by Romancing the Crown Series (13-in-1 bundle) (v1. 0) (lit)
"A diet soda would be wonderful, Mareta. What about you, Mr. Ramsey?"
"Coffee, please."
"May I call you Tyler?" the princess asked as Mareta left again. When he nodded, she smiled brilliantly. "And while we're alone, you shall call me Anna."
"I don't believe that would be appropriate, Your Highness." In an instant, her expression shifted from happy to pouty—and damned if she wasn't even prettier with that full lower lip stuck out. "But Roberto does, and Nikos and Salim."
He didn't point out that each of those three guards was old enough to be her father, or that they'd known her since she'd lived in the royal nursery. He sure as hell didn't point out that first names were just a little too intimate for their situation. Anna was someone a man could talk to, have fun with, tease, get to know and call Annie when he kissed her, and the princess was none of those things. She was the favorite daughter of King Marcus, and Tyler had been entrusted with her safety. Nothing more, nothing less.
"I can't base my actions on what Roberto, Nikos and Salim do," he said evenly. "I can only do what I feel is right."
Her brown eyes took on a glitter of … anger? Annoyance? Maybe rejection? "Very well, Mr. Ramsey. Suit yourself."
That was exactly what he wanted, wasn't it? So why did he feel … disappointed that she'd referred to him formally rather than used his first name?
Nah, he wasn't disappointed. Just… Truth was, he didn't know exactly what. Annoyed that his first solo assignment from the king was something so simple. Frustrated because he was eager to get on with his real assignment—finding Prince Lucas—and this escort job seemed a waste of his training. Troubled that she was so damn pretty and that it had taken less than fifteen minutes alone with her for the idea of kissing her to pop into his head.
That wasn't gonna happen. No way, no how.
Mareta returned to serve their drinks, bringing along a tray of the small, flaky, honey-flavored pastries favored in Montebello. The princess took her diet pop but waved the pastries away, so the flight attendant left them on the table next to Tyler. He sweetened his coffee, selected a pastry, then opened his book again.
The silence in the cabin was uncomfortable, and it distracted him from the story. A surreptitious glance at the princess showed she was radiating stiffness. A frown wrinkled her forehead, making his gut knot. If she were a regular person, he was pretty sure he might owe her some sort of apology … but she wasn't.
Ignore her pouts , the king had advised. He could do that. After all, they were going to be together for only twelve hours, fourteen tops.
He could endure anything that long.
* * *
Desmond Caruso stood on the terrace outside his quarters, a drink in hand though it was still morning, and gazed at the scene before him. Flowers bloomed in the garden, water bubbled in the fountains, birds sang in the trees, and in the near distance, the palace loomed over him, massive and solid, blindingly white under the Mediterranean sun, a symbol of all he loved, hated, wanted and couldn't have.
When he'd come to Montebello eighteen years ago, he'd thought he had it made. He'd never imagined such wealth and luxury. Hell, he'd been on his own, living hand to mouth, after his old man—scratch that—after his stepfather had thrown him out of the house a year earlier. That was before he'd known that his real father was a duke and brother to a king—before he'd even known that he had a real father. If the bastard hadn't died and left him a little money, he probably never would have known, and he wouldn't have been living on the palace grounds for the past eighteen years.
Nor would he be in a position to become best friend and trusted advisor to the man who would likely be Montebello's next king—provided Prince Lucas didn't come back and ruin everything.
He intended to make certain that Prince Lucas didn't come back.
A short while ago he'd seen the most luxurious of the king's private airplanes pass overhead on its way to America, carrying Princess Anna and one of the Noble Men. He wasn't sure which brought the derisive curl to his lip. He despised Anna, a waste of oxygen if ever there was one. She'd been petted and pampered from the day she was born. She didn't have a clue what life was like in the real world and would never have to learn.
He knew. He'd lived in the real world. Scrounged in it. Sacrificed in it. Struggled to survive in it. And he wasn't going to do it again.
