The Royal Treatment: A Crown Jewels Romantic Comedy, Book 1

by Melanie Summers

  “Don’t start. It’s too late now.”

  “I know, but last night, I stayed awake for hours thinking of all the torture devices they have there… swords, cleavers, those ball thingies with the spikes. I bet they still have a rack hidden in a dungeon somewhere under the castle. What if they get me there, and then they strap me to the rack for the next eight weeks for all the mean things I’ve said about them?” I stand next to my open suitcase and consider unpacking.

  “They are not going to torture you. They’ll probably be really rude, but I am relatively sure you’ll come out of there alive.” She gives me a teasing grin as she sets my carry-on and laptop bag next to my suitcase.

  “Oh, relatively sure? That makes me feel much better.” I narrow my eyes at her. “You just want to get rid of me.”

  “Yes, I do. I’m going to spend the next several hours in the tub, then I’m going to watch the entire series of Downton Abbey back-to-back without having anyone snoring in the armchair next to me or interrupting me to examine another weird mole. I love you, but get the hell out.”

  “But… I really don’t want to do this. I’m going to fuck up the whole thing, aren’t I? I mean, I don’t have the right clothes, I need to get my hair done—”

  “You’re not due for a colour and cut for weeks. You’re gorgeous. So, stop fussing. Now, pull up your big girl knickers and go!”

  I shake my head vigorously. “I’m not a hard-hitting journalist. I review cameras and sports equipment for a living.”

  “Hey, don’t say that. You were—and will be—a respected member of the press again very soon. Plus, you look like a hard-hitting journalist today. Very professional in your skirt and your no-nonsense heels.”

  “Are they too old-ladyish?” I zip up my suitcase and lift it onto its wheels.

  “You mean you weren’t going for seventy-five-year-old grandmother on her way home from morning Mass?”

  I groan. “I should change again.”

  There’s a buzz at the intercom, and Nikki gets to it first. “Yes?”

  “I’m here to pick up Ms. Sharpe and take her to the palace.”

  “She’s on her way down.” Nikki turns to me. “Now there’s a sentence you don’t hear everyday.”

  “She’s on her way down?”

  Nikki snorts out a laugh, then winces and carefully touches her nose. “The one about being taken to the palace. I know it’s going to be hard, and it’s scary, but try to enjoy it. At least a little.” She pulls me in for a big hug.

  “That’s what he said.”

  Now I’m feeling very teary. I’m a completely overtired, overwrought ball of nerves. “I’m going to miss you so much,” I whisper. “Two months is a very long time.”

  “Yes, but you can just call me in, like, twenty minutes when you get there.”

  I pull back and sniffle. “I could. But I won’t. I’ll be going on a tour of the castle or settling in, which will take at least a couple of hours.”

  Nikki opens the door and wheels my suitcase into the hall. I follow her like a puppy.

  She pushes the lift call button. “Repeat after me: I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “You know, your biggest problem is actually going to be trying not to sleep with Prince Arthur.” The door opens, and Nikki pushes my things into the lift.

  “What? I would never want to sleep with him.”

  She pushes me in next. “Sure you will. He’s exactly your type, and he’s hot as fuck.”

  My mouth hangs open while the doors shut.

  When I get to the lobby of my building, I see a long black limo with two small flags flapping in the breeze. They bear the royal crest of a golden crown and sceptre with two wolves standing guard. The media has returned in full force, and I stand behind the glass wall feeling like I may vomit. An enormous bald man with sunglasses and a black suit pulls open the door. “Ms. Sharpe. I’m Ollie. I’ll escort you to the car.”

  “Thank you.” I give him a weak smile, but his face gives nothing away.

  His jaw is set, and he gives me a little nod as he takes my bags. “Keep your head down, stay close to me, and say nothing.”

