by Anne Marsh
I don’t.
Because no one would bang the shit out of my door unless there were either prince-eating zombies heading down the Strip or a national emergency. Remember my secret plan? To piss off Queenie and make him rethink the whole marry-off-Dare plan? Me, too. I think I’m about to get some royal feedback.
So I let go of my bride and roll to my feet. Her face is flushed and pink, her lips kiss swollen. It’s a fucking waste to let her go now, but duty calls and even though the last thing I want is to be king, I still have some obligations to the throne.
“Hold that thought,” I say to her. Do I think she’ll wait for me? No, of course. But coaxing her back around to my master sex plan will be fun. In the meantime, I think unsexy thoughts as I stride to the door. Meet and greets with a boner do not put you in a power position.
I yank the door open. “What?”
Sodding nobility. I sound like an arrogant arse, as if I’ve got a stick three-generations big up my you-know-where.
Mr. Right shoves a cell phone at me. He’s not happy about doing door-knock duty, either.
“His Royal Highness,” he says in the same tone most people reserve for incoming missiles or plumbing explosions.
Queenie has my cell phone number and he’s never hesitated to use it before. I’m impressed at his deliberately making our disagreement public, however. Palace staff now knows my uncle is displeased with me—and no matter how loyal they are to us, someone won’t be able to resist the temptation to gossip. By tomorrow at the latest, the rest of the world will know that I’ve fucked up again. They’ll put two and two together with my wedding photos, and I’ll be that much closer to proving I’m completely unsuited for Vale’s throne.
I don’t want to make it too easy, though. I grab the phone, slam the door, and retreat back to my window post. “What’s up?”
Queenie doesn’t call me out for my less than respectful tone. He doesn’t hesitate at all.
“Perhaps I wasn’t clear.”
We both know he was.
“I asked you to get married. I asked you to choose a royal bride.”
On second thought, maybe Queenie will love Edee. They’re both tremendously fond of lists and numbering things. Queenie launches into a blistering lecture about just how unpleased he is with how I’ve handled the whole get-married-now ultimatum he laid on me. I’ve come close to causing an international incident, I’ve offended three of Vale’s leading families, I’m a disgrace to the throne, blah, blah, blah.
Mission accomplished: he’s furious. Finally, he gets to the point. “Who did you marry?”
“An American.”
There’s a moment of silence. Possibly, my uncle has just stroked out. It’s not that we don’t love Americans in Vale. Personally, I’m equal opportunity when it comes to loving.
“An American.” Queenie manages to convey an impressive number of emotions in those two words. Disappointment, surprise, concern. That last one almost makes me feel disappointed in myself, but I’ll get over it.
“Edee’s a local.” I lay it on thick. “I met her while she was working.”
Take that, Queenie. Not only is she not from Vale, but she’s actually required to earn her daily bread. And while I inherited a fortune from my parents, Queenie is enough of a traditionalist to believe that you can never have too much money. He’d like me to marry more. Shit happens, stock markets crash or the local population decides to rise up and behead their aristocratic overlords. Ask the last Russian tsar how that worked out for him.
Queenie curses creatively. He must be alone in his office. The cellular network is nothing short of amazing. It sounds like he’s standing right next to me.
“Tell me about her,” he orders.
Briefly, momentarily I have the upper hand. Except I’m not sure how to answer his question. I’m not sure I can. I mean, I know some things. Edee lives just outside of Vegas, for example. She photographs pets for a living, and she comes with an evil stepmother accessory and two bonus stepsisters. She hates sushi and loves doughnuts. And she’s fuckhot in a quiet, absolutely gorgeous way. I don’t believe in happily-ever-after, but I could definitely go for a happily-right-now with Edee.
I definitely had a little too much to drink yesterday, but that doesn’t excuse what I did. It certainly explains why I don’t like myself today. I married Edee to get back at Queenie, and yet . . . there’s something about Edee. Something more, something different, something mine. No, I don’t know why I did it . . . but it doesn’t feel wrong.
But I’ve let the silence stretch on too long. It snaps like an overstretched rubber band, zinging painfully into my skin.
