by Teagan Kade
“To win? Fantastic, but I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“You were the one behind the wheel.”
I shake my head. “Not true. We’re a team, which is why…” I pull a box out of pocket, the Cartier logo probably a giveaway, but fuck it, subtlety is not my strong suit.
Her eyes go wide. “Andy?”
I go to put it away. “Hmm, on second thought, perhaps I should save it for another day.”
She swipes the box from my hand, opening it and gasping. “Holy shit. Where did you find this? The Tower of London?”
“That didn’t sound like a ‘yes’.”
She looks around. I’m surprised the glare of the thing doesn’t blind everyone in the room. “You haven’t asked me the question.”
I close my hand around hers, the box trapped between us. I press against her, lips against her ear, her aroma as intoxicating now as the first time we met. I think I knew it way back then. “Sara Young, you irresistible, sexy, bad girl you, you smart, funny and completely mad creature…”
“Yes,” she moans.
“Do you want me to get down on one knee? Because I will.”
She shakes her head slightly, reaching to hold my shoulder for support. “If I don’t have you to lean against I might fall over.”
I smile beside her ear. “Sara Young, will you marry me?”
She holds me away, looks into my eyes, her own wet with joy.
She kisses me and it’s all the answer I need.
We break apart breathless, but I’m not done.
I pocket the box. “You don’t want a grand gesture, huh? How about this?”
I love the shock on her face as I leap onto the nearest table and tap the side of my glass. “Everyone, if I could have your attention, please.”
The conversation stops, looks of confusion as to why I’m suddenly standing on a table.
They probably think you’re drunk.
I am, but not because of the alcohol.
I’m looking down at Sara and she’s mouthing ‘No, no, no’, but it only makes me want to say it more.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I begin, putting my hand out to Sara, “my fiancé”.
As they say, better to ask for forgiveness than beg for permission.
EPILOGUE
Sara
Gretchen has disappeared inside the house a minute after her latest boyfriend. I almost choked on my Caesar salad when she talked about marrying him the other day. My sister? Settling down? I can’t picture it.
But I couldn’t picture Andy Fortes the father two years ago, and yet here we are. Andy’s got his gig with Ferrari and we’ve got places in Milan, Monaco and Texas, a big ol’ ranch like Andy always talked about, though far more homey than the stuffy manor of his parents. No, this home is messy, cluttered. It’s a living, breathing hub of activity, and although it drives me mad, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
After the crash in Spain, I thought I might lose him. Four drivers, one dead, Carl in a coma. Andy got off easy, managed to get out of his car before it became a fireball. It could have been so much worse than a broken collarbone, but it wasn’t the physical injury that had me worried. It was the lasting psychological impact.
I needn’t have worried. Andy was back racing the very next round, even started flying in to check on Carl in Geneva from time to time. Pop Princess waited less than a week after the accident before moving onto her next toy boy. When Carl came to, it was Andy by his side. If you had told me two years ago they’d be best buddies, I wouldn’t have believed you, but life is strange like that. You can plan your path all you want, know the route inside and out, but anything could be waiting around the corner.
We never heard from Steven again, or Stacey. Steven went missing after his stint in jail, Stacey nowhere to be found. Even the FBI hasn’t been able to track them down. Perhaps they never will. Steven owed a lot of money to a lot of people—bookies and loan sharks, even the Russian mob. Goodall distanced itself far from him the moment it all came out.
“Gretchen!” I yell up to the house, sure they’re up there screwing in our newly renovated bathroom.
“Go!” Andy pushes the back of the soap box racer. Our one-year-old boy, Asher, laughs as the soap car picks up speed, bumping down the hill towards the field where we keep the horses. His floppy blonde mop whips with speed, his smile so wide it seems to wrap around his little, pin-cushion face. He looks so happy. The cart slows and Asher leaps out before it’s even stopped to push it back up the hill again for another go. He’s got his daddy’s need for speed, that’s for sure.
We have money, more than I ever dreamed of making at Caliber. Andy could easily have bought Asher a go-kart, a motorbike, a baby Ferrari, but no, he wanted to build a soap box racer with him, bond. Seeing the two of them in the garage night after night melts my heart, the father of my child, the reformed bad boy… Well, almost reformed. Even when I was pregnant with Asher we still made love like a pair of teenagers. There’s not a room in the whole house we haven’t ‘christened’, all twenty-two of them.
Andy jogs over. He’s backlit by the sun, fit as ever even though his eating hasn’t improved. He actually thought about releasing a cook book—‘The Fried Chicken Diet’. Harper-Collins was interested for about five seconds. One of his many and frequent lightbulb moments when he’s not racing. I don’t mind. I’m simply happy to have him home, safe.
Asher screams with glee, hands raised as the racer plunges down the hill again.
