His Princess (A Royal Romance)

by Abigail Graham

  No answer. I start to turn away from the door when I hear the lock rasp and it swings inward.

  “What?” the man inside snaps.

  I blink.

  He’s, um. He’s wearing pants, I mean that’s a start. Nothing else. Barefoot, but I’m not paying much attention to his feet. I’ve never seen anyone so muscular in person, like an underwear model, but he’s covered in tattoos, almost to the point I’d think he was wearing a transparent shirt.

  There’s a dragon on his chest and chains around his belly and figures tattooed down both arms, stopping where they’d be covered up by a dress shirt. I can’t make them all out, because he’s swathed in bandages. He towers over me and bores into me with startling blue eyes.

  “What?” he says again.

  “You can’t park your car there,” I say meekly.

  He glares at me then at the car. “What?”

  “Is that the only word you know?” I snap, anger bubbling to the surface through a thick layer of fatigue.

  “Lady, it’s my driveway. I’ll park my car in my fucking driveway if I damn well please.”

  He slams the door in my face.

  I clench my fists, and my teeth.

  You asshole. I go through all this shit to live in this stupid neighborhood with these people that look down on me and call me a slut behind my back. I work for that perverted weasel and eat ramen noodles three times a week so my kids can have real food, and I try to do you a courtesy and keep the stupid block captain off your back for their stupid rule, and this is what I get?

  I pound on the door with my fist.

  It swings open again.

  “What?” he bellows, louder.

  “Listen, asshole,” I snap at him, rising on my toes to stand a little taller. “It’s not my rule, okay? If you don’t move that jalopy, Postimia Campbell is going to file a complaint with the HOA board and tow the goddamn thing and give you a fine.”

  “What the fuck is a HOA board? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m trying to help you, you obnoxious jackass.”

  “Did you call my car a jalopy?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

  “I live next door. I’m your neighbor.”

  “Great. Go read the neighborhood watch meeting minutes or something.”

  He rolls his eyes for emphasis.

  “I told you—”

  He slams the door in my face.

  Then opens it.

  “Get off my porch, lady.”

  Slam.

  I stand there fuming for a second and then stomp down the front walk, down to the driveway and then to the street. There are no sidewalks in Hunter’s Run. People aren’t supposed to walk here. If you own a house in this craphole you should have a fancy car to drive.

  When I finally get back to my own house, my oldest daughter, Karen, opens the door before I even touch the knob.

  “Hey, Mom,” she says brightly. “We made dinner.”

  Oh come on.

  I trudge wearily into the house, and I can smell burnt food. When I walk into the kitchen, Kelly is standing in front of the stove, stirring a pot of macaroni and cheese. Judging from the marks on the stovetop, it boiled over repeatedly while she was cooking the noodles. Karen has a full pack’s worth of hot dogs rolling around in butter in a frying pan.

  They’re a little scorched, but they’re still good. I turn down the heat and roll them around a bit to make sure they’re actually hot in the middle and not just burned on the outside, while Karen lays out buns.

  They didn’t do such a bad job. I need to stir the mac and cheese a bit. The cheese powder got a little lumpy. At least they didn’t burn the house down. I want to be home to meet them but I have to work to buy them food. They’re not the only latchkey kids at school. That’s what I tell myself.

  Karen, my oldest, is fourteen. I had her when I was still in college. Her father, my ex, was one of my professors. Since I got pregnant by him, I had to quit to save his job. That was nice of you, Russel. Kelly came along four years later, and a few years after that I guess I was too worn out for him and he decided to trade up for a new model. After taking half his coeds out for a test drive first.

  If anything good came of my marriage, it’s these two. Karen makes me the most nervous. She’s starting high school this year and she looks so much like me when I was her age. It feels like a million years ago.

  Kelly is such a kid. All she wants is to eat more mac and cheese. I can’t help but smile as she piles half the pot on her plate. I don’t know where she puts it all. She’s as skinny as a reed.