Queenie plays his trump card. “It doesn’t matter. I did not give my permission.”
“No, sir.” That makes our marriage legal in about 99 percent of the globe—and entirely, completely illegal in Vale. That was my plan after all, so I should be thrilled it’s working.
“Did you consummate your relationship?”
I stroll over to the window. I could almost believe that I don’t care what Queenie thinks. I look out at the Strip while I let the silence spin out between us.
“Darejan.” The way Queenie snaps my name warns me that my uncle is out of patience. He wants his answer now. I tap my finger against the glass. It’s bulletproof, of course. You could stand down there on the Strip and launch a rocket at this glass and it wouldn’t break. Queenie would approve.
“Do you want pictures?”
Chapter Nine
Edee
Apparently, princes come with an on/off switch. One minute, Dare’s kissing me senseless and I’m contemplating throwing all my scruples out the window (along with my panties and borrowed T-shirt), and the next he’s halfway across the room and a million miles away. He yanks the door open and engages in a brief conversation with someone standing on the other side. I don’t know who it is, but I’m betting there are a limited number of people who’d interrupt Dare. Phone in hand, he steps back inside our room, shutting the door behind him.
He doesn’t look happy. At first he just sort of listens. Whoever’s on the other end has a lot to say. His face gets tighter and he crosses his arms over his chest, the phone cradled between his ear and his shoulder. He looks like a big, growly bear.
I shouldn’t care, but it’s hard not to flinch when my name comes up. Okay. So he’s apparently breaking our wedding news to his family. Long distance. After they discovered it on a celebrity gossip site. None of this bodes well, even if Dare was just looking for a temporary marriage of convenience. The voice on the other end gets louder and rougher, and then Dare asks if he wants pictures.
I don’t think he’s offering to send a nice eleven-by-eighteen print from my personal collection. I didn’t expect his relatives to be thrilled when Dare presented them with a surprise bride. And as Dare acknowledged, he wanted to shake them up. It’s a marriage of convenience for us—and all about inconveniencing as many other people as possible. And while I should probably have gotten on my ethical high horse and refused to participate, I didn’t. The obvious attractions of a playboy prince won the day instead. Plus, my relatives will more than likely applaud my marrying up. My stepmother, in particular, will want to work Dare’s social connections for all they’re worth. Ugh. I’ll just have to hope she never discovers that I’m the mystery American bride.
“You’re disappointed in me?” Dare smirks and flips off his unseen caller in the window’s reflection. “Wait until you meet my bride.”
Can you talk to the king of Vale that way? And do I really want to stick around and find out?
I give that a nanosecond’s worth of consideration. Nope. I’m so done here.
Fortunately, Dare’s more than a little preoccupied. While he discusses our “marriage” with “Queenie,” glowering at the unsuspecting Strip spread out before the suite’s enormous panoramic windows, I slide ou
t of bed.
Since the clothing fairy has failed to arrive, I improvise. While Dare keeps up his conversation with his uncle, I slip into the walk-in closet and pilfer a white dress shirt and a pair of jeans. I’m bra-less and wearing four-inch white satin heels, but I’ll just pretend I’m a huge fan of the menswear trend.
I ninja my way out of the closet. Dare’s got the phone cradled between his shoulder and his ear, both palms pressed against the window. He looks less like a prince now and more like the big, bad wolf—the red-haired version. He’s still on the phone, presumably with his uncle the king, because the look on his face is part frustration, part irritation, with a side of desire-to-murder thrown in there just to mix things up. He looks about as far from happy as one man can get.
“Is my marriage a joke?” Swear to God, he growls at the phone. “Sure, Queenie. It’s a big, fucking joke with an American punch line. Are you laughing now?”
Yeah. Deal killer right there.
I slink out of the room, quietly closing the door behind me. Mr. Right’s standing on one side of the door; Mr. Left is at the end of the hallway. They must not have any orders about what to do with me because, while they incline their heads in a respectful head tip, neither makes any attempt to stop me from grabbing my purse from the table in the living room. Leaving without my camera feels like abandoning an arm or leg, but I just have to hope Mr. Precious will find me later.
