Heir in Exile (Royals Book 3)

by Danielle Bourdon

  Instinct warned Chey not to speak while they were in the castle itself. Shocked at the vehement display, she wondered how long tensions had been this high between Aksel and Sander. She waited until they were back in the limousine en route for the helipad to dare ask any questions.

  “Sander, what happened?” She glanced sideways. His face was a mask of anger.

  “I threatened to have him yanked off the throne, that's what. Suggesting he has become too impaired to make sound judgments for this country.” Sander clenched his teeth, a muscle flexing in his jaw.

  “By that Heir's First Right? What is that?” Chey whispered, as if she feared the driver and accompanying guard beyond the divider window might hear.

  “It's a special addendum that allows the official Heir to the Throne—which I currently am—to over ride the sitting King if there is proof that the King is showing signs of obvious impairment in regard to ruling the country. I believe I can do that, considering he married me to a woman carrying another man's son. In court, I will win that fight. It's an extremely grievous error, him allowing a pregnant woman to persuade him to give her the ascending Heir. Should a bastard take the throne of Latvala, it could change everything.”

  Chey studied Sander's profile as he talked. A muscle kept flexing in his jaw and several of his words clipped tight past his teeth. Sander meant every word he said. She wondered if anything this serious had ever happened in the Ahtissari reign.

  “Would you really do it?” she whispered. “Have him removed?”

  “If he called the military in to arrest and detain you? You bet your sweet ass I would.” Sander paused, then said, “Some of this animosity goes back before you ever arrived. He is a tough man, and a tougher father. Some of his decisions regarding our stance for other countries have not been in Latvala's best interests. There has been mild tension between Aksel and the council members, his advisers and others before. He and I do not always share the same line of thought.”

  “I see.” Relieved that she wasn't the whole cause of all the tension between father and son, Chey relaxed against the seat. Her stomach had taken to doing flips once more, and she rested a hand against it over the coat. They arrived at the helipad before Chey could really delve into the subject and with Sander's aid, made the transfer from car to aircraft with little trouble.

  Soon they were flying over the choppy water toward the island.

  Chapter Two

  Dubai was unlike any city Chey had ever seen. Tall skyscrapers scratched the underbelly of the atmosphere, commanding and ultra modern, while businesses in glass buildings crowded close to a waterway that snaked between commercial districts. She felt like she'd been transported to another world, in a future century, where everything was new and on the cutting edge of architecture.

  To accentuate the foreign nature, patches of raw desert could be seen from the air, tucked between highways and new construction. It made a striking contrast butted up against the greenery, foliage and palms lining the water.

  Once on the ground ensconced in a sleek silver limousine, the effect intensified. To her utter amazement, she saw three robed men on camels meandering through the sand in the heart of the city.

  “Pretty amazing, isn't it?” Sander asked. He sat beside her, resplendent in a black suit, the snowy shirt beneath open at the throat to expose a swath of golden skin.

  In the three days since their disastrous meeting with the King, Sander had been brooding and quiet. He hadn't neglected her; to the contrary, he was possessive, attentive and at her side more often than not. He chose to express his distaste of the situation with his father in thoughtful silence, which Chey was more than happy to give him. She didn't need endless conversation to be comfortable in his presence.

  “I feel like I'm on another planet,” she admitted. “Did you see those camels?”

  “It's a common enough sight here,” he replied, looking ahead rather than out the windows.

  Chey glanced over to Sander. “I wonder if I'll ever be able to look at all these new things with the same casual regard you have. When does it become 'normal'? Or is it just that you've grown up around it and expect it now?”

  He finally met her eyes. “It's funny that you wonder if you'll ever be indifferent—and I often wonder what it would be like to see it through your eyes. I get a glimpse now and then being around you, but yes, I expect all this now. It's never been any other way, hm?”

  Chey hadn't thought about the situation in reverse. It surprised her to think he envied anything about her. “How many times have you been here? Wasn't it new when you first came?”

  “I've watched it grow over the years. It takes some of the edge off, though I do remember being impressed on my first visit. As for how many?” He tongued the edge of his teeth. “I've been here ten or so times.”

  It occurred to Chey then that she didn't even know how old Sander was. Obviously older than her, which explained why he'd been around the world more than she'd first thought. “How old are you, anyway?”

  He laughed. For the first time in three days, he actually laughed. “Thirty-three. And you're twenty-four, twenty-five on April twenty-second.”

  “How did you know my birthday?”

  “I made it my business to find out.”

  “Well, aren't you resourceful.”

  “I can be.”

  She scoffed. Several resources came to mind, all right, but they had nothing to do with information gathering. Color stained her cheeks for the thoughts that rioted around her head for a moment.

  “You're blushing. That means--”

  Chey cut him off. “I'm not blushing.”

  “Yes, you are. I always know when you're thinking about that.”

  “Do I have a neon sign on my forehead?”

  “You might as well. Right now it says, what he did with his tongue last night--”

  “You're so full of it,” she said, laughing. Her face felt like it was on fire.

  “But you enjoy it,” he pointed out, with no small amount of mirth and conviction.

