Not Your Prince Charming: a Royal Wedding Romance (Royal Weddings Book 2)

by Kate Johnson

  “Not my girl,” he said, and resumed staring at the TV. The magazine sucked at his attention all through the game. He couldn’t have said who won if his life depended on it.

  Over the next few weeks, Anita kept showing him more pictures. Eliza at some boating event, wearing a strapless dress and a broad-brimmed green hat that reminded him, terribly, of the hat she’d made out of palm leaves on the island.

  Eliza at Glastonbury Festival, laughing in the mud. She wore rain boots and tiny shorts that made her legs look amazing and showed every inch of scar tissue.

  Eliza at Wimbledon, sunglasses and pale tan, cheering from the Royal Box. We don’t cheer. Apparently she did when the losing player was American.

  Eliza in a pretty summer dress, smiling at a mud-spattered man in polo gear. Was she dating him? Was she dating anyone? Had she forgotten Xavier?

  “Stop showing me those stupid pictures,” he said, when it came to one of Eliza in a vintage car, dressed in some 1950s outfit complete with little driving gloves. “I don’t care.”

  “Xavier, you are a terrible liar,” said his mother.

  “I’m actually a very good liar,” he said, but it came out insincere.

  “Pretending it never happened won’t make it so,” his mother said. “It didn’t work with Marisol and it’s not working now.”

  “I can’t hear you,” he said mulishly. Why wouldn’t they just shut up about Eliza? What were they trying to do to him?

  “You need to go pack your suitcase. Don’t forget the sunscreen, I told Mateo to take some and he said he didn’t need any, but he listens to you.”

  “About the only one,” grumbled Xavier, but he got up to do as he was told.

  His sister Valentina had booked a vacation with her family, but then her husband was offered a contract on some oil rig somewhere that paid a lot of money. Enough, certainly, to change his ticket to Xavier’s name. Valentina didn’t want to go on vacation with her three small kids all by herself, and he figured he could use the holiday. It was just…

  …did she have to book the Bahamas?

  Okay, so he hadn’t seen much of the place last time he’d been there, too busy surviving a desert island or spurting blood all over a helicopter to take in the scenery, but was his sister completely blind to the significance of the place?

  “I’ve never seen a man look so unhappy about going on vacation,” his mother said as she kissed him goodbye at the airport. “Go drink some cocktails and flirt with pretty girls. I’ll see you in a week.”

  Xavier wondered if there was a bar at the airport.

  “Darling, are you really sure about this?” said Drina. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  Eliza folded a t-shirt into her case. When they were small, their mother had insisted they knew how to pack their own cases, because relying on staff for everything was the mark of a fool. Especially when the thing you’re relying on them for is your own safety.

  “I can go and talk to a room full of people all by myself,” she said. “I’ve done it quite a lot. In French, last time.”

  “Yes, but… that was at the Sorbonne. The worst that could happen there is being served snails for lunch. But—”

  “I know,” said Eliza. “But Clodagh’s right.” She’d contacted Clodagh to apologise for her behaviour on their last visit, and somehow been talked into taking this trip to Nassau to present some medals to the people who had saved her life earlier in the year. It was Xavier’s life they really saved. Maybe she could lose those medals.

  “I have to go back there at some point, or I’ll just construct bogeymen in my mind and develop some terrible fear of it. Like poor Tom and his helicopters.” Her cousin was a Navy pilot who had been involved in some accident, only a few months after Edward had died, and the result was he’d developed a phobia of flying.

  “Get back on the horse and all that,” Drina agreed vaguely. “I’m not sure you can develop a phobia of a holiday destination though, Lize.”

  “Not worth taking the chance.” Eliza squared her shoulders. She was done pretending not to be a princess any more. That had never brought her anything but grief.

  She crossed to the rail set up for her packing choices and picked up two black dresses. “Which one? Or both?”

  “I don’t know, Lize—”

  Eliza considered them. One with longer sleeves, which was more appropriate but would be hotter, one that looked lighter but might be taken as too flippant. Had she been too flippant lately? The anger that fuelled everything she did these days told her there was no such thing.