  “Did you see the guy?” Karen asks.

  “What guy?”

  She chews her hot dog thoughtfully. “Next door.”

  Not this again. I sigh.

  “Yes, I saw him. He’s obnoxious and rude.”

  “And hot!”

  “Karen.” I put a hint of warning in my voice.

  “You talked to him? What’s he like?”

  Sighing, I rub the back of my hand against my temple. “Obnoxious. Rude.”

  “Hot.”

  “Karen,” I growl.

  “Fine, fine. Maybe you should give him a chance?”

  Another sigh escapes my throat. Better to let her drop it or hope something distracts her.

  “Kelly, not so much salt on the mac and cheese, okay?”

  Kelly gives me a sullen look, pushes the salt shaker back to the middle of the table, and starts shoveling yellowish noodle globs into her mouth.

  Karen is giving me that look.

  Ever since Russel filed for divorce, she’s been pushing me to find a boyfriend. I barely have time to eat and sleep, much less time to date.

  I don’t think I even remember how. I was never even in a relationship before Russel. I have kids. I don’t need a man. I’ve written it out of my life. Karen just can’t understand that. She’s got her head full of these silly ideas about romance and love. I’ve been catching her reading cheesy romance novels lately. One time I found her reading a book called Knocked Up by the Bad Boy. She’s a fan of Vanessa Waltz, whoever that is. I really shouldn’t let her read that stuff. She’s not old enough.

  I mean, really.

  “What did you talk about?”

  “What?”

  “What did you—”

  “I heard you,” I sigh. “I went over to talk to him about his car. He’s going to get it towed if he keeps it in the driveway.”

  “That’s a dumb rule.”

  “I know, but it’s still a rule.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He wasn’t happy to hear it. He slammed the door in my face.”

  “Jeez, Mom. You need a better opener than, ‘Hey, move your car.’”

  “I don’t need an opener, Karen. I’m not interested in this guy. I didn’t know he existed until I got home from work.”

  “Okay, okay, fine,” she says, her voice turning sour. “Whatever. I have homework.”

  “You’re excused,” I say, as she’s already walking upstairs.

  “Can I have the rest of the mac and cheese?” Kelly chirps.

  I nod and watch her devour it, chewing on another crusty hot dog before I’ve had enough and my youngest daughter helps me clean up the mess. Once I’ve got her ready for bed I take a shower, dry off, and crawl into my own bed.

  My alarm goes off at 4:45.

  I sit up and try to walk, rather than crawl, down to the kitchen. I need to have both kids to the bus by 6:30. In his infinite wisdom Russel put us so far from the “good schools” the realtor crowed about that my kids have to ride the bus almost an hour each way, longer if there’s traffic.

  Thanks, Russ.

  First order of business is preparing food. I want my kids to have a good breakfast, so I cook eggs and sausage myself, and pour breakfast cereal for Kelly, which she devours first.

  When they’re both fed I walk with them down to the front gate, where the bu
s stops, and pace around waiting for them to be picked up. They ride the same bus, thankfully. When it pulls up I feel the same pang I feel every time when they board and wave to me, and choke up a little walking back to the house.

  Once I’m back inside I shower again quickly, since it was a sweaty walk down to the bus stop, and dress for work.

  I have twenty-five minutes to make the bus, which will be cutting it a little close.

  Briskly I storm out of my house, run back up to lock the door, then run back, hoping I’ll make it.

  Then some asshole sprays me with a hose.

  3

  Quentin

  I’m minding my own business, hosing the soap off my car when I hear a gurgling scream and look up to see a woman standing in the spray. No, not a woman, my nosy new neighbor.

  Oh, lovely.

  No, really. She is.

  Just the sight of her stiffens my dick, which is a real problem. Tall for a woman, she’s lusciously curved and has bright-red hair tied up in a short ponytail, and the scrubs make her look like the world’s most fuckable nurse.

