by Ember Casey
I jab the top of the can with the scissors—but the scissors only bounce off.
I try again, using more force this time, but while the scissors manage to make a small dent, they still don’t pierce the aluminum. I curse under my breath.
Five more times I try—by the fifth time, I’m ready to throw the can at the wall and be done with it—but finally, I manage to slice a hole through the top of the can. After that, it’s relatively easy to cut off the rest of the lid. Once the beans are open, I pass them to Victoria.
“Save a few for me,” I tell her. “I’m going to open some of the others.”
There are eight cans in the box. We should probably ration them, just in case, so I only take a can of black-eyed peas and a can of beets. A few frustrating minutes later, I have them open, too.
It’s only then that I look back at Victoria. She’s started on the baked beans, scooping them up with her fingers—I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised there are no forks or spoons in this place—and I happen to catch her just as she’s licking one of her fingers clean.
My physical reaction to that sight is instant and intense, and I nearly drop the can of black-eyed peas. I silently chastise myself, but I still can’t keep my eyes off of her as the tip of her pink tongue flicks across her skin.
This is most undignified, I think. She’s merely eating, and yet you’re as hard as—
“Do you want some?” she asks.
She’s caught me staring. The only thing I can do to save face now is to take the can from her outstretched hand—which I do, and quickly.
“Here are the black-eyed peas,” I say. “And I opened some beets as well. I think we should save the rest, just in case.”
She nods, taking the black-eyed peas from me, and I force myself to look down at the can in my hand.
Eat, I tell myself. You couldn’t have asked for a better distraction.
I approach the baked beans as she did—by scooping them up in my fingers. They’re sweeter than I expected, and if we were under normal circumstances, I probably wouldn’t have found them particularly palatable. Right now, though, it takes all of my willpower not to eat the rest of this can.
Somehow, Victoria and I work our way through the remainder of the open cans without saying a word to each other. I keep my eyes on my food as I eat, trying to train myself back into some self-restraint, but it’s impossible not to be aware of every move she makes. My body is tense for the entire meal, my shoulders so rigid they start to ache.
If you were Leopold, you would have charmed her onto her back by now, I find myself thinking. Your face would be buried in her hair and your cock would be buried between her legs and she’d be crying out your name, begging you for more. I want to feel her body against mine, feel the shivers race across her skin as my tongue teases her. Feel her arms and legs wrapped around my body, holding me against her.
Even though she’s covered in sweat and grime, I’m still very aware of the scent of her. It draws me toward her, tempts me to pull her back into my arms. But though my body throbs with need, I do my best to ignore it. This time, I have every intention of controlling myself. Prince Andrew doesn’t lose his head over women—especially American reporters, no matter how beautiful or intelligent they might be.
After we’ve finished our food, I stand.
“We should probably try to sleep,” I say. Even though we spent much of the day dozing, I’ll need my energy tomorrow.
Unfortunately, that brings us to the awkward conversation of sleeping arrangements. There’s only a single bed in this cabin, pushed into the back corner, and it certainly appears to have seen better days. Still, it is better than some of the alternative options.
“You can have the bed,” I tell her. “I’ll sleep in the armchair.”
She eyes the bed warily, before turning back to me. “I’m pretty sure there’s something living in that bed.”
“You’re welcome to take the armchair instead,” I tell her, “but I can’t imagine it’s the better option.”
She seems to consider this. I feel her eyes on me as I walk over to the sink and refill my cup. In the morning, I need to look for a canteen or makeshift water carrier.
“We never finished talking about our plan for getting help,” she says.
“Our plan is exactly as I said—I’ll walk down the road and look for civilization, and you’ll stay here.”
She crosses her arms. “I’m not staying here.”
“There’s no excuse for you not to,” I say. “You shouldn’t be walking on that foot. And here you have food and water and a roof over your head, which means you should be safe for a few days.”
“A few days?”
“I don’t expect it to take long for me to find help, but it’s always good to prepare for the possibility.” I level my gaze at her. “You know I’m right, Ms. Simpson. You know this is the best option we have. I admire you for being stubborn and determined—”
“Don’t condescend to me, Your Highness,” she says. She shakes her head. “Ugh! You are so infuriating—”
“I could say the same of you.”
Her green eyes flash. “You didn’t seem to think so when you tried to stick your tongue down my throat.”
“A momentary lapse in judgment,” I say. “I assure you, Ms. Simpson, it won’t happen again.” Even if my cock protests.
I turn and go over to the armchair. “As stimulating as this argument is, I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow, and I’d like to get some rest.” I settle down in the chair. “Good night, Ms. Simpson.”
She looks like she wants to punch me, but I close my eyes, trying to ignore her. I can see she’s going to continue to be stubborn about this, so I suspect my best course of action will be to try and sneak out before dawn, when she’s still fast asleep.
After a moment, I hear her sigh and go over to the bed. Hear the springs creak beneath her weight. Hear the rustle of bedclothes as she tries to find a comfortable position. Even now, exhausted as I am, I find myself fully aware of her. I ache to go over to that bed, to pull her into my arms and hold her against me the way I did last night. To slide my hands down that stubborn little body of hers and relieve some of the tension that has built up in me over these past couple of days.
