Anonymity has its advantages.
For one, I don’t get mobbed if I go outside the palace gates. I can travel unhindered, and I don’t have to deal with lies and stories about me in the media. They call me the ‘reclusive prince,’ but I don’t mind.
I am a recluse.
Another advantage is a situation like this one. With our half-brother Beckett on the run, there are precious few people that we can trust. Theo sent me to Farcliff to bring Luca back to our home Kingdom of Argyle. He’ll be safer at home.
Luca’s girlfriend just re-opened her bakery, but I’m hoping I can convince him to choose safety and common sense. We don’t know who we can trust in Farcliff, so it’s better if they both come back to Argyle.
Typically, I wouldn’t leave my home Kingdom, but things are tense back home, and I was the only one who could make the trip without causing a splash in the media.
Since my face isn’t plastered over every media outlet in the world, and few people know what I actually look like, the task to bring Luca home has fallen to me.
I watch the streets of Farcliff whizz by. People walk quickly with their chins stuffed in their jackets against the cold. It’s getting dark already, and the days are only getting shorter. I’d rather be on a tropical island, that’s for sure.
The driver pulls up outside a tall gate. I can just see the top of a house behind a row of trees. He rolls his window down and reaches for the buzzer, exchanging a few words with a security guard. The gates swing inward, and I’m taken up the driveway to my temporary new home.
Hopefully it has good heating and insulation.
Stepping outside, I nod to the driver as he takes my bag out of the trunk. “I’ll take it from here,” I say.
“Are you sure, Your Highness?” He hesitates, not wanting to hand the suitcase over.
In Argyle, all the staff in the castle is used to me. I don’t like being coddled or treated like…well, like royalty. I dress myself, I drive myself, I do most thing without the help of my staff.
This driver obviously isn’t used to that. I smile at him, slipping some money into his hand as a tip before grabbing my suitcase. I packed light, because I don’t own any cold weather clothes, and I don’t intend to be here long.
If Luca will listen to reason, I’m hoping we can get out of here at the break of dawn tomorrow and be back in the sunshine and warmth by noon.
Easy, right?
Setting my small suitcase on the front porch, I ring the doorbell. I take a step back, clasping my hands behind me as I wait for the door to open.
Light, quick footsteps approach on the other side. The lock slides, and the heavy door swings inward.
My breath catches.
I’ve seen pictures of Margot LeBlanc. I’ve seen her in half a dozen films, and I respect her skills as an actor.
But, damn. Cameras do not do her justice.
I guess a part of me just assumed that it was Photoshop. I didn’t think she’d actually be this breathtaking in person.
Her long, waist-length blonde hair is swept to one side. Bright blue eyes stare back at me, and her full, kissable lips fall open. She drags her eyes down my body and back up again, and I’m surprised at how much I enjoy her gaze.
Heat follows her eyes, sending little tendrils of pleasure snaking through my veins. I let a grin tug at my lips, arching an eyebrow.
Margot’s almost as tall as I am, with a thin waist and gorgeous curves. My eyes keep wanting to drop down to her body, but it’s her eyes that are magnetic. Deep pools of blue stare back at me.
I clear my throat, but I still can’t seem to make words.
This is why I don’t go out. This is why I hate the public eye. I clam up.
Margot’s face breaks into a polite smile. “You must be Todd,” she says. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
I frown. Who’s Todd?
Before I can answer, Margot slides some slippers on her feet and motions for me to follow her. We head around the house, and my eyes stay glued to the movement of her ass. She glances over her shoulder, and my eyes snap up to hers.
“Is your truck out on the street? I’ll let security know to let you in. I thought I mentioned you were coming, but it’s been so busy with my sister’s bakery re-opening that it must have slipped my mind.”
“Uh, no, actually. They let me in.”
Because I’m the Prince of Argyle and I’m here to see my brother.
“Oh, good,” she smiles. “Here’s the pool. I think the pump is burned out. It just won’t turn on. The electricity went out yesterday, and I think there was a power surge when it came back on. I’m not an electrician, though. You are,” she laughs, the sound sending another wave of heat through me. “We’re hoping to drain a few inches off it this week to get it ready for winter, but my house manager was saying it would be best to have you take a look at it before we take too much water out.”
Her smile is polite. Guarded. She points to a waist-high wooden box, flipping open the lid to reveal the pool pump.
“You think you can fix it?”
“Dante!” My brother Luca throws open the sliding glass door and strides out of the house. His smile stretches from ear to ear.
He looks happier than he did even a couple of weeks ago when I saw him in Argyle. Maybe the cold weather suits him.
Maybe Ivy suits him.
Margot makes a soft noise. “Dante?”
I glance at her, smiling. “Yeah.”
Luca bounds around the pool and wraps his arms around me, engulfing me in a hug. “Good to see you, brother.”
“Brother?” Margot repeats, her eyes widening. A blush stains her cheeks as horror fills her eyes.
“Margot, this is my brother, Prince Dante of Argyle. Don’t be fooled by his size, though. He’s a shy little teddy bear.”
Luca wraps me in a headlock and rubs his knuckles over my head. I yelp, trying to spin away from him, but my brother won’t let go. I shift my weight, trying to push him off me.
