by Sienna Blake
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Royally Screwed:
A Contemporary Reverse Harem Romance
Royally X’Mas’ed:
A Contemporary Reverse Harem Novella
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A Quick & Dirty Novel
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Sienna Blake
Royally Screwed: a novel / by Sienna Blake. – 2nd Ed.
First Edition: September 2018
Royally X’mas’ed: a novella novel / by Sienna Blake. – 1st Ed.
First Edition: December 2018
Published by SB Publishing
Copyright 2018 Sienna Blake
Cover art copyright 2018 Cosmic Letterz. All Rights Reserved Sienna Blake. Stock images: depositphotos
Proofreading services by Proof Positive: http://proofpositivepro.com.
This is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
Contents
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Royally Screwed
Sophia
Grayson
Sophia
Grayson
Sophia
Grayson
Sophia
Sophia
Grayson
Sophia
Sophia
Sophia
Grayson
Nicolai
Sophia
Grayson
Sophia
Grayson
Nicolai
Sophia
Grayson
Sophia
Grayson
Sophia
Sophia
Grayson
Sophia
Grayson
Grayson
Sophia
Grayson
Sophia
Sophia
Sophia
Grayson
Sophia
Royally X-Mas’ed
Sophia
Sophia
Sophia
Epilogue
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Dear Readers
Excerpt of The Cassidy Brothers
Excerpt of Mr. Blackwell’s Bride
Books by Sienna Blake
About Sienna
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Royally Screwed
A Quick & Dirty Novel
Prince Grayson.
Heir to the British throne.
Sexiest man I’ve ever laid eyes on.
For some strange reason, he wants me.
I can see the red-hot lust flaring in his eyes when I near. Can feel the thick, long evidence of it when he presses up against me.
And I want him. I want him so bad it hurts.
One week.
No strings.
Just unbridled, wild passion with a future king.
Except he has one condition.
One that has me thinking I might be in over my head…
He won’t give me what I want unless his two bodyguards join in.
Warning: This is a sexy-as-sin, reverse harem romance. Can you handle three huge alpha men focused on her pleasure and taking it all the way?
Now with Bonus Novella: Royally X’mas’ed
It’s Grayson and my first Christmas together alone on our own private island. Or so I think…
When I return from the beach, I find the front door ajar. Waiting for me are three masked men with a dangerous and sexy surprise so fucking hot it’ll melt my panties right off.
For you dear reader,
Merry Christmas
Sophia
I should have known that my beeline for the Royal Suite would get sidetracked.
“Stop! Jose, you can’t walk out into service like that.” I halt in front of the new receptionist before he can step from the staff room and into the grand foyer of the Merrion Resort, one of Monaco’s most exclusive luxury resorts situated right on its very own private beach along the Mediterranean.
“M-ma’am, I’m so sorry,” he stutters, his eyes wide as I undo his lopsided tie.
“Call me Sophia,” I say, as gently as a mother duck would to her flock. “Do you know how to tie a Windsor knot? No? Watch carefully.”
I quickly teach him how to tie the perfect full Windsor knot, using a cute little rhyme that was taught to me once upon a time.
“It’s perfect.” Jose studies my handiwork in the mirror lining the corridor, then beams at me. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Sophia, please.” I clasp his shoulders. “You are one of us now. Which means we look out for each other.”
He nods, his shoulders visibly relaxing and the corners of his eyes growing damp. Jose is barely seventeen, just arrived from a small village in the South of Spain. I don’t know him well, but something about him tells me that he is looking to start over.
I know the feeling. He is the same age as I was when I first arrived here, penniless and desperate, seven years ago. Perhaps that’s why I hired him. Why I fixed his uniform instead of berating him like the other assistant manager would have done.
Mr Harrison would tell me that I have a soft spot for strays and the lost. He’s probably not wrong. I say, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. And happy staff are productive staff.
I pat Jose’s arm. “Now get out there. Make me proud.”
He grins, then hurries out with his chin held high. I continue on through the staff corridors towards the kitchens where the alarm has been signalled not two minutes ago via the phone I have strapped to my hip.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as soon as I push my way through into the hotel kitchens.
“Sacré bleu!” our head pastry chef, Pierre, cries as I stride towards him. “Sofi, it iz dizaster!”
He waves his beefy arms at the large square wedding cake sitting in two broken pieces on one of the clean metal counters. Around him is the usual clatter and hive of the one of the first-rate European kitchens, but I barely notice it as I stare at the ruined wedding cake. This was for the Addingtons’ wedding, due to start in less than two hours. Not nearly enough time to bake another one.
