His Princess (A Royal Romance)

by Abigail Graham

  “Did she say why?”

  “No, but she asked if I like you.”

  I plunge my head into my hands and groan.

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing. You don’t have much experience with girls, do you?”

  He gives me a sharp look.

  “I mean girl children.”

  “No, can’t say I do.”

  I roll my eyes. “So you don’t know. Good, we’re almost here.”

  I lean back as Quentin waves at the gate guard and rolls into the neighborhood. It’s a quick drive down the two streets, and then he’s pulling into my driveway.

  I sit awkwardly as he looks at me.

  “We’re here.”

  I almost feel like I should invite him in.

  Then Karen makes the decision for me. She throws the front door open and shouts, “Mr. Mulqueen!”

  Oh for God’s sake.

  I palm my face as she shouts, “We made you a pie! Come in!”

  Wait, what?

  He looks at me. “Should I?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Up to you,” he shrugs, “but you do owe me a pie.”

  I scowl at him and step out. I say nothing but he follows me up the driveway anyway and to the front door. I step inside and smell…burning.

  Dropping my tote bag, I rush into the kitchen and yank open the oven.

  The thing inside is round, and it’s in a pie pan. I guess that qualifies it as a pie of some sort. The crust looks overdone and the filling is a brownish glop. I snap on a pair of oven mitts and lift the thing onto the stove top and step back.

  “Smells good,” Quentin says, striding into the kitchen.

  I turn slowly and look at him.

  Smells good?

  He looks at me and shrugs.

  My girls rush to his sides, and Karen grabs the pie slicer from the cupboard and starts sawing into the so-called pie, while Kelly stands on her tiptoes to perilously pull plates out of the cupboard, until I rush over and grab them before they end up shattered on the floor.

  “Why did you make me a pie?” Quentin asks.

  “Um,” Karen says, at the height of her verbal powers.

  It’s only now I notice that they’re both wearing dresses, and Kelly has a bow in her hair, and Karen has slopped on makeup in the way only a fourteen-year-old can.

  What are they doing?

  “Here you go,” Karen announces proudly as she deposits a slice of pie in front of Quentin.

  “What is this, apple?”

  “Yeah. We didn’t have any apples, so we used applesauce.”

  Quentin and I both stare at her.

  It doesn’t look like applesauce to me. It holds its shape well enough, for one thing.

  “I like a slice of cheese on my apple pie.”

  Before I can say anything, Kelly slams the block of cheese from the deli drawer onto the table and daintily peels off one slice, which Quentin lays on his pie before he cuts off the end with his fork and chews it.

  I catch a momentary flash of disgust on his face before he forces a smile and takes another, big bite.

  He coughs. “Can I have some milk?”

  “Yeah, sure!” Kelly chirps.

  I beat her to the fridge and pour a big glass myself, and he drinks half of it before he soldiers on through the rest of the pie, finally scooping up blackened shards of the outer crust with his fingers before drowning the last of it in the dregs of the milk. I pour him another glass before he even asks and he drinks most of it in one go then wipes his chin on his arm.

  “Thanks,” he says. “So, Rose, you need a ride or not?”

  “Yes,” Karen cuts in before I can answer. “To school, right?”

  “Yes,” I sigh.

  “See? She needs a ride,” Karen announces.

  She starts to leave. “Young lady, I’m not done with you. We’re going to talk about skipping school, and trespassing.”

  “It wasn’t a big deal,” Quentin interjects. “The trespassing part. She didn’t hurt anything.”

  Karen beams at him, and I scowl.

  “Stay in school, though. I’ll head home, when you’re ready to go you can—”

  “Watch TV with us,” Kelly demands, seizing his wrist.

  I sigh. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  “Yeah,” Quentin says as Kelly half drags him to the living room.

  I rush upstairs, checking my watch. Not much time. I hurry through a quick shower to get the Burt-sleaze feeling off my skin and dry as fast as I can before pulling on stockings, a skirt, and a blouse. I redo my makeup a little and slip into a pair of pumps and as I descend the staircase, Quentin watches the entire time.