His arm stays firmly wrapped around my neck, gently crushing my airway.
Panic starts to lace my blood. I don’t like being trapped.
I try to get away from his grip again, pushing a little bit harder.
Too hard.
We stumble back, stepping over each other’s feet as we both head toward the edge of the pool. Luca laughs, grunting as he struggles with me.
My brother’s gotten stronger since we were kids.
Margot takes a step toward us. “Uh, boys…”
With one massive push, I try to get Luca off me. He yelps, letting go of my neck as he falls backward, pitching toward the pool water. His eyes open wide as his heel slips over the edge of the pool.
He’s a goner. In a second, he’ll be splashing into ice-cold water.
Taking a step back, I suck in a wheezing breath. I put my hand to my throat, finally filling my lungs.
My victory is short-lived, though, because with one last movement, Luca grabs onto my shoulder and drags me down with him.
I yell, falling into the freezing-cold water on top of my brother. The cold takes my breath away. For a second, I can’t move. I just sink down, down, down, until my knee hits the bottom of the pool. The feeling of the bottom jars me back to my senses.
I push away from Luca and propel myself off the bottom, breaking the surface to hear Margot shouting. She disappears into the pool house. I swim to the edge of the pool and watch Margot come back out carrying a bundle of towels.
I pull myself out of the water, my clothes soaked and my mood dampened. Luca’s head pops up above the water, laughing.
He’s in a pretty good mood, considering our half-brother Beckett just tried to kill him. Does he think I’m here on a social visit?
A black-haired girl appears in the doorway. “What the heck is going on?”
Margot hands me a towel, arching an eyebrow. Her cheeks are still a bright shade of red, and she averts her eyes.
“Babe! This is my brot
her, Dante,” Luca calls out. “You should get in here. The water’s nice.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Ivy answers, laughing.
My whole body is shaking. I don’t realize it until Margot drapes a towel over my shoulders and rubs her hands up and down my arms.
“Let’s get you inside,” she says, glancing at Luca, who’s still trying to get Ivy to jump in. “You’re obviously more sensible than your older brother.”
“It would appear that way,” I grin. My teeth chatter, and Margot nods toward the house.
As soon as I step inside, pins and needles erupt over my body. Heat starts seeping into my frozen skin, and Margot leads me up the stairs.
“Bathroom, bedroom.” She points to two different doors. “There should be clean towels and toiletries in the bathroom. Warm yourself up. You have a suitcase?”
“On the front porch.”
She nods. “I’ll get someone to bring it up and leave it in that room.”
“Thanks.” I swallow, wanting to say something else.
Her eyes linger on mine for a moment, and then she inhales sharply. “And, uh…sorry.”
“For what?”
“For thinking you were the electrician, and not the Prince of Argyle.”
I chuckle, shrugging. “Easy mistake to make.”
Margot’s eyes drift over my chest, and I watch her cheeks flush brighter. She smiles shyly, nodding as she turns back toward the stairs.
I watch her for a moment, wondering why my heart is beating so erratically.
MARGOT
FOR FARCLIFF’S SAKE, of course I would do something like that. Who else would mistake literal royalty for a pool technician?
No one, that’s who. Just graceful ol’ me.
My cheeks are still burning when I make my way downstairs. Ivy’s in the pool with Luca now, and the two of them are kissing like no one’s watching.
I let out a sigh, turning to the kitchen.
My hands shake as I grab a glass of water, trying to let go of the nervousness that seems to have settled deep in the pit of my stomach.
Is that nervousness, or is it another tremor?
I push the thought away. The more I think about my disease, the more I worry about it. My mind turns back to Dante, in all his soaking wet, muscled glory. The image of him pulling himself out of the pool will stay burned in my mind for a long, long time.
It’s not often that a man has that effect on me. I’ve been around lots of famous people, lots of gorgeous men, lots of people with money and clout…
…but no one like Prince Dante.
I lean against the kitchen counter, squeezing my eyes shut.
There goes any hope of sleeping tonight. I already know I’ll replay that interaction over and over again, torturing myself with the absolute mortifying shame of it all. The last half hour of my life will probably play on repeat in my head for the next ten years.
Even the way Prince Dante looked at me when we were upstairs—with that sexy, pouty smirk—made me burn with embarrassment…and something else.
Desire.
Treacherous, forbidden desire.
How could I even consider being attracted to him, when I’m carrying another man’s baby? No, not just another man. I’m carrying his horrible half-brother’s baby.
Great.
I sink down on a stool and lean my elbows on the kitchen island.
Maybe it’s hormonal. They say that pregnancy can pique your libido. I’m well into the second trimester, now, and I rarely feel nauseous. I have way more energy.
Maybe my body is just looking for a way to burn it off?
For example, I could burn it off by climbing Prince Dante like a tree. I’m sure he could find a way to get rid of a lot of excess energy with me.
Just an idea.
I’m not going to act on it.
I jump when someone clears their throat in the kitchen doorway. My eyes widen when I see Prince Dante in nothing but a towel. My eyes drift down his chiseled body, feasting on the sight before me.