  “Yes, yes I enjoy it when you're being a rogue. Okay?” She brushed a wayward strand of hair away from her cheek and tugged on the shortcoat of the cream colored suit she wore. Her lips continued to tremble with the urge to suppress another smile.

  He caught her chin between his fingers and gently turned her head away from the window. His eyes, such a vivid blue, were intent and focused on her own. Without any more warning than that, he kissed her. Slow, reminiscent of other kisses in recent days that had preceded a hot night of passion.

  When they parted, her breath was short in her throat, mind aswirl with all sorts of sordid imagery that had no business being present under the current circumstances.

  “Quit it, you're distracting me,” she said, pinching his thigh.

  “We'll have a few hours this afternoon before the gala this evening. I'm sure I can think of some way to fill them.” He smiled, more wolf than man, fingers grazing her chin before falling away.

  Chey snorted. Then she dropped her voice to a sultry purr. “Oh, so can I. In fact, one word nicely sums it all up.”

  “Really,” he said. “And what word is that?”

  “Shopping.”

  . . .

  The Royal Regency lived up to its name. Everything about the hotel catered to the ultra rich, the ultra famous, or the ultra elite. Sitting right on the waterway, rising thirty-four floors above the ground, the structure was a study in Arabic architecture, glossy marble, gold accented columns and lush potted palms.

  Men and women of power and standing came and went through tight security at the front doors, guarded by their own detail on their way to and from the building. Four of Sander's men formed a loose circle of protection from sign in all the way up to the penthouse suite. The suite had its own personal foyer outside the doors for security purposes, as well as an alarm system and panic button.

  Arabesque archways led to other bedrooms, an office, a full kitchen and theater room. The furn
iture had a distinct Mediterranean flair while retaining a modern theme.

  After Chey marveled over the view out of the floor to ceiling windows, she unpacked a few belongings and prepared for the shopping trip Sander promised her.

  Every retail store, from the ones in the Regency to others lining the water, were as upscale as the hotels that surrounded them. The clothes, souvenirs and other items had price tags to match. Sander goaded her into buying things she wouldn't have otherwise looked at twice, and when she came across a dress that felt like liquid in her hands, he insisted she get it. Red, made of intricately sewn sequins that shined, the floor length gown had a scandalous slit up the leg, a snug bodice and an open back. A red ruby dangled from the nape all the way to the low spine. Adding shoes to match, along with a slim clutch, they departed the store ten thousand dollars lighter than when they went in.

  Light headed at such expenditures, Chey lunched with Sander in an open air restaurant overlooking a tropical water display. The weather, a temperate seventy-four degrees with cloudless skies, was enjoyable after the two foot snows of Latvala.

  In higher spirits once they returned to the room, Chey hung up her dress, sent the other purchases to be laundered, and spent the remaining two hours before the gala in Sander's arms.

  As evening fell, and the lights of the city glittered to life, Chey showered and changed into her gown. She admired the way it streamlined her curves and accentuated the shape of her shoulders. Wearing her hair up in coils and curls allowed the dangling ruby to swing unhindered down her back.

  Stepping out into the main living area in search of Sander, Chey stopped dead in her tracks. He stood with a glass of what looked to be whiskey in his hand, the other in his pocket, staring out at the glittery cityscape beyond the windows. The black, tuxedo length jacket matched slacks of a fine cut and cloth, and overlaid white-on-white layers beneath: white brocade vest, white shirt, white tie. It was a handsome suit by itself; on Sander, it was staggering. His shoulders filled out the jacket to perfection.

  What stood out more than anything was the loose way he wore his hair. Instead of combed meticulously away from his face and caught in a low tail, as usual, he'd opted to wear it down. The golden strands brushed a couple inches below the collar, giving him a rakish look. He could have been a high class stripper in a club that catered to women, except for the debonair mantle he wore that would have surely set him apart from the rest. There was no mistaking his confidence or importance, and certainly no mistaking his allure.

  “You're staring,” he said without looking over.

  “As any red blooded woman would,” she countered.

  He took a drink. Glanced aside. His gaze raked her head to toe, glimmering with a resurgence of passion. Then, he smiled. A devastating smile that changed his whole face.

  “You're a devil,” she decided, attempting and failing to control the hectic pace of her heart.

  “Ironic, considering you're the one wearing red. And wearing it well, I might add. Turn around, let me see if there's a tail.” He narrowed his eyes in anticipation.

  “You just want to see my backside.”

  “Is that a surprise?”

  “Not really.”

  “So turn around and indulge me.”

  “You're impossible.” Chey turned around. Slowly. She swore she felt his gaze caress the naked length of her spine. The dress, Chey decided, was worth every penny. When she finished her turn, she found Sander standing directly in front of her. Towering over her, swirling his drink in the glass. He smelled like heaven. Masculine, musky, with a subtle bite of spice.

  “I don't know. Maybe we can skip the gala. What do you think?” He lifted the glass and drained it.

  “What? After all this? You're crazy. Besides, we just spent half the afternoon in bed.”

