by Amelia Wilde
“You’re not what?” I don’t know what she means.
“Sorry that you love me.”
Then she pushes her hood back away from her face, throws her arms around my neck, and kisses me, hard and hot, not giving a fuck about the audience we most certainly have watching us back under the awning.
“I love you so much, Alec,” she says, pulling back from my mouth for each word. “I was so fucking angry at you. Never do that to me again.”
“I won’t. I promise.” I know that her forgiveness is only the beginning of the work we have to do with each other, but it’s going to be so, so worth it.
Now that she’s forgiven me, my heart begins to race again…because I have one more trick up my sleeve.
Breaking off the kiss, I push her back a half step. Confusion flits across her face.
Then I get down on one knee.
“Alec!” she cries, laughing as another bolt of lightning splits the sky.
“Before we drown out here,” I say, pulling a ring box from my pocket. “This was my mother’s ring.” My mother—and my father—had excellent taste in rings, and the diamond is flawless, the setting intricate but not overdone, so I have no fear that Jessica won’t like it. “I would love for you to wear it. And for you to become my wife. Will you marry me?”
“Yes!” she shrieks, but she reaches out and snaps the box closed. “Don’t give it to me here, though. It might get swept into the gutter by the rain, and then what the hell would we do?”
I stand up hastily, my pants soaked through. “Where should we go?” I say, giddy, happy laughter filling my chest.
“Back inside. There are dry clothes. And we need to celebrate!” Jessica takes my hand and, even though we’re both wet to the skin, starts running back toward the awning, pulling me behind her. She goes a few steps, then turns back to shoot me a naughty smile. “No last names, though, okay?”
I squeeze her hand, grinning back at her.
This is not where it ends.
This is where it all begins.
Epilogue
Jessica
I stand just outside the inner doors leading to the aisle in Sainthall Cathedral, my hands trembling.
It’s my wedding day and coronation day all wrapped into one, and all the anticipation of the past few months has culminated in a celebration that has all of Saintland in an uproar.
At least that’s what Alec tells me. I’ve been so busy with wedding planning that I haven’t seen much of the news coverage about our impending nuptials. It all hit me today as I rode in the limousine through the streets of Saintland from the Sainthall Palace to Sainthall Cathedral.
It was like a scene out of a fairy tale. Crowds lined the streets, throwing honest-to-God confetti into the air as the car passed them by. I had to remind myself to wave at them instead of just staring, despite Claire’s constant stream of instructions.
I was happy to see her when I got back to Saintland. She’s going to make the perfect head personal assistant in my new “household.” It’s funny—I thought I knew most of what there was to know about living in a palace after my last visit to Saintland. Not even close.
My father was waiting for me when the limo pulled up in front of Sainthall Cathedral, and he and my brother Thomas escorted me into the cathedral. But not until the media had their fill of taking pictures of my dress, which was designed by Sarah Burton. I can’t help but feel a special kinship with Kate Middleton now, although I haven’t met her.
Yet.
My heart pounds with excitement, but the processional is still going. We have more flower girls than I ever thought necessary, but because this is a royal wedding, there were a lot of details that I didn’t get to decide, tradition did. Claire went through everything with me thousands of times, but she always made it clear when something wasn’t up for discussion. The flower girls were one such thing.
Claire’s still the same, but many other things at Sainthall Palace are changing. As soon as we got back to Saintland, Alec started out by setting some ground rules.
On the plane ride back over the Atlantic, we cuddled together in the plush leather seats, and he told me some of what had made Marcus’s life so stressful—and his father’s. Saintland was a nation founded in unrest, and there’s still some question about where the physical boundaries should lie and whether it should be a kingdom at all. There are so many behind-the-scenes negotiations taking place that it’s no wonder it all got to Marcus. If the Saintlandian economy collapses, it’s going to be a disaster for its citizens. Alec is determined not to let that happen. I got the sense that there was more he wasn’t sharing with me, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there was an obscure provision in Saintlandian law that would allow for the removal of the ruling royal family under certain circumstances. That’s the last thing Alec’s father would want, and would be a significant source of stress for him, too.
Still, a life under that kind of pressure is not a life worth living, and so Alec has pushed back against tradition with strict boundaries. He won’t work past 6:30 p.m., unless there’s a special event requiring his attendance.
