His fingers are still on the center button of an open white dress shirt exposing six-pack abs. I’m not looking at his navy blue boxer-briefs. Heat floods my cheeks, and my mouth goes dry. I peeked.
His deep voice is laced with good humor. “Uh, hi. Are ya okay there?”
2
Brendan
Chloe, the beautiful redhead who disappeared from the ball before I could ask her to dance, just burst into my bedroom. Merry Christmas to me! I asked the queen—the source of all family info—about Chloe after I saw her at the ball a few days ago. I wanted to be sure we weren’t related because—lust at first sight. You never know at these royal functions who’s family. I haven’t seen her since, until she burst into my room.
She crosses her arms, hugging herself tightly, and shivers. A protective instinct I never knew I had takes over. I step closer and then remember I’m not wearing pants.
I hold up a finger. “Just a minute. Lemme get dressed and I’ll help you.” I grab my navy blue dress pants from where I left them on the bed and pull them on. “I’m Brendan.”
She nods. “S-sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.” Her teeth are chattering. “I’m C-Chloe.”
I retrieve my leather jacket from the closet and wrap it around her shoulders. She’s so petite it looks like a dress on her. “What happened? Were you in some kind of accident?” Her red hair hangs in wet frizzy clumps over her shoulders, her pink cardigan and matching tank top are soaked around the neck, her jeans are soaked through and streaked with mud and grass stains, and she’s barefoot.
She shivers again and pulls the jacket closed. “It’s a l-long story. Can we just say I got c-caught in the freezing rain?” Her voice is high and reedy.
A primitive alarm sounds in my brain. Woman in distress. Must rescue.
“Sure, okay,” I say soothingly. I’m thinking about the best way to get her warm quick when she stiffens, listening carefully to voices in the hall. She puts a finger to her lips, asking me to be quiet. I hear a baby crying and what is most likely the baby’s parents talking, but I can’t make out who it is or what they’re saying. There’s a couple of babies and a toddler (who can still wail like a baby when she wants to) staying at the palace.
After they pass, she relaxes. “My sister and her family. She always goes by my room on her way up to hers.”
“And you don’t want to see her?”
“I don’t want her to see me like this.” Her voice chokes, and my chest tightens. Something happened to her, and all I want to do is make it better. “I just can’t deal with any more drama today, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s my big sister, but she raised me, so she’s like my mom. She’ll make a big deal.”
What happened to her parents?
She takes off my jacket and hands it back. “Thanks. I’m going to get changed. I’m at the end of the hall.”
“Sure you don’t need some help?”
“I’m fine.” She opens the door, peeks out, and quickly shuts it. “She’s knocking on my door.”
“Do you want me to tell her you went somewhere?”
She pulls her phone from her back jeans pocket. “I’ll text her I’m studying in the library.” She stares at her phone for a long moment, seeming to be reading a text, bites her lower lip, and texts rapidly.
Her expression caves, her teeth chattering again. I put my jacket back around her shoulders and glimpse a text over her shoulder. I need to not see you for a while, okay?
I step away. That doesn’t sound like something an older sister would say. It sounds like a guy cutting her loose.
After a few moments, she lets out a shuddering breath and lifts her head. “All s-set.” Then she just stands there, clutching my jacket around her, looking lost.
“Go take a hot shower in my bathroom. You’re gonna catch a chill.” I head for my dresser and pull out a long-sleeved cotton shirt and jogging pants. I jerk my chin for her to follow. “Come on. I’ve got a warm change of clothes for you.”
I turn the water on, hoping she follows. I really don’t think she should wait any longer to warm up. Besides, I want to talk to her to make sure she’s okay and see if there’s anything I can do to help.
“Thanks,” she says softly, stepping into the bathroom. She left my jacket behind, and she looks so small and vulnerable in her soaking wet state, shivering, her expression strained. I just want to scoop her up and battle the world back so nothing bothers her again. I’m not usually so heroic, but something about her brings that out in me.
“I’ll go,” I say, realizing I’m keeping her from the shower.