“Hands on the wheel!” yells Andy, shaking his head.
“He’s reckless, like someone else I know.” I raise an eyebrow at my husband.
He responds by placing his hand on my belly, already starting to swell again. “And what about the newest member of Team Fortes? Where do you think he will place?”
“He?” I question. “We don’t know the sex yet.”
Andy pokes my belly. “Yes, definitely a third leg in there, just like Daddy.”
I slap him. “God, you’re incorrigible. And if it’s a girl?”
“She’ll be like her momma.”
I laugh. “And how’s that?”
He smiles back—a husband, a father, the most passionate person I know. “Perfect.”
###
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About Teagan Kade:
Teagan Kade thinks talking about yourself in the third person is silly, just like her collection of snow globes and rare manga. When she’s not being silly, she’s hanging out with her own Brock and two children in the south of Australia, dreaming of new characters and torturous ways they can get themselves into trouble. Teagan loves hearing from her readers, all of whom are as dear to her heart as salted caramel cookies. Shoot her an email at: [email protected]. She doesn’t bite.
Also by Teagan Kade:
Striker: A Bad Boy Sports Romance
She’s the perfect score. I’m a dirty player. It’s complicated.
JENSEN
Scarlet's always been a stunner. There was a time we could have been together, but then came the soccer, the fans, the fame... I lost her to my twin brother, Josh.
But Josh is a cheating bastard. I can't stand by and watch Scarlet suffer, not when she should’ve been mine all along.
SCARLET
I've been dating Josh for years. I've tried to steer clear of his twin brother, Jensen, but I’ve always felt a pull towards him, a pull I have to resist.
But when Josh betrays me, Jensen’s arms are suddenly wide open. It would be so easy…
My heart’s torn—I just don’t know in which direction.
Burned: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance
My stepbrother Brock—the street racer, the panty-dropper, the absolute and utter as*hole.
He’s back in town, alive, and now we’ve been thrust together in the worst way possible. I’m living with the very guy my investigation is focused on. I’m betraying him right under his nose.
Since that night I’ve tried my best to forget him, done everything in my power to disconnect us, but here he is infiltrating every area of my life. All he cares about is that cursed car of his… or so I thought. You see, try as I might I can’t stop thinking about him, about his hands and his magnetic touch, everything I know is wrong.
But sometimes wrong is the only way to ride…
READ ON FOR ROYALLY WRONG: A BRITISH BAD BOY ROMANCE!
A British Bad Boy Romance
Teagan Kade
* * * * *
Published by Teagan Kade
Copyright © 2016 by Teagan Kade
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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DEDICATION
For Jason. No, I don’t do anal.
CHAPTER ONE
GRACE
“I’ve been waiting for over two hours. That’s not including the hour-and-a-half it took to get here.”
Bodyguard numero uno doesn’t seem terribly concerned about my predicament. Given what I’ve heard about the Prince being a handful, the last thing these guys need is a caffeined-up Yankee journalist chewing their ears off.
His face remains blank when he speaks. “His Royal Highness will be with you soon.”
I keep pushing. It’s the New York way. As my mother always says, you don’t make progress standing still. “Come on.” I hold out the letter signed by the Queen herself. “It says ‘full access, all areas’.”
Mr. Bodyguard exhales, looks down the dorm hall for rescue, but it’s almost eleven. Most legitimate Cambridge students are attending class, penning essays, playing bridge, contracting chlamydia… not sleeping off a hangover.
It’s funny. I thought this was the assignment of my dreams when Amanda handed it over, but now it’s all starting to make sense—no one else wanted it.
Prince Spencer of Westshire has fallen out of favor with the British public thanks to a string of ‘cock-ups’, as the Poms would say. They needed a puff piece, but it couldn’t be from a Brit journo. No, no, no. It had to be impartial, objective, but colorful, something to sway public opinion of the Prince from playboy to potential leader. They needed someone who could get the job done by blowing loudly through any objections thrown their way.
They needed an American.
They needed moi.
Bodyguard two signals to me, finger to his ear. “You can go in, Miss…”
“Everett,” I finish.
Bodyguard one steps aside, and I move to the door of the Prince’s dorm room, a single shuddering breath before I push it open and step inside. It closes behind me with a solid thump the way only truly ancient wood can.
The room is expansive, old, more gentlemen’s club than college cupboard. Hell, my dorm room back home was barely big enough for my bed. This room, with its lead-lined windows and wooden walls, could pass for Hogwarts.
My eyes are drawn immediately to the bed against the windows, toned buttocks on display, porcelain pale, the humps of Moby Dick rising. The prone figure they belong to is wrapped up in sheets, an arm hanging over the edge of the mattress, inky hair atop a head buried deep in pillows. Not exactly how I expected to be introduced to the man fifth in line to the throne. Correct that—boy.