He’s also convened a series of meetings to decide what role the Princess of Saintland will play in royal politics. No longer will a princess—or queen—be relegated to social events, something sexist and ridiculous that should have been legislated out of existence a long time ago. It’ll take a while to get everything in place, but for now I’m happy knowing I’ll get to run my own staff and plan my own agenda. More like a first lady than anything, but it’ll all begin once I’m crowned princess.
Which will take place approximately two minutes after I’m done speaking my wedding vows to the love of my life.
My father nudges me with his elbow, and I look up into his eyes, which are glistening with tears.
He and my mother were in Argentina when I called to tell them the news—no easy feat, since they don’t keep their international cell phone on very much for fear of “wasting minutes.” For being such free spirits, they don’t put much stock in the technology that makes it possible. Of course, they’re both here, my mother already seated in the front row of the cathedral. It’s a little Reeves family reunion.
“You look gorgeous,” my father says to me, and for the first time I notice how gray his hair is. I’ve insisted that they stay two months in Saintland—Angela and Thomas are still in college, so they’ll only stay about three more weeks—but a wave of gratitude sweeps over me. We all need this time together.
“Thanks, Dad.”
The music starts to swell, but my dad doesn’t react automatically. “Are you ready?”
That’s my dad, always checking first. If I told him right now that I wanted to call all of this off, he’d hold up the train of my dress while I ran.
But this? I’ve never been more ready for anything than I am to marry Alec.
“Yes. I’m ready.”
We take a step into the doorway. Across the great expanse of the cathedral, I see my prince standing with the priest at the altar wearing his traditional Saintlandian uniform. Even from here, I can see the wide grin on his face, the way he stands with his feet firmly planted, no sign of nervousness…yet.
I take a deep breath, and then I take the first step toward Alec. The rest of the world falls away, and it’s like we’re the only ones in the cathedral.
Smiling, I walk slowly, calmly, in measured steps, directly toward the only future I’ll ever need.
Dirty Rogue
A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance
Prologue
Ten years ago
The needle of the tattoo machine bites into the skin of my brother’s chest. I can hear its pulsing hum above the music echoing off the brightly painted walls of the shop. It’s some kind of pop-metal that was popular a couple years ago and has since fallen off the mainstream radar. My brother grins up at me from where he’s lying back in the chair, completely relaxed even though the entire process appears painful. “It’s not that bad.”
> I roll my eyes. “It looks damn delightful.”
The tattoo artist, a young man with a serious expression, skin covered in tattoos, pauses to wipe some blood from his skin.
“You good?” he asks my brother.
“Yeah. Keep going.”
“Dad’s going to be pissed,” I say lamely. It’s the same argument I’ve been making since this morning, when my twin brother started pestering me about the tattoos—again—as we drove together in the Town Car on the way to our hometown of Dalton. It’s our eighteenth birthday.
“He won’t, and you know it,” my brother laughs.
He’s right in one sense. Dad won’t be upset with Chris, but he’ll find a way to make me feel like a goddamned idiot, one way or another. It’ll either be that I shouldn’t have gotten such a dumbass tattoo, or that I should have gone along with my brother’s idea. I can never tell with our dad. We just don’t get each other.
Stepping closer to the chair, I look at the way the design is coming together on his skin. As far as tattoos go, it’s pretty awesome—it’s a reproduction of the Pierce family crest, but with one small alteration. Instead of the falcon that appears in one tiny portion of the crest, there’s a C. You’d never notice it unless you knew it was there.
The benefit to having an identical twin is that if he’s the reckless one, you can stand back to see how things turn out before you jump in feet first.
And in my case, my brother is the reckless one.
I don’t fucking get it why everyone worships my brother, but that’s also probably why he’s our dad’s favorite. My dad was the king of his frat in college. He still loves to party, but now that he’s one of the richest men in New York, he doesn’t take it quite as far as he used to. Everyone loves him because he’s so much fun. It’s the same thing with Chris.
For such a “fun guy,” Dad can really be an asshole. As far as I know, not being the life of the party isn’t a crime.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans. Not being at the top of my dad’s popularity list probably has to do with Mom. I’m too much like her.
But I’m not the one who divorced him.
“Come on, Eli. It’s going to be fucking awesome. Everyone’s going to love it.”
I smile in spite of myself. “If I wait, we can test it out.”
“Testing things out” is something you only get to do if you’re exact replicas of one another, which is exactly the case with my brother and me. The differences between us—at least physