Royally Hung

by Anne Marsh

  I whisper my offer in her ear. “Marry me and I’ll give you a quarter million dollars.”

  Her eyes widen and her lips part.

  Excessive?

  Maybe.

  But it’s just money and I have plenty of that. Time, however, is in short supply.

  I press a finger against her mouth. “Say yes.”

  Her lips part beneath my finger and form one tiny, breathy, perfect word. “Yes.”

  And just like that, her life changes. She doesn’t understand what it means yet, Edee Jones goes from a photographer I’ve hired to shoot my wedding to the woman I’m going to marry. My royal bride. My princess.

  For the next few weeks.

  Chapter Five

  Edee

  Dare is the human equivalent of a Zamboni, smoothing out all of my objections. I know I’m not thinking clearly, but somehow I find myself signing my name a gazillion times on a stack of legal papers that materialize with frightening speed in his penthouse because apparently when you’re a prince, you also have an entire legal team on standby. I autograph two more NDAs, a prenup, and a promise to pay me—holy moly—the aforementioned small fortune when we split up. Discretion is more expensive than Cartier diamonds.

  Dare practically vibrates while I read and sign. I’ve moved to the penthouse’s enormous, twenty-seat dining room table so I can spread the papers out. The man can’t sit still. He prowls from one side of the room to the other. He tops off my champagne. He straightens my stacks. And since he still hasn’t put his shirt back on, it’s super distracting. When the choice is between looking at Times New Roman and ogling a half-naked prince, there’s no competition. My eyes glaze over and my libido achieves lift-off.

  Or maybe that’s the champagne getting to me. All I want right now is to put my head down and steal a quick nap—and if my pillow is 100 percent, Grade A muscled prince chest, I think I’m okay with that, too. I initial a page, flip it over, and move on.

  “You really have to read all that?” Big hands close around my shoulders, working out the knots that have accumulated there. The man is seriously gifted. Or maybe he’s a giver? It’s unexpectedly thoughtful and at odds with his bad boy reputation, but I lean into his strong palms. If he’s offering to make me feel better, I’m saying yes.

  “If the whole ruler-of-a-kingdom thing doesn’t work out for you, you should consider the spa business.” The words sort of slur out of my mouth. I sound happy drunk. Or maybe just happy? It’s been so long since I could just let go, knowing someone else had me.

  “You gonna book me?” He smirks down at me, amusement lighting up his eyes.

  He manages to make his question sound downright pornographic. I try to focus on Paperwork Mountain before I do something stupid like jump his hot, princely self with an I don’t mind if I do.

  “You trust me, Edee?” Somehow he’s moved even closer and now his mouth brushes my ear, his words a deep bass rumble I feel all through my body. And I mean everywhere—especially the parts immediately south of my belly button. You know the slogan Make love, not war? If those people just sent Dare with that proposal, we’d have world peace in a heartbeat.

  Because of course I shouldn’t trust him.

  Nope. We’ve known each other for two bottles of champagne. All those bubbles have clearly drowned my good sense, however, because I nod vigorously.

  “Then just sign and we can get married.”

  He makes his two-step plan seem so logical. And since I love a good plan as much as the next girl, I speed-sign the rest of the stuff. I have just a moment to wonder if I shouldn’t wait until I’ve talked to a lawyer—or at least until I’ve sobered up—before he whisks the pile away.

  “Finally,” he says. “Let’s get hitched, okay?”

  I suck in a big breath. “Okay.”

  And then he pauses. Frowns. Are you wondering if this is the moment where he decides that I don’t get to be a temporary princess after all? Yeah. Me, too. But we all know this wasn’t going to last.

  “Is there someone—” He’s picking and choosing his words, which is never a good sign.

  “A Mr. Edee? A boy toy? Someone special in my life?” I beam up at him a little too forcefully. “Because the answer is no, no, and not anymore, so we can just get on with this.”

  “Anyone else who needs to be here?” Dare asks. “Your stepmother?”

