by Amelia Wilde
And we’re not total strangers, are we? What we have is on another level, and I’m almost certain that the way we play off each other in bed, driving each other wilder the more we’re together, unable to quench our need for one another, is a reflection of something deeper than lust.
Maybe I’m kidding myself.
Maybe I’ve made a huge mistake. I’ve up and followed a guy who claims to be a prince, and could have any woman he wants, onto a plane bound for a country halfway around the world. It’s like I’m a modern-day Cinderella, only I’m not in need of rescue. I have a nice life in New York—good friends, a steady job…
But something was missing, I hear that pesky truth-sayer singing to me in the back of my mind. Something was missing, and you know it.
Something will be missing now if this doesn’t work out. People will think I’m missing! It’s not like I called in sick…
I bolt upright in my seat with a gasp.
“What is it?” asks Alec—Prince Alec, I remind myself—gripping my hand tighter, eyes wide with concern.
“I didn’t call in to work. I didn’t show up today!” I shriek in panic. “I’ll lose my job!”
Alec responds by laughing indulgently. “I’m sure you could get another job inside a week.”
It’s true—I could probably rely on Carolyn’s good graces until I found another job. She can afford the rent. Then again, I haven’t told her about me jetting off to some random European country with a prince yet, either.
Jesus. This is probably the most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve upended my life more than once. Only each of those times, I had at least a hint of a plan in mind. This time? I have nothing.
I pull my purse out from where it’s stored neatly under the seat in front of us and remove my phone from the middle compartment. The flight’s in-flight Wi-Fi makes it easy for me to send a few messages. I start with Carolyn.
I’m heading to Europe on an impromptu vacation. Not sure when I’ll be back. Don’t worry. Be in touch soon…
The scenery greeting us when we step out of the airport in Saintland takes my breath away.
The airport itself was small and meticulously maintained, a far cry from the massive scale and overall dinginess of LaGuardia, but instead of skyscrapers, bustling streets with honking taxis and throngs of people scurrying here and there, it’s surrounded by something straight out of a storybook. A sprawling town filled with Eastern European–style buildings encircled by lush rolling green hills and flower-dotted valleys, mothers and children strolling shining streets, and, no joke, a palace overlooking it all from the highest point.
We look up to see Nate in the driver’s seat of a shiny black town car, navigating his way across a couple lanes of traffic to pull up in front of us at the airport exit door. Several small Saintland flags lining the hood and bumper are flapping in the wind. Alec waits as Nate shifts the car into park and then comes around to where we are waiting to open the doors. Nate patiently stands at attention, waiting for Alec to give the signal. I slide into the back seat first, followed immediately by Alec, and then Nate closes the door behind him before he puts what little luggage we brought with us into the trunk.
I realize that Alec and Nate’s interaction seems very formal, and is a far cry from the way they bickered behind closed doors in New York. I’m beginning to realize that everything is going to be different here…but how much different, I don’t know.
It doesn’t take long for me to figure it out, though. As Nate pulls the car away from the airport, I notice that several other sleek black and official-looking vehicles seem to be falling into line behind us.
Then I hear the wailing sirens.
Alec groans. “Nate, you asshole, did you tell the palace that we were returning?”
Nate doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “Yes, your highness, since I would like to secure my employment in your household. Also, your father was keen on ensuring that your trip to New York appeared to be an officially sanctioned trip.”
“Oh, and a royal escort through the capitol is going to do that?”
“He seems to think so.”
Nate screws up his mouth, and I wonder exactly what I’ve gotten myself into.
Alec and I talked during the flight when the sky above the Atlantic was dark. He told me his full name is Alexander Charles Caldwell, and he is second in line to the throne of Saintland after his older brother, Marcus. It’s only been the three of them since his mother died of breast cancer when he was ten years old. I also got the impression from the way he spoke about his dad and brother that they hadn’t exactly approved of his vacation to the United States.
After Alec finished outlining his life story, I told him some of mine. How I wouldn’t take no for an answer about boarding school. How my closest friends are rich, but no matter how many years I spend in their world, I never quite feel like I belong. How I was thinking of leaving New York for a fresh start.
That’s when it hit me. Maybe this was divine intervention, and Alec was my fresh start.
Nah. But it was good luck.
“I guess,” I said to him in a low tone, “this could be the perfect distraction.” I keep it noncommittal. No need to promise each other forever, not this early in the process, not when emotions are still running high from our big escape from the paparazzi.
As I lean against Alec in the back of a royal town car—I still can’t believe that’s what this is—and absorb the beautiful quaint European countryside that’s giving way to a city that seems both modern and historic, I sigh deeply. Things are squared away with Carolyn. My job is probably a thing of the past, but it wasn’t my dream job anyway.
I feel light-headed as it dawns on me. The real adventure is about to begin.
14
Alec
I set Jessica up in the Royal Suite at the Northern Crown, which is only about a half mile from the palace. If it were up to me, I’d bring her directly to my father’s council chamber and introduce her to him right now—there’s no way he could deny how smart, beautiful and incredible she is—but I know that even if Jessica was an angel who descended directly from heaven, the conversation would still be tense.
