“I would love to hear about Africa sometime, Isabella,” the King says, his voice warm. “There’s an aid organization from Protrovia that you might have worked with. From what your mother has told me, I believe they may have been in the same region you were.”
“You were in Africa?” The King’s mother sniffs. “Isn’t that rather dangerous?”
“Actually, I –“ I start, before my mother interrupts.
“His Royal Highness tells me you’re spending the fall semester in Paris,” my mother says, directing her attention to Lily.
Lily rolls her eyes. “I guess,” she says. “Semester abroad and all that. I’m supposed to expand my horizons. It’s not like I haven’t been to Paris a million times before.”
The triplets sound bored with everything – bored with this dinner, bored with the company, bored with their wealth, bored with their lives. They’re every kid of every socialite parent I attended high school with in Manhattan.
“I’m going to New York,” Violet interrupts, leaning forward. “Back to design school.”
“I don’t know what you’re going to do with fashion design,” the king’s mother says. “In my day, women of means learned certain things. These art degrees and –“
“By your day, I assume you mean the eighteen hundreds.” Violet snickers into her napkin.
“Don’t get uppity,” Albie’s grandmother scolds. “New York City is no place for someone of your stature.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Lady Margaret,” my mother says, her tone frosty. “It was good enough for a future queen, so I’m sure Violet’s American education will be more than sufficient.”
The King clears his throat. “I’ve heard that you’ve also done very well in school, Rose.”
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” Rose sniffs, glaring at her sister.
“I don’t approve of all this traipsing about,” Lady Margaret says. “Running off to New York City. Or, worse, can you imagine? Charity work in Africa? Actually milling about with…those people?”
Irritation courses through me, as the table goes quiet, no one speaking. When I open my mouth, I speak with an edge that surprises even me. “By those people, I’m sure you must be referring to the children who don’t have adequate medical care or potable drinking water?”
“Isabella,” my mother says, her gaze penetrating. “Perhaps we’ll save this conversation for another time, since it’s not the appropriate place.”
King Leopold clears his throat. “Mother, I’m sure you’ll appreciate the fact that Isabella was working with a medical non-profit organization,” he says. “I recall you traveling around Europe to visit hospitals during the war.”
“Yeah, in World War I,” Rose snickers, and her sister covers her mouth as she giggles.
“Hush your mouth,” Lady Margaret snaps. “I’m old, not deaf. And it was the second great war, for your information.”
“This is definitely more interesting than the conversations we normally have at dinner,” Alexandra interrupts, popping a forkful of food into her mouth and raising her eyebrows.
“Seriously,” Lily says, wrinkling her nose as she looks at her sister. “If I have to hear about one more American designer…”
“You’re such a snob,” Violet says. “When you really just have no concept of design.”
“Oh, why don’t you educate me, with your portfolio of work and –“
“I trust you’re settling in, Isabella?” When the King interrupts, both cousins stop squabbling and immediately go silent, their expressions pouty, like children who’ve been scolded.
“Yes, King Leopold,” I say. “Although I’m afraid I may not be able to stay for as long as I’d like.”
“Oh,” he says, and the expression of disappointment that crosses his face is so genuine-looking that for a moment I feel badly even considering leaving. “Your mother and I were hoping you’d be staying the entire summer. I know that I’d like the opportunity to get to know you. As would Alexandra and Albert.”
“Yes,” Albie says. “I’d personally enjoy getting the opportunity to welcome you to the family.”
I can’t believe his brazenness, and I pointedly try to ignore him, focusing on my mother and the king.
“Yes, well,” Sofia says. “We’ll have to discuss the specifics of her summer plans in more detail another time. I’m sure that Isabella intends to stay for quite a while.”
“I’m considering it,” I say, irritated with my mother for speaking for me.
“Isabella mentioned she’d misplaced her passport,” Albie says. “I asked Ben to see if the household staff were able to find it.”
“Oh?” my mother asks innocently. “Well, how dreadful. We’ll have to make sure that’s remedied. And in the meantime, I’m sure we’ll be happy to show you why we all love Protrovia. Maybe Alexandra or Albert would take you on a tour of the palace and the castle grounds.”
“I know I’d be delighted to show her everything,” Albie says, raising a tumbler of amber-colored liquid to his lips.
The edges of his lips curl up, his expression a promise of the things he wants to show me.
62
Albie
Belle excused herself from dinner early, feigning a headache and jet lag, obviously lying her sweet little ass off and trying to avoid a personal tour of the palace by yours truly.
I’ll give credit where credit is due – she made it nearly ninety minutes in the middle of the cousins and my grandmother Margaret, who’s still mentally stuck someplace around the turn of the century.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I slide open the screen to reveal a message.
You can’t keep avoiding me, Albie. I gave you enough time to play around after you got back. Call me.
I’m about to text back reflexively, a message to tell Erika to go fuck herself, just like the two other times I’d told her before. Erika is an ex-girlfriend, a friend of the family and a reminder that several years ago, for a couple of months, I was stupid enough to actually try out the whole having-a-relationship bullshit. The only reason Erika was with me was because of my position, the proximity to the throne.
