Royal Rogue: A Sexy Royal Romance (Flings With Kings Book 3)

by Jessica Peterson

  Eyes that were wet.

  He looked distraught. Like he hadn’t slept in years.

  Tears blurred my vision. I hadn’t wanted to believe Jack when he’d told me he’d caught Charlie stealing Princess Grace from my bedroom. The whole thing sounded so outlandish—so cartoonish—that I’d assumed it couldn’t be true. George Clooney did that stuff in movies. But Charlie…well, he was Charlie. The guy who brought me sandwiches and missed his mum. Who made me laugh. Who cared more about blackjack than he did about expensive art.

  But now that I was seeing him—now that I saw that ruptured, painful look in his eyes—my belief in him wavered.

  Holy shit. Holy shit, this can’t be true.

  “It’s double sided glass,” Malone explained, motioning to the window. “We can see him, but he can’t see or hear us.”

  I swallowed, turning away to discreetly wipe at my eye with my thumb. “Did you pull the tapes from my bedroom?”

  My bedroom wasn’t always under surveillance. But when I entertained guests at my apartment, a whole protocol was put into action, including security cameras in every room.

  “We should have them in hand within the hour,” Malone said, nodding. “But he says he wants to confess, so I don’t think there’s any doubt as to who our man is.”

  “Well,” Jack said, crossing his arms. “I did see—”

  We all looked up at the sound of an officer entering the other room. Charlie lifted his head. His shoulders slumped. Like he already knew he’d lost, even before the interrogation had begun.

  My gut was gripped by nausea. I put a hand on the steel table underneath the window, leaning into it. Jack touched my arm.

  “I’m here,” he murmured.

  I reached behind me and took his hand, giving it a squeeze. “Thank you.”

  Charlie looked at the officer. “Why am I down here instead of at a precinct? I told you to call the cops.”

  The officer sat at the table and opened a file folder. He picked up a pen and looked down at a stack of paper.

  “Because the Queen requested it,” the officer replied. “Her Majesty means to spare her family the embarrassment of letting the world know she let someone like you get so close to them. Releasing that information, even to the police, is also a security risk. It might invite others to pull the same stunt you just did.”

  Charlie inclined his head. “Fair enough. I just want it noted that I freely offered myself up to the authorities.”

  The officer clicked his pen. “It has been noted. Please give your full name and date of birth,” he said. His voice echoed through the room. It was like listening to the radio. A radio show you could watch. The whole thing gave me a sense of vertigo. Or maybe that was the nausea, culling my organs one at a time.

  Charlie took a deep breath. For a second his eyes slid to the window. Like he knew I was there. Knew I was watching and breaking and dying an arm’s length away.

  “Charlie Zeller.” My heart fell. “Date of birth August 21, 1983.”

  The officer looked up from his folder. “You said you had something to confess.”

  “I do.” Charlie shifted in his chair. “I stole the Andy Warhol portrait of Princess Grace from Jane’s bedroom. Or attempted to, anyway. I’d been planning the theft for a while. I guess you could say I’d been planning it for years.”

  A tear slipped silently down my face. There was a weird ringing in my ears. What I imagined the shockwaves from a nuclear bomb sounded like.

  “Why would you say that?” the officer asked, pen moving rapidly over the paper inside the folder.

  “Because I’ve been a thief for a long time. I con people. Although after this, I’m done.”

  “Con people? What does that mean, exactly?”

  “I trick them. Pretend to be someone I’m not and get them to trust me. Then I steal their shit. Most times it’s money. Other times it’s jewelry.” Charlie made a sucking noise and looked away. “Paintings. Art.”

  The officer nodded. “Go on.”

  “I started small. Petty theft, blackmail. But then the jobs started getting bigger. Bit by bit. But this job—this was going to be my biggest yet.” Charlie looked back at the officer. His voice was toneless, but his eyes—they were screaming. “I had a buyer lined up to purchase the Warhol for five million pounds. The plan was simple. I’d seduce Jane, get her to invite me to her apartment, and steal the painting.”