You’re pathetic, I tell myself, trying to adjust my pants so they don’t feel so damned tight. You were supposed to be above this.
One thing, at least, works in my favor—I should have no trouble waking early enough to sneak out before Victoria notices. The way I’m feeling right now, tense and alert, I’ll be shocked if I manage to get a wink of sleep at all.
Victoria
Prince Andrew probably thinks he’s going to sneak out of here in the morning—I can almost read his mind. Little does he realize that my profession has prepared me well. I’m about as light a sleeper as they come, and I’ve trained myself to wake up at the slightest sound when I need to.
Not that I’m going to be able to sleep tonight. I’m fairly certain there’s some sort of rodent nest at the bottom of this bed, and I’ve wedged myself in a near-sitting position as far away from it as possible.
I close my eyes for the briefest moment and I swear I feel something move near my feet.
I stifle the urge to scream. Prince Andrew seems to at least have found some sort of respect for me in the past few days, and I’m not about to lose that now by going all girly over some mice in my bed.
But I do get off the icky thing, crawling back over to where I was sitting a few minutes ago. I press my back against the wall again and close my eyes.
“What are you doing?” Andrew almost growls at me.
I look over to where he’s sitting—the moonlight bathes him in an almost ethereal glow, making him look like some sort of supernatural god.
Something—the same something I’ve been trying to shove as far back as possible for the past few days—coils in my belly and it takes every bit of my will not to crawl over to him. Not to put my head back in his lap the w
ay it was before, or better, crawl onto his lap, straddling him and…
Worse. That would not be better, Victoria. That would be so much worse.
That kiss. Holy shit, that kiss—it took every bit of strength I had to tear myself away from him. And the way he’s been looking at me—good lord. I can’t really remember the last time a man looked at me like that.
Except that you can. You absolutely can remember and you promised yourself you’d never forget. You’d never allow another man—
“I asked you what you’re doing. Is everything all right?”
“You can have the bed, Your Highness. I prefer the floor.” I rap my knuckles on the wooden slats beneath me. “Good and hard, just the way I like it.”
He groans and it takes me a second to realize what I’ve said.
And it takes me less than another second to recognize that he’s not groaning because of my unintentional innuendo.
He wants me.
Something about acknowledging that to myself makes me almost start to tremble. And it really has nothing to do with the who as much as the what—I’m pretty sure it could be any guy and I’d be having the same reaction, whether he was royal or not.
“Ms. Simpson, I’m not sure what your motivation is here. I’ve already told you I’m leaving in the morning and that you will not be accompanying me. If you’re making some attempt to block the exit, I’ll merely—”
I try not to roll my eyes. “I assure you, Your Highness, I’m just more comfortable on the floor. But now that you mention it, blocking the door isn’t the worst idea. I just wish I had been the one to think of it.”
Something close to a growl comes from his lips again and he stands. He walks over to the bed and pulls off the mildewed blanket.
He must see—or hear—something, because he puts the blanket right back where he found it not a second later and walks over to me. He presses his back against the wall and slides down to sit next to me.
“My apologies, Ms. Simpson. You may have the chair if you’d like. Though I can’t promise it is any less infested than—”
“I think I’m fine right here.” I close my eyes at my words, realizing he probably thinks I mean having him here next to me now. “I meant on the floor. Against the wall. Not…not that having you here isn’t fine, too, but…”
He pulls my hand into his and squeezes it for a second before lacing his fingers through mine.
I stiffen. “What are you doing?”
He’s silent for a moment. “I assure you, Ms. Simpson, there is nothing untoward going on here. We’ve both been through an ordeal and I merely thought you might—”
I try to pull my hand away from his, but his grip only tightens. “Look, you don’t have to do anything for me, Your Highness. We both lived. We’re both fine. We’ll both come out the other side of this better people for it.” I pause for a second. “I suppose I shouldn’t speak for you, though. I should say that I will—”
“As will I.”
“You don’t owe me anything is what I’m trying to say. I’m perfectly capable of sleeping right here. I don’t need a bed—I’ve spent plenty of nights sleeping in a car…” My eyes widen as I realize what I’ve said. “You know, for work.” My God, I can’t believe I just said that to Prince Andrew. That I once had to sleep in my car. Not that he would have any experience with being so destitute, but still…
He doesn’t say anything.
I know I have to do what I can to cover it up. “Because sometimes I have to work from my car. And occasionally, I fall asleep—”
“You needn’t explain anything to me, Ms. Simpson. As I said, I merely came over here because I thought you might be more comfortable after what we’ve been through. If you’d prefer for me return to the chair, I’ll be more than happy—”
“I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t prefer that.” My mouth falls open at my own words. Did I really just ask him to stay here with me? I mean, it’s nice. Having him next to me. Knowing I’m not alone—that’s the only thing about it that’s nice, though. I only need him here so I know I’m not alone out here in the middle of nowhere. It’s definitely not him that’s the issue.