  “And again . . . no.” I lost my dad eighteen months ago, and while my mother’s breathing, she’s almost as AWOL. We’re friendly, but not close, and since she’s now beach bumming in Florida with spotty Internet while she rediscovers herself, we communicate by postcards. You thought Twitter’s 280-character limit was a challenge? Trying communicating in four square inches of space. She’s hardly going to expect an invitation to my not-so-real wedding.

  “No sad thoughts.” He brushes his thumb over the corner of my mouth. And just like he’s the ultimate in happy switches, my body lights up and I can feel the smile breaking out on my face. Not a mysterious, sexy, come-hither kind of pout, either, but a big, corny grin. Apparently, I have a thing for princes.

  “Okay.” I gulp the remainder of my champagne, hoping it’s some kind of magic elixir. Maybe if I drink enough, I’ll be able to make sense of what is happening here.

  Am I surprised that he’s thoughtful? A little. But I’m already pretty certain he’s not 100 percent bad boy. After all, he’s a prince and that practically guarantees he’s hiding a heart of gold somewhere inside that sexy, sexy package.

  Or maybe it’s just a pinky toe of gold.

  Possibly an eyelash.

  He’s not done yet, though. He looks me up and down. “You need a dress.”

  “And you need a shirt,” I blurt out. Damn it. Why did I say that? I like looking at him.

  He winks at me. “Got it covered.”

  He shrugs into a dress shirt that’s appeared out of nowhere. It’s a good thing I’m not going to have to pay for his upkeep because this man is expensive. His black shirt has a discreet designer label and probably cost more than a small sofa. It also has about a million buttons that take so long to do up that I’m dozing off by the time he’s midchest. I may, just possibly, steal a brief catnap and plant my face against his chest while he does up final two hundred thousand buttons. Okay. He does up half the buttons, which I think is my fault because I dimly hear some shameless girl telling him to leave it all on display.

  I don’t catch what he says in response.

  He laces his fingers through mine and tugs. I pop out of my chair with a singular lack of grace, snag my bag, and let him tow me over to the elevator. Nothing about tonight seems real. Except . . . it sort of, kind of, absolutely is. And it turns out that I’m weak, after all. Just for tonight, I want the fairy tale. I want to be swept off my feet and treated like a princess.

  He winks at me, squeezing my fingers gently. “Let’s find us a chapel, okay?”

  He hums a few bars of the Dixie Cups, his voice low and smooth. He’s a way better singer than I am, but somehow I’m giggling and shamelessly belting out the refrain with him as we wait for the elevator. I’m a crap singer, but I have enthusiasm, and right now I’m all for getting married.

  We stumble inside the elevator when it arrives, and I’m half-expecting it to be full of other people. But of course I’ve forgotten that he has a private elevator. He’s a wealthy, titled prince and he probably merits private oxygen because sharing isn’t part of his vocabulary. And that’s probably not fair of me because so far Dare has done nothing but share but I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For him to abandon me, to announce that this has all been one elaborate hoax. For a private elevator, this one sure is slow. I stare at the floor numbers as they light up and fade away.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” my borrowed prince tells me.

  He lounges against the wall beside me, legs crossed, arms brac
ed over his chest. He’s a tall, rangy man, but somehow he manages to look wicked and naughty and . . . safe.

  “You offered way more than a penny upstairs,” I point out.

  “It’s just money, Edee.” He shrugs and my eyes snap to the way his broad shoulders stretch the fabric of his shirt.

  “You’ve obviously never gone without.” My tone sounds rather judgy for a woman who’s agreed to a short-term marriage of convenience, but I’m blaming the champagne.

  “Not without money, no,” he agrees.

  The elevator’s mirrored and Dare has to the first person I’ve ridden with who doesn’t at least sneak a peek at himself in all that glass. Or maybe he just knows how perfect he looks and he doesn’t need to double-check anymore. I’ll bet he’s spent his whole life being worshipped and adored. Which explains why . . . he’s looking at me?

  And then he spoils it by wrapping an arm around me and pulling me into his side. He’s not a bruiser like his bodyguards but every inch of him radiates strength and that’s more tempting than the ridiculous number of zeroes he promised to write on my check.