  I leaned against Jack. He put his hand between my neck and shoulder and held me there. Held me upright.

  “So this plan of yours—it succeeded up to a point.”

  “Actually.” Charlie smiled tightly. “Not a damn thing went to plan. From the moment I met Princess Jane, I knew I was in trouble.”

  My heart throbbed. One painful, flickering beat.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I fell in love with her.”

  Another beat. This one harder.

  The officer tilted his head, raising a brow. “You fell in love with her the moment you met her?”

  “I did.” Charlie looked down at his lap. Still wearing that tight, sad smile. Eyes still screaming. “Jane—she wasn’t at all what I was expecting. I was pretending to be this asshole billionaire guy. You know, huge ego, private jet. A big swinging dick. But she wasn’t interested in him.”

  “So what did you do to get her interested?”

  Charlie turned his head a little toward me. “I decided I’d just be myself. I gambled on the fact that Jane would value a real guy over some douchebag with a big bank account. And the gamble paid off. None of my other marks gave a shit about me. About who I really was. But Jane did.”

  “She didn’t know who you really were, though,” the officer pressed. “You were still lying to her.”

  “I was,” Charlie said, rolling his tongue between his lips. Then he bit the bottom one, shaking his head. “And I am so fucking sorry—” His voice cracked. He cleared it. “I am so fucking sorry I did. But when I was with her, that was the real me. I tried to be as honest as I could. I want her to know that.”

  The officer nodded, continuing to scribble in his folder. “If you loved her, how could you steal from her? How could you hurt someone you love like that?”

  Yes, I wanted to shout. How could you?

  Charlie sucked in another breath. “Look. I wasn’t expecting to fall in love with Jane. Some nobody from bumfuck South Carolina falling in love with a princess? Think about how ridiculous that sounds. I never in a million years would’ve guessed we’d have anything in common. But we do. We found so much common ground, which is a testament to just how open minded she is. I love that she loves the little things so much. I love how much she loves her family. I love the way she smiles when she talks about her work. I love that she’s so courageous, and that she’s fucking fearless at the blackjack table.”

  The officer’s pen came to a sudden halt. “Blackjack?”

  “The game,” Charlie said, shaking his head. “One that Princess Jane is freakishly great at. My point is—I fell for Jane because she knows who she is. She knows what she wants, and she goes after it. I fell for her because she’s genuine. Smart as hell. A fucking joy to be around. I don’t deserve her. I never have. And it kills me to think that I’ve hurt her like this. She’s precious to me, and I…I’ll never get over her, and I’ll never forgive myself for what I’ve done.” He sniffed. Turned his head away. “I meant what I said. I’m done lying. Done being a con.”

  Tears were spilling out of my eyes now with abandon. I couldn’t tell if I was angry or devastated or surprised or what. I was swimming in a soup of emotion, my brother’s hand on my shoulder the only thing keeping me from drowning.

  Could I believe anything that came out of Charlie’s mouth? He’d lied about his name. His intentions. But why confess this if it wasn’t true? Why say these things right now? He’d know it wouldn’t save him. Which meant…

  What?

  The officer looked up from his notes. “If you’re done lyi
ng, tell me who you were working with.”

  “No one,” Charlie replied easily. Quickly.

  The muscles in my neck stiffened.

  “His Royal Highness Prince John told me he saw another man with you in the bedroom,” the officer said.

  Charlie kept his gaze steady on the officer. “I work alone.”

  I turned to look at Jack, puckering my brow. “There was another person in the room?”

  “Yes. He was wearing a ski mask.” Jack swallowed. “But Charlie had him out the window before I could get a good look. I think Charlie might be protecting someone. A member of his crew, maybe. He called him Owen.”

  My pulse thumped.

  Owen. Charlie’s brother.

  I looked back at Charlie. Was he taking the fall so his brother wouldn’t have to?

  I needed to know the truth.

  “Malone,” I said, grabbing his arm. “I need to see that tape. Now.”