“I… Thank you, Your Highness. I know it’s difficult for you to be anywhere near me. And I appreciate that you’re willing to put up with something so distasteful for the sake of my comfort.”
“For the sake of our comfort.” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice, though it’s pretty slight.
“But you do find me distasteful.” It doesn’t come out as a question—it’s a statement, one he has yet to refute.
“I find your profession distasteful, yes.” He pauses for a moment. “You, on the other hand, have surprised me. I’ll admit I went into our negotiations yesterday thinking considerably less of you than I do now.”
“Well, if we’re being honest, I went into our negotiations yesterday thinking considerably less of you, too.”
He chuckles. “What could you have possibly thought negatively about me? Aside from our previous interaction at the state dinner, you would have had little—”
“Elle told me how you treated her. That you were an asshole.” I shrug. “I have very little else to go on. You don’t exactly make yourself available for interviews. And your brother is the one on all the magazines—people don’t know anything about you. You’ve made yourself into the mystery prince, just the way I’m sure you’ve wanted. The downside of doing that, of course, is when people start to think you’re an asshole, you have no way of counteracting those beliefs.”
He squeezes my hand. “Is that not why I hired you?”
I turn to face him, finally. “Why did you hire me? You obviously didn’t want to. I know your mother has some sway, but I’m sure—”
“I had little choice in the matter. In fact, by the time we are able to get out of here, there’s a high likelihood that the other side of the story will have already surfaced. It was why we needed to get back to Montovia as soon as possible.”
“Do you want to do this now?”
He pauses for a moment. “I’m not sure what you’re suggesting, Ms. Simpson. I’m not my brother—”
I interrupt with a small laugh. “Not me. I didn’t say do you want to do me now. I asked if you want to do this now. Your interview. Start telling me your story. I mean, it’s not like we have anything better to do—”
“No.” He almost growls the word. “I can think of about a thousand things I’d rather do right now—and one of those may very well include you—than tell you anything about what happened that night. Not here. Not now.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I’m not sure if it’s because of my curiosity or because he actually admitted out loud he actually does want me, at least on some level. “So, something happened to you one night—?”
“A night I am not prepared to talk about. Not yet. Not until we are safely in Montovia.”
“So you’re still planning to take me to Montovia? Even after all this? Even after being in a plane crash? You’re still planning to get on a plane and go back—?”
“It’s a very long boat ride, Ms. Simpson. And yes, I have little choice but to get on a plane. You also have agreed—”
“I agreed before we were in a plane crash. And before my foot was shredded. If you want me to write your story, you’re probably going to have to do it here. Okay, not here…” I motion with my free hand. “But here in America. You’re going to have to get over this trust issue you have with me.”
“I will not—not on either account.” He squeezes my hand. “I’ll ensure you arrive safely in Montovia, right after I find us help tomorrow. And with any luck, no news will have leaked out about anything yet and we’ll still have a few days to—how did you put it? Head off the negative news?”
I can only shake my head. I should try to wrench my hand away from his, but he has a tight grip on it, and I can tell he’s holding onto me a hell of a lot more for his own comfort than for mine.
I take a few
deep breaths, knowing I have to change the subject. But if he would at least open up to me—even a little—this would be so much easier. And we could be done with it so much faster. And until this moment, I hadn’t realized he still wanted to continue with our arrangement. I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to set foot on a plane again—ever—but I guess we can deal with that when we get to it. A trip on a cruise ship doesn’t sound half-bad, even if it does take a few weeks to get to Montovia via boat.
“Tell me something else, then, Andrew.”
He lets out a long breath. “I wouldn’t want you to have any ammunition I’m not able to defend against, Ms. Simpson.”
I sigh. “You can call me Victoria, you know. And you can also tell me that whatever you want to say is off the record. It’s not like I have access to the internet and can just post your deepest secrets to my blog or something.”
“But you would share such things if you did have access at the moment, and that’s the real issue, Ms. Simpson.”
I try to pull my hand away from his again, but he won’t let me go. “I do have some decency, you know, Your Highness. I’ve known about Elle’s pregnancy for months. And I never published a single word about it—”
“Elle is pregnant—?”
“You didn’t know?” I smile to myself. “I guess I’m not such a bad secret keeper after all then, am I?”
“If what you’ve just said is true, you’re a horrible secret keeper, Ms. Simpson. Which is exactly why—”
“I am not a bad person. I’m not. Jesus, Andrew, if you really think I’m so horrible, why are you still here? Why did you come to my office in the first place?”
His voice is quiet, almost resigned. His grip on my hand tightens again. “I had no other choice. I made a terrible mistake that night and now I have no other choice.”
Andrew
Even now, months later, thinking about that night makes my stomach tighten. I should have known back then that there was no way of running from it forever, that I couldn’t simply call it “a valuable life experience” and push it to the back of my memory. Part of me had hoped it would have a way of working itself out, the way Leopold’s mistakes usually do—but then I remembered in Leopold’s case, I’m usually the one following behind him to clean up his messes. There’s no one to do that for me.