Adieu, my not-so-sweet prince.
I flip the closed door the bird, get in the elevator, and leave.
* * *
* * *
Dare
Shame and I are not BFFs, but we’re hardly unacquainted, either. After Edee slinks out of my hotel suite, however, shame and I get it on. Queenie is not pleased with how I handled the marriage ultimatum. I gave my word, I agreed to marry someone from my own world, I had a goddamned binder blah, blah, blah. Let me skip the lengthy details and give you the executive summary: I fucked up and it did not let me off the hook for the kingdom.
Mr. Right stares at me with unwavering disapproval. Unlike Queenie, he doesn’t use his words. He just stares. Through me, as if I’m simply some expensive but shitty painting or piece of furniture that he’s getting paid to watch. I tell myself I don’t care. He’ll do his job, and even if he doesn’t, I’m used to taking care of myself. So maybe randomly marrying a pretty American wasn’t my most mature action ever. I like a good laugh, and I love getting Queenie’s goat. And if I had to do it all over again, I would because disinheriting Nik is not a joke and Queenie’s not the man or leader I thought he was if he can seriously contemplate replacing my brother with me.
Should I have used my words when Queenie gave me his marriage ultimatum?
Yes, yes, I should.
But let’s think back, shall we? Because I did try to refuse—and he played the king card and told me to do as I was told. He didn’t explain. He didn’t ask. He didn’t give me a single reason for the switcheroo. So how did he really expect me to react when he demanded I betray my brother?
So, no. I wouldn’t change my impulsive decision to marry in haste in Vegas. I’m fine with letting an Elvis impersonator witness the most important moment in my life rather than standing up in front of a congregation of friends, family, and VIP politicians to make one lucky girl a princess. I’m fine with the shit storm that’s happening back in the royal palace—and I don’t care that some poor lawyer is going to have to pick apart the legal mess I’ve created by marrying without Queenie’s royal permission.
The one thing I’m not okay with? Hurting Edee’s feelings. This is where my new buddy Shame comes in. The only feelings I’ve cared about before have been the orgasmic kind—did my companion come, preferably more than once, and is she leaving happy and with suitable parting gifts?
Edee’s not happy. Somehow between the I do and her adamant I won’t, something changed. It wasn’t me—I promise you I give no more fucks than before about growing up and becoming king—but Edee’s more than a bride of royal inconvenience. She’s funny. She loves a good joke, waffles, and murder mysteries. She makes me smile, makes me want to be just a little . . . better. Queenie was right about one thing—marriage changes a man.
Somewhere, she’s become more than just a pretend princess I’d really like to bang. More than a pretty girl I’ve seen mostly naked and can’t stop fantasizing about.
She’s Edee. And she’s hurt because I was a dick. So even though I’ve never let myself care about a girl before, I’m going to have to make an exception for Edee. I should let her go. I’m practically creating an international incident being here and not on official tour. No one has found out who my bride is yet; it’s still secret, but it’s the kind of open secret that drives the paparazzi wild. Everyone knows I married, but my bride was veiled and the way Elvis sang her name, no one’s sure they caught it. Plus, there are about a million Joneses living in the greater Las Vegas area.
And this is why, when the press waylays me as I cross the Gobi-desert-sized hotel lobby the morning after Queenie’s call and Edee’s abrupt departure, I stop.
“You, you, and you.” I point to the three nearest members of the press corp. I have no idea who they write for, but they’ll do. “Walk with me.”
Of course they do.
They practically fall over themselves as I lead them out into the faux Grecian wonderland that is the hotel pool deck. Right then and there, with a dozen stupid cupids spitting water and bird poo behind me, I tell them the truth. Sort of. That I met the girl of my dreams at a party and married her immediately; that said girl then left me because I was a royal dick; and that I vow to do whatever it takes to find her.
I know what you’re thinking: Edee isn’t the girl of my dreams.