Muscle. Brawn. Sex-god status.
A little droplet of water escapes his hair and starts trailing down his body. Fascinated, I watch its journey from his collarbone, over his chest, and down the center valley of his abdominal muscles. The adventurous drop of water makes it all the way to his towel, absorbing into the fluffy white fabric just as my eyes snap back up to his.
Did I mention my cheeks are on fire?
The Prince arches an eyebrow. “Did you happen to grab my suitcase?”
“Oh!” I clap my hand over my mouth. “I’m so sorry. I was distracted by…stuff…” I shake my head, trying to keep my eyes from finding more droplets of water trailing down his body.
His hand is holding the towel up, and a fleeting image of the Prince dropping it passes through my mind. I clear my throat, shaking my head to dispel the thought.
Bad Margot.
Blame the hormones.
I avert my eyes from his brawn, rushing past him and taking care not to touch his body as I slip through the kitchen entrance. I make my way to the front door, hauling in his suitcase.
“Here,” I say.
One of the house staff appears and rushes forward to help with the bag. She takes it from me and starts hauling it up the staircase.
The Prince’s eyes stay glued on mine, and I do my best to keep my gaze above shoulder level. Heat teases the edges of my stomach, and my heart thumps.
My tongue slides out to moisten my lips, but my mind feels completely empty. I scramble to think of something to say—anything.
Anything at all.
Earth to Margot? Where have you gone? Say something!
Where did my brain go? Did it go on a long journey with that droplet of water? Why am I suddenly mute?
The Prince clears his throat. “I’d better…”
“Yeah,” I say, averting my gaze. “I’ll see you…”
“Thanks…”
“Uh-huh.”
We stumble over each other’s words until the Prince coughs into his fist and turns around.
I cringe hard, releasing a breath as soon as I hear his bedroom door close.
Why am I like this?
I swear, I’m the worst famous person in the world. I somehow missed the classes on poise and grace, and hung onto my core awkwardness.
Hunter used to say it’s what made me relatable, and part of the reason that I’ve been as successful as I’ve been. People see me, and they recognize themselves.
I just wish people didn’t love a cringey, awkward mess. Do normal people knock things over every single day? Do normal people think Dante of Freaking Argyle is actually Todd the Plumber?!
Just another thing for my anxious brain to obsess over in the middle of the night, I guess. Add it to the long list of material that I already have.
A few months ago, Ivy and I ended up on a yacht with Prince Beckett, Prince Luca, and a bunch of celebrities. I fell in the water, and Ivy had to jump in to save me. It was all over the news for days. I laughed it off, but I died a thousand times every time I saw a photo of me flailing in the water.
That little episode has been playing on repeat in my mind every night, so at least now I’ll have something new to cringe about when I can’t sleep.
My phone chimes from the living room, and I release a heavy sigh.
It’ll be some notification of another news story about me.
Hunter used to tell me that all publicity was good publicity. Now, I just find it all exhausting. It makes me wonder what else Hunter did to keep me on top. What other crimes were committed in my name?
My phone lights up again, and I turn away in disgust.
I once compared being famous to being locked up in a high tower, with no doors or stairs leading up to the top. I can see life as it’s lived for everyone else—for people like Ivy and her friends, Giselle and Georgina. They can lead normal lives. They can go through their happiness and sadness in private, finding joy in whatever pocket
s of life they choose to look.
I don’t even know how I got up here. The tower is luxurious, don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful for all the money that I’ve earned, and all the boxes of gifts that I’m sent every single day. I’m grateful for the fast track at the airport, and the private cars and jets that take me wherever I need to go.
I’m not wanting for anything…
…except genuine connection.
The only people I can truly trust are Ivy and my hair stylist Melissa. Ivy was the only one who was strong enough to walk away from me when I was being self-destructive. Melissa is the only person, other than Ivy, who was fully supportive of my three-month retreat.
Ivy ended up poisoned because of her connection to me.
Because of me.
Another ding sounds from my phone, and I march over to it with a huff. Without looking at the screen, I turn it on silent and put it on a high shelf.
I can’t look at it right now.
Ever since I’ve gotten back to Farcliff, the media have all wanted a piece of me. I’m supposed to do an exclusive exposé with one of the main media outlets in Farcliff next week. The ‘tell-all’ interview that will have people salivating at the thought of my shortcomings.
My publicist has been contacting me non-stop. My most lucrative brand sponsorship—with a haircare company, on account of my trademark blonde locks—is on the rocks. I touch my head, itching at the base of my hair extensions.
All I want to do is rip them out. I’d get rid of my blonde hair in an instant, but that would mean risking my image and my career.
I have to do the tell-all interview, prove myself worthy of being sponsored, and then life can go on as normal.
Except for this little problem growing in my uterus. I won’t exactly be the model spokeswoman for mental health, recovery, and redemption when I have Prince Beckett’s baby growing inside me.
No—calling my child a problem is wrong. My baby is a gift. This baby gives me more strength than I can say, and provides me with a ladder that I can use to climb down from the tower where I’ve held myself captive.
Wicked Prince: A Secret Baby Romance (Royally Unexpected Book 5) Page 2