  He continues to fix his eyes on me, and not Spongebob Squarepants, as he stands up.

  “You look nice.”

  Kelly whispers something in Karen’s ear. Probably, Oh my God, he said she looks nice.

  “We should go,” I say quickly. “I can’t be late for this.”

  I already have my bag packed by the door. I reach to grab it but Quentin beats me, and I have to snap my hand back before I touch his wrist. He has big hands, lean and hard like the rest of him, with long fingers. He swings the door open and gestures for me to go first, with a smirk.

  I have to fight off a smile as I pass through the door, and remind myself: this asshole sprayed me with a hose this morning. I put on a good scowl and stalk down to his car, where he of course opens the door for me and deposits my bag between my legs after I’m in.

  Once he’s inside and he starts the motor, he says, “I’m sorry about the hose thing. I was a bit of an ass about it.”

  “It’s a little late.” I scowl.

  He shrugs and backs out of the drive, stopping with a jolt as a horn blares behind us.

  It’s Mrs. Campbell, the self-appointed HOA block captain, who lives two doors up. She drives by in her Audi and gives us both a good, long stare, her thin lips pursed, before speeding up. Quentin sighs and backs the rest of the way out.

  “Thank you for eating the pie,” I say quietly. “They’d have been heartbroken if you spat it out.”

  “It tasted like packed dirt.”

  I burst out laughing, and Quentin snickers.

  “Keep the rest of it away from me, please.”

  I only laugh harder, and swipe at my eyes. I haven’t laughed that hard in a long, long time. I fall back in the seat and sigh.

  “Tired?”

  “Yeah. Up before five, class runs until nine at night.”

  “I’ll pick you up.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I don’t have anything better to do.”

  I snort. “What do you do, anyway?”

  He shifts in his seat. “Right now, I’m, uh…on vacation.”

  I sit up and glance at him in the rearview mirror. “That’s not a job.”

  “Well, I’m a…contractor,” he says. “I mostly work from home. Ah, technical stuff. Very complicated.”

  Something about his manner is off. I could almost believe he doesn’t want me to think he’s a nerd, but there’s hardly any danger of that. As soon as I look at him, my eyes trace along the sleeve of tattoos on his muscular arm from where his wrist rests on the steering wheel to his shoulder, stopping to stare at the bandage on his bicep.

  “Law school, huh?”

  “Not yet. I’m finishing my bachelor’s so I can apply. That’s going to be fun,” I sigh. “I’ll probably have to stop sleeping entirely. Maybe I’ll skip it if I can use the degree to get a better job, but…” I trail off.

  Not likely, unless I move, which isn’t an option. I don’t think I could afford to rent a truck, much less put down a security deposit, and the girls like it here, or at least they like the town. God, I’m trapped in this place. A gilded cage.

  “You shouldn’t let that asshole treat you that way,” he says, a little growl edging into his voice.

  “What, exactly, am I supposed to do?”

>   “Stand up for yourself.”

  “I stand up for myself, I get fired.”

  “It shouldn’t be that way.”

  “Lots of things shouldn’t be that way,” I say, a sad sigh dragging on my voice. “They are anyway.”

  He nods. “Yeah. That’s true.”

  Suddenly his gaze goes distant, like he’s staring through the world, to the other side. He looks hurt, and not whatever is under those bandages. I can’t help but reach across the bench seat and touch his shoulder. He jerks and the car swerves a little.

  “Uh, sorry.”

  “You were somewhere else for a while, there.”

  “Yeah. Guess I was.”

  I cock my head. “Where?”

  “Long story,” he says curtly. “Not very interesting.”

  I shrug. “If you say so. The turn is up here. Castlebrook College.”

  He turns off. “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s accredited,” I sigh. “If I could go to Harvard I wouldn’t be here, trust me.”