  Oh, well, that sounds a little ominous, doesn’t it? I’m about to say I’ve changed my mind, but it’s too late because he’s stepping out the door with all of my clothes, and he told me to stay close. And my parents taught me to always obey strange men shaped like tanks dressed in suits. I am immediately bombarded with reporters yelling my name and asking me questions. Their words jumble together with the protesters who are booing and calling me a traitor. Ollie opens the back door, and I lurch into the safety of the creamy leather backseat. As soon as the door is shut, the noise is drowned out. I close my eyes while I shake my hands and practice Lamaze breathing. Or what I think is Lamaze breathing. It’s really just what I’ve picked up from sitcoms depicting the hilarity of childbirth.

  “Okay, Tess, get the upper hand. Establish firm boundaries. Don’t fuck up.” I repeat this quietly three times, starting to feel slightly less queasy.

  “What don’t you want to fuck up? And with whom are you establishing these boundaries?”

  My eyes fly open, and my entire body flames with embarrassment. The Crown Prince of Avonia himself is sitting at the far end of the limo facing me, dressed in a dark grey suit. White shirt. No tie. He looks amused. And gorgeous. And gorgeously amused. And I completely forgot to change out of my granny shoes. Fuckity-fuck. “I thought I was alone.”

  “Clearly.” He slides down the long U-shaped seat until he is sitting perpendicular to me, close enough that our knees could touch if either of us wanted to—which we don’t, on account of how much we hate each other. But we could. I stare into the face of my enemy, waiting for his worst. Instead, he smiles and holds out his hand.

  “Ms. Sharpe. A pleasure to meet you.”

  I hold out my hand to shake his, but he lifts it to his lips and plants a soft kiss on my knuckles instead. Well, that is not what I was expecting. That was lovely in a romantic, could-very-possibly-turn-my-insides-to-mush sort of way.

  Wait a minute—he’s just lulling me in to a false sense of security before he has me beheaded, isn’t he? Not on my watch! I’m keeping my head, thank you very much.

  I pull my hand back quickly and cover my neck with it. “You as well, Your Highness.” I nod my head in a little formal bow as if to say, this is my head and it stays on.

  “So, the boundaries? The upper hand? With me, I’m assuming.”

  “Ummhmm,” I squeak. My words come rushing back to me, and I’m suddenly so embarrassed that I am sweating. Literally sweating under my wool coat. Did I put on antiperspirant this morning? Now, I can’t remember.

  “Smart. I like a woman who strategizes.” He smiles at me, and for one shining moment, I feel like the sun is out only for me today.

  Okay, I am much happier about that little bit of praise he’s given me than I should be. I mean, seriously, Tessa, the man is your sworn enemy. You hate his entire family and what they stand for. Yet, one little kiss on the knuckles, and you’re putty in his hands? Pull. It. Together. You’re better than this.

  “I’m also one for having a plan, which is why I came to pick you up myself.”

  “Well, you rode in the car. Your driver’s the one who picked me up.” That was a little bitchy. Can you find a middle ground between giggly school girl and nasty witch?

  He tilts his head in a conciliatory gesture, then continues to talk. “I need to establish some ground rules of my own.”

  “Like what?” Here we go. I just knew he wasn’t going to play fair.

  His eyes bore into mine, and I’m just now realizing the power of ice blue irises to scare the shit out of people. “My sister, Arabella, is strictly off limits. You don’t write anything more about her than you already have. Not one word unless somehow you manage to find it in your heart to say something kind.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s more delicate than people re
alize. Life in the public eye has never been easy for her, and I don’t want her damaged more than she already has been. So, not one word about her. If you can’t agree to that, I’m afraid we’ll have to turn around now and take you home.”

  Now, his true colours are coming out. “Maybe that would be for the best. If you weren’t serious about providing me with an honest look at your family, then I’d say we’re done.”

  He doesn’t look as intimidated as I had hoped. “You’ll have full access to me, I promise, and since I’m the heir to the throne, I’d think it’s far more important what you uncover about me, isn’t it?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. I hate like hell to admit he’s right. “Fine, but don’t expect me to go easy on you for even a second.”

  “I’d be a fool to think you’d give me anything less than your worst.”