While Chloe showers, I finish getting dressed. Christmas dinner is in the formal dining room, which means you have to wear a blazer, dress shirt, and dress pants. I draw the line at a tie. Ties and I don’t get along. It always feels like I’m one step away from a noose.
I take a seat on the gray sofa in the sitting room of my suite, prop my feet up on the coffee table, and pull out my phone. A while later, I hear the hair dryer—this place comes fully stocked for guests—and realize she’s almost ready. I try to think of how to get her talking. It belatedly occurs to me she could have cuts that need attention. It looks like she fell. Did she get thrown from a car? A motorcycle? A bike? Those are very different levels of injury. And what happened to her shoes?
I hear the bathroom door open, and a few moments later she appears in front of me. She’s drowning in my clothes, even with the shirtsleeves rolled up and the jogging pants rolled at the ankles. It’s comical but also damn cute.
She holds out her arms and smiles. My heart thumps harder. She’s beautiful when she smiles. It lights up her face. “I know I look ridiculous, but I feel so much better, thanks.”
“No problem. You wanna tell me what happened? Are you hurt anywhere?”
Her smile drops. “I’ll survive.”
I gesture to the sofa. “Have a seat.”
“I should go.”
I stand. “You sure you’re okay?”
She raises her palms, the long sleeves hanging low under her arms like angel wings. She looks like an angel too. Her red hair falls in a soft wave to her shoulders, her green eyes gleam with intelligence, her features delicate—fine cheekbones, thin nose, a bow in her top lip. A sharp pang of lust hits. Not now. I need to know if she’s okay.
“Chloe?”
She presses her lips tightly together. “Truth?”
“Absofuckinglutely.”
Her lips twitch. “I accidentally got into a relationship with a friend.”
“Hate when that happens.” I have some experience in this area. Women are always falling for me after I tell them I’m not looking for serious. It’s like I’m a challenge or something.
“Yeah,” she says softly. “He doesn’t want to see me anymore, even though I tried to make amends. I made sugar cookies. It’s stupid.” She looks away, her lips pinched tightly together. I have the urge to pull her into my arms, and then, once she’s okay, I want to punch the guy who hurt her. She took the time to make sugar cookies. Geez, he could’ve at least showed some appreciation. I never had a woman bake anything for me. That takes real effort. I clench my jaw.
She continues. “Turns out we were never really friends.” She blinks rapidly, crosses her arms, and stares at my chest. “It’s just hard because this is my home when I’m not at college, and he was my only friend here.”
And then the one thing I never thought I’d say to a woman I’m attracted to pops out of my mouth. “I’ll be your friend while you’re here.” What am I doing? Putting myself in the friend zone!
Her brows lift over wide green eyes. “Oh, thanks. Are you here a lot?”
“I’m one of the Brooklyn Rourkes.” The riffraff. That’s what some of the older generation calls us since my dad abdicated the throne to marry my mom, a commoner. He was banished for it. “We recently reunited with the Villroy Rourkes, so it looks like I’ll probably be here for holidays and family stuff.”
<
br /> “My sister married Adrian Rourke.”
I know. The queen gave me the scoop. “Cool. That’s my cousin.”
It hits me like a smack upside the head. Forget lust at first sight. With our family connection, a casual hookup is out. There’d be too much potential fallout and awkward future encounters. Dammit. I’ve learned to be careful where women are concerned, making sure they don’t expect anything more than casual from me. Obviously, that wouldn’t work with someone connected to my family. Never mix family and flings. Or something like that.
Any misstep on my part will immediately fire through the family network. And, while the Villroy and Brooklyn Rourkes are on speaking terms right now, it’s still new. You can’t just undo decades of banishment with a few visits. I’m certainly not going to be the reason my dad loses his kingdom for a second time. It means a lot to him to be welcome in his ancestral land.
Guess the friend zone was a smart move. Ah, hell.
She wiggles her fingers. “Bye. I’ll get your clothes back to you after they’re cleaned.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I won’t. A servant will.” She crinkles her nose. “Isn’t it strange to have servants?”
“I wouldn’t object to a full-time chef back home.”
“Right?” She smiles and I smile back, our gazes locking for a charged moment before she looks away. Attraction is definitely not one-sided. “I’ll just grab my clothes from the bathroom. I wrapped them in a towel to minimize the mess.”
