Royally Hung

by Anne Marsh

  “She’s possessive,” I stage whisper to the blonde.

  Who grins.

  “Can’t say as I blame her.”

  “I know, right?” I pull on my jacket because it’s important Edee understands I know how to compromise. Plus, I could totally have lost my pants. The seating thing is still an issue, though. There’s no room at the table for a fourth—especially not a fourth who comes with a bodyguarding fifth wheel. Mr. Right is nowhere near as discreet as he thinks he is. Since I’m a creative thinker, I scoop Edee up, slide onto the bench, and drop her into my lap, avoiding the icy patch.

  “Introduce me to your friends?”

  She winces. “Really?”

  “It’s an important relationship step, brown eyes.”

  The blonde laughs and shoves her hand at me. “I’m Lilah.” I give her a head tip and a quick shake and release.

  “Rima.” The dark-haired doesn’t stick her hand out, but she tips her head at me. Her smile is slightly feral, so I peg her as the Doubting Thomas in this group. She’ll be the one telling Edee I’m too good to be true.

  A surge of music from the sound system drowns out anything else Rima has to say. A place like this should have one of those roving mariachi bands. I make a mental note to get Mr. Right on that—we’re about five hours from Cancun. He can fly someone in. If we drink long enough, we can end with a song and then go back to my place.

  I steal a sip of Edee’s margarita. Some kind of exotic fruit flavor that would taste amazing painted across her skin but that does nothing for me in a glass. I’ll get right on that. We’re starting to get sidelong glances from the other diners in the restaurant, people getting their cell phones out and lining up a shot. Mr. Right casually moves in front of Edee and me, blocking most of the looky-loos. I make a mental note to give him a raise. I hope Edee’s not big on casual nights out because our marriage is going to make that difficult.

  “So you two really got married?” Rima asks. See? Total Doubting Thomas.

  “I couldn’t say no when Edee proposed.”

  Edee elbows me in the ribs and I smirk. “It’s the truth.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re splitting grammatical hairs,” Edee mutters.

  I’m not sure what she’s told them, and that’s a potential problem. As hard as I’ve worked to earn my bad boy prince reputation, I’ve also learned the value of a good NDA.

  Rina turns to me, her forehead puckering. “For real?”

  “For now,” I say firmly. “You don’t think Edee will make an awesome princess?”

  “She’ll be the best.” Lilah slurs that last word and I revise my mariachi band plan. We’ll have to come back tomorrow night.

  Instead, we toast Edee’s elevation to royalty—and Rima promises to scoop out my royal balls with a rusty garden shovel if I so much as breathe on Edee wrong. I like these girls. They love Edee, and they’re looking out for her. So I pull out all the royal, charming, sexy stops in my arsenal. I pull a white box tied with a pink velvet ribbon out of the carrier bag by my feet.

  My eyes meet Edee’s.

  “For you,” I say.

  “Are you trying to impress her?” Lilah looks totally impressed; Rima, on the other hand, eyes the box as if she suspects I’ve gift wrapped an adder or a bomb.

  “I picked it for the ribbon.” I wink and hand the box over.

  Edee looks adorably uncertain for a moment—I’m betting that she, too, is thinking about all the dirty, cock-achingly erotic things one can do with a good ribbon—but she takes it. Score one point for me. The lid comes off and Edee’s face lights up as she pulls the camera out. Finding it took hours, but it’s worth it.

  I run a finger down her cheek. “Do I get a thank-you kiss?”

  Edee ignores me, fingers flying over the whatsits and whoozits on that camera. “I missed you.”

  I plant a kiss on her ear. “I missed you, too, love.”

  She doesn’t look up. “Not you. Mr. Precious.”

  Challenge accepted.

  Mr. Left materializes next to Mr. Right and murmurs something. Mr. Right looks pained, but he turns toward me. Years ago, I insisted that my bodyguards learn a few basic signs in the princely bad boy sign language. The military has its own hand lexicon; scuba divers do as well. And now so do princes. One, it amused me. Two, when you spend as much time in clubs as I do, it gets hard to hear anything. This explains why Mr. Right points toward me, rubs his fingers together in the universal money gesture, and then makes a bottoms-up, drinking gesture with his thumb. That’s the sign for you pay for drinks—as well as gotta leave. I like a multipurpose sign.