As it stands, the household staff gives me sympathetic looks as I make my way through the palace to my rooms.
My stylist—who is similar to the valets on that show Downton Abbey in that he’s always on hand to coordinate my wardrobe and run any errands that Nate doesn’t—is waiting for me when I get there.
“Your highness,” he starts out, “I’ve laid out three options for the meeting with your father, and—”
I hold up a hand, cutting him off. “First off, hello, Phillip.”
His face turns red, and he inclines his head. “Good afternoon, your highness.”
“Secondly, how do you know I’ve scheduled a meeting with my father?”
“I—,” Phillip is so uptight that I like to screw around with him a little whenever possible. Also, I’m exhausted from the transcontinental flight and already irritated about this meeting.
“I have, in fact, not scheduled a meeting with my father. I will be meeting him shortly at my convenience.” I know even as I say the words that Phillip, the moment my back is turned, will alert my father’s staff that I intend to meet with him. Such is the way of royal life. “In the meantime, I need to wash up.” I scan the three charcoal suits he’s carefully arranged on the bed. The only difference between the trio of suits is the accompanying tie color. “The red tie will do.”
Twenty minutes later, clean-shaven and dressed with Phillip left to his own devices in my rooms, I’m standing outside the oversized mahogany door to my father’s council chamber.
And twenty minutes after that, I’m still standing there, getting angrier by the second. I start to pace, exasperated.
He’s making me wait on purpose.
I’m about to turn on my heel and leave when the door swings open and Marcus stands in the doorway, his frame rigid and eyes sternly asse
ssing me, his lips pressed together in a tight line.
“Alexander,” he says coolly, stepping back to let me in. “So nice of you to join us.”
“Shut it, Marcus,” I hiss at him in a low voice once the door is closed.
“Alexander,” my father says from behind his desk, his voice steady and steely. “Take a seat.”
I cross the office in five strides and sit calmly in one of the two chairs poised in front of my father’s desk. Marcus remains standing to the right of my father, his arms crossed over his chest.
Don’t they make a pretty picture?
My father sighs and slips off his reading glasses. “Alexander,” he says, and looks across the table at me as if he’s weighing his words carefully. “Why don’t you explain to us what…inspired you to take an unscheduled vacation without alerting me or your brother? We’ve had to engage in significant public relations efforts to recast your trip as one sanctioned by the palace.”
I turn my attention to Marcus, shooting him a look of unguarded spite, then turn back to my father. “I should begin by saying that my affairs are none of Marcus’s concern.”
The King of Saintland sighs again, folding his hands together on the top of his desk as if to keep from reaching across the table and slapping me. “Go on.”
I bite back another crack at Marcus—it’s not going to help me make any headway when it comes to Jessica—and take a deep breath. “I took issue with the way the two of you were directing my time and efforts toward maintaining Saintland’s political security. There are many things I’m happy to do when it comes to—.”
“But why, Alexander? You could have discussed it with us in advance.”
Shaking my head, I give my father an incredulous look. “And the two of you would have allowed me free reign over my time in the States?” His long pause it answers my question. “That’s what I thought. I went because I needed a break from your ceaseless puppeteering.”
“You ungrateful little bastard,” Marcus spits, coming swiftly around the table to loom over me like a thug from a mafia movie. His perfectly pressed suit and Windsor knot spoil the look, but his face contorts purple with rage. “Your highest duty is to honor our father and King. You should be bending over backward to beg his forgiveness right now, and you sit there like—.”
“Like what, Marcus?” I shout back, standing up and stretching to my full height, thrusting my face so it’s only a couple inches from his. “Like a grown man who can make my own decisions about where I go and when? I’m only sorry I can’t be more of a groveling kiss-ass like you.” A fleck of my saliva lands on Marcus’s cheek.
“Both of you, silence!” my father booms, bringing both hands down on the surface of his desk like a tyrant. “Marcus, back away.” My brother obeys instantly, his jaw working furiously, his grimacing face changing from purple to red. “Alexander, the important thing ahead of you now is to find a way to get that girl back to the United States without setting off another incident like the one with Emmaline.”
“And what was the problem with Emmaline? She wanted a second date and then an engagement ring?” I’m sickened by the thought that I had to play a role in this at all.
“Your abrupt departure caused some significant offense on the part of the French.”
“The French don’t need an excuse to be offended.”
“That may be the case,” my father says, a warning tone evident in his voice, “but it is exactly the kind of upset we must avoid if Saintland is to remain a functioning nation. You have a role to play, Alexander, and you cannot continue to shirk it.”
“Shirk it? I’ve been on as many public appearances as the both of you, if not more. It’s not my fault you don’t include me in state meetings.”
“Your talents are needed elsewhere.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, on the dating scene. I understand.”
My father ignores this comment. “You need to get her back to the United States, and you need to do it quietly. Bringing this woman to Saintland—it was a mistake, and one you need to rectify as soon as possible.”