  “And that’s exactly what you’ll get. Now, I have some ground rules of my own. I want access to all meetings and functions that you attend.”

  “Of course, unless it’s a matter of national security. I’m afraid I won’t be able to bring you in on those.”

  I stare at him for a moment. “So long as that doesn’t become an excuse to keep me out of meetings you’d rather I not attend.”

  “No need to worry about that. I assure you that I’m an open book, Ms. Sharpe.” His voice is low and smooth, and the way he says Ms. Sharpe makes my traitorous knees go a little weak.

  I ignore my knees and jut out my chin. “I’d also like to hold a weekly ‘ask me anything’ with members of the Royal Family and possibly high level staffers. My readers can write in questions, then upvote their favourites, and the top five per week will be used in live interviews. Real answers on the fly.” I’m thinking on the fly, and doing rather well at it, if I do say so myself. Tessa Sharpe, nut-cracking blogger.

  He stares at me and taps his fingers on the seat arm for a long moment. “Fine.”

  Fine? Well, that was easy. I sit up straight and cross my legs. Locking eyes with him, I force my voice to come out anchor-woman smooth. “So, Your Highness, why am I really here?”

  “You didn’t understand my invitation, either? I thought I made it all quite clear, and yet the press seems absolutely baffled by my motives.”

  “I know what you said your motives are. But I want the truth.”

  “You can’t handle the truth.” He does a reasonable Jack Nicholson impression that has me fighting a grin into submission.

  “The truth is exactly as I said it at the press conference. I need your help.” He leans across the limo and opens the door to the mini-fridge, then pulls out two bottles of water. Not Perrier or Pellegrino, either. Regular water. He hands me one and opens the other for himself. “I’m hoping to regain some of the ground our family has lost in the public opinion polls.”

  “Yes, but why me?”

  “Because you hate us most.”

  There is something behind his eyes when he says it. If I didn’t know better, I would think he might be a little bit hurt by what I’ve written about them. But that can’t be. A man like him wouldn’t care a fig what someone like me has to say.

  He continues. “I have to confess that, until two days ago, I didn’t know who you were. When I asked my advisers who my harshest critic was, they named you. I spent the afternoon yesterday reading everything you’ve written about me and my family. You have a scathing hatred for us that is rather unmatched.”

  My face tingles, and the back of my throat suddenly aches. It’s one thing to write things about a public figure, but quite another to come face to face with him.

  “I find it fascinating that anyone would devote so much time and energy to discrediting people you’ve never met. I’m very curious about what motivates you.”

  Money. I stare at him for a moment while I consider my answer. I can’t very well tell him the truth. How do you say, ‘Nothing personal. I just realized the meaner I got, the more people read my stuff, and the more shoes I could buy’? You don’t. “That brings me to my first boundary. You don’t get to ask me personal questions.”

  He blinks in surprise. “Not even if it’s about why you hate us so much?”

  “Not even that. I’m here to observe and report the truth back to the people. That’s it.”

  “Hardly seems fair,” he says.

  “What would make you think I was going to play fair?” My heart is pounding now. As tough as I need to be, I do not want to overplay my hand.

  “Good point.” He looks at me and almost grins. “But let’s say I was in the market for a device that would help me increase my running stamina and pace, and I wanted to ask if you had any recommendations. Would you object to that question?”

  I knew that was coming. Fucker. “You do realize that you need me more than I need you?”

  “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.” He gives me the look of a little boy who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, only he’s the type to like getting caught. “Won’t mention it again, I promise.”

  “No personal questions. Take it or leave it.”

  “Take it.” He shrugs.

  “I still don’t understand why you’d want a critic to help you rather than a friend. You could have just brought in one of your lackeys and had them shoot a documentary for you.”

  “The people are too smart for that, and they deserve better, don’t you think?” He sips his water.

  “They do.” My tone is firm, very Veronica Platt.

  He gives me a satisfied grin. “Look at that. We’ve already found ourselves agreeing on something, and we’ve only just reached the palace gates.”

