The Royal Bodyguard

by Lindsay Emory

  Well. Maybe some people got off on that. But it wasn’t my thing. I tried keeping the princess out of my voice when I spoke again.

  “I want to go back to the hospital, Hugh. I have to be with my family.”

  And when he looked back at me, I saw the man, not the bodyguard. The man who actually cared about all of the parts of me, the one who would move Heaven and Earth for me.

  The one who didn’t stop me as I changed into the clothes that someone had retrieved for me. The one who had a coffee poured for me to carry to the cars downstairs.

  The one who held my hand, however briefly, before I ducked out and ran toward the doors of the hospital, the one who shielded my body with his own, a useless defense against the yells and camera flashes.

  Henry and Sophie had spent the night keeping watch, while, due to an unexpected complication, the doctors had put Father in a medical coma in order to give him the best chance at recovery from open heart surgery.

  In the Ören wing, there was a safe space for the family to gather, and I didn’t see any bodyguards after Henry and Sophie left to go take their rest at the palace.

  It was just me and my mother, who had woken perfectly and miraculously refreshed. The only woman in the world who could get beauty sleep on a hospital chair.

  But that wasn’t to say that she was bright and chipper.

  No. The world loved to think of Felice as flighty and flippant, but as she waited for good news about my father’s recovery, she was quite serious and subdued.

  A kind nurse brought us a small breakfast and a pot of tea. Felice touched neither until I forced a buttered roll into her hand. “You must eat,” I told her. “I can’t worry about you both at the same time.”

  Felice’s eyes went watery. “Darling Caroline. You were always the one keeping us all together.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I sighed, thinking of how I had been disowned, ostracized, and was now only reluctantly accepted by my grandmother. “If I was so good at keeping the family together, you’d think I would keep myself in the mix,” I grumbled.

  Felice smiled. “Just because you take care of the rest of us doesn’t mean that you don’t deserve your flights of fancy.”

  Her choice of words rubbed me wrong. “Marriage isn’t a flight of fancy.”

  “No, of course not,” she allowed. “But eloping does indicate a certain spontaneity.”

  I had to give her that.

  “Ma’am?” The kind nurse had returned and she addressed me with a respectful dip. If I had been less bone tired, I would have told her that I wasn’t a princess, that I didn’t deserve a curtsey, but it was exhausting to correct people all the time.

  “This came for you.” She handed me a large white envelope bearing the Hotel Ilysium logo.

  “Oooh. What is it?” Felice’s interest was immediately piqued because Felice loved surprises and surprise packages even more.

  I broke the seal on the envelope and two notes spilled out.

  The first had handwriting that I recognized still, even all these years after I used her to relay my gossip column to the editors of the national tabloids.

  Caroline,

  As we are under strict instructions not to call you at the hotel, I had no choice but to drop this note off. I traced the source of the medical hacking—to a company called Bionaura. They have specialized servers and only someone with access could have used these.

  Will talk more soon,

  Sybil

  Well, that made sense. It happened all the time—an employee inside a hospital, rehab facility, or government tax office looked up the files on a famous name and accidentally leaked a substance abuse problem or a previously unreleased tax return. I had been a victim of a curious and bored data clerk who was looking for some extra cash.

  It was the most logical explanation. But something wasn’t quite right.

  I opened the next note. It was written on the personal stationery of Karl Sylvain von Falkenburg.

  Dear Lady Caroline,

  First, I’d like to apologize for the media attention that our outing garnered the other day. I hope the coverage has not been too distasteful to you. In spite of all that, I truly enjoyed our time together and hoped we could meet again. Perhaps you could join me for dinner this evening at my residence?

  Sincerely,

  KvF

  PS There will be no press invited.

  It was very kind and thoughtful, and when I fingered the note I realized there was another thin page stuck to the back.

  PPS I was giving this to my secretary when I heard the news on television about your father. Suffice it to say, the invitation remains open if you feel that a good meal and pleasant company would serve as a helpful distraction. If it won’t, then please do not hesitate to decline this invitation. There will be other dinners and warmer evenings ahead.

  “Who are they from, darling?” Felice asked.

  I placed Sybil’s note back in the envelope. My mother had once been close to Sybil, who had served as her personal astrologer, but I wasn’t sure what the current status of their friendship was. Therefore, I moved quickly on to something I knew would distract my mother. “This is from Karl Sylvain von Falkenberg.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Oh.” She drew the word out like a schoolgirl with a crush. “He’s something, isn’t he? Good for you, my girl. You clearly inherited my good taste in men.”

  She said it cheerfully, like it would be something I should be proud of, but since we were currently in a hospital waiting room because of her ex-husband’s poor health, I couldn’t help but wonder about her choices. And mine. If I had inherited anything from my mother, I feared it was not good taste in partners but the ability to make bad decision after bad decision.

  “Do you know why Father still had you designated as his medical representative?” I asked suddenly.

  The smile slipped from her plumped lips and the tears returned to her eyes again. Instantly, I regretted asking, but I found I couldn’t tell her to forget I had asked. I had to know—“Do you regret marrying him?” I asked in a low voice.