“I’ll get them.”
“No, I got it.”
She turns and walks away. My jogging pants slip past her hips, and she clutches them with one hand. My shirt hangs past her ass, so I didn’t get a peek at anything interesting. Nope, not going there. I tear my gaze away, telling myself it’s for the best. Chloe is my friend. A woman friend. Now that’s a first.
I’m sitting in the formal dining room for Christmas dinner and can’t help but notice Chloe isn’t here. I hope she’s okay. We’re having drinks to start, a dry champagne. King Gabriel sits at the head of the table with his wife, Queen Anna, on one side and his mother, the former queen, on his other side. It’s pretty old-school traditional here, though from what I can tell, the king and queen rule together as equals. Their two-year-old daughter, Mila, sits on my dad’s lap, talking in excited tones to him. Something about her secret fairy garden.
I purposely sat at the far end of the table, where there were still empty seats, hoping Chloe would sit near me. I glance across the table where Chloe’s sister, Sara, sits with Adrian and their baby, Henry. I make a funny face at Henry when he notices me, widening my eyes and sticking my tongue out. He stares unblinking back, his eyes wide as saucers, before he gets distracted by Adrian passing him over to Sara. Chloe wouldn’t miss Christmas dinner, would she?
Christmas is a big deal in my family. It’s the only time everyone gets off work and can be together for a good time. Though I see plenty of my five brothers at work since we co-own Byrne Construction (my uncle’s company before he retired) and the new company we formed under it, Rourke Management, for real estate development. My job is to scout out new properties ripe for development in Brooklyn. So far, I landed us a closed elementary school that we converted successfully to commercial office space, and our current project, an old marine rope factory by the waterfront that we’re converting to lofts for design and artist tenants. I’m always on the lookout for the next project. I’ve got my eye on some low-level warehouses by the waterfront for possible residential space.
“Did Santa bring you everything you dreamed of?” my younger brother, Garrett, asks, interrupting my thoughts. We call him Beast on account of his overly muscled body. The dude lifts weights way beyond what’s necessary. His barbells take up half his bedroom in our apartment. What’s he going for? Hulk status?
I lean close, keeping my voice low. “Ya know, I think he might’ve. I caught up with the pretty redhead from the ball earlier.” Not that I’m going to do anything about it.
He snorts. “Any woman can be fiery. Redhead, blonde, brunette.” I always say I like redheads because they’re more fiery. Though, I have to admit, Chloe seems more thoughtful than fiery.
I shrug one shoulder. “What can I say? I have a type.”
“I love ’em all.” He grins, his blue-green eyes twinkling with amusement. He’s the only one of us who inherited my dad’s blue-green eyes, which match the color of the sea here. Supposedly, it’s the sign of the true leader of Villroy. Not that the youngest son of the formerly exiled family would ever be king. I think Garrett would be, let’s see…twelfth in line for the throne. After King Gabriel, there’s my cousins—four princes and two princesses—then there’s our family with five brothers ahead of Garrett. Or, wait, maybe King Gabriel’s little girl fits in there somewhere too. Garrett could be thirteenth in line. Lucky thirteen.
I chuckle. “Love ’em all, sow your wild oats. That sounds about right for twenty-four.”
He shakes his head, smiling. “I just haven’t met the One yet, ya know? She’s out there somewhere.”
I stifle a laugh. Underneath his tough-looking exterior, he’s such a softie. The One. Like there’s only one woman out there for you. Total BS. He should enjoy this time in his life when women close to his age aren’t looking for long-term commitment so much. The women I’ve been meeting, closer to my age (twenty-six), it’s definitely on their minds. Okay, there’s a very specific reason for my new caution—Mallory. A couple of months back—after just three weeks of hooking up on Saturday nights—she says, “Where’s this going, Bren? I deserve to know.” I shouldn’t have spent the night. That gave her the wrong idea. I’d told her up front I wasn’t looking for serious. The worst part is, she cried when I ended it. Like bawled. And then she threw a pointy stiletto at my head. I ducked just in time. Not gonna lie, I felt like absolute shit about it. I don’t want any woman crying over me. Which is why I’m being more careful now.
