Broken and Beautiful

by Ryan, Kendall

  Belle collapsed against the counter, folding her arms over her head. “I…can’t…take…the…hotness.”

  “Only you would find that hot,” I shot back, but I was glad she couldn’t read my mind.

  “Only you could kiss Prince Alexander and not know it,” Belle said with a laugh. The jealousy had dissipated from her voice entirely now. This had just become another of my silly mistakes, but that didn’t mean she was going to let it go. Instead, she started in on a series of questions, barraging me with each new one so quickly that I could hardly keep up with her, especially with the dizziness permeating my head over the revelation.

  Until one question filtered through the haze. “Was he an amazing kisser?”

  “Yes,” I said without hesitation, recalling his strong and powerful arms around me. “He was in total control, which makes sense now.”

  “More!” Belle cried mock-orgasmically.

  “Down girl,” I said, but I couldn’t help myself. The kiss had been my delicious secret before, but now…it was more. It was confusing and exhilarating and terrifying—hot as hell, of course—but I needed Belle to help me filter through my feelings.

  “All I could think when he kissed me was that I wanted him on top of me,” I continued.

  “Oh my god,” Belle moaned. “Are you going to see him again?”

  A thrill shivered through me at the thought, but I pushed it away. “I doubt it! He only kissed me to avoid an ex-girlfriend.”

  Belle’s mouth twisted into a smirk and she waved the front page at me. “He looks like he’s enjoying it, and I know you enjoyed it.”

  I stuck my tongue out and hopped off the stool. Belle’s one-track mind wasn’t helping me understand my feelings at all. She had my back, but I wasn’t sure she could keep from pushing me on him if she ever got the chance.

  Thankfully, Belle took my cue and began unpacking dishes to the cupboards.

  “Your mobile is ringing,” Belle called from the hallway as she carried a mislabeled box to her room.

  I froze when I saw the caller ID, immediately silencing the phone. Realization crept through me, washing away the arousal I’d felt as I relived the kiss for Belle and replaced it with the grim awareness that more than reporters knew about this now. By tomorrow everyone I’d ever met would know. The butterflies in my stomach evolved into a swarm of angry bees. I didn’t like attention. It wasn’t good for me. It wasn’t…healthy. Would they all start calling me? Texting me? After considering that I was about to be deluged by friends and family, I set my phone to vibrate.

  Belle peeked into the kitchen. “Who was it?”

  “My mom,” I answered with a groan.

  “Oh Christ, she’s probably planning the wedding.”

  “You’re right. I should call her back and set things straight.” But I couldn’t convince myself to do it. Instead, I knocked my head against the wall a few times.

  “Whatever you do, don’t bludgeon yourself to death. Most girls would kill to snog Alexander, not kill themselves for getting to.”

  I stopped and stared at her. Most girls would, but was I most girls? Alexander must have thought so. Just another girl to use and throw away. Of course, kissing a girl to piss off your ex made sense to a guy like that, but now I was the one dealing with the fallout! He’d thrown my world majorly off-course for the last week, leaving me hot and bothered and curious, and now I had to clean up the mess.

  And how the hell had they tracked me down anyway? It sounded like Alexander left a trail of women in his wake. Why had they focused on me?

  “You know what I still can’t figure out? How the reporters discovered who I was. Consider the paparazzi karmic retribution for the privilege,” I retorted.

  “That’s some SIS shit for sure,” Belle agreed. “Someone must have seen you and recognized you. Probably whoever took that photo.”

  “If I know them, they better hope I never figure out who they are,” I said. Dropping my silenced phone back onto the counter, I grabbed a box. My mother and everyone else could wait until I’d gathered my thoughts on this matter a little bit more.

  “Back to work?” Belle asked.

  I nodded. Maybe continuing to sort out my new life in London would help me sort out my conflicted feelings about what had happened. It was a long shot.

  Belle caught me around the shoulders and squeezed. “It’ll blow over.”

  I smiled gratefully. That was exactly what I needed to hear.