He didn't feel any more kindly toward her bodyguard. Noble Men! How insufferably arrogant. How brazen and self-important to proclaim themselves the Noble Men to the world, as if everyone else were anything but. They were opportunists, just like everyone else, and cloaking themselves behind deceptively honorable names didn't change that.
Truthfully, Desmond would feel no more regret if the Gulfstream crashed into the Mediterranean than he'd felt a year earlier when Lucas's plane had crashed into the Rockies. In fact, he might welcome it, for surely the grief would be more than King Marcus could bear. His uncle had turned to him for solace after Lucas's disappearance, and Desmond felt certain he'd advanced his place in the king's affection through that so-called ordeal. Who knew how close they might become if King Marcus lost another of his beloved children?
When he lifted his glass for a sip and found it empty, he went back inside the guesthouse that had served as his home for the past eighteen years. Like everything else on the royal grounds, it was spacious, lavishly designed and opulently appointed—a place fit for … well, if not a king or a prince, someone of royal blood. Priceless rugs were scattered over the marble floor, and works of the old masters hung on the walls. No expense had been spared in the guesthouse, and while he appreciated that, he also resented the hell out of it. All the other royals had their own quarters within the palace walls—the king and queen, Lucas, Anna, Desmond's half brother Lorenzo. Even Julia and Christina, who were now married, retained their private apartments in the midst of the others.
But not Desmond. No, he was given a guesthouse on the grounds, separate from the others. The distance from his quarters to the palace served as a bitter reminder that even though he had Sebastiani blood flowing through his veins the same as the others, he wasn't the same. None of them—not the king and queen, not the spoiled bratty princesses and sure as hell not Lucas—was ever going to let him forget it.
Except Lorenzo. There were rumors that his half brother well might be named successor to the throne if Prince Lucas never showed up again—rumors that Desmond would do damn near anything to make reality. Rumors that he'd already taken the first step toward fulfilling. On his desk was an airline ticket, final destination Denver, Colorado. From there he would go to the Chambers ranch outside Shady Rock, the ranch where it was now believed Lucas had been living ever since the plane crash.
The ranch where Lucas very well might die.
Desmond crossed to the elaborately carved desk and picked up the envelope containing the ticket. He'd already come up with a cover story—a much-delayed visit to his mother, Lucia, and his half sister, Nina. He'd rarely seen them since his stepfather celebrated his eighteenth birthday by throwing him out of the house. But no matter what Guiseppe Caruso thought of family ties, they were important to King Marcus—or so he claimed. Truth was, blood ties weren't enough. To be welcomed into the bosom of the Sebastiani family, a person needed legitimacy as well as Sebastiani blood. But in keeping with his claim, Marcus would never question Desmond's professed desire to see his mother and half sister again.
And he would never guess that Desmond was, in fact, going to Colorado.
To find his cousin.
And kill him.
* * *
With a great sigh, Anna closed her magazine. She couldn't remember a word she'd read in the past two hours or call to mind one single garment she'd looked at, admired or loathed. She was wasting her time, pretending interest in the publication when all she really wanted to do was have a conversation with her reluctant bodyguard.
A glance his way showed that he was having no such trouble concentrating. He'd made good pr
ogress on his book without so much as a peek in her direction—or, apparently, a qualm about refusing her request. Her usual bodyguards refused her nothing. In fairness, though, she asked nothing of them that should be refused.
And in fairness, she'd asked nothing of him that should have been refused, either. He simply was being unreasonable. American men were sometimes like that … though that fact hadn't swayed Christina from marrying her American. Jack Dalton had been sent to Montana to protect Christina, and they'd fallen madly in love. It had been so romantic … and now Tyler Ramsey was being sent to Montana to protect her.
Anna's dreamy smile faded. Tyler didn't strike her as particularly romantic, and he certainly wasn't going to fall in love with her when he couldn't even bring himself to call her by her given name. Besides, they weren't going to be together long enough to pass the polite-strangers phase. As soon as they arrived in Billings, she would escape him and put her plan into motion.
And she wouldn't think about the repercussions of escaping him.