  I look out the window for the first time since getting in the limo. We are indeed driving up the long path to the palace. “Let’s be clear on one more thing. We are natural enemies. That is not going to change, no matter how long I stay as your guest.”

  “Even better.”

  We pass through an opening in the palace wall that is so narrow I cringe, thinking we’re about to scrape the limo on both sides.

  “Narrow, isn’t it? It was built for a horse and carriage.”

  We arrive at the back entrance to the U-shaped palace, and the limo slows to a halt near a set of massive wooden doors. I suddenly remember his remark about it being better that we are enemies. “Why is it good for you if we remain enemies?”

  His blue eyes lock on mine with an intensity that makes me want to squirm in my seat. “I believe it was Sun Tzu who said, ‘Keep your friends close but your enemies closer.’”

  “It was Michael Corleone in The Godfather.” Ha! Thank you, parents, for having four boys.

  “No, it wasn’t.” He shakes his head, and for the first time, I see him looking a little off-kilter.

  “Don’t feel bad. Everyone makes that mistake.”

  He stares a me for a second, then grins. “You just got the upper hand.”

  “I guess I did.” Score one for Tessa Sharpe.

  But… wait. He wants to keep me closer?

  Seven

  I'll Show You Mine If

  Arthur

  “Thanks, Ollie, but I’ll take Ms. Sharpe and her things to her apartment.” I give him a pat on the shoulder and hope that Tessa doesn’t notice the bewildered look on his face. I’m not sure I’ve ever carried a set of luggage, but how hard can it be, right?

  I sling her laptop bag over my shoulder and pull the handle out on the huge suitcase she’s brought. Yes, I’m a very all-hands-on-deck type of prince. A real down-to-earth, folksy guy.

  “Shall we?” I gesture for her to go ahead. One of the footmen opens the door for us and bows deeply. I really should have told them to lighten up on the formalities. Oh, bugger, this suitcase is awkward. It was fine when we were on the pavement, but navigating this damn thing up the ten steps is not exactly going smoothly. The suitcase slams and bangs in a rather alarming fashion as I drag it up the staircase. When I glance up, I can see that the footman is trying very hard not to laugh.

  “You okay there
?” Tessa asks, turning back to me and wincing.

  “Oh, fine, yes. One of the wheels is stuck or something.”

  She raises one eyebrow. “Usually, I just lift it when I’m on stairs. You might find that easier.”

  “Right-o, lifting. I thought this was one of those new smart suitcases that glides up stairs.” I yank up the handle and drop the suitcase on the top step with a thud. I can see by the look on her face that she’s not buying the smart suitcase thing.

  When I pass by the footman, a line from Tessa’s blog flashes through my brain about how she doubts I even know the name of the man who opens the door for me when I come home. She’s right, of course, but there are so damn many of them all over the place. How am I supposed to know them all? I give him a hearty smile.

  He nods. “Your Highness.”

  “Hey… mate. Great job!” Why do they not wear name tags? That’s it. Tomorrow, I’ll have Vincent order one for each member of the staff. Good God, I’m a nervous wreck all of a sudden. Bringing her here was a terrible idea. Note to self: Do not make decisions while drunk and/or horny.

  Once inside, we start down the passageway toward the main living quarters. She is a couple of steps ahead of me, and I know what’s coming when we reach the Grande Hall. Three, two, one. There it is, a little gasp escapes her mouth as she steps inside the marble and gold foyer. The ceiling is twenty feet above our heads and is domed and brightly lit to better show off the murals painted by Canaletto himself. She slows, her head tilted up at what truly is a magnificent sight.

  “I’ve always loved that ceiling. I used to lie on the floor as a child and stare up at it by the hour.” Where the hell did that come from? I never tell anyone that.

  Tessa turns and smiles at me. What a lovely smile. I want to see more of it, which is absurd since I absolutely hate this woman. “I’m sure my parents worried that I was rather a dullard, lying on the cold marble like that.”

  Her laughter fills the hall. What a lovely sound. I want to hear more of it. What the fuckity-fuck?