  “You probably could.” He shrugs. “Go to Harvard, I mean. You seem pretty smart.”

  I roll my eyes. “Thanks. All I’ve done is yell at you since we’ve met.”

  “Yeah. Well, maybe I like a challenge,” he says, a little edge in his voice.

  I shrink in the seat as I feel heat on my face. Damn it. He openly gives me an appraising look. I’m not exactly dressed sexy, but I suddenly feel like I’m sitting here in my underwear, in a good way. I haven’t felt that way in a while.

  “I’d better go. It’s that building there.”

  “Pick you up at nine,” he says as the car slides to a gentle stop.

  “Yeah, see you then.”

  I rush out of the car without looking back, afraid he’ll see how red my face is. I take a moment to stop and compose myself in the mirror in the hallway before heading into the classroom.

  It’s no huge lecture hall, just a room that would hold about fifty people, tops, at cheap tables with cheap chairs. The class is about thirty strong. Business math.

  I hurry to my seat, glancing at the clock. It’s one minute after the official start of class.

  The professor, Dr. Calvin Hevermeyer, PhD, turns, and looks straight at me as I slink into my seat.

  “Mrs. Dawson. So glad you could join us,” he says drolly.

  I hate my life.

  5

  Quentin

  Rose strides into the little brick building, and once again I find myself admiring the view. I’d like to chase her down and rip that skirt off and get my hands on her ass.

  Snap out of it, Quentin, what are you even doing here? You’re supposed to be lying low.

  I growl at myself, and the Impala growls as I ease out the clutch and swing her around to leave the parking lot. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel and lean forward to look up. The sky is growing ugly. Looks like rain.

  Having nowhere else to go, I drive back to the house. The alleged pie sits in my stomach like a stone, and the thought of it twists my guts, but something about those kids made me cagey about hurting their feelings, so I choked it down. I still need real food.

  The quest for real food ends up with heating a can of spaghetti in the microwave and eating it standing up in the kitchen. There’s not much of a point to this house. I’ve always been happy with a smaller space, but if I want to blend in, I’m stuck with it.

  Doing a great job of blending in so far, aren’t I? I don’t know what’s the matter with me. Ever since I saw Rose soaking wet with hose water, I haven’t been able to get her out of my head.

  After stuffing my face with the last of the spaghetti, I head out into the backyard and make sure the kid, Karen, didn’t see anything amiss. All the windows have curtains and blinds, and even when I crouch and press my hand to the glass to see better, I can’t make anything out. Good.

  Back inside, I lock up. I could get drunk. No, wait, I have to pick up Rose. No booze. I could crash out in the living room and try to amuse myself with television.

  Kids’ cartoons are weird anymore. Why is there a squirrel with a diving helmet?

  Or I could find out something about this Burt.

  I head into the garage. I moved all the shit out of the way so I could pull the Impala inside this afternoon, and it’s a good thing. The rain has just started.

  The room has a musty smell, and all the house junk is exposed, the guts of the heater and air conditioner and the water heater or whatever. In the corner I’ve set up my computer, some workbenches, and a safe.

  I’m playing it cool with the gear—nothing illegal in my safe. I’m keeping that elsewhere in case I need it. Not like that’s my greatest worry or anything, I mean, if I get caught I’m going up the river no matter what I do.

  At the computer, I get ready to go fishing. First I check the security of the connection—I don’t use Windows or Macintosh but a form of Linux that’s built from the ground up for security. Everything stored on my hard drive is encrypted; I’ll spare you the gory details, but it would take every computer on Earth running day and night using all the electricity in the world a thousand years to crack my files.

  More importantly, I access the Internet through a proxy system called onion routing, over a secured private network. It’s not perfect but with a little extra caution I’m virtually undetectable as I do my research.

  Unfortunately it’s slow as hell, and while it takes its sweet-ass time to load, I put on a pot of coffee and pace around the room. I should work out. I have all the equipment I need, it’s just a matter of setting it up, but I’m stiff as hell and I have to watch out for these damned stitches.