Staring into the distance, she played her favorite scenario in her head—giving Mr. Ramsey the slip, as Roberto liked to say; being truly on her own for the first time in her life—though, of course, she would have to find a way to let her family, especially Christina, know she was safe—making her way through the state of Montana with nothing but a rental car and a highway map, and—the sweetest ending possible—locating Lucas in one of the mining communities where he was rumored to have gone. She had missed him so desperately this past year and couldn't wait to see him, to hear his voice, to hug him around the neck and never let go.
"Your Highness … Princess…"
Giving herself a mental shake, Anna focused on the attendant, who stood in the doorway. "Yes, Mareta?"
"Lunch is served, Your Highness, as you requested earlier. I've set the conference table, though if you'd prefer to dine here…"
Anna smiled. "No, thank you. The conference table is fine." As the attendant turned away, Anna stood and stepped into her heels. Though she wished she could leave her bodyguard behind and eat in private, it would be rude, and she did make every effort to avoid being rude most of the time. However, if he chose to remain where he was… "Mr. Ramsey, you're welcome to join me if you'd like."
Just her luck, he didn't so choose. Setting his book aside, he stood and followed her into the center section of the cabin. There he waited for her to be seated before he sat opposite her.
The teak table had been covered with a black linen cloth, and the napkins at each setting were a rich gold. The antique china bore the royal Montebellan crest, as did the heavy silverware and the crystal goblets. Fresh flowers from the palace gardens were nestled in a Baccarat bowl in the table's middle, with covered serving dishes on either side.
Because she'd received lessons in being a gracious hostess right alongside math and geography lessons, as Mareta began removing the covers, Anna politely said, "I asked the chef to prepare a typical American luncheon for us. I hope you don't mind."
There was a dish of golden-brown fried chicken, and another held creamy potato salad. There were also baked beans, redolent of molasses and brown sugar, and thick slices of hothouse tomatoes. For dessert a woven silver basket held chocolate chip cookies, each wrapped in a parchment sleeve.
She looked from the food to Tyler, hoping to gauge the chef's success by his expression. He appeared disconcerted.
"Is this not a typical American luncheon?"
"Oh, sure, it's a traditional picnic lunch. I just don't think I've ever seen it served on hundred-year-old china with linen napkins. It's normally eaten off paper plates with paper napkins and plastic forks."
She wasn't certain why he considered disposable dinnerware better suited to the menu, and she didn't bother to ask, as she suspected either she wouldn't appreciate his response or he wouldn't appreciate hers. Instead, as she served herself, she asked in a purely conversational tone, "Do you miss America?"
"Sure. It's my home. Don't you miss Montebello when you're gone for any length of time?"
"I've never been away for any length of time."
"Didn't you go to school someplace else?"
She shook her head. "The others did, but Papa felt I should stay close to home."
"Don't you go on vacations?"
"Of course … but always with Mama and Papa, or with my sisters, Julia and Christina. So many guards, servants, advisors and aides travel with us that it's as if we've taken Montebello along." She assaulted the chicken on her plate with a knife and fork, then, following Tyler's lead, used her lingers with much better results. It was a most inelegant method, but with no one around to comment or chastise, she found she didn't care.
"Where do you live?" she asked while nibbling on her second piece of chicken.
"Nowhere in particular. My parents live in Arizona—that's where the family business is located—along with my middle brother, Jake, and my oldest brother, Kyle, and his wife. Since I went to work for the team, I've spent all my time in training."
"When you were a small boy, did you always want to be a mercenary?"
For an instant she thought he might smile. The corners of his mouth twitched before settling in a level line again. "Did you always want to be a princess?"
"No. Actually, Mr. Ramsey, I wanted to be a fairy. You know, a wee sprite with pointy ears and gossamer wings? I was approximately seven when I learned that even a king couldn't perform such magic and I was stuck being a princess." Again, she thought he might smile, but again he disappointed her. "I was given no choice as to what I would be. Was it the same with you?"
"No," he answered slowly. "Probably the only thing my father didn't want us to do was follow in his footsteps. He made a career of the air force before retiring and starting the airplane parts business, but he steered us all away from military service … though Kyle joined up anyway."