“I’ll take that into consideration,” I say, my tone coldly laced with acid. “I beg your leave, your Majesty.”
My father shakes his head and waves me away, already turning his attention back toward Marcus.
They may think the issue is resolved, but my heart pounds harshly against my chest as I stride hastily from the room.
Jessica isn’t going anywhere.
15
Jessica
Waking up in my suite at the Northern Crown was both thrilling and disorienting. Thrilling because the suite is the biggest, most opulent hotel room I’ve ever stayed in, and that says a lot considering that once or twice Christian has hosted private gatherings in the suites at the Purple Swan; disorienting because, for at least a full minute, I cannot figure out where I am.
Then it comes flooding back to me: the last-minute rushed flight across the Atlantic, the fairy-tale drive across the rolling hillsides between the airport and the sparkling capitol city of Sainthall, Alec leading me by the hand up to the Royal Suite on the top floor of the Northern Crown.
“It’s not royal property,” he explained, as he swiped the key card into the reader on the door. “In the U.S., this would be the presidential suite.” I nodded as he spoke, taking it all in.
This trip is my first time outside the continental United States, and everything seems so fresh and new that I am overflowing with excitement. Even the food Alec had sent up so we could enjoy a lunch together before he made his way back to the palace seemed twice as delicious as anything I’ve ever tasted.
Maybe it was the exhaustion from twelve hours of travel combined with the exhilaration of being with a prince that made everything seem so otherworldly.
I thought we might go directly from the dinner table to the king-size bed in the suite, but instead Alec thrust me up against the wall, running his hands seductively from my shoulders to my wrists. Pinning my hands together high above my head next to the doorframe, he kissed me so deep and thirstily with longing that it took my breath away.
When he finally broke the kiss, my body arced toward him all on its own.
“I’d take you right now,” he whispered huskily, “but there are a few things to sort out. I’ll be back this evening.”
After the door closed behind him, I spread myself out on the bed and slid my hand down the front of my yoga pants, under my panties. “Come back,” I whispered, a quiet plea. When my hips finished rocking from the throes of orgasm, I fell hard asleep to dreams of Alec…and didn’t wake up until the morning. If he did come back, I don’t remember him being here.
It takes me a while to realize that I woke up because I heard soft knocking on the door. When my mind registers the sound, I leap out of bed, still wearing my traveling clothes, completely bewildered.
I open the door still half-asleep to see a tiny blonde woman with huge blue eyes looking up at me with an incandescent smile.
“Jessica Reeves?” she asks, her voice brighter than the flavor of ten cups of rich, dark coffee hitting my taste buds in the morning.
“Oh, shit,” I say, my face turning red. What is this woman doing here? Is there something I’m forgetting? Finally, I recover. “Yes, that’s me.”
“Wonderful!” she says, stepping neatly past me into the room. “My name is Claire, and Prince Alexander has sent me to be your personal companion for the duration of your stay. If there’s anything you need, anything at all, you only need to let me know.” Her accent has the same crisp British-tinged inflection as Alec’s. She reaches out and pumps my hand in greeting as she speaks. As soon as she drops it, she takes me by the elbow and steers me deeper into the suite.
“What—?”
“Oh, no need to be alarmed. We need to step out of the way of these fine people here.”
I turn back to the door in time to see what appears to be a contingent of personal stylists and attendants, all sharply dressed in starched white shir
ts and dark bottoms, briskly entering my suite with purpose to their step. At the head of the line are two tall women, one brunette and one a fiery redhead, carrying what looks like a thin suitcase between them. When they open up the case and start setting up its contents on a side table, I see that it’s a massive collection of every kind of makeup imaginable. They’re followed closely by three ladies, each of whom are rolling a different rack of clothing into the room. Behind them are two young women who must be massage therapists because they immediately get to work setting up a treatment table.
“What is all this?” I say, once I can pick my jaw up off the floor.
“This is your team of personal attendants,” Claire says nonchalantly. “You can have any or all of them here any time you choose.”
“My team?”
“Yes. Prince Alexander was explicit in his orders that you were to be provided with the very best team of professionals that Saintland has to offer.” Claire beams at the hive of activity buzzing at full throttle around the room, and then looks me up and down. “I imagine that after your trip yesterday, you’ll want to enjoy a shower. When you’re done, you can begin your massage. The nail technician should be here by then, and after that, we can go over style options—.” At what must have been a befuddled look on my face, she laughs, waving her hand towards me dismissively. “Hop into the shower, Ms. Reeves. We’ll be here when you get out.”
This is one part of royal life that I could get used to.
For the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon, I am pampered shamelessly. The suite’s bathroom itself was a work of art—gleaming marble surfaces, a shower with three different faucets, and tilework that belongs in an art show—and after I emerged from the shower, scrubbed clean, my skin lightly scented by the hotel’s fragrant soap—a combination of vanilla and orchid that’s divine—I received the most sensual, relaxing massage of my life.