  “I don’t know, which one says ‘a member of my family or other important head of state has suddenly died while I’m sunning myself on holiday and I have to pretend to look sad about it’?”

  “Behave yourself, Eliza. I don’t know what’s got into you lately.”

  Eliza barely paused. She laid one dress out on sheets of tissue and began to carefully fold it. “It’s more what got out of me,” she said, not looking up.

  “Lize. Jesus.”

  “It’s fine. I’m fine. You have to go on living,” she said, determinedly straightening a crease in the tissue. Scream and thrash. She was not going to quietly sink.

  Drina touched her shoulder. “Don’t burn yourself out,” she said. “You’ve been doing a lot lately—”

  “No more than I usually do in the summer. In fact, less, since I’m not working any more.”

  Drina heroically refrained from pointing out that in previous summers, she hadn’t been beside herself with grief.

  “And some of your clothing choices… we’ve noticed…”

  “That I’m showing a lot of skin? I’m complying with every dress code.” Even if she was sticking to the absolute rule and disregarding the spirit. Forget subtlety and modesty. Eliza wasn’t going to be confused with anyone any more.

  She added the red dress from the Ascot procession to the pile.

  “Or is it the exact skin that I’m showing?”

  Drina’s eyelids flickered, and Eliza didn’t even need to track her gaze. She wore shorts, so the mess of scar tissue on her thigh and knee was perfectly visible.

  She made a point of packing a bikini into the case.

  “I just want you to be happy,” her sister said. “And healthy.”

  “I am healthy,” Eliza said, and accepted a sudden hug. “And I’m working on the other thing.”

  Every day was hot and sultry this time of year, and Xavier quickly got used to doing very little other than lying by the pool or the beach, cocktail in hand, occasionally dispensing sunscreen or Band-aids to his sister’s kids. She’d taken the opportunity of free childcare to throw herself into every activity the islands had to offer, from snorkelling to historical tours to hurling herself off cliffs.

  “Have you done every activity the resort has?” he asked one night at dinner.

  “No. There’s still surfing.”

  “God preserve us.”

  He didn’t mind, much. Valli worked hard and she spent a lot of time alone with her kids, she deserved the break. The children were all out of diapers now, and there was a great play area for them at the pool, and the beach club ran activities for them. No one judged him too much for having a beer in the middle of the day. Well, Valli had insisted he quit smoking, “Or I’ll tell Mom. Worse, I’ll tell Abuela.”

  He sat by the pool, where no one really swam, and ignored the girls in bikinis trying to catch his eye. Put on a technical swimsuit and swim a kilometre in twenty minutes and… and you still won’t be Eliza.

  Valli took the children with her for a surf lesson one day, and as Xavier headed to the pool his phone buzzed with a text from her. “Big fancy shindig at the big pink building in town. Think I saw Rihanna. Can you go? Get her autograph for me? Love you forever.”

  Valli worshipped Ri-Ri. Xavier sighed, went back to his room for some more sensible clothing, and strolled through town to the imposing pink building the signage informed him was actually Government House. T
here were indeed crowds of people there, and lots of security guards around a glossy black car.

  It was just like when he and Eliza—

  He shook his head, and got his phone out to snap a picture if he saw Rihanna. But the figure emerging from the black Escalade wasn’t the popstar. It wasn’t a singer at all.

  It was Eliza.

  She emerged, smiling and healthy, and waved at the crowds. A small child came forward to present her with a bouquet of colourful local flowers, and she beamed.

  Xavier froze. What if she saw him?

  Eliza turned and posed nicely for the photographers gathered behind a barrier, and the ordinary people snapping shots on their phones and cameras, and then she waved and went inside.

  Xavier’s feet took him there without his brain’s consent. There was a security checkpoint for visitors filing in, and he raced up, expecting to have to flash his badge or make up a story, but it appeared they were letting in anyone prepared to show ID and go through a security scanner.