  The world’s most fuckable nurse just entered a wet t-shirt contest. I flick the spray away from her and she stands there sopping wet, beaded water dripping from her nose. Her clothes are soaked through, clinging to the lush curves of her body.

  Scrubs are kind of shapeless. Not anymore. She’s got a hell of a rack, an ass that cries out to be spanked, and long, shapely legs. She also has a glare that could cut glass. Her rosebud lips twist in a sneer and she storms across her lawn, fists bunched at her sides, and does a cute little thing where she sort of props up on her tiptoes to get in my face.

  “You asshole,” she snarls, “look at what you did.”

  I can’t help it, I look at what I did, and I like what I see. I glance down, and my cock stirs a little more at the sight of her scrubs molded to her breasts. It doesn’t help that, while she’s verbally tearing me a new asshole, she’s giving me the eye. Hard.

  I probably should have worn a shirt while I was doing this. This is usually the part where the girl giggles and asks me what my tattoos mean and I tell her it’s none of her business, but she can have a closer look.

  This lady, no.

  “I have to go to work,” she snaps, on the verge of tears. “Now I have to go back inside and change. I’m going to miss my fucking bus because of you.”

  “I’ll give you a ride,” I blurt, before I realize I’m doing it.

  She rears back. “Oh, great. Thanks a lot. No thanks, I’ll walk.”

  Her lip trembling like she’s on the verge of tears, she turns on her heels and strides back up to her house, and it hits me that I’m actually upset to watch her leave.

  However, I enjoy watching her go.

  The front door slams as she disappears inside.

  By the time I put up the hose and throw on a t-shirt, she’s walking out of the house.

  “Let me give you a ride.”

  “No.”

  “Come on, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spray you.”

  “Right. After that little display last night I’m supposed to believe that.”

  “Look, lady, I don’t give a goddamn what you think about where I park my—”

  She rounds on me, plants her heels, squeezes her hands into fists, and shouts at me. “I don’t care either. I was trying to save you some trouble, you musclebound meathead. If you’d stopped to listen you might have realized that instead of biting my head off for trying to help you. Get lost.”

  “No. Get in my fucking car.”

  She snaps back, blinking.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not going to let you walk wherever you’re going in this heat on the shoulder of the goddamn road. Get in my car.”

  She looks at me. “Apologize.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Apologize. For last night.”

  “Lady, I’m not your kid—”

  “If you’re not the inconsiderate asshole I think you are, you will apologize.”

  My mouth falls open. Are you fucking kidding me?

  I’m tempted to refuse her, just to see her get more pissed off. She’s cute when she’s angry.

  “Fine. I’m sorry. Now get in the car.”

  “You didn’t mean it—”

  “Lady, if you don’t get in the car I am going to throw you over my shoulder and lock you in the trunk. I am giving you a ride to work and you are going to shut up and accept it.”

  Fuming, she just stares at me.

  Then she looks at her watch and rubs her wrist.

  “Fine,” she mutters, “but you better not try anything.”

  “What are you expecting me to try?”

  She flushes red and hurries ahead of me, but I have to open her door for her anyway. She slips into the front seat and sighs audibly before leaning over to unlock my door.

  Good girl.

  I slip inside and close my door, and she folds her arms and pointedly stares straight ahead, but she flinches a little when I turn the key and the motor starts up.

  She’s a ’68 Impala. When I picked her up she was a complete mess, and I had to strip the car down to a subframe and start from scratch. Took me almost three years to get her in perfect shape with all new running gear, a big block crate engine, new brakes, better suspension, the works. My little side project. Kind of a retirement party on wheels.

  The exhaust rumbles a throaty note as I roll back out of the driveway onto the street, and…

  Wait, what’s…

  “What’s your name?”

  “Rose,” she says curtly.

  “Cute name.”

  “Shut up,” she snaps.

  “I’m giving you a ride, here,” I say, stretching my arm across the bench seat.

  She shrinks back. “Because you sprayed me with a hose.”

