ropes around my ankles, either. I might be able to tip forward, but then I’d just be flat on my face and tied to the chair. I’d rather see what’s coming.

  My heart knocks steadily against my ribs.

  I wish they would come down here already. I’ve been here for a long time—since right after I stepped back into my underwear and tank top but before I put my pajama pants on. The windowless basement with its single lightbulb screwed into the ceiling makes it hard to tell what time it is. No footsteps above me. And, thank god, nobody else down here either. I don’t know what would be worse—a fellow prisoner or a serial killer.

  Probably a serial killer.

  I tip my head back and look at the ceiling, breathing deep, calming breaths. It would be so great if someone thundered down the stairs right now, burst in the door, and collapsed with relief. “Oh, Tessa,” they would say. “Your family’s been looking everywhere for you. They’re going to be so glad you’re alive.”

  The flaw in that fantasy is that I have no family.

  Nobody’s looking for me.

  Nobody ever will. I have a few friends scattered around the globe who might notice that I’m not posting on social media anymore, but there are a thousand different reasons for that that don’t involve getting kidnapped.

  Shit. Shit. This is so bad. Terrible, even. Goosebumps crawl up my skin. I’ve always known that traveling alone as a woman would involve some element of risk. Living alone as a woman involves risk. Being a woman is risky. There’s no avoiding it.

  But I’ve been so careful. I make a decent living as a travel blogger, snapping pretty sunsets and plates of exotic food in exchange for a few promoted posts.

  Then I saw a crime go down in Barcelona. I was out of that city like a rocket, booking my tickets on my phone. Fast. I had to move fast.

  It was only this once that I let my guard down.

  One hostel. One night. That’s all it took. And now—

  I don’t have time to run through the horrible possibilities because somewhere above me a door slams. Heavy steps move over my head, shaking the dust loose from the ceiling. No, no, no. I push my toes against the floor and try to scoot back. It’s useless. I am tied to a chair. Whoever it is will find me. And they’re not going to be kind.

  A lock turns on the heavy door I’ve been facing for hours or forever. The door sticks—whoever is on the other side has to use some force—and when it opens it opens with a whoosh and a slam that tears a scream from my throat.

  “Quiet.” The guy who comes in is broad but not heavy. Under his coat he looks like pure muscle. Tall. Handsome. He’s got a few days worth of stubble. There’s something off about his clothes. Jeans—they’re just jeans, but they look brand-new. Expensive. They have none of the wear you’d see if they were secondhand. Even his shirt—plain black under a leather jacket—looks like it would be incredibly soft. Who buys a new wardrobe for a kidnapping? Striking green eyes complete the outfit. Under any other circumstance I could appreciate how good he looks. Not this one.

/>   In one hand, he carries a bundle of fabric. The other hand is empty. For now.

  He drops the fabric on the concrete floor and comes toward me, digging through his pocket. A knife—he’s got a knife. He flips it open with a flat face and fear seizes me.

  Adrenaline bolts through my veins and I kick hard on the floor, anything to get a little more space, and the chair starts to tip. Shit. I squeeze my eyes shut and brace for the impact of my skull hitting the unforgiving floor but a pull at the front of my chest arrests the motion. The man with the knife has grabbed a fistful of my shirt. He yanks me forward again, the legs of the chair clanking on the floor.

  “Don’t try that again. You’ll only hurt yourself.”

  “What do you care if I’m hurt?” I’m going to have a heart attack. “I’m being held here against my will, and if you don’t let me go—”

  “Then what?” He smirks and I catch the scent of his cologne in the air. It’s too good for such a bad person. “Your daddy’s going to come looking for you? We both know that’s bullshit.” He dangles the knife from his fingertips. “Now hold still. This is a bit overboard,” he mumbles, mostly to himself, “but I don’t make the fucking rules.”

  He doesn’t? It’s impossible to struggle but I do it anyway. I can’t help it. It’s the most useless, soul-crushingly pointless thing. My fingernails meet empty air. My toes have no impact on the floor. It’s enough to rock the chair and no more.

  He takes a fistful of my hair and pulls my head back so I have to look at him. “Hold still, or you’re going to get yourself cut. I’ll be the one in trouble then”

  It’s enough of a threat to still my muscles. The man bends down and slices through one of the ropes, then the next. He lingers around my ankles, the dull edge of the blade making contact with my skin. A warning. He could still cut me. The bonds come loose and I want to leap up out of my chair but I have to settle for stiffly climbing to my feet, muscles aching, wrists sore.

  The man looks me up and down, standing there in panties and a tank top, and hot shame is a slap across my cheeks. “Put those on, and then I’ll tell you what your new job is.”

  Part of me wants to launch at him, to drag my nails across his stupid handsome face and demand answers. He’s right, though. I’d only hurt myself. Patience, Tessa. I need to obey him until I can figure out a plan. So far he hasn’t asked me to do anything horrible. I stagger over to the pile of cloth on the floor and pick it up, shake it out.

  These aren’t my clothes.

  It’s...a maid’s uniform.

  I won’t wear them. If you touch me again, I’ll scream until...

  I put the outfit on. It’s one piece, a black dress that hits below the knee. It’s tight and revealing but not exactly slutty. A real uniform, not something you’d get in an adult shop.

  The man steps out into the hall and returns with a white apron.

  My fingers are numb, probably from being tied up. He starts talking while I’m still fumbling with the knot behind my back.

  “You’re going to be working in the royal household,” he says, his voice flat and soulless. “We require some data on the Prince’s laptop. He keeps it close, which means you’ll have to get close to him to get him. You’ll do whatever is necessary to gain access.

  A shiver of fear makes my knees wobble. “No. I’m not a spy. I won’t do it.”