  She sank into her chair, her slim shoulders rounding, as if protecting herself from the chilly Driedish wind outside. “We were practically strangers when we agreed to marry, your father and I. It was a perfect arrangement on paper. At last, the Laurent and Sevine dynasties united.” She smiled weakly. “But if he had been ugly or repulsive, I would have said no, no matter what my mother urged me to do.” Her eyes closed. “Your father was not ugly or repulsive. He was what every woman would dream of. So kind, so sweet, and a prince! How could I not fall in love with him?”

  And I had seen the photographs. Felice and Albert’s wedding day had been picture-perfect, the ideal Driedish prince and princess. Of course my father would have loved her, so beautiful, charming and ebullient.

  Felice shook her head, bringing her back to the present. “How could I regret marrying a man I loved deeply? A man who gave me my children?” She placed her palm on my cheek, a cool, light touch, and then she let her hand drop.

  “And the divorce? Do you regret that?” As a child of that broken marriage, I wasn’t sure which I would rather hear—that my parents could have worked things out and spared us all so much heartbreak or that all the drama was for a good reason.

  Her voice grew fainter when she replied. “Perfect princesses exist only in fairy-tales. Humans wear tiaras, my darling. Humans who deserve love and forgiveness, just like everyone else.”

  My mother inhaled sharply through her nose before continuing. “You’ve been married, my love, you know as well as I do what that means.” She glanced away, avoiding my gaze. “You can love someone with your whole heart, but you must find someone willing to walk with you, grow with you, no matter how difficult it is. No matter the differences between you.”

  That familiar Felice smile returned. “W
hich is why someone like Karl Sylvain von Falkenberg would be so perfect for you. He’s Driedish, for one, and he’s incredibly wealthy. I mean, a billionaire is the next best thing to a prince, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Now you’re sounding like all the newspapers,” I accused her. “Karl and I have met exactly once and already the press are a nightmare to deal with.”

  My mother laughed. “You know what Konnor used to say, when he was on my security detail?”

  I ignored the sudden extra thump of my heart when I heard Konnor’s name. “What?” I tried to ask, as neutrally as possible.

  “He said a swarm of press was his best friend while guarding me.” Felice’s eyes twinkled. “Because he always knew right where to find me.”

  I chuckled softly along with Mother, because it sounded like Konnor and it was also, to everyone in the royal staff’s great despair, eternally true. Where Felice was, paparazzi were soon to follow.

  Yet another thing I inherited from my mother. Unfortunately.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  When Henry returned for waiting-room duty, his driver took me back to the Hotel Ilysium. Hugh slipped in the car with me and we watched the reporters as we left the hospital and again as we arrived at the hotel.

  No matter where I was, there was screaming. Hustling and jostling and scrambling.

  Even if my father hadn’t been in the hospital, I knew this routine. There would be no privacy. No anonymity. No peace. I stared at the crowds and the concrete and desperately wanted a view of the water. Whether it was from my hotel room or overlooking Lake Como or in a dinghy off Perpetua.

  The palace did not have a view of the sea.

  This was never going to work.

  All of a sudden, as the limousine pulled up to the Hotel Ilysium’s door, with the lines of photographers and cameras, I knew what I had to do.

  No matter what fantasies a girlish Princess Caroline had dreamed up in her fairy-tale palace bedroom, my relationship with Hugh Konnor could never have a happy ending.

  Not with the press wetting themselves every time I appeared in public, inventing scandalous details about non-existent relationships and making it virtually impossible for me to do normal things like visit my father in hospital or take a walk on the beach.

  And especially not with Hugh.

  A good, solid man.

  The kind of man who risked everything to keep others safe. Who served his country, who was loyal to a fault and reinvested in his community. The kind of man who deserved another kind of life.

  Like Stavros had.

  Stavros had deserved to stand in his own spotlight. To pursue his career without the danger of my distractions.

  Some men are like that, you know. They want a quiet existence with no one ever noticing how impressive they are.

  If Hugh stayed with me, he would always be worried, always be on guard. Because this shit wasn’t going away, even if I escaped to the wilds of Tasmania. Sooner or later, I’d have to re-emerge and the hurricane would be whipped up all over again.

  Right before he could exit the vehicle, I placed a hand on his sleeve. I knew what was under those layers of wool and cotton: a tattoo of the coordinates of his birthplace, the roughest section of Drieden City.

  His eyes met mine, waiting for my softest command.

  “Stay here,” I said. Oh, my heart hurt. I wanted to thread my fingers through his, drag him along with me through the crossfire.

  But that way lay madness, I knew from experience.

  “It’s time,” I said quietly. “I will formally request that I am accompanied by a different bodyguard.”

  The silence was suffocating.

  “Just like that?” he asked, his voice gravelly.

  For a brief moment, we had been a team, and I was tempted to try to explain it all to him, like a partner would.

  But ever since he had found me in that dark apartment in Varenna he had steadfastly refused to leave when I asked.

  So I would have to be cruel to be kind.