  “Not half. More like a quarter.”

  “You're greedy, that's what you are.” She flirted with him from under her lashes.

  “I don't hear you complaining.”

  “You always say that. Like I'm going to ever complain.” She laughed at the very idea.

  He took a step closer. “So is that a no, then?”

  “We can't just rip these clothes off now!” Chey eyed him to see if he was joking. Surely he had to be kidding. “Aren't you required to show up to this shindig or something?”

  “I'm not required, but I am expected.” His expression gave nothing away. Sweeping a hand low around her back, he splayed his fingers across her spine.

  Chey shivered at the contact. Damn the man. He was distracting her well and good with hardly any effort. “Then we should go.”

  “Should we?”

  Chey felt her resolve weaken. She started to have wild ideas about taking his clothes off with her teeth. Peeling away one decadent layer at a time, until he was beautifully naked and at her mercy.

  With a sudden switch, he smiled. Charming, boyish, devilish. “Gotcha,” he whispered.

  Chey backhanded his chest. “You just wanted to see me get all, all...”

  “Yes,” he said, interrupting her with easy charm. “I wanted to see you get all swoony and moon-eyed. You're very alluring when you do that, and it puffs up my ego to think I can sway you without even a kiss.”

  Chey scoffed a laugh. “Like your ego needs any puffing up. Please.”

  Grinning, he applied pressure with his arm and escorted her toward the door. “C'mon, Slinky. Let's go tear up the town. Later I'll let you have your wicked way with me.”

  Chapter Three

  The gala in the grand ball room of the Royal Regency put the party in Monte Carlo to shame. Here, a ceiling arched high over the glossy floor, done in white like the walls, table linens and high backed chairs. Gold was the accent for everything, from the rims of real crystal glasses to the edging on plates to the medallions decorating arabesque carved niches. Even the polished marble they walked on had thin gold veining. Waiters and waitresses wore white as well, with gold piping the collars and sleeves.

  All the color came from the clothing of the guests, which ranged the full spectrum of the rainbow.

  Escorted to a specific table with Sander's name and title on a placard, Chey discovered they shared the space with three other couples. One, of some Asian descent, another definitively Spanish, and the third was German. To her surprise, Chey found each set to be accomplished conversationalists with cultured, easy to understand accents. The topics remained in the safe categories of the host country's ample assets, the weather, and the reliable shopping district, of which Chey could at least speak with a little knowledge. Her fears about keeping up with such elite company faded as the dinner wore on, until she was smiling and chatting as if she'd known the women, at least, for much longer than an hour.

  When the men excused themselves for a more obvious session about business, Chey retreated to one of the lounge areas with the ladies. From there they could see the dance floor and the expansive skyline beyond the arching windows. Wary of a repeat from Monte Carlo, she declined any drinks that waiters brought by on trays, instead choosing to order direct from a specific one that Sander sent over.

  When the women started discreet rounds of gossip, dropping famous names left and right, all Chey could do was smile and listen. She didn't personally know this Royal, or that Princess. Nor did she have the slightest clue what those four A-List actresses were up to. It wasn't until the Spanish beauty turned a curious look on Chey that she realized she was about to become the hot topic of the evening.

  “I hear you're something of a minor celebrity in Latvala, is that true dear?” the Spanish lady asked.

  Chey arched her brows and tempered her reply. “Me? No, of course not. If I am, no one has made me aware.”

  The women tinkled polite laughter.

  “Sometimes,” the Asian said, “it is best if we turn a blind eye to certain things. You aided in a rescue on a dock however, did you not?”

  “Oh, yes. I did. But it was only what anyone else would have done. Hardly notewor
thy.” Chey honestly felt that way.

  “And modest, too,” the German added. “It's no wonder he snatched you up again the second he was free of Princess Valentina.”

  “Yes, what a terrible situation,” another said.

  Chey wondered if the elite of the world were delivered all the raging gossip by their employees for just these kinds of occasions. Put on the spot, she frantically sought a way to address the comment and remain politically correct. Sander had cautioned her earlier about leaving her ring in the safe of the room so it didn't spark questions and controversy. She was thankful for his foresight.

  “It was unfortunate that his marriage ended the way it did,” Chey said first, buying herself some time. “Prince Sander and I have always been fond of one another, however, so I saw no harm in accepting his invitation to attend the gala.”

  “Does this mean you're not actually dating then?” the Asian inquired.

  “Shame, I rather thought she fit well into the circle,” the Spanish woman added.

  “We see each other now and then. I'm definitely not adverse to dating the Prince, though,” Chey added, diverting from her stoic reply for a bit of honesty. After all, she was engaged to Sander, and at some point, the knowledge would hit the rest of society.

  The women laughed while they eyed her. None were unkind, and none seemed to judge her harshly. Another surprise for Chey, who knew some of the women in these circles were more like piranha than not.

  “I cannot imagine many women being adverse to such a thing,” the German said, proving she was more blunt than her companions.

  “Indeed. I've heard several notable Princesses have expressed interest now that he is single once more,” the Asian remarked.