  Xavier went in, following directions to a reception room where Eliza was already standing at a podium, making a speech.

  Damn, she looked good. Her dress was pretty, and kind of strappy, which meant he got to see her tanned shoulders and the strength of her upper arms. The scars stood out on the right side of her body, not even remotely hidden. They’d faded a little, but not much, and she’d clearly made no effort to conceal them. She’d clearly gotten herself back up to a pretty good standard of fitness. Maybe she was swimming again.

  Of course she’s swimming. Did you think she’d just drown?

  She was telling the story of her time on the desert island, he realised as he stood at the back with the rest of the latecomers. She was making it funny, too, detailing her inexpertise with the palm hat and how sick she’d gotten of coconut water.

  But she managed not to mention him at all.

  “As you can see, I didn’t come through it all entirely unscathed,” she said, gesturing to the pink marks on her skin. “But if it hadn’t been for the search and rescue efforts of local military, police and civilians, I might be there still. The efficiency, skill and kindness of my rescuers was above and beyond the call of duty. I received the highest level of care in your excellent hospital, and I can’t adequately convey my gratitude for the skill, training, and compassion of its staff. Which is why I am so very pleased and proud to present, on behalf of my grandmother the Queen, the following decorations.”

  A list of names began to be read out, slowly, as people in suits and nice dresses got up one by one from the front row and Eliza presented them with medals and ribbons. She shook hands and spoke a few words with each, smiling all the while.

  He’d never seen her in this formal, princessy mode before. What had she said, that she didn’t carry out many Royal duties? That she was useless? He’d never seen anyone looking so regal.

  Everyone sang God Save the Queen, and there were some more speeches by various local dignitaries, while Eliza took a seat on the dais and managed not to look bored.

  He knew the moment she saw him. Her whole body went stiff and the colour drained from her face. An aide moved forward in concern and she brushed him off, averting her eyes from Xavier as if he was an ugly stain on the wall.

  I don’t deserve this. But what he did deserve was an opportunity to explain things to her. To tell her the truth. To say he was sorry.

  To grieve with her.

  And now she wouldn’t even look at him.

  There was suddenly no air in the room. He turned and left, making it out into the sunshine and halfway down the long set of steps back to the street before a familiar face appeared, a human roadblock at the statue in the middle of the flight.

  He didn’t know the guy’s name, but he’d been on Eliza’s security detail in England. The man looked right through him.

  “Hey man,” said Xavier, with a friendly smile.

  “Sir.”

  “It’s me, remember? Xavier? You swept our hotel room for explosives the night before the horse trials.”

  The PPO had sunglasses on, so Xavier couldn’t tell, but he thought he might have earned a glance for that.

  “Then you had me bodily thrown out of the hospital where my fiancée lay haemorrhaging blood while our baby died. Remember that? Fun times.”

  The PPO took his sunglasses off. “I’m sorry about that, sir.”

  “No you’re not.” Xavier shoved his hands in his pockets. “You were doing your job.”

  “I mean the baby. Her Highness was so happy.”

  “Yeah,” Xavier said, and got no further as a sob choked his throat. He coughed, and looked away. “Look, I need to see her. I have to talk to her. It’s crazy I haven’t even been able to exchange a word with her, and I have to tell her the truth. All that stuff about abandonment, it’s not true. The kid—my ex-wife’s—it’s not mine, she cheated on me—”

  “Her Highness has made it clear she doesn’t want to speak to you, sir.” The guard put his glasses back on.

  Xavier tried to hold onto his desperation. “Does that sound right to you? It was my baby too. I’m getting kicked to the kerb here. I got thrown out of your whole country without even an opportunity to explain.”

  “Explain what?”

  The voice came from behind him. It was Eliza’s, and it was glacial.

  “Eliza.” He turned, and there she was, just a few steps above him. Her cheeks had gone the same pink as her dress. He wanted to touch her so badly. “Please—”

  “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

  “I didn’t know you were here. I swear. I’m on vacation with my sister and her kids, we’re staying at the Green Palm hotel, it’s just… never mind. Eliza, please can I speak to you?”