  I slide out of the booth and set Edee down on her feet. I’d prefer to carry her out of here like a caveman but that would lead to pictures.

  “Come with me?” I hold out my hand.

  Edee hesitates for a moment, but then she slides her hand into mine. Yes, I refrain from fist pumping. Barely.

  Rima follows us, her hand on my arm slowing my roll. I pause. “Yeah?”

  “I’m going to keep this simple,” she says. “We weren’t joking earlier, Your Highness. If you hurt her, I will kill you. Don’t think being royalty in some country I’ve never heard of will keep you safe. I will track you down. I will hurt you.”

  She would be perfect for Queenie. I wonder if she’s on the market.

  “Understood,” I say quietly. I toss a handful of bills onto the table. Waiting for the check isn’t part of my plan.

  “The drinks are two for one,” Lilah points out dryly. “Hello, overkill.”

  Rain is wet, eating the worm in the tequila bottle is never recommended, and acrobats will always be the best fuck a guy’s ever had. I have money. These are facts—as is the fact that I’m certainly not going to let Edee or her lady friends pick up a tab. But all three girls frown and stare at the wad of cash like I just farted in the Sistine Chapel—and then the Pope walked out. It’s just money.

  “We should go dutch.”

  Funny how it’s so loud in here but I can hear her perfectly. Lilah and Rima nod vigorously, fishing in their purses for money. What. The. Fuck.

  I look at Edee. She’s rummaging around in her purse, too. Money’s flying everywhere as the girls pull fives and tens out of their bags and start slapping that shit down on the table in some crazy version of war. The waiter’s going to be one happy guy. While they go slap happy, I beckon the waiter over and slide him the cash.

  All three ladies turn to argue with me. I hold up a hand.

  “I invited myself along. I’ll pay. It’s not like I’m buying a round of Lamborghinis.”

  Edee’s cheeks flush—she’s gearing up to rip me a new one. “You can’t do that.”

  “Can.”

  She folds her arms over chest. “We can pay for our own drinks.”

  “I want to know about the cars,” Lilah mutters. “Can he really do that?”

  Just for the record? Yes. Yes, I can. I also did one memorable evening in Monte Carlo. The bar staff still recognizes me and I’ve never paid for a drink since.

  Edee glares at me. “We’re not for sale.”

  Actually, technically, she was—although since she signed our marital agreement under the influence, I should probably be a gentleman and not remind her of that little fact.

  “Edee?” I cup her face with my hand and kick the empty carrier bag under the table.

  “What?” I can’t help but notice that she doesn’t step away.

  “Shut up,” I say gently. “I’m buying this round. You can buy the next.”

  Edee sighs. “Come on, wonder boy. You said you had to go.”

  She hooks a finger in my belt loop and starts towing me toward the front door. On my way out, though, I can’t resist stopping at the front desk and picking up a souvenir T-shirt. Once I’v
e given the signal to roll, I’m supposed to keep right on rolling until I’m in the secured vehicle. But fuck it. Tonight’s been awesome and I’d like to remember it. Plus, I don’t think La Salsa is a hotbed of would-be assassins—other than Edee’s delightfully bloodthirsty friends.

  I turn to the cashier to pay for the shirt, but Edee beats me to the punch, handing the girl behind the counter two twenties. Which is highway robbery for a T-shirt. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t care. I consider it the prince tax and I happily pay it. But this Edee’s money and I know she doesn’t have much of it.

  She hands me the shirt with a little smile. “Merry Christmas.”

  When I take a girl out, I pay. I know it’s the modern era, but I’m loaded and they enjoy it. This is the first time I can remember someone buying me something. So I brush a kiss over her cheek and say thank you.

  I thumb on my sunglasses. It never hurts to be prepared.