I announce myself. “Uh-hmm.”
There’s a grunt from the Prince before he rolls over and—good lord have mercy—there’s his line and tackle completely on display, and yes, it would appear the rumors are true. ‘Big Ben’ is a god-damn anaconda.
Prince Spencer sits up, arms bulging, doesn’t even seem to notice his current state of undress. Rather, he reaches down and jiggles the outlaw appendage as if to check it somehow hasn’t fallen off during the night. Given the way he sleeps around, perhaps it’s good practice.
He smiles, that semi-slack, cheeky smirk gossip rags gobble up, but it ain’t going to work on me no matter how hard he tries, no matter how tight and taunt that body is in the flesh. I’m on a diet strictly free of man candy—cute princes inclusive. I have rules.
He points, jaw chiseled, cheekbones seemingly carved by Michelangelo himself. “Belinda, right? Sorry,” he says, holding his head, “but last night was a bit of a blur. Charming, but a blur nonetheless.”
“Actually…”
“Don’t worry. You were great.” He pats the bed. “How about a morning tumble?”
Tumble? Jesus.
He fishes underneath himself and holds up a hot pink thong. It dangles on his finger. “Yours, I presume?”
“Prince Spencer,” I begin, trying to avoid addressing his dick.
“Spencer, love. Just Spencer.”
He’s really buttering it on thick. “Spencer,” I correct, “I’m Grace Everett.”
He puffs his cheeks and breathes out. “Grace, Grace…” His accent is polished, more Downton Abbey than Shaun of the Dead.
“From the New York Times,” I continue. “I’m here to do a piece on you.”
“Oh.” That seems to take him by surprise, those incredible eyes glinting with light unseen. “I didn’t think the Times would be interested in our little colony here.”
“You’d be surprised.” I take out my phone, bring up the audio recording app. “Do you mind?”
He spreads his legs a little wider. “You’ll need a wide angle to get it all in, I’m afraid.”
I knew this guy was arrogant, but god, he makes Chris Brown look like a choir boy. I know the type, though. Hell, I’ve been dealing with pompous pricks like him my whole life—little boys in the body of men, privileged and spoon-fed. They’ve never wanted for a single thing in their lives, never sweated outside of the rowing club. He’s no different, I remind myself, thinking of all the posh boys I had to deal with at Harvard.
Still, I can’t help the physical reaction I feel being so close to him. He is gorgeous. In desperate need of sun, yes, but built and powerful, hair messy and swept, eyes so blue you could drop an anchor in them. No wonder women go mad for him. Pity he doesn’t have the brains to back it up.
It’s going to be a long two weeks.
He holds the penis known globally as Big Ben. “Well?”
I find a pair of pants on the floor. They’re floppy in that worn-for-days way. I toss them over his crotch. “How about you start by putting those on.”
“Too much for you to handle?”
“The glare is killing me.”
He laughs and stands up, pulling the pants on and checking me out at the same time. “New York, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Interview?”
“Yes, to improve public perception, show off your,” I let my eyes drop, “many fine attributes.”
“And they sent you, to what? Bait me?”
I let the compliment skim over me. “I’m well qualified. I graduated cum laude from Harvard.”
“Har-vard,” he mocks. “I’m sure
you do ‘cum laude’.”
Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me?
That’s it. I take a step closer. “The fact you’re royalty, here at least, doesn’t give you a free pass to act like a schoolboy.”
He takes a step closer, junk swinging like a damn hypnotist’s watch. “I believe the word you are looking for is ‘twat’.”
“I wouldn’t want to be disrespectful to vaginas.”
He crosses his arms. “So, you’re a prude?”
“I am not.” But I’m taking the bait. Trolling is sport for these bluebloods. You’ve met your match, asshole.
I hold my phone between us, mic side out. “Perhaps you can start by telling our esteemed readers about your drink-driving charge?”
He turns around, hands behind his head. I push away a primal urge to lick my way down his spine.
I take another step closer, pushing. “The incident with the Prince of Monaco’s daughter? The squandering of taxpayer money, you and your buddies in the Chaos Club trashing that pub in Gloucester, beating the poor owner to near death?”
He turns and finally I have him disarmed. “Enough. You think you can just swan in here and throw accusations around?”
“Yes, actually.”
“On whose damn authority?”
“The Queen’s.” I hold out the letter, let him snatch it away and take a nice, long look, suck it all up.
“It says here you are to ‘shadow me’ for the next two weeks.”
“You can read. I suppose that’s a start.”
He tosses the letter into the air. “The old bat’s gone bonkers. I won’t do it.”
I hit stop on the app and turn for the door. “Okay, I’ll have my editor inform Her Majesty.”
“Wait.”
I turn back around and cannot hide the evil little grin that has set up shop on my face.