Don’t get me wrong. Commitment is great for some guys. Like my older brothers—Dylan, married with a baby on the way in a couple of weeks; Sean, getting married soon on Valentine’s Day (I know, barf); Jack’s wedding is in June; and Connor just recently got engaged, no wedding date yet. Not to mention my parents.
I glance over as my dad clinks his champagne glass against my mom’s. They smile, gazing into each other’s eyes. He gave up everything to marry her, a commoner from Brooklyn, New York. It was hard on him, being exiled from his kingdom with nothing. No allowance, not even a small cushion to get him started. All so he could be with “the best woman in the world.” His oft-repeated words. So I know for some guys the whole love and commitment thing works. And maybe one day when I’m too old to be on the prowl—forty or so—I’ll settle down. But not now.
I glance at the dining room door when it opens, a rush of anticipation going through me. Nope, not her, just a servant in the uniform of white button-down shirt and black pants. The guy walks over for a word with the king and queen. Next he stops to talk to Chloe’s sister, who stands, murmuring something to her husband, and leaves with the baby in her arms. Is something wrong with Chloe? Maybe she’s in worse shape than I thought. She seemed okay when she left my room. I should’ve made sure.
I’m dying of curiosity, but I know it’s not my place to butt in. Sara’s on it. Another round of champagne is brought out and the conversation gets louder. My dad walks around the table to chat with everyone, with Mila in his arms. He’s trying to keep her entertained while we wait for the meal to start. Usually it takes a while to get through a formal dinner with all the courses, and I think the queen wants to wait for everyone to arrive before we begin.
A short while later, a soft voice says, “Sorry I’m late, everybody.”
It’s her. Adrenaline fires through me, every nerve ending on alert. Her pink cheeks stand out against her creamy skin and red hair. She’s holding her infant nephew cradled against her chest. My own chest aches at the sight. She just l
ooks so natural and loving with a baby in her arms. Like a beautiful angel.
Get real, Bren. Cut the angel crap.
The irony is that my parents used to call me a little devil because I was mischievous as a kid. I’ve always liked to have fun. The angel and the devil. Ha! Not meant for the long term, but definitely worth a tangle or two. If only she weren’t connected to the Rourke clan, I could act on it.
Why in the world did I volunteer to be her friend? This is too much to ask any red-blooded man.
I catch her eye. “Merry Christmas, Chloe.”
She smiles warmly. “You too.” She hands her nephew back to her sister and takes the seat across from me, unfolding her cloth napkin, looking self-conscious. She’s wearing a white cardigan over a red dress that clings to her petite curves. My gut tightens. It’s nothing blatantly sexy, the dress covers her up to her neck, but I can see her collarbones, the dip between them so feminine and tempting to trace and kiss and taste. Whoa, whoa, whoa, back it up.
I blink and turn away, realizing I’m staring. Probably with a hungry look on my face too. I’m usually much more subtle.
I glance over at Beast and he smirks. Busted. I’ve got to play it cool.
A few moments later, the first course arrives—oysters with caviar. Aren’t oysters an aphrodisiac? Not that I need one in my current state. I can’t stop stealing glances at her. She speaks quietly to Sara and Adrian mostly. Her movements are graceful, her voice soft. Is she shy? She didn’t seem shy earlier. She’s definitely not upset. Not happy exactly, more like neutral. Serious.
A couple of servants circulate, offering wine, which she declines. I do too, being more of a beer drinker.
I focus back on my food. We always eat well here with lots of seafood since Villroy is an island and their fishing industry has sustained them for centuries. More recently the fishing industry has been used for the high-end cosmetics they use at their day spa. They also run a casino, which my brothers and I plan to enjoy tomorrow before heading home the next morning on the royal jet. Finally, it pays to be born a prince. I like to drop that into conversation when I pick up women. They never believe me at first, but they always want to believe. Now I can prove it by showing them my picture at my oldest brother Dylan’s wedding on Villroy. Women go crazy in excitement when they see that, inevitably asking to visit the palace.
Rogue Devil Page 2