PRINCE'S DIRTY LITTLE SECRET (A ROYAL SECRET BABY ROMANCE)
RILEY ROLLINS
DOLCH PRESS LLC
Contents
Copyright
Mailing List & Facebook
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Thank You!
Also by Riley Rollins
Copyright © 2016 by Dolch Press LLC
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real life is purely coincidental.
Cover by Kevin McGrath.
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CHAPTER 1
When I was little, I had one of those kid bedrooms that made the other little girls jealous. It was stuffed full of Disney and Lisa Frank merchandise, walls painted, a wonderland bursting with pink and purple. My bunkbed was my castle and I was the princess of my kingdom.
If you'd told me I'd be a real princess someday, I'd have been an excited bundle of pigtails and glitter.
Now I'm 24. If you told me the same thing, I'd laugh you right out the door of the tiny studio apartment I rent in smoky downtown L.A.
MY LITTLE RED Miata soars down the California coastal highway, the salty night air whipping my hair back. The stereo blasts punk songs from high school. Next to me, my best friend Ashley headbangs to the guitar riffs and sings like we're seniors at a Friday night show. I grin and sing with her as I depress the clutch, downshift, and send us roaring through the night.
"Jenna," squeals Ashley, her voice cutting through the music, "Last night in the States, baby!"
"Gonna be dope," I reply.
I'm pumped. We're heading to a house party to kick off the big trip. We leave tomorrow.
But it's not a Hawaiian getaway or a European tour.
It's two months in North Molvania. The most closed-off, isolated country on Earth. The country that only lets in 100 outsiders per year.
Everyone thinks I'm crazy to go. But I'm a front-line reporter for EDGE News, the underground network that breaks all the hottest, weirdest stories. And when EDGE finally scored a couple travel permits to North Molvania, they asked me to go. Nervous or not, I couldn't refuse. Just think of all the incredible stories. They'll all go viral. This could be huge for my career.
Of course, it's all on the down-low. I've got fake papers and everything, and EDGE even got the U.S. State Department to sign off on my fake passport. 'Cause if the regime finds out who I am, it's gonna be lights out for me. I'm doing this undercover. Gathering stories and bringing them back home for an exposé. While I'm there, they can't know who I am.
Now Ashley, she's the really crazy one. My boss at EDGE thought I should travel with a friend. Someone unrelated to the job, to make things look more legit. When I asked Ashley to come, she said yes without a second thought. She's always been a travel junkie, though, and for people like her, North Molvania is basically Mecca.
Me? I just wanna blow the top off all the dirty business happening in that country.
"You're insane," I say to her, turning down the music. "Nobody normal wants to go to North Molvania."
"Come on, Jenna," she says, "I'm not letting you have all the fun. Plus," she adds, "You know you just wanna meet the Crown Prince Nikolai."
My face goes red. Thank god we're on a dark stretch of highway.
"Joke," I say, passing a car on the left. "Four years studying politics and democracy, and you think I'm crushing on a dictator?"
Nikolai is heir to the throne of North Molvania. Not much news comes out of North Molvania, but the latest reports say that his father, King Alexandr, has been grooming Nikolai to step into his role as king. But Nikolai is apparently more interested in partying and schmoozing than worrying himself about the democratic reforms that his country needs so badly.
So it doesn't matter that he's a gorgeous, chiseled six-and-a-half foot hunk of man. It doesn't matter that he makes my ladyparts tingle when I fantasize about him crushing his rock hard, muscled body against me. That's totally beside the point. How could I be attracted to a totalitarian leader with no respect for the rule of law?
Gorgeous or not, he goes against everything I believe in.
Ashley pulls her long blonde hair into a high ponytail, her wrist circling as she applies a hair tie. Her hair is thick and her skin is radiant. Can't lie, I'm a little jealous.
"I see how you drool over his pictures," she says, grinning at me.
"Uh huh," I say. "Actually, I'm trying to do a bombshell report on human rights, thanks."
"He is a bombshell," says Ashley. "He dates like, every princess in Europe." Then she adds, "Didn't he have a dead fiancée or something?"
Ugh. That brings up bad memories about Jason, my ex-fiancé. It was just two years ago, a month before graduation, when a drunk driver hit him on his way to my house. He was picking up a bag of steaming hot cheeseburgers for us, when boom, he got wiped off this mortal plane.
"I never heard that."
"Yeah," says Ashley. "Couple years ago she died. Rumors said that's when he started dating all these girls. Trying to replace her, I guess. He must be heartbroken." She looks like she feels sorry for him.
I wrinkle my nose. I haven't touched another man since Jason. Do I think about it? Yeah. I'm a 24-year old with a sex drive. How could I not? But I'm waiting for the right guy, and I haven't found him yet.
So I guess Nikolai is my opposite. A promiscuous, fascist, rich, annoyingly attractive prince.