  He nodded. “We’re working on it.”

  “Look,” Charlie was saying, leaning as far forward as his handcuffs allowed. They caught against the back of the plastic chair with a thud. “This was my job. My idea. I was the one caught with the painting in my hands. No one else. I take full responsibility for what went down tonight. I confessed. What the fuck else do you need?”

  The officer looked at Charlie. Tapped his pen against the folder.

  “Very well.” He stood, closing the folder. “The painting is part of the Queen’s private collection. Her Majesty will be the one to decide whether or not to press charges. She will make her decision shortly.”

  Charlie nodded, splaying his fingers out behind him. “I’ll be here.”

  Jack grunted behind me. I turned to face him, shouldering away his hand. I didn’t want to be touched right now. I felt like I could shatter into a million pieces at the slightest contact.

  Malone was pressing his earpiece into his ear, listening. His eyes flicked to meet mine.

  “The tape is ready.”

  The three of us bolted to another room down the hall where an officer was waiting behind a tower of screens. Footage from various locations across Primrose Palace lit them up. The entrance to Rob and Aly’s apartment, my garden. Kit’s garage.

  Jack stood next to me while the officer cued up the tape.

  “You were right,” I said softly, crossing my arms and looking down at my feet.

  “Jane,” he said. “I’m so very sorry, love.”

  I ran my tongue along my bottom lip. “Is that why you were upstairs in my room? Because you were following him?”

  I heard Jack swallow. He sighed, digging a hand into his hair.

  “I was following him, yes. But not for the reason you’d expect.”

  I looked up. “What does that mean?”

  “Jane,” he repeated. His eyes—blue like my other brothers’—were wet. “I don’t think—”

  “The lot of you stole me away from my Benedict. I do hope you’ll make this quick.”

  We all started at the sound of the Queen’s voice. The steel door closed behind her with a metallic wheeze. She was in her housecoat, pink foam curlers set in orderly rows like so many soldiers at the top of her head.

  She was wearing a scowl. My grandmother was the biggest Benedict Cumberbatch fan this side of the Atlantic. She’d been through Sherlock countless times, and was currently obsessed with his latex superhero suit in Dr. Strange. Watching his shows and movies for a half hour each night was the one luxury she allowed herself.

  She looked at me. Her scowl softened. “Oh, Jane, my poor dear. I imagine you’re in even worse spirits than I am.”

  “Yeah,” I said, wiping my nose with the underside of my thumb. “Although we do have one thing in common. Apparently we fall in love with people who aren’t real.”

  “Sherlock Holmes is quite real to me, thank you very much.” The Queen reached out and cupped my cheek. “I can’t help but feel responsible. You met this man at my request. I had them all vetted, I did, but I—”

  “I don’t know whose fault it is.” I shook my head, swallowing. “All I know is that I’m an idiot. I fell for a liar once before. I should’ve known better.”

  Now she was shaking her head. “He fooled us all, dear.”

  “The tape is up,” Malone said, nodding at a screen in the center of the wall.

  I nodded, heart in my throat. “Play it.”

  The footage was clear as day.

  A man in a ski mask entered my room through the window. Alone. He lifted the painting carefully off the wall and was opening a plastic bag to put it in when Charlie entered the room and turned on the light.

  My heart was in my throat before. But now it was in my mouth, beating hard.

  The audio wasn’t as clear as the picture, but I could still make out most of Charlie’s words.

  Stealing a painting from the woman I love.

  I told you the job was off.

  Put the painting down.

  I love you, but I can’t let you do this.

  In the video, Charlie turned his head at the sound of Jack’s voice across the room—you couldn’t see my brother from this particular camera angle—before he turned back to Owen and practically shoved him out of the window.

  Then Charlie was offering himself up to Jack, clearly stalling for time so Owen could escape.

  Tears blurred my vision, so hot they made my eyes smart. I looked away.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  “So he wasn’t going to steal the painting,” I managed. My voice was thick.

  Malone cleared his throat. “It appears that way. But he is still adamant that he was the thief. The only thief.”