Instead, I hit the delete button, and block her number.
I need to get laid, but not by Erika.
And not by Belle either, not if I know what’s good for me.
Of course, when have I ever done what’s good for me?
I’m in the middle of texting a friend who’s always up for a night of partying and hitting on women, when she knocks on the door.
I know it’s her by the knock. It’s tentative and hesitating, not like Ben the valet or my sister Alex, who would already be in the middle of yelling, “Albie, you disgusting pig, open up!” before she even finished knocking.
No, it’s definitely Belle.
So that’s why I don’t bother to put on a shirt.
I pull open the door and revel in the fact that her eyes immediately focus on my chest. And I try to hide my smile as she unsuccessfully attempts to look anywhere else.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“I – um – can come back later,” she says. “You’re obviously in the middle of getting changed.”
“I’d could make you come now,” I whisper, leaning forward conspiratorially.
“I stopped by because I wanted to tell you that I’m not interested,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear.
“Oh?” I ask, leaning against the frame of the door. “You’re not interested in what, exactly, luv?”
“In a tour of the palace,” she says. “In case you were getting any ideas.”
“Oh, I have lots of ideas.”
“Not those kinds of ideas,” she whispers, her hushed tone making her words sound illicit.
“Don’t act all shy now,” I say, my voice low. “We both know why you were late for dinner.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, her jaw clenched. But her eyes are wide, and she takes in a short breath. The thought of
her reaching between her legs and touching herself, being wet because of me, is enough to make my damn cock explode.
“So you weren’t late because you were busy thinking about my cock inside you?” I ask.
She laughs, but it’s forced. “Maybe that’s the only thing other women can think about when they’re around you, but not me,” she says. “Anyway, I came here because I wanted to ask about getting to the embassy to get a new passport.”
“Sure that’s the only reason you came here?” I ask. The way she’s looking at me, the way her eyes drop down to my chest, makes me wonder why the hell she’s even keeping up the pretense of not being attracted to me, when we both know it's not true.
“That’s the only reason,” she says. "I'm quite positive."
“My eyes are up here, luv,” I tease.
“I’m not even looking anywhere else,” she protests, her face coloring. “And you should…put on a shirt or something. Why are you answering your door like that, anyway?”
“Well, if I’d have known it was you at the door, I’d have answered without any pants,” I tell her.
"That would have only been embarrassing for you," she says. "It's quite chilly in here, with the air conditioning, you know."
"Don't worry, luv," I say. "The royal scepter has no issue with shrinkage."
Her eyes go wider and she shakes her head. "Did you seriously just refer to your dick as the royal scepter?"
I don't bother to hide my grin. Little Miss Do-Gooder acts like she's offended, but she totally wants me. "Do you want to touch the royal staff?" I ask. "Give the crown jewels a little polish?"
She wrinkles her face up in disgust. "Ugh. Anyone ever tell you that you have a twelve-year-old boy’s sense of humor?"
"Usually I'm accused of having the emotional maturity of a twelve-year-old boy. So I'll take the sense of humor bit as a compliment."
"You would," she says. "And for the record, I came here on business. Not to talk about your little Prince Albert."
"Oh, there's nothing little about it, luv," I say, reaching for the button on my pants. "Here. Take a look."
She puts her hand up. "Oh my God. Seriously. Are you that hard up for female attention?" she asks. "We're right in the middle of your doorway, in case you've forgotten."
"You're going to need to find your sense of humor," I say. "I think you might have forgotten it somewhere in Vegas."
Her face colors. "I have a sense of humor," she says. "Just not…your kind of humor."
"Joking about my cock isn't your style?" I ask. "Well, I'm glad you take my dick seriously."
Belle rolls her eyes. "You're so not my style."
"Well, I've got news for you, luv," I say. "Girls like you aren't my style, either." That part is definitely true. No matter how fucking hot this chick is, uptight women aren't exactly my type.
“Then why do you keep hitting on me?” she hisses.
“I’m just having a little fun, that’s all. If I were hitting on you, you’d know it. Trust me.”
“Oh yeah?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest. The movement has the effect of pressing her breasts together, putting her cleavage so directly in my line of sight that I can’t possibly look away. I can’t decide if she’s doing it naively or if she wants to get a rise out of me. In a literal sense.
“Like I said, you’ll beg me to hit on you.”
Belle rolls her eyes. “I’ll do no such thing,” she says. “Just because we had one kiss doesn’t mean that anything else is going to happen between us.”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night, Belle,” I say. “But we both know you’re thinking about my lips on your lips.”
She shrugs. “It was no big deal,” she says. “I’ve had better kisses.”
“I wasn’t talking about those lips,” I say, looking down.
Her eyes go wide again. “We did not do anything like that,” she protests.
“We didn’t,” I say. “That doesn’t mean you haven’t been thinking about it. And we both know you’re lying about having had better kisses. I looked up your ex-fiancé. I saw photos of him. He wasn’t lighting your world on fire.”
“You have no idea what my kisses have been like,” she protests. "Or my love life. At least mine has been tame enough that I don't have to worry about any fires down there."