Ashley studied drama, not politics, so I forgive her for not appreciating Nikolai's role in creating the country's dismal political and economic conditions. I almost lecture her but I decide to save it for another time.
"I think you want to meet him," I say, playing along instead. "Plus, if either one of us has a chance with a prince, it's you."
"Don't be silly. You're gorgeous, Jenna."
"Right," I say, snorting with tomboyish laughter. "Good one." Then I add, "Don't forget that starting tomorrow I'm not Jenna. You remember my pseudonym, right?"
"Of course. Taylor Westwood."
"Good," I say. "Don't fuck that up. It's on my papers. Mess up and we'll be in deep shit."
"Got it," she says. I trust her.
We're approaching our exit, so I move into the right lane. Soon, I take the exit ramp and the GPS says we're six minutes away.
THE PARTY IS at an oceanfront beach house. Even down the street where we park, we can hear the EDM music blaring over the sandy beach, the intense sound waves crashing over the calm night water. The house is huge. More like a mansion, really. Probably belongs to some spoiled UC kids' p
arents.
"You're not drinking, right?" asks Ashley.
I haven't had a drop to drink since Jason died. In memorial of him, I guess.
"Yeah. Girl, you know I don't need to drink to have fun. I'm a beast."
A dude-pro in a backwards baseball cap lets us into the party. We catch up with our old college friends. Everyone's growing up so fast, it seems like. Real life is hitting us all hard.
It doesn't take long for Ashley to get pulled into a group of her old sorority sisters. That was never my scene, so I spend the night chatting with a couple girls from my old bio lab instead. I keep an eye on Ashley though, nervously watching her get drink after drink at the bar. She needs to be on point tomorrow. We can't afford to have any fuck-ups.
By two in the morning, I'm getting antsy to leave and get some sleep. But I've lost Ashley, and when I finally find her, she's sloppy drunk. And she's grinding with the bro who let us into the party.
Great.
I shoot the bro a dirty look as I grab Ashley's hand and lead her away. "Hey," he protests, his voice slurred. I cut him off.
"Do you mind?" I say. I pull Ashley aside. "You good?"
"Yeah," she drawls, "Chad invited me to his room. I think I'm gonna go up."
I frown. "No. That's not a good idea."
"Hey," says Chad, butting into our conversation. "She can do what she wants."
I glare at him. "She's drunk."
He grabs her arms hard, and yanks her away from me.
"Ow," she yelps, "you're hurting me."
He growls, wrenching her away from me, toward the staircase.
Anger surges through me like a twister. Without thinking, I bring my fist upward, a missile that blasts into Chad's jaw with a dull crack. The vibrations travel down my arm, and I can feel his teeth smash together as my fist collides with his face. "Fucking bitch!" he shouts, releasing Ashley from his grip, his hands flying to his mouth. A stream of red pours down, staining the carpet underneath.
Nobody fucks with my friends.
For a moment, I think he's gonna hit me back. And honestly, I welcome it. I'd like to see him try.
"Oh my god," says Ashley, slurring. She rubs her arms where he grabbed her. "Are you kidding me?" she says to Chad, betrayed bewilderment on her face. "What's wrong with you?"
I cross my arms. "Get out or I'll call the cops."
Chad scoffs, bending down to wipe a bloodstain off his bright white sneakers. "You're fuckin' crazy," he says. But his face is as guilty as a pirate hanging from a gallows. He slinks out of the room without another word.
"I'm totally skeeved out right now," says Ashley, sobering up fast. "I just wanna get out of here."
I bite my cheek. "Alright. We'll sleep this off at my place. Don't puke in my car."
We leave the house, which is quiet now except for the snoring and rustling of a dozen passed-out party goers who didn't make it back to their dorms. I drive us back to the L.A. suburbs. The dawn glow peeks out over the horizon as we climb the stairs to my apartment. We scurry inside to escape the daylight and salvage a few more hours of sleep.
I WAKE to the sound of my alarm at eleven o'clock. Ugh. I rub my eyes as I lie in bed, sunlight streaming through the blinds. Ashley is snoring away on the couch. I hope she'll make it to the airport in one piece.
At the foot of my bed hangs a skyline poster of North Molvania's capital city, Caprion. It's a city out of time. The downtown landscape sprawls with buildings that resemble 1950s visions of the future. It's a bizarre contrast to any modern American city. The CIA suspects they're mostly empty and unfinished inside. Just hollow shells to convey a certain image to the world. An image other than the truth: that North Molvania is a closed-off country with some serious economic and political problems. But no one knows for sure.
All the West really knows is that North Molvania completely relies on natural resource exports to survive. The royal family stays in power because it controls the vast fortunes buried beneath North Molvania's meadows and forests. But Caprion wasn't built on oil wealth or natural gas. Rather, it was built on profits from precious metals. Gold, silver, platinum, palladium, and exotics like osmium and iridium. Underneath the country's lush, green countryside is a vault of metal wealth, waiting patiently underground until the regime needs a cash injection. When the time comes, they strip mine another section of forest, log the trees, and drain the earth of its ancient prizes.