  The Queen laid a hand on the small of my back.

  “What would you like me to do?” she said quietly.

  I sniffed. “It’s from your collection, so technically it’s your painting.”

  “It’s your life,” she replied, meeting my eyes.

  Anger gripped me by the throat. It almost felt good. Anger was so much simpler than hurt or disappointment or guilt.

  “That’s rich, coming from you,” I snapped.

  The Queen tilted her head. “I’m sorry, Jane. I am. But we’ve got to do something here. I can press charges. Send him away for a long time if you’d like. As Officer Malone is saying, Charlie is confessing to the crime. I suppose we could also have him do some sort of community service…”

  I drew a deep breath.

  I wouldn’t have Charlie punished for a crime he hadn’t committed. Although I wished I could punish him for lying to me. For making a fool of me, just like Michael had.

  I ducked out of the Queen’s grasp and reached for the door.

  “Let him go,” I said, opening it. “Just make sure he stays the fuck away from me.”

  Then I left the room. Left Charlie and the mess he made.

  I didn’t look back.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Charlie

  My throat was so swollen I couldn’t fucking breathe. Like I’d swallowed handfuls of glass shards, their sharp edges puncturing my windpipe.

  Behind me, my arms and hands were going numb. The metal handcuffs were so cold they felt clammy on my wrists.

  Jane had been on the other side of that double sided mirror. I’d felt her presence there the way I felt the sun. Warm, blinding. The source of everything.

  She couldn’t have found out about me in a worse way.

  There was no good way to tell someone you’d tried to con them. But to have it shoved in her face like this—it had to be traumatic.

  Now that I’d shattered her fragile heart—had I shattered that precious, hard-won courage of hers, too? Would she ever let another guy in? Risk her heart for someone new?

  I doubled over in my chair. Bile rose up in my throat.

  I’m sorry.

  I’m so fucking sorry.

  I wasn’t scared of going to jail. Hell, I belonged there after all the shit I’d done. But I was scared of what my going to ja
il meant for Jane. For Owen, too. Who would take care of him?

  I won’t lie, for a split second I’d thought about giving Jimmy up. Thought about telling my interrogator that Jimmy was the one in the bedroom with me.

  But that would still risk implicating Owen. Jimmy kept careful paperwork of all his transactions. If the police raided his office, no doubt Owen’s name would turn up in a ledger somewhere.

  I also didn’t know if Jimmy was actually involved in Owen’s ill-fated attempt to steal the Warhol. He probably was. But that wasn’t proof enough, not for me at least, to potentially send him to jail for the rest of his life.

  I’d already done so many awful things. I didn’t want to add another to the list.

  The door opened. My stomach flipped.

  It was Jack. He was still in his tux, although he’d loosened his bowtie. The wrinkled ends hung down on either side of his neck.

  My stomach flipped again at the expression on his face. I would’ve expected it to be murderous. Or maybe smug. Out of all the Thorne family members, he’d been the only one to see through my bullshit.

  Instead, he looked…sad. Face drawn. Eyes distant. Mouth a tight line.

  His gaze flicked over me. Then he pulled out the chair across the table and sat, leaning over to put his elbows on his knees. He kept his eyes on his hands.

  “Her Majesty the Queen has decided not to press charges,” he said.

  I blinked, nauseated surprise rising inside my chest. “What? Why the hell not?”

  “Because she’d rather you perform two hundred hours of community service instead.” He turned his head to look at me. “She wants you to learn to give back instead of taking. Rebalance your karma, that sort of thing.”

  I blinked again. My eyes were hot. For a second I was sure I’d throw up. I felt relieved. Relieved and very fucking confused.

  “The Queen believes in karma?”

  “Apparently. Just don’t tell the Archbishop of Canterbury, yeah?”

  “But—” I was so confounded I couldn’t even find the right words. “But I was going to steal a painting worth millions. From her granddaughter. You literally caught me in the act. That’s a big fucking deal, Jack.”