  It’s not only a question of morality. The Prince of Belleza is a terrifying man with a terrifying reputation. If I betray him I could end up worse than dead.

  The man with green eyes cocks his head to the side. “Then you’ll be sold as a prostitute. You’ll fetch a good price, too. We’re giving up a lot of money, but the data is worth more.”

  “What? I—no, you can’t do that.”

  He shrugs, completely nonchalant. “I can do anything I want. Hell, I can even fuck you right now as long as I don’t leave marks that show.”

  All my bravado falls away, crumbling to the floor like so much dust. I’ve always been good at swallowing down fear and refusing to acknowledge it until it finally goes away. I’ve had to be good at it. But now, in this room, with no way out other than to rush the man with the knife, I can’t keep up the act.

  “Please. Don’t. I’m—I’m a virgin. Don’t hurt me. Don’t touch me—”

  He tips his head back and laughs, deep and loud. “A virgin is worth her weight in gold. Of course, the value declines after the first transaction, but that initial sale… God, maybe I should sell you. We can find another slut to get the information.”

  The thought of it makes my stomach turn. “Okay,” I say quickly, before he can decide otherwise. “I’ll be your spy. I’ll get whatever you need.”

  He smiles a slow, dangerous smile. “You’ve gone quite pale. It won’t be so bad for you, you know. if you follow the terms.”

  “What terms?” The terms where I agreed to be fucking kidnapped?

  “Scrub a few floors. Get down on your knees. Suck the prince’s cock. Whatever it takes to get that laptop. Get me what I need, and I’ll let you go free.”

  My lungs struggle for air, cold nervousness tightening my throat. I can feel my pulse all the way down in my fingertips. Belleza has beautiful beaches and the country is known for a flower that’s worth even more than a virgin. But the man in charge is known for being ruthless. Unforgiving. I already know what the answer to my question will be, but I can’t stop myself from asking it.

  “What happens if I get caught?”

  “Then you’ll be executed for treason, of course.”

  He says executed for treason like he’s telling me I’ll be charged a late fee if my payment comes in on the fifteenth instead of the fourteenth. I keep myself upright only because I don’t want to hit my head. This job can’t be done if I don’t have all my wits about me.

  The man steps out into the hallway, gesturing impatiently. “It’s time to go.”

  “If I do this, you won’t hurt me?”

  “I won’t hurt you. But the prince definitely will, so don’t get fucking caught.”

  I’ve never been a spy before—I don’t know how the hell to do this. I’ve also never been a maid before. All I know is that this man is dead serious. If I don’t agree to his terms, he won’t let me out of the basement. I follow him out on trembling legs.

  We climb up a narrow staircase at the back of the building, which opens out into a wide alley. A car waits there, sleek and back. The car, like the man’s clothes, looks expensive. He opens the door for me and I climb into the back. It smells new. New cars, new clothes...and me, an American trying to stay alive. A driver waits in the front seat. Does he also have expensive jeans, or is this some poor fool hired as an accomplice without his knowledge?

  The man bends down and I jerk away. He sighs. “Don’t be fucking skittish. It’ll give you away. Here.” He tips a phone into my hand. It’s nicer than the beat-up iPhone I was using. “And remember, we have other people inside. I can have you in the basement on your back, legs spread for the highest paying customer in under an hour if you don’t answer my texts. Got it?”

  I can’t bring myself to speak. I can only nod.

  He taps the hood of the car. “Take her to the palace.”

  Chapter Two

  Sebastian

  The King of Belleza presides over hearings.

  Or, in this case, it’s the crown prince who is waiting for his embarrassing wreck of a father to die so he can assume the throne and right his country.

  Of course, we have a judicial system to handle most cases. The point of these hearings—the public ones, the ones that take place in the palace’s courtroom—is to demonstrate that the Crown watches the people of Belleza just as the people watch the Crown.

  That there is a mutual interest between the two parties.

  My father let that slip many years ago, just like he let everything else slip. The national healthcare system, for instance. The social safety net that his father so painstakingly created. He wasted all his tim
e on gambling and fucking various women, who then had his bastards.

  They’re his biggest legacy.

  Officially he transferred his power as head of state to me years ago. One of the first things I did was refurbish the palace courtroom. My father had used it for gambling tournaments, so it had to be gutted. Now it features an array of modern skylights, rare pink-veined marble floors, and a bench that rivals the one in the Supreme Court. I like a bit of natural light when I’m sentencing people to life in prison...or death.

  The man at the defendant’s table, his lawyer sweating beside him, doesn’t realize that he’s fucked.

  The lower judge, who presides over the trial until it’s time for me to give the verdict, calls the man to the stand. The man—one Langdon Renard—is tall and lanky and wears an ill-fitting suit. He checks his watch over and over again. No doubt he has plans for the afternoon.

  The judge asks him what his plea is, and he leans down to the microphone with an expression that’s almost a smile. “Innocent.”

  “Would you like to make a statement?”

  “Yes, I would.” He clears his throat, his tie brushing the podium. “This is a mistake, Your Honor. I deal in fine arts, not in the black market. I would never dream of taking anything from the Crown. It would be career suicide, not to mention wrong.”

  The prosecutor, a woman I hand-picked myself, follows this with a dispassionate expression. She’s good at her job. She doesn’t give anything away. When the defendant is done giving his lengthy—and bullshit—speech, she moves to enter the palace security tapes as evidence. The judge allows it. The defendant—poor, stupid man—goes pale.

  There are few surprises for me at trials like this, so I’ve already made up my mind. As jury and sentencer, I can’t walk into the room with no understanding of the situation. Oh, it’s a pleasure, watching him realize that he’s caught out. I almost wish they’d have dragged it out longer.

  “I don’t think—” He swallows hard, tries again. “I don’t think that’s—you should object—It’s not what it looks like.”