  I strong-arm the door open and hold it for Edee. She gives me a small smile, the corners of her eyes crinkling up as if she’s in on a really great joke.

  “A gentleman prince,” she says gravely.

  “Never.” I wink.

  I sweep her my fanciest ceremonial bow and she outright laughs. Christ, she’s got an awesome laugh. It makes me smile back. It makes me want to—

  I lose that thought because we walk out of the restaurant.

  Or we try to.

  I have excellent reflexes. This is partly due to genetics and partly due to my time in the army. On the front line, I was a target—and not a prince. I learned to take the appropriate steps. So when the first flashes go off with blinding rapidity, I shift Edee behind me, blocking the photographers’ view of her.

  Naturally, this doesn’t deter the paparazzi. A shot of me and Edee together would be the money shot, particularly if they caught her face, but any picture is going to be worth bank at the moment. This isn’t Los Angeles—it could be worse—but it appears that most of Las Vegas’s paps have relocated here in the hopes of getting a royal scoop. Calling my name. Hollering for Princess Dare to look this way.

  Edee freezes, her fingers digging into the waistband of my jeans. “Are they here for you?”

  There’s a time and place for everything, so I lie to her. “Yeah.”

  “This sucks.” Her fingers slip beneath the edge of my jacket and stroke my bare skin.

  She’s not wrong.

  “I’ll get us out of here,” I promise. I forgot she was new to this. That she wasn’t one of the society princesses or D-list celebrities I usually hang with. Edee doesn’t want to wake up tomorrow to find her face splashed all over the gossip sites.

  Mr. Right is already out in front of us, holding back the press of photographers.

  Good. I know these bastards. They’d be right up in Edee’s face otherwise, and then I’d have to hurt someone and I wouldn’t give a shit about causing an international incident.

  I hate hanging back, though. If it were just me, I’d shove through the crowd. I’d give them their photos, toss them a quote even if it was just sod off. But I’ve got Edee to think about. I have one job: keeping her happy. And safe.

  And yes, I know that’s two things, but for Edee, I’m starting to suspect that they’re one and the same.

  So I hang back, keeping my body between her and the photo-hungry horde. I ignore the calls from the paparazzi. I don’t give them the bird, don’t give them the royal death glare. I stand there like fucking Mount Rushmore, not blinking, not moving. This is what Edee needs right now.

  Mr. Right signals. The car’s en route. Good.

  I turn my head so I can see the top of Edee’s face. “The car’s pulling up. We’re gonna blow this place, okay?”

  “I’m not sure I can move,” she admits.

  There’s another wave of sound and flashes from our not-so-secret admirers as the car eases up to the curb. Mr. Right springs to open the back door and gives me the nod.

  “I’ve got you,” I tell her.

  It sounds stupid. Like something you write on a greeting card or a balloon. The sort of shit my friends hire a skywriter to paint in ginormous letters, preferably at sunset, when they’re romancing a girl and they want to convince her that they’re all in. But Edee nods. At least one of us believes me.

  I scoop Edee up in my arms and stride for the door. I won’t run. I won’t give them the satisfaction of knowing they bother me. And while I’m sure some of them are perfectly lovely people just trying to pay the bills, most of them would sell their mothers, their souls, their golden retriever puppies for The Shot. The one that sets them up for life because they’ve captured something so entirely personal that no one else has had the balls to publish it to the world.

  Edee promptly buries her face in my chest. I enjoy this more than I should. I can only imagine Queenie’s reaction if the paps get a dick shot and publish that for the whole world to see.

  I slide her into the car and buckle her in. We all know what happened to Princess Diana. Her driver led the paparazzi on a crazy-wild chase and no one took the proper safety precautions. It’s too late for woulda-coulda-shouldas after you’ve careened into the side of a tunnel doing one hundred. All the money in the world can’t stop you from flying through the windshield.

  The engine purrs as Mr. Left gets us the hell out of dodge and Edee looks around. I can’t tell if she’s impressed or not, but she should be. Money has a scent. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. The car reeks of wealth. Leather seats, tinted glass, an engine built for a racecar.

  “Am I going to be an Internet star?”