“It iz all Louie’s fault,” Pierre says. “He—”
I hold up a hand to halt Pierre’s rant. “It doesn’t matter whose fault it is. What we need to do is fix it.”
Pierre lets out a string of cuss words. “There iz no fixing. No fixing, Sofi.”
“There is always a way, Pierre.”
We just have to get creative. An idea strikes me and I know what we need to do. I grab a large pastry cutting knife and approach the cake.
In ten minutes I have carefully removed the old layer of marzipan and cut the vanilla sponge into three smaller squares.
“There. Use the tiered c
ake stand,” I tell Pierre. “You have two hours to redecorate it. Go.”
Pierre claps his hands. “Sofi, you are genius, no?”
I squeeze Pierre’s soft middle in a side hug. He always smells like sugar and melted butter. “No. Just part of the team.”
I wave goodbye to him and the rest of the kitchen staff before heading to the elevator for the guest rooms. We have a very special but undisclosed guest arriving later today. The entire hotel staff, including me, were required to sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement. I want to double-check that the Royal Suite, which takes up the entire floor of one wing, is perfect.
It isn’t unusual for these VIP guests to keep their identities unknown until they check in to avoid the paparazzi from showing up via a leaked source. I wonder whether it might be a rock star or an actor. We’ve had our fair share of those while I’ve been working here.
The suite is divine, one of my favourites in this entire resort. Decorated tastefully in white and blue, it is comprised of four bedrooms, five bathrooms, and an open plan living and dining space with a huge balcony that overlooks the sparkling ocean.
My phone beeps just as I’m fixing a slightly crooked Van Gogh painting on the wall of the suite.
Julie PA: Boss wants you. Asap.
Somebody always wants me for something. This job keeps me busy. But I like it that way. It keeps the shadows from my past from consuming my thoughts.
I pause at the front door to the suite and pull out the small dispenser of Chanel No 5 perfume I keep for situations just like this. I let out a single spray into the air.
Now the room is perfect for Mr Undisclosed VIP.
* * *
“You wanted to see me,” I say as I push my way into my boss’s office.
George Kane is the third generation of Kanes to own and run the Merrion. Unlike his father and predecessor, he cares about this resort.
By the time Mr Kane Senior had passed on, he had almost run the place into the ground. In less than three years since George Kane had inherited the business, he’d managed to turn it around.
George was the one who’d first noticed my hard work. He gave me my first promotion, allowing me to prove myself and work my way up the ladder. For that I will always be grateful.
George sits behind his massive desk, the view out to the glorious ocean dotted with white boats behind him. He’s in his late fifties and never married, a deep year-round tan from the generous Monacan sun, salt and pepper hair trimmed short.
He waves a hand at the chair in front of him. “Sit.”
I do as he instructs, curiosity tickling the edges of my nerves as George studies me.
“How long have you been with us now, Sophia?”
I shift in my chair. “Seven years.”
George hums under his breath. “Long time. Not as long as Christina.”
Christina Hearn is the other assistant manager. I’m usually able to find something to like about most people. But I’ve never warmed to Christina. She’s never liked me. It started from my first day when she told me during my orientation in a hissed voice, “Get in my way and I’ll make you pay.”
Christina is in her late forties, sandy blonde hair pulled back into a bun so tight I swear it pulls her skin back like a bad facelift. One of those women who thinks that she must walk her stilettos into you to get ahead. Seriously, what happened to sisterhood? Unfortunately, she knows how to turn on the charm when upper management is around, so George likes her.
“I fear, by doing what I’m about to do,” George says, “I’m going to cause problems.”
My nerves jangle. But I say nothing. I know that George has to sidestep politics amongst his staff. I’ve never been one to play that game. I just want to do my job and do it well.
“For the next four weeks I’d like you to step into the hotel manager’s role temporarily instead of Christina. If you do it well, which I hope you will, then the position could become permanent.”
For the longest time, I just blink at George.
He raises an eyebrow at me. “Are you going to say anything?”
“I can’t believe this!” I leap from my chair and race around the desk to throw my arms around him for a hug.
He chuckles in my ear and pats me on the back. “You deserve it, kid. I’m sticking my neck out politically here by giving you this opportunity over Christina.”
“Thank you so much. I won’t let you down,” I promise as I pull back.
Hotel manager. Me!
Holy shit.
I want this so badly I can taste it. I will do anything to get this position. Anything. For the next four weeks I will be the perfect hotel manager. Nothing is too much trouble for each guest. This resort will run as smooth as silk.