"And Jake went into the family business, and you—?"
Looking decidedly uncomfortable, he fiddled with the heavy-handled knife he hadn't touched through lunch. "I pretty much did nothing College bored me. I barely managed to graduate. I tried a dozen jobs and didn't like any of them. I never had a clue what I wanted to do until my father offered me this job."
And did he like it? she wanted to ask. Was that why he was driven—because he'd finally found his niche? Or did it fail to hold his interest, as all those other jobs had—and was that why he tried so hard? So as not to disappoint his father? If he were Roberto or any of a number of palace employees, she wouldn't hesitate to ask … but if he were Roberto or any of the other employees, she wouldn't find the question so intriguing, honesty forced her to admit.
Instead, she directed the conversation toward an earlier comment. "What jobs?"
Again he appeared disconcerted, a moment which passed when he shrugged. "I worked on a road construction crew one summer—not a lot of fun when it's 120 degrees in the shade. I tended bar for a while, and drove a delivery truck. I taught school for a semester and quit one step ahead of being fired, and did get fired from the family business. I was a ski instructor one winter, and I worked on a ranch one year. You name it, I've probably done it for at least a week or two."
"I've never held a real job before," she remarked, hearing the wistfulness in her voice and hoping he didn't. "I'm on the boards of several children's charities, but they want my name and title more than they want me. It helps them raise funds."
Apparently, he had nothing to say to that. He simply folded his hands on the tabletop and studied them as if he found them vastly more interesting than her.
His response—or nonresponse—left her feeling a bit melancholy, but she didn't let it show. Placing her napkin on the table, she stood up. "There's a television and DVD player in that cabinet, along with a selection of movies. The stereo is there, too. Feel free to make use of it or not."
He stood, too. "What are you going to do?"
She smiled coolly. "We're on an airplane, Mr. Ramsey. There aren't many options o
pen to me. I'll be back there resting." Slipping past him, she returned to the rear section of the cabin, where she located a pillow and a blanket in a corner cabinet. After depositing them on the sofa, she went to the lavatory to wash up.
When she came out, she stopped abruptly. Tyler was crouched in front of the entertainment cabinet. The position drew his faded jeans taut over long, muscular legs and—a most unprincessly thought—his particularly nice butt. He'd removed his jacket and rolled the sleeves of his dress shirt halfway up his forearms, where the white fabric contrasted nicely against his tanned skin. The brown leather of his shoulder holster contrasted nicely against the white shirt, also.
She had grown up with overt displays of weaponry. Though a number of the guards stationed around the palace were largely ceremonial, many others were loaded for bear, Roberto liked to say. She'd been a not-so-little girl before she'd realized that meant they were heavily armed, rather than hunting bear. Truthfully, the discovery had been a major disappointment, as it had forced her to give up the hope of running into a real, live bear while out playing.
Of all the countless men she'd known with their wide variety of weapons, she couldn't recall ever looking at one of them and his pistol and feeling a shock of arousal shiver down her spine. But Tyler in blue jeans, white shirt and shoulder holster… Ah, yes, she was shivering.
He inserted a DVD in the player, then stood up as the flight attendant approached.
"Can I get you anything, Mr. Ramsey?"
"Nah … but you can call me Tyler."
"And I'm Mareta." She spoke with more warmth than Anna would have thought the woman capable of. "Give me a moment, and I'll clear these dishes out of your way."
"No rush. Have you seen this movie?"
She glanced at the television. "A time or two. I like it."
"Let me give you a hand with the dishes, Mareta, then you can pull up a chair and watch it with me."
"I'd like that."
Feeling unreasonably rejected, Anna waited until they were both on their way to the galley to move forward and secure the accordion-pleated door between the two compartments. Then she settled on the sofa, the blanket spread over her legs, and opened the oversize shoulder bag she'd brought along. On a trip a few days ago to a travel agency in town, she had picked up every brochure they'd had to offer on Montana, and in the privacy of her apartment in the palace, she'd printed off more information from the Internet, including maps. She'd located the three mining operations Tyler was scheduled to check out and had obtained directions to each of them.