  It soon became clear that Belle’s mission had shifted from getting the flat set up to distracting me. By the time we were arguing over what to put on the bookshelves—I stubbornly believing it should be books—we’d all but forgotten the maelstrom waiting for us outside until we realized there was nothing but half a bottle of wine in the fridge.

  “I’ll grab some curry from the corner,” Belle said, grabbing her pocketbook.

  “You shouldn’t have to go,” I said, feeling badly. “Maybe we could order up?”

  “I might starve before then.” Belle clutched her stomach for emphasis, but I could see the real reason she didn’t want to wait any longer hiding behind her eyes. “I’ll think of a proper way for you to repay me later and I promise it will be cruel and embarrassing.”

  “It can’t be more humiliating than having my photo all over the Daily Star,” I pointed out.

  “I’ll think of something.” She winked and disappeared through the door.

  Belle’s laptop was on the counter and I grabbed it, curiosity winning out over common sense. One Google search later and I had dozens of celebrity blogs and gossip magazines to wade through. I checked out some of the Prince’s recent photos and found there had been no mistake. The unbelievably sexy man I’d stumbled upon at my graduation was exactly who the papers claimed that he was, and Belle was right. He’d been photographed with too many beautiful women to count. Every recent photo of him came complete with a leggy blond or buxom redhead or even identical twins. I doubted he’d been giving them tours of London.

  I slammed the laptop closed, annoyed that I’d even looked, but turning, the mass of papers on the counter confronted me. I reached to crumple them up and toss them in the garbage, but found myself interrupted by a buzz on the flat’s intercom.

  “Forgot her keys again,” I muttered as I hit the call button. Apparently things in London wouldn’t be too different than they were at university.

  “Miss Bishop?”

  Or maybe not. The man’s tone was clipped and formal.

  “I have no comment,” I said, anticipating what the man wanted. How long could this possibly go on before people lost interest? A week? Maybe two? Could I hide out in my flat that long? I had to start work in a week, but surely that wouldn’t be interesting to a bunch of environmental lobbyists.

  “I’m not here from the press,” the man at the other end responded. “I’m here to collect you.”

  “Collect me?” I repeated in surprise. My thoughts flashed to my mother who was probably foaming at the mouth by this point. I checked my phone, discovering ten missed calls from her.

  “Prince Alexander of Cambridge wishes to speak with you.”

  My mouth fell open and I was eternally grateful I was alone in that moment. “I’m not sure that’s a very smart idea. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a small swarm of reporters down there waiting to devour me alive.”

  “I am Prince Alexander’s personal guard. That’s why His Highness has entrusted me with bringing you safely to meet with him,” he said. “I can assure you that no one will even know that you left this building.

  “Give me a moment,” I said. Whirling around the room, I tried to think of a reason not to go, which turned out to be pretty easy given that I was being stalked by a couple dozen reporters, I was hungry, and the prince hadn’t even bothered to share his name with me when he’d casually ruined my foreseeable future with his kiss.

  But the memory of Alexander’s lips hot on mine and his hands on my waist holding me in a firm, confid
ent embrace made my knees buckle and I found myself reaching for a pencil to scrawl a note to Belle. I told myself I was being thoughtful. I told myself I deserved an apology after getting dragged into this drama. I told myself a lot of things as I met Alexander’s personal guard near the lift, but I refused to consider whether I was making a mistake.

  I told myself I wasn’t.

  4

  Norris, the Prince’s personal guard, fell squarely into the strong and silent type, but as he promised, he managed to sneak me out of my building and past the horde of reporters hoping to catch a glimpse of the latest royal scandal. Namely me.

  Perhaps his unassuming appearance was part of his job, but I’d expected the Prince’s personal guard to be a trifle more tough. Norris looked average with a stocky build and a nice, but not expensive, suit. His salt-and-pepper hair was smoothed past ears that stuck out a bit too far. I wouldn’t have thought of him as intimidating. Then again, considering how easily he’d bypassed the paparazzi, his ordinary appearance might have been a blessing. But the one thing I really wasn’t expecting was to be taken somewhere public to meet Alexander. Norris had promised me a private meeting, so I barely swallowed down my surprise when he pulled past London’s hottest nightclub, Brimstone, to the rear alley, which came just short of the last of the winding line of people hoping to be let in to the exclusive club.