  When the goddamn thing loads, I type in the dentist’s name.

  Burt Simonson, DDS.

  A frightening array of information becomes available to me almost immediately. Almost, because it takes five minutes to load.

  Somewhere Burt should be feeling a goose walk across his grave. A contract killer is gathering a dossier on him.

  I’m not going to kill him.

  I just want to talk about how he treats his employees, and how he looks at little girls.

  I have a…thing about people who hurt little girls.

  After a few sips of coffee, the information loads, and it’s amazingly boring. He has a great credit score, married, two kids, lives near Rose but not in her neighborhood, owns a Buick SUV, a BMW sedan, and just bought that Benz I saw him driving this afternoon.

  I wonder if his wife knows he’s fucking the barely legal receptionist at his office and trying to put the moves on the milf.

  Stop thinking of her as a milf, Quentin.

  This isn’t enough.I need more.

  So I head to the information market.

  What’s available for free on the Internet is scary. What can be dug up by an expert in systems and social engineering is fucking terrifying. I put out the call and start taking bids. Everything is paid for in cryptocurrency—secure and virtually untraceable. It’s going to take a while before I get enough bites, but it should be fairly easy and cheap. I’m not looking for details on a senator or something here. He’s just some guy.

  It’s seven o’clock already. I pick Rose up at nine. First I take meticulous care to properly shut everything off, closing my connection and giving the computer enough time to encrypt and dump the 256-bit keys from the RAM. If someone busted into the house right now they’d have about six minutes to get the computer’s memory chips into liquid nitrogen and try to extract the keys the computer uses to solve an insanely complex equation, and access my data.

  At ten minutes after seven I slip into the car and pull out in a light drizzle, the rain having subsided a bit. On my passenger’s seat is a sticky pad with some relevant info about my new best friend, Burt.

  First off we’re going to check out his house.

  It’s a short drive, but I’m not getting into his neighborhood just by rolling up to the gate. All of these places have a guard at the front entrance, it’s so
fucking weird. What’s so important that they have to pay some guy to sit out front and eye fuck everybody driving in? Besides, it’s not like they’re securing anything. I haven’t been challenged once and even if I was all I’d have to do is park the car and walk right in.

  That’s what I do now. I park off the road and walk through the trees. Problem is they just cut off where the neighborhood starts; they must have bulldozed everything when they started building the place. No cover.

  Fortunately for me, Burt must have paid extra for a house on a cul-de-sac, backing up to the woods. Perfect. I circle around the whole way, watching for someone to spot me. They all have these huge backyards, but no one in them. There are barbecue grills and hot tubs, all sitting there lonely and empty.

  Burt’s house is one of the biggest in the neighborhood, a six-bedroom, three-floor monstrosity with an enormous backyard, complete with in-ground pool and brick barbecue, the works.

  There’s no one outside. I slip up to the shed then sprint across the open space to the back of the house. It’s easy to reach up, pull, and hang off the back deck.

  Burt is inside with the wife, sitting at his kitchen table. By the looks of things they’re doing their monthly bills. She’s a cute one, the wife. Twenty years younger, at least, and apparently he likes redheads.

  I’m not here for that. I drop down and circle around, crouching and checking to see if anyone might spot me. It’s so damned open, but I love a challenge.

  In a pouch on my belt I’ve got a device called a packet sniffer. I check the basement through the window to see what kind of Internet connection he has. It’s a fiber line, so I move around to the corner of the house and find where the fiber emerges from the ground and flows back into the house, next to the electrical conduit box. From there it’s a simple job to splice the packet sniffer into the line.

  I work my way along the foundation of the house, to the garage. Going in through the garage door itself is a no-go, too loud. Fortunately there’s a back door, and there’s no deadbolt so it’s easily picked, takes me two seconds with a pick gun. I stop and scan the room; Burt might be the type to have a security camera system, but no, he feels too safe for that.