  “As soon as Father recovers, I’m leaving Drieden,” I said, in my coldest, most Laurent voice. “Don’t pout. We both agreed not to make promises.”

  His eyes flashed gold. “Caroline—” I cut him off before he could say something sweet to make me change my mind.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll give you an excellent performance review.” It was meant to put a distance between us, perhaps be a tad patronizing.

  Hugh Konnor refused to take the bait and, to be honest, it would have felt better if he had become angry or offended.

  Instead, he held my gaze and for a moment the Hugh I knew so intimately, loved so briefly, was there. And then gone, replaced by the uber-cool, oh-so-professional bodyguard. “If you ever need me, my lady, all you have to do is press one button and I’ll be there.”

  He patted my handbag and the new cell phone that Nick had given me that was safely stashed inside.

  Then, before I could form any semblance of regret, I slid my large sunglasses on my face and went out to face the horde of press.

  Alone.

  Hotel staff escorted me to an elevator, which was convenient, because I don’t know if I remembered how to walk through a hotel lobby.

  The love story was over. Now I had to figure out how to keep the rest of my fairy-tale from imploding into dust.

  Alone.

  When I reached my suite, I threw my coat and handbag on a chair, closed my eyes and thought of Lake Como. My villa with that wide, beautiful veranda where I had been alone before and there was a certain relief in not feeling anything. I was strong enough to do it again.

  But did I want to?

  Being back in Drieden City had changed things and—I had to admit that I didn’t want to lose my family again. This left me with only one option.

  Make sure that Christian Fraser-Campbell was locked up before he leaked the information about me that would result in my family disowning me for good.

  My head ached at that prospect, if I was being 100 percent honest. My father was in the hospital, I had just told my lover that I didn’t want him with me anymore, because I might ruin his life, and so I had a few emotional things to deal with before I single-handedly caught a sociopath who had nearly been my brother-in-law.

  I wanted to run away. The prospect of Patagonia was still intriguing. Or a week inside of a Swedish spa. Or maybe…a nice dinner with an attractive and available billionaire.

  Guilt immediately descended. But of course. I could not enjoy myself this evening, not unless Father was awake and well on the road to recovery. Even then, I should probably take care of Sophie and Mother, not spend time with the sexy billionaire who…

  Oh.

  OH.

  OH.

  I emptied the contents of my handbag, found the notes I had received earlier and re-read the one from Sybil.

  The company she had named, Bionaura, was one of the organizations in Karl’s billion-euro bio-technology empire. I remembered it from the file I had read on him, provided by Thea’s charity advisor, and then again, when it had been listed in a helpful infographic next to all those fuzzy paparazzi photos purporting to portray me running from all my lovers’ arms. (Remember, this was all very fair and balanced journalism.)

  I stared at the notes. There wasn’t a connection there. Was there?

  Karl’s company was also handling the genetic testing of the bones found at the Langůs battlefield. And he was a distant relation—on the Sevine side. The Sevines had owned Dréuvar, and Christian had all this information about me that could only have come from hacking…

  No, it was all a coincidence. Or, more likely, a disgruntled employee. Yes, that could be right.

  Until I remembered.

  What was it Hugh had said? That Christian had to be supported by people who were powerful enough to hide him? Who was more
powerful than a billionaire who had met my sister at Davos, who had access to the genetic information of kings?

  Coincidence…or conspiracy?

  I rubbed my head. I was still exhausted. Worried about Father. And I had just said goodbye to a man who had broken my heart and pieced it back together.

  This was the absolute worst time for me to accuse an influential Driedish businessman of supporting a stalker, a hacker and the dark-money supporter of an ancient secret Masonic organization.

  But I picked up the phone and dialed Karl’s secretary’s number anyway. Because if ever there was a time for bad decisions, this was it.

  What did I have to lose?

  Karl’s apartment in Drieden City was at the top of the Trilennia building, one of the tallest in the financial district. Less than a mile from the palace, but as I had moved back to the Hotel Ilysium, I was caught in a traffic snarl and was late.

  I had changed into another one of Sophie’s gowns, black crêpe with a bateau neckline and dramatic ruffles on the sleeves. It would have looked amazing with my Sophia Loren glasses and hat back at Villa Cavalletta in Varenna.

  Home.

  I pushed on my Dior pearl earrings and pushed all thoughts of Italy out of my head. I couldn’t think of going back. Not until my family was well and whole and safe again.

  The doors of the express elevator opened straight into an astonishing penthouse that was the exact opposite of the palace bedroom I had woken up in that morning.

  Where my palace bedroom had been antique brass, carved marble and cherubs, von Falkenburg’s penthouse was sleek leather, glass slides and black steel. It still felt regal, however, and when Karl approached me, in his cashmere jacket and open-necked white shirt, I felt that here was a man who could rule a kingdom, one that he had built and knit together with his own sweat and ingenuity and machinations.

  A twenty-first-century king. And me. A princess born and bred but without a place in the world.

  Okay, I saw what the journalists—and my mother—did then, when they gushed about our potential romantic future. It would be a fascinating story. And perhaps an ideal match, if I was interested.