There's something else strange about North Molvania. Because of its isolation, it's said that the DNA of its people is up to 10% different than the rest of the world. And because natural selection encourages genetic diversity, it's said that North Molvanian people are irresistible to foreigners who travel there. It's like some kind of magical sexual aphrodisiac. A population so isolated and exotic that common DNA just can't wait to mix with it and create something new.
That's exactly the kind of shit that EDGE loves. Readers eat it up. Do I believe it myself? Not really. But in about 24 hours, Ashley and I are going to see the country first-hand. I guess we'll find out then. We're two of the lucky—or crazy, depending on your point of view—people who get to visit this year.
I stretch in bed, thinking of the tabloids, the bottom-feeders of the news industry. They just love the Crown Prince Nikolai and his tall, dark, and powerful figure. That thick, wavy and full chestnut hair, unable to look anything less than perfect on his head. Those impossibly high cheekbones.
He sells copies. I mean, he's really photogenic. I can't deny that, whatever else I may think about him.
No way he'll have some mysterious effect on me, though. I hate the guy. I just wanna dig up his dirt. If I can break a story involving him, it'll mean a huge step forward for my career and a fat bonus in my pocket.
That'd be nice. My student loans loom large in my mind. My grandparents' inheritance was supposed to pay for college, but since my parents blew it all on themselves, I had no choice but to take out huge loans. Yeah, my parents are kind of dicks.
I hear Ashley stir on the couch.
"How you feeling?" I ask.
She groans. "Terrible."
I look at my alarm clock. "You've got four hours to get your shit together, 'cause that's when we gotta be at the airport."
We get ready, hit the road, and pick up Ashley's luggage from her place. We barely make it to the airport on time. We're flying into Transylvania, then crossing the border into North Molvania. Officially, there's a travel embargo, which means no direct flights.
And we definitely won't be getting stamps on our passports.
THE FLIGHT to Transylvania is long and arduous, and I can't sleep during the turbulent Pacific crossing. By the time we land, my teeth feel fuzzy and gritty, my eyes outlined with hollow bags.
A personal envoy meets us at the airport. It's a couple young guys who usher us out to a rickety old van outfitted with a huge spare fuel tank in the back. To permit long-distance excursions, they tell us.
We ride through the black night, and just as the sun is rising, we arrive at an old shack along the border. It's like a no-mans-land. Just a wall of barbed wire, scrap metal, and for all I know, mines. On the other side is North Molvania. In my mind, I guess I expected the horizon to be black and surging with lava like some kind of crazy real-life Mordor. But from what I can see, North Molvania is mostly wide, grassy fields.
Ashley and I exchange furtive glances in the backseat of the van. We're both exhausted and apprehensive.
"Ready for this?" I say, a half-whisper.
She nods. "I can't believe we're actually here, Taylor," she says, winking at me. I nod at her, silently thanking her for protecting my real identity.
The driver and the other porter get out of the van and start unloading our luggage. We step out into the brisk dawn. It's already hot out even though the sun is barely up.
As we're taking in our surroundings, an old man emerges from the shack. He's hobbled and weathered, as if the shack has been cooking him like an oven for the last four decades. That'
s probably not far from the truth.
At first I think he's Transylvanian, but then he starts speaking to the driver with a distinctive North Molvanian accent, the exotic and unmistakable twang coming through.
Well… no instant biological attraction so far. That's for sure.
He looks at us and speaks in broken English. "We go now. Under."
THE FLOOR inside the shack is dirt, and in the center of the room is a steel staircase leading down into the ground. Ashley and I share nervous glances. Nobody told us about any underground tunnels. I pray that this is legit and we're not being kidnapped forever in this old guy's underground cellar.
The two porters go first, carrying our luggage down the staircase. Their boots clang on the metal steps on the way down, and the old man motions for us to follow.
Below ground, the tunnel is long, straight, clean, and lit on both sides by hanging work lamps. The ceiling is low, though, and my head nearly touches the roof. There are reinforced steel tunnel supports about every ten feet.
"Wow," Ashley whispers. "This is incredible."
We walk for nearly ten minutes before we see the exit on the other end. The North Molvanian side of the passage is sealed by a thick, heavy slab of steel that resembles a bank vault door.
The two porters step aside and the old man maneuvers around us in the tunnel. He raps his knuckles on the door six times. The metal clang sends a chill through my spine. The handle starts to spin, and the door opens.
There are two men on the other side. Their faces are dark and foreign, a strange mixture of what appears to be Arab and Asian ancestry. Their eyes are haunting, and… wow, they're actually pretty handsome. There's something intriguing about them. It's like the exotic appeal of a Frenchman or a Swede, only much stronger. It's a little bizarre.
Prince's Dirty Little Secret (A Royal Secret Baby Romance) Page 1