  I watch the floor numbers flash by.

  Dare watches me.

  I have no clue why I don’t get out on a different floor. The money’s tempting, but it’s not that. I’ll find some way to pay my student loans and get back on my feet. Okay. The money’s part of it, but it’s more that this gorgeous, sexy man is offering to pay me to do something I’d have done for free. It’s like he asked me if I wanted a slice of his luscious, five-layer chocolate cake and then he begged me to have a taste. To lick calorie-free frosting off his washboard abs while he watched me (and since this is my fantasy, his decadent frosting is totally 100 percent calorie-free).

  But it’s none of those things, not really. I have no clue why it matters to me so much, but when Dare looks at me, he sees me. I’m not the invisible photographer chronicling his happy moments. I’m not the girl standing on the sidelines pretending that it’s okay and she doesn’t want to dance anyhow. He looks at me like I’m the center of his universe, a gorgeous, talented, smoking-hot center—and I’m weak.

  When we get out, the bodyguards fall in around us. I think the only reason they didn’t ride down with us is because Dare refused. He said he wanted quality time alone with his bride. I suppose having Mr. Left and Mr. Right around is something I’ll have to get used to.

  They move us swiftly toward the lobby while I’m still wondering if they’re armed. An audible wave of sound greets us as Dare emerges into public view, a buzz of excitement that can be heard even over the never-ending din of the slot machines. People reach for their phones and nudge each other, pressing toward us. Flashes go off with blinding regularity and I suddenly get the reason for the whole bodyguard business.

  A row of high-end, designer shops is connected to the casino, presumably so that if you’re lucky enough to win big, you have a second chance to leave it all behind you. Names I’ve only read about in Elle and Vogue flash by overhead in gold curlicue lettering. Coach. Gucci. Prada. Tiffany & Co.

  Dare stops in front of Vera Wang. “Let’s go in here.”

  The store window is one of those displays of tasteful elegance—a single, gorgeous gown that’s a sweep of ombré tulle waiting on a hanger for its bride. It’s a dress fit for a princess. Dare tugs on my hand, and somehow we’re inside the store and I’m having my Pretty Woman moment. The happy one where Julia Robert buys out the store, and not the one where she’s summarily evicted. The sales ladies are thrilled to help us, and I try on three of the flounciest, most beautiful dresses I’ve ever seen, while Dare sprawls in a chair.

  His thumbs fly over his phone and then he looks up at me. “Come FaceTime my brother.”

  “Who?”

  I know what you’re thinking. It’s weird that I’m marrying this man and I don’t even know he has a brother. Or his name Or even what my husband-to-be’s full name is. I’m totally going to pull a Princess Diana and mix up his names while I’m plighting my troth.

  “Luca.” He flashes me a devilish grin. “He can’t wait to meet you.”

  I doubt that, but I stumble over, the wedding gown wrapping itself around my bare feet. Sure enough, Dare’s brother looks angry and grumpy, like a mean old bear when you wake him up from a nice winter’s sleep by stumbling into his cave and standing on his tail. His dark hair stands up on end, the perfect frame for the harsh lines of his face. He’s rough and hard, and nobody would ever mistake him for Prince Charming. It would help if he smiled, but he looks more like the troll that lives under the bridge if trolls came big and billionaire-sized.

  “You’re marrying Dare?”

  Let me translate that for you: who is this random American and why did my brother pick her?

  “Yes.” My voice sounds sort of furry as if I’d gotten way too close with some of my canine clients. Instead of being properly indignant, I sound sleepy. I should probably address him as Prince or (based on the superior look on his face) Royal Overlord and Ruler of the Universe.

  “Rethink,” he snaps. He doesn’t add a please.

  From the looks of the stone walls behind him, Troll Prince is taking this call in a dungeon or, at the very least, a castle. It suits him, although I’d personally like to see him living under a damp, nasty bridge.

  “I don’t like him,” I whisper-shout to Dare.

  Dare grins at me.

  “He doesn’t like you,” Luca grunts.