  Her whole face looked tight. “It’s Your Royal Highness,” she hissed. “Then ma’am, rhymes with lamb.”

  Shit. This was worse than bad. “Your Royal Highness, please, I’m begging you—” He reached out a hand, and immediately several large men loomed over him. He stepped back.

  “Begging?” said Eliza. Three steps above him, she looked down with cold contempt. “For what?”

  “A chance.”

  “The correct answer was ‘forgiveness’, and you don’t get any. Please move.”

  “Forgiveness? For what?” The injustice boiled over in him. “For not telling you my ex-wife is an evil scheming bitch? For paying child support for a kid she freely acknowledges isn’t even mine? For being dumb enough to do the decent thing—”

  “Decent?” Eliza stepped forward. “Oh, how very big of you, taking care of a child born to your marriage. By Florida law that makes him yours unless you contest it within three years. I haven’t just been lying in bed feeling sorry for myself, Xavier,” she said viciously, “I have been learning. You treated me as if I was stupid, I am not stupid—”

  Xavier stepped down. “I never treated you—”

  “You, and everyone else. Although,” she let out a mirthless laugh, “maybe I was. Christ, I even told you I was rich! Property and racehorses, I said. Funny how what happened on the island stayed on the island until you found out I was a princess.”

  “That’s not what—”

  “And then suddenly you wanted to keep in touch! Well you’d certainly found your mark, hadn’t you! I notice how the proposal didn’t come immediately after the test turned blue, but immediately after I made the speech about my grandmother being an anointed goddess.” Her face was full of hatred as she advanced, step by step, an avenging valkyrie.

  Xavier stepped back, down and down, as she came at him.

  “I told you about the crown and the jewels. I showed you the house and the racehorses. I even bought you clothes!”

  “I didn’t ask—”

  “Oh no, but you still got it, didn’t you? ‘I don’t have much money, Eliza’,” she mocked, and he stepped down again. “‘I’m just a poor humble Yankee cop, Eliza’. Well, you can go back to being a poor humble cop. There i
s no baby, mine or your ex-wife’s or anyone else’s.”

  That was a low blow. Xavier snarled at her but she whirled down on him, punctuating each sentence with another step.

  “You don’t get my money.” Step. “You don’t get a title.” Step. “You don’t get the wedding in the chapel with the golden carriage.” Step. “You don’t get to explain.”

  “Will you just—”

  “You don’t get my life. You have no right to it. You have no right to me, or my body, or my bed, and not even to my attention.”

  Xavier tried to step back again, and fetched up against a hard plinth. The statue on the stairs.

  Eliza came in close, nostrils flaring, lips tight with anger. Her eyes were glossy, as if she was trying not to cry.

  “You’re beneath me,” she hissed, and swept away.

  Chapter Seventeen

  RoyalGossip.com: Princess’s meltdown!

  They say the five stages of grief can take you to some strange places, and it seems Princess Elizabeth is definitely in the ‘anger’ phase. Watch this incredible takedown of love-rat Xavier Rivera as she confronts him in the Bahamas. “You’re beneath me.” Sick burn!

  She was still shaking with anger when she got back to her hotel. The staff, wisely, kept out of her way. If they’d been around she thought she might have used them as moving targets.

  How dare he!

  How bloody dare he? Track her down to the same bloody island they’d been brought to by that helicopter—when she’d thought he was dying, and she thought she knew what heartbreak was—and beard her in her den like that? How had he even got in? She’d authorised them to let in as many local people as the place would hold, but how had he been among them?

  How did he know?

  Her room had a small private pool, distressingly similar to the one she’d sneaked away from that night so long ago. Too small to swim in. The public pool was full of people and hardly designed for lengths.

  Eliza changed into her swimsuit and threw her dress on over it. “I’m going for a swim,” she announced to the PPO outside.