Pure focus.
No distractions.
Just work.
Grayson
“What do you mean the limo we ordered is not coming?” Nicolai, one of my personal bodyguards demands.
The poor airport staff member being yelled at is quaking in his boots, holding a clipboard in front of him as if it might protect him. Nothing short of a ten-foot steel wall could stand between Nicolai and his intended target.
“I’m s-sorry, sir,” says the feeble-looking man in the airport uniform. “There was a mix up and…” his voice trails off with a squeak as Nicolai bristles.
Nicolai used to work for the Russian army in their covert ops team. He’s got ways of killing people and making their bodies disappear without a trace. He actually put that on his CV when I was interviewing for the role as my personal bodyguard. That, and the fact that he terrified me, made me give him the position. And I don’t terrify easily.
I’m six feet two and I keep myself fit by lifting weights four times a week along with my two monster bodyguards. I can easily pass as one of them. It actually comes in handy sometimes when we do the old switcheroo and pretend that one of them is the future King of England and I’m the bodyguard.
“Relax, Nicolai,” I say, clasping him on the shoulder. “I’ll handle this.”
Nicolai is more the “kill now, talk later” type. He’s not a problem solver and if I let him manage this situation we’ll be here all day. The morning flight from England to Nice was too early. I want nothing more than a shower and to change into clean clothes. We still must drive across the border to Monaco, where we’ll be staying for the next week. Monaco has no airport of its own.
Nicolai grumbles but acquiesces.
I turn to the airport staff member and give him one of my most diplomatic smiles. “We’ll take a rental car. Any one will do.”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“Make it a Merc and red,” says Chase, my other personal bodyguard, as he waves his hand across the staff member’s face, as if he was performing a Jedi mind trick, “and Prince Grayson will forgive all.”
I repress a laugh at the staff member’s confused expression.
Chase is a mad Star Wars fan and closet nerd boy in the body of an ex-pro-wrestler. He still maintains shoulder-length blonde hair that he ties back into a small knot at the base of his thick neck.
Chase’s usually cheerful face grows hard and cold. “Now,” he barks.
That gets the staff member moving.
Minutes later a red Mercedes pulls up in front of us. A young boy climbs out of the front seat, his eyes going wide at the sight of the three of us standing like the forward line of an international rugby team. He gingerly holds out the keys as if he’s trying not to get his arm bitten off.
Chase grabs the keys from him. “Thanks, kid.”
I snatch the keys from Chase. “I’m driving.”
“Fuck off, you are,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow at him. “Who’s the boss again?”
Chase pouts like a girl, which looks hilarious on his six-foot-three frame.
Nicolai smacks Chase in the arm. “Idiot. You’re going to get us all killed.”
I shoot them both a grin as I climb into the front seat, remembering that they
drive on the other side of the road here than in England. “Buckle up, boys.”
Nicolai takes the passenger seat and Chase climbs into the back.
Chase grins at me from the rear-view mirror. “To the hotel, chauffeur.”
Despite driving on the wrong side of the road and their inability to form queues, I love being here in southern mainland Europe. Most people don’t care that I’m the future British throne and all the weight of that responsibility on my shoulders. Here, I’m just another rich man in a suit. Just another one of the elite wanting to relax and play in beautiful, sunny Monaco.
I gun the engine, loving this rush of freedom in my blood. I feel the shackles of my position fall off me, the chains of duty clanking at my feet. I know it’s only temporary. But I’m going to enjoy the hell out of it while it lasts.
Sophia
“…vital to the guest’s experie— Marie, are you listening to me?”
I’m standing behind the resort’s front reception trying to teach Marie, the young receptionist, how to use our new guest registration system, an upgrade from our old one. But we are having teething problems. That, and Marie isn’t looking at me or the computer. She isn’t even listening.
“Oh. My. God. Do me now,” she mutters under her breath.
“Excuse me?” I frown, then look toward her line of sight.
Through the glass doors that travel the length of the main foyer, I spot a red Mercedes pull up into the fountained circular driveway at the front of the resort. My jaw hinges open as three men climb out. All in suits. All over six foot. All as broad as linebackers. And all sinfully good-looking.
The man who had been in the back was blonde, his sandy hair tied back neatly at his neck. He has the kind of cheeky grin that could melt the steeliest female heart like butter on a summer’s day, and the kind of cocky saunter that was sure to be followed by a wave of panty-dropping. He must be a rock star or something. Or an actor. The VIP?