  “This is where I’m going to avoid being seen with Alexander. I mean Prince Alexander,” I stammered, cursing silently. My nerves had finally kicked in, and I couldn’t hold back my babbling. “Or should I call him His Royal Highness?”

  Norris’s eyes darted around us as he escorted me to the back door, but he spared me a glance of pity. “I wouldn’t be nervous. His Highness is merely a man, after all.”

  I might have bought that if he hadn’t referred to him as His Highness.

  At the door, I realized I hadn’t even grabbed my purse. I’d only shoved my keys and phone in my pocket, which meant I didn’t have ID, and to top it off, I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt to the hottest nightclub in town where I was meeting the Prince of England. What a cock-up, as Belle would say.

  The American in me had a few more choice descriptors for the situation.

  The muscle-suit at the door barely spared a glance at me. He simply nodded to Norris and opened the door to us, but as we passed, I saw the guy’s mouth twitch. Further proof that I looked ridiculous. I tugged at my t-shirt and threw my shoulders back in attempt to look poised. I hoped that it worked for those on the outside, because it did little to enlarge my self-esteem. At least I had showered today and my ponytail was respectable. It was the only facts I had to comfort me as we stepped into the back room of Brimstone.

  The faint pulse of the club pumped through the walls, mimicking the nervous beat of my heart. Even behind the scenes, there had been attention to detail. Torchieres breathing red light meant to look like flames lined walls papered in a black and metallic linen pattern. The crimson light caught on the strands of silver, making the walls sparkle and throb with life, and as the dulled music seeped further into my bloodstream, raising goose bumps along my arms, my anxiety shifted to inexplicable excitement. Norris led the way, passing a hall full of people waiting for their chance at the loo.

  “Hey mates,” a man called to us from line. “There more toilets back there?”

  Norris ignored him and I shot the guy an apologetic smile, slightly embarrassed by my guide’s snub, only to be met with a mixture of dirty looks and confused glares. Their expressions said it all: who is this girl and why is she so important? Two questions I was asking myself at the moment as well.

  Two more bouncers waited at the end of the hallway, blocking a set of stairs, but once again they parted for us without so much as a word. The steps led to a skywalk over the club—the kind reserved for half-clad dancers, but it was vacant tonight. Below us, a mass of sweaty bodies fought in rhythm to the music, a turbulent mix of dance and electronica being spun by a deejay in the corner. The interior of Brimstone was cast in the same crimson light as the back hall, and flaming murals licked across the walls. I wasn’t the type to go out to clubs. I felt too self-conscious. But right now I wished I were part of the chaotic hive of activity below. It seemed easier than facing Alexander.

  “Miss Bishop.” Norris stopped in front of a large mirrored window and bowed to me. As he stepped away, the mirror slid open to reveal a hidden room.

  I entered alone, feeling instantly out of place in the lush setting. There was a privately stocked bar but no one tending it, a leather couch and chair clustered around a low coffee table inlaid with gold leaf, red velvet draped over the walls and my fingers reached out instinctively to run my fingers over the silky fabric. But the sexiest thing of all stood with his back to me, peering out the floor-to-ceiling windows on the other side of the room. As the door shut behind me, he turned to face me. A slow smile spread across his face, and I swallowed, knowing he was taking in my very casual appearance. Tilting my chin up, I walked toward him, hoping that I could put on the cool, confident attitude that I needed to get me through this meeting. But the closer I got to him, the more my legs felt like jelly.