“She’s as American as apple pie,” I say when they ask if she’s from Vale. From the smiles that greet my response, it’s a popular answer.
“What do your brothers think about your hasty marriage?”
“Luca’s met my bride,” I tell them. “But she’s going to be a delightful surprise for Nik. He’s been away on a health retreat practicing yoga and tantric sex.”
There’s a moment of stunned surprise, but my reporters recover quickly, peppering me with questions about Nik’s new hobbies and my Apple Pie Princess.
* * *
* * *
Edee
After I’ve made the ultimate walk of shame through the hotel lobby and paid for the world’s most expensive Uber to drive me home, I crash by the pool. Part of my rent-free deal with my stepmother is that I’m responsible for cleaning the pool. And while I usually make sure I live up to my end of any deal, it’s apparently my day to renege. First on His Royal Highness, and now on pool cleaning. Since my stepmother is headed out to some ritzy evening charity dinner, she doesn’t risk getting too close to me.
Nope. She pauses clear on the other side of the pool to issue her instructions. She doesn’t want to chance my getting pool cleaner on her Chanel. My chore list grows exponentially as she talks, verbally piling task after task onto me. It’s still a steal when you think about how much rent costs. My stepsisters hover behind, dressed in matching white cocktail dresses. I like to think of them as Thing One and Thing Two. They’re as sweet as they are oblivious, and they seem to spend most of the day either flitting along behind my stepmother or polishing their pretty, perfect exteriors.
As soon as the coast is clear, I run around the pool like a madwoman, dumping in chemicals and picking out palm tree fronds. This also gives me an opportunity to count to one hundred—which is how long it takes their car service to clear the street and for me to collapse onto a lounger. It’s a gorgeous Vegas afternoon. The sky is bright and clear, and it’s only about a hundred degrees in the shade. Fuck skin cancer. I want to curl up in a warm spot and bask and bask.
So that’s just what I do. I surf the Internet on my phone, shamelessly stealing my stepmother’s
wifi. Naturally, I Google Dare. Our six-question speed-dating round barely made a dent in my curiosity. I’m not the only person who’s curious. When I plug his name into my browser’s trusty search engine, I find four fan sites dedicated to Dare sightings, plus three million other hits.
Three. Million.
Let’s think about that for a moment. The man is so popular, so intensely interesting, that he merits that kind of website development. And the pictures . . . the pictures are even worse. Or better.
I already knew that various photos of our wedding had made it onto the Internet, but Dare’s been an Internet darling practically since the moment of his conception. My Google cup overfloweth with the most amazingly cute baby pictures. Equally well documented? His christening, his first day at nursery school, an ever-taller series of horses, and a million other milestones.
No wonder he doesn’t like cameras or photographers—every second of his life has been captured, frozen for all eternity and the dubious pleasure of Internet looky-loos. I feel vaguely dirty perving on him like this—but I don’t want to stop.
Still, the baby pictures are freaking adorable. There’s Dare banging on a grand piano with adorable abandon. Dare crawling on a priceless Persian rug. Dare making rude faces while standing on the balcony of a fairy-tale-looking palace. God, this is fun.
As the articles get more recent, the speculation ramps up about when Dare might present the world with a baby Dare. The candidates for royal motherhood are of course all spectacularly gorgeous. I suspect it’s a law somewhere that princes only procreate with the fairest of the fair. Dare doesn’t appear to have a type other than stunning. In fact, he appears to be entirely indiscriminate. Leggy blondes, short blondes, dark hair, red hair—the man’s loved his way through an entire alphabet of ladies.
I’m still scrolling past image after image, when my best friends burst in. They look slightly out of breath, which I attribute to having run straight over here after I texted them an SOS earlier. Imagine a Bengal tiger mated with a kitten and you have Lilah. She’s all soft and fluffy until you piss her off, and then she has teeth. Blonde hair twisted up on top of her head, yoga pants, and a cashmere cardigan worth more than my car. She’s a chef at one of the most popular restaurants in town, spending most of her time in double-breasted white. The cashmere takes the taste of all that white cotton out of her mouth, or so she claims.