  “You walked into my stream. I was just minding my own business. You violated the sovereignty of my spray.”

  “There’s a water restriction, by the way,” she says haughtily, turning up her chin. “You’ll probably get a ticket for violating the water conservation rules.”

  “Ooh.” I make a little motion with my hand. “I’m scared. Not a ticket!”

  She huffs and crosses her arms harder, wriggling in the seat. Her face keeps turning red.

  I stop at a stop sign and wait.

  “I don’t know where I’m going.”

  “Dentist’s office. It’s in town. I’ll tell you where.”

  I nod.

  Then I put the pedal to the floor.

  The acceleration throws her back into the seat and she screams, sliding across the bench. I feel her hands on my chest and ease off the gas, grinning. She sits back, brushes her hair from her face, and glares at me.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “We’re going forty-five, Rose.”

  “Don’t do that again,” she says, breathless, and sinks back into her seat.

  “So you’re a dentist,” I say. “Fits your personality.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Besides, I’m not a dentist.”

  “Dentists are sadists. Hygienist?”

  “Sadists? Says the jackass that sprayed me with a hose for his own amusement. I bet you thought that was real funny.”

  “Honey,” I sigh, “seeing you sopping wet, funny is the last thing that comes to my mind.”

  She glares at me, pouting.

  “You planned that, didn’t you? You just wanted to get me in the car. Well, people know where I am, so you better not try anything, and if you do—”

  She whips out a can of Mace from her tote bag and holds it in her fist.

  I sigh.

  “You can put that away, I get the message,” I say smoothly. “Look, the hose thing was an accident. I’m trying to make amends. That’s all.”

  “Right,” she says bitterly. “We’re almost there. Turn left.”

  She points at a sign. “There.”

  It’s just a house, but I guess mos
t dentists’ offices are. I pull into the lot and she hurriedly fumbles her door open and steps out.

  “Hey, Rose, you want a ride home?”

  “No,” she snaps back, “I’ll take the bus. Thanks…” she trails off.

  “Quentin. I’m Quentin.”

  “I don’t care,” she says hurriedly, and then rushes inside.

  I lean back in the seat and drum my fingers on the steering wheel.

  Rose. An apt name. Something about her lights a fire where there’s been only embers for a long time. I can feel them swirling around hot in my stomach as the real heat kicks over and spreads. The image of her sopping wet in those clingy scrubs stiffens my dick.

  She’s got a spark, too. Most girls just fawn over me and try to hop into bed. Normally I oblige them. A wise man once told me a good fuck is like breakfast: never pass it up, you don’t know the next time you’re going to get it.

  This one is less a good breakfast and more a fine wine.

  God bless bitchy women.

  I back out of the spot and roll away from the office, slowing when I see her sitting down behind the receptionist’s desk, a blank look on her face. She leans on her palm, sighs, and looks up, spots me, and turns away, her cheeks turning pink.

  When I pull out on the road I lean back in the seat and shift so my hard-on isn’t so uncomfortable.

  “Jesus, Quentin,” I say out loud. “You’ve been here less than a day and you’re already thinking about plowing the local milf. Get your shit together.”

  Last thing I need right now is some girl…woman hanging around my neck while I sort out what the fuck I’m going to do.

  Rose may have her problems, but I’ve got mine. A crazy bitch tried to slice and dice me yesterday, and she’s probably not the only one hunting me.

  She mentioned his name.

  Santiago.

  Santiago de la Rosa. The greatest assassin in the world, the Leonardo of killers, the Mozart of murderers. For years I was his protégé, learning his methods, drawing on his secrets. That girl—she called herself Lily—knew I was one of his. There were others. When he trained me, I was one of two. Myself and a girl, Samantha, about my age.

  We were close.

  Bad things happened.

  Santiago has trained others. Killers. Some of the deadliest in the world. Poisoners who can kill from across the country, snipers who can drop a man at a thousand yards as easy as swatting a fly. Masters of a dozen killing arts.