  He was dressed for this atmosphere in a perfectly tailored pair of black trousers and a slate-grey button down. Even in the dim light, his blue eyes sparked mischievously at me. His jawline still sported the same perfect five o’clock shadow that screamed sex. How did he manage to keep it so perfectly even? I couldn’t help but imagine how it would feel against my bare flesh, between my thighs. My body throbbed at the thought and I nearly tripped on my feet. He was steps away and his arms shot out to steady me, but I righted myself on my own.

  Enough of that or you’ll make an ass of yourself. Of course, considering how I was dressed, it was a little late for that.

  I’d read enough about the prince’s exploits on Belle’s computer this afternoon to know I was in real danger of winding up on that couch with my panties off. And if I was being honest with myself, part of me was hoping that’s where we would end up. But the sensible part of me—the part that still controlled a majority of my brain—knew that was a terrible idea.

  “I’m fine,” I said to him, side-stepping his second attempt at assistance. I paused for a moment. “Should I curtsy or something?”

  “Please don’t,” he said, not bothering to hide his amusement.

  “I wouldn’t want to offend you, Your Highness,” I explained.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked, ignoring my taunt. The invitation was coated in sex, smooth as honey and dripping with temptation, and my conscious mind tried to find the most polite way to say no.

  “Yes,” I said instead. Oh, fuck it all.

  “What is your poison, Miss Bishop?”

  You, I thought instantly. Okay, perhaps getting out of here with my dignity was going to be harder than I imagined. “I just graduated university, so I’m not picky.”

  “Used to the old plonk then?” he asked, flashing me those perfect teeth. “Sadly, Brimstone tends toward—”

  “Real booze?” I offered.

  “Exactly.”

  “Then I’ll take what you give me.”

  Something dark flashed across his light eyes and he sucked in a breath that hissed past his perfect lips. The sound sent a shiver racing down my spine. The air between us sparked with the intensity of his gaze until he finally turned away and strode toward the bar.

  I took the opportunity to check out the scene below as he poured the drinks, needing to distract myself from the dangerous pull Alexander had on me. It was quiet in here, but if I closed my eyes, I could make out the faintest boom boom boom of the club’s music. It was marvelous to think we could be up here, secluded and enjoying a private drink, while it looked like a can of live sardines down there.

  “Can they see us?” I asked as he handed me a crystal tumbler.

  He shook his head. “It’s like those mirrors on police procedurals. To them, it reflects back the club.”

>   I took a long sip of my drink as I took in this information. For all intents and purposes, I was alone with one of the world’s sexiest men—an accolade that was actually awarded to him by Peoplemagazine, according to my research earlier today. I had to agree with their assessment.

  “You must come here often,” I said. He had to if they afforded him private rooms and exclusive access.

  “I’ve been told to go to hell a number of times,” he said. “I decided to take the advice.”

  “Ahhh,” I said, laughing despite the nerves that left me feeling jittery in his presence. “Brimstone.”

  “My natural habitat.”

  “I doubt that.” The words slipped carelessly from my mouth. How was it possible for him to put me at ease and make me so nervous at the same time?

  “I owe you an apology,” he said, moving to stand so close to me that his shoulder brushed against mine. Our skin didn’t even touch, both our arms still covered, but a thrill trembled down my arm.

  “No harm done,” I said, tacking on an awkward, “Your Highness.”

  He laughed at this. “Alexander please. Norris informed me that no less than two dozen members of the press are camped in front of your flat.”

  “Alexander,” I said, testing out the name. It felt strange to directly address the man that would one day be the King of England by his proper name. “Once they see how boring my life is they’ll go away.”

  “They’ll make your life hell until then.” His voice was low, but it seethed with hatred. It was no secret that he had good reason to hate the press. They’d been vicious after he’d been involved in the fatal accident that killed his younger sister.

  “Is that why you went to Iraq?” I asked and then immediately wished I hadn’t.

  “Back to our game? I suppose I advised you to save a few,” he said humorlessly.

  My heart thrilled at the reference to the cat-and-mouse game of twenty questions he’d engaged me in during our first meeting, but his lack of amusement at my presumptuous question told me he didn’t really want to answer me.