  Dare plucks the phone out of my hands and motions for sales ladies to disappear. It must be nice to have that kind of power to clear the room. His gorgeous eyes darken as he glares at his screen.

  “Edee and I are getting married.”

  “Why?” Troll Prince asks the question I’ve been asking myself ever since Dare accepted my accidental proposal. Dare scoots me toward the dressing room, his hand gently nudging my butt.

  “Queenie gave me an ultimatum,” Dare says, moving away from me.

  “Queenie wants an heir,” Luca snaps.

  And while I might not be adverse to a little practice baby-making with Dare, the real deal is not on the table. From the frown on my future husband’s face, he feels the same way.

  “He has Nik,” Dare says.

  “He wants you and a real princess. Not an American fake.”

  This might be a temporary marriage, but hearing Luca say that I’m not good enough still . . . hurts. I’m that cheap but cute set of blue and white dishes you buy on eBay. Everyone knows it’s not Ming Dynasty stuff that will turn out to be five hundred years old and worth a million bucks, but you kind of hope. It’s why I poke around in musty, dirty cardboard boxes at flea markets and garage sales. Sometimes other people overlook treasures. Sometimes something ordinary turns out to be priceless.

  Dare shrugs like everything’s NBD. “I need time. Nik’s the golden boy. Whatever’s gone wrong between him and Queenie, don’t you think he deserves a chance to fix it?”

  “But with her?”

  From the distaste in Luca’s voice, I’m not even cute dinnerware in his universe—I’m a stack of Styrofoam plates.

  Dare’s voice is firm and certain. “I’m marrying Edee.”

  Luca curses and I downgrade my status to used Styrofoam. The last thing I hear before the dressing room door closes behind me is Luca.

  “You really don’t want the throne? Because people have killed for it.”

  Maybe it’s because this is my one shot at being Cinderella, or maybe it’s because the wedding dresses are so over-the-top and this just feels too much like playing dress up to be real, but somehow I end up in a dress by the time Dare finishes his phone call and taps on the door. The sweetheart bodice cups my boobs and a sea of tulle ruffles drape and flow their way from my hips to the floor. I’ve actually got a minitrain. The last time I wore something this long, it was a bedsheet.

  Dare straigh
tens from his slouch and takes my hand, bringing it to his mouth. “Beautiful,” he growls.

  His voice is champagne-drenched, a sexy, rough rasp. It doesn’t sound quite real, either. This whole thing feels like a really good fantasy, from the heat spreading through my body to the whispers of the sales ladies. Point in case? Somebody produces sparkly jewelry until I look like the best kind of Christmas tree, all bright twinkles on my ears and wrists, in my hair.

  “These aren’t real are they?” I touch the bracelet on my wrist.

  He grins at me adorably. “Nothing but the best for my princess.”

  He hasn’t answered my question and he must be teasing, but I don’t have time to worry because I’m being hustled back through the casino and past the pool toward a private wedding chapel. It’s like I’m watching someone else do this crazy, crazy thing because my brain’s checked out. It turns out you really, really shouldn’t mix champagne and princes.

  Dare chuckles and steers me straight when I zigzag toward a wall that’s suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

  “I’ve got you.”

  Yes, yes, he does.

  Dare leads me inside the chapel and up the aisle. Somebody’s scattered red rose petals to point the way forward as we pass row after row of empty, gilt chairs. It’s like a garden—a secret, magical garden decorated with greenery, white roses, and a singing Elvis in a blue velvet jumpsuit. We stand before him and exchange a brief set of vows.

  There’s a brief kerfuffle (which is my new favorite word) when Elvis takes it upon himself to include honor and obey in our vows. I may be drunk on champagne, but I’m not stupid. That would be like giving your sleazy cousin Richard a blank check—one that you’d signed and that you just know he’s going to take straight to the bank and cash, just as soon as he’s added about ten more zeroes to the cash line than you have in your account. This isn’t even some Fifty Shades of Gray fantasy where taking orders could be kinky good fun.

  So . . .

  Nope.