"Is that your clumsy attempt to insinuate that I've got some type of VD, luv?" I ask.
"I told you I looked you up," she says. "You have a revolving bedroom door. That's what the magazines say."
I lean closer to her. "Don't worry, Belle," I whisper. "I'm clean as a whistle. You could even have me bare, if you like."
"Oh my God," she says. "That is not what I was implying."
"Hey, you're the one who keeps bringing up my cock," I say, enjoying the appalled look on her face.
"I am not bringing up your…" Belle's voice drifts off, and she glances over her shoulder and down the hallway. "Penis."
"Penis," I say, laughing. "That's sexy. You can say the word, luv. Cock. Admit you can't stop thinking about it."
"I am not going to admit it," she says, groaning in frustration. "I can't even remember why I came down here now. I should have known it was a mistake."
She whirls around before I can stop her, and flounces off in the direction of her room.
63
Belle
"This is so bizarre, and yet so exactly a Kensington kind of story," Raine says, her voice partially muffled on the phone as she turns to tell someone in the room to "hold on a minute." Raine did a stint in Africa, volunteering with another aid organization for six months while I was there. She's a free spirit, a hippie chick traveling across Europe with her boyfriend – and exactly the kind of outside perspective I need on all of this.
"Wait, why is this a Kensington kind of story?"
"Seriously, isn't this right up your family's alley?"
"We're not royalty," I say, dropping my tone to a whisper. "It's insane."
"But you're like, a real fucking princess," she says. "Soon to be, anyway."
"Yeah, right," I say. "That's the last thing I want to be. And you can’t tell anyone, Raine. They haven’t made an announcement yet.”
"Phoenix," she says, laughing as she calls for her boyfriend. "Belle is living in a castle. Like, for real. With a king and shit."
"Shh," I say, cutting her off. "Seriously. That's not public knowledge. They're probably listening to my phone calls or something. I don't even have my passport."
"They're keeping you prisoner?" she squeaks. "That's fucked up, Belle. You're an American citizen."
"Relax," I say. "I think it just got misplaced or something when they unpacked my bags, maybe. I have to go to the embassy and get a new one.”
"Do you want Phoenix and I to come pick you up?" she asks. "We're in Amsterdam for a few days. Protrovia wasn't exactly on our tour, but we're flexible."
"It's okay," I say. I can't even imagine the shitshow it would be if Raine and her boyfriend showed up at the palace. I adore Raine, but the thought of her walking inside the palace, reeking of patchouli and weed and admonishing the royal household for their gratuitous wealth, is enough to make me giggle. "Maybe it's good that I'm here for a little while. Derek has texted me about a million times."
"What?" she asks. "Screw that. Your ex-fiancé cheated on you with your maid of honor. You didn't respond, did you?"
"Of course not," I say. "I'm just saying that maybe it's good I'm not in the States right now. Maybe I should be here for a little while."
As I speak the words, I start to realize I might actually be considering staying for the summer.
"Protrovia," she says. "Isn't that the place – Phoenix, who's that prince, the one who's always in the news? Albert. Prince Albert. I remember his name because of the whole dick-piercing thing. Is he gorgeous? Are they all ridiculous?"
I groan. I haven't breathed a word about Albie to anyone. Not a single soul knows what happened in Vegas exc
ept Albie and I, and it's staying that way. "Yeah, I mean, I haven't really seen him much. I just got here. And, yeah. It's all pretty ridiculous."
"He's the prince with the pierced cock, you know," she says. "Have you ever screwed a guy with a piercing? It's pretty fantastic." She pauses, then laughs and whispers to her boyfriend. "Yes, Phoenix, I'm talking about you."
"No, I haven't done it with a guy with a pierced you-know-what." I sigh. I called the one person I thought would have never heard of Prince Albert, and she knows all about him and his pierced cock.
"Well, you should," she says. "In fact, he’s what you should do while you're there. Shake off the cobwebs. You need a fling. Rebound sex."
"I do not need rebound sex," I protest.
Raine's voice comes back muffled. "No, Phoenix, remember, I told you her fiancé cheated on her." She pauses, then returns to the phone. "You know how Phoenix feels about marriage. And lawyers. He says good riddance to Derek."
"I can't believe you're telling me to hook up with a prince," I say.
"It's not like I'm telling you to marry him," she says. "Just have a good ol' fashioned fling. Hasn't he slept with half the women in Europe, anyway?"
"He's my new stepbrother," I say. I fail to mention the part where I've already married him.
"That makes it even more appropriate," she says, laughing. "Don't all the royals marry their cousins and siblings? Hey, I have to go. We're having lunch with some other people from the hostel. Are you going to be okay?"
"Yes, go," I reassure her. "I'm totally fine.”
"Fling," she says, laughing as the background in her room is suddenly filled with conversation. "Go have a fling. It'll be good for you. When is the last time you had casual sex?"
The phone cuts off before I can answer. Never, I think. I've never ever had a fling.
But that doesn't mean I'm going to start by screwing the biggest manwhore in Europe.
Her Bodyguard (Raunchy Royals Book 2) Page 37