  “Did you want to be?”

  The more I look at her, the lovelier she gets. Her face is pink, from embarrassment most likely. Crazy strands of brown hair curl left, right, and out, but that just makes me look at her pretty face. There must be a better word than brown for her eyes. I try on a few. Chocolate, velvet, cocoa, hazel, nut-colored. I’m either hungry or I want to eat her up.

  She looks out the window. “Where are we going?”

  “For starters? Away.” I shrug. “The paparazzi will follow us until they get bored or find a better story to chase.”

  Edee wraps her arms around herself. Is she cold? Nervous? I wrap my arm around her shoulders and she collapses onto my chest like she’s done it a thousand times before and it’s where she belongs. Every inch of me—especially the many, many inches immediately south of my belt buckle—agrees.

  She’s deliciously curvy, so sweetly rounded that I’m not sure where to put my hands first. First choice might be her tits, straining at her shirt. Or I could go for the spots where her faded blue jeans hug her hips and thighs. Or . . . the fuck-me shoes. She’s got on a pair of strappy sandals that beg for attention. I hadn’t pegged her for a heels-wearer, but color me thrilled. Do you think she’d be willing to ride me like a cowgirl in the backseat of our town car? Our seat belts would be a challenge, but I’m up for it.

  The car picks up speed and Edee glances nervously toward the windows. The windows are tinted, so we’re relatively private—but it also makes it harder to see outside. It’s like we’re hurtling through the evening in a leather and steel cocoon.

  “I should go home,” she says.

  “We should lose our tail,” I counter. “Or they’ll be camped outside your house forever.”

  Well, not forever. The press is as fickle as their readers. Eventually, the story of an American girl turned princess will get old and the vultures will move on to harass someone else. But until then she’ll face a barrage of cameras every time she steps off the property. She’ll have to worry about long-distance lenses peering into her pool house. She won’t have a minute of privacy because there will always be someone, somewhere, who is willing to sell her out. The only thing surprising is how cheaply most people barter their souls for.

  She turns away from the window to stare at me. “A
re you serious? People live like that?”

  “Being royal is big business,” I explain. “Everyone’s curious.”

  She shakes her head. “Not me.”

  I tug her closer. “I promise I’m super interesting.”

  She looks up at me and grins. She’s about to say something when the Escalade escalates to warp speed and she jerks backward. I wrap a protective hand around her head, cushioning her landing.

  Her expression is concerned. “What’s happening?”

  Mr. Left leans over the front seat. “The paparazzi are in pursuit.”

  We’ll have a word later about his desire to be helpful.

  “Are we a mouse in this scenario?”

  I look at her. Her face is more indignant than terrified, so that’s good.

  “More like the roadrunner.”

  Busy working his phone, Mr. Right ignores our witty repartee. From what I can overhear of his tight, low-voiced conversation, he’s trying to interest the local police in our tail. It won’t work. It never does. I once got a ticket for going a hundred in a forty-miles-per-hour zone trying to shake a tail loose. Think of it as the royalty tax.

  I’m used to being chased. Girlfriends, wannabe princesses, paparazzi—everyone wants a piece of me. I prefer to be the one doing the chasing. Stop rolling your eyes. Yes, that makes me a guy. I totally get off on the hunt—so sue me. Think of it as foreplay.

  I shift in my seat, holding Edee closer. A quick glance out the back window of the Escalade reveals three photographers visibly riding our ass. They’re definitely not concerned about obeying the traffic laws. After all, I’m an A-list celebrity and a newsworthy shot of me is worth far more than any fine on the books. Right now, I’m just grateful that they’re photographers and not Queenie’s hired goons.

  Edee’s forehead wrinkles. “This sucks.”

  “I know. I hate them, too.”

  So much. Sometimes I’m so tired of hating them, of wanting them just to go away and leave me alone, and that makes me sound like a whiny, entitled snowflake.

  “Does this happen often?” Her throat works. I don’t get carsick, but I recognize the symptoms. There’s a first time for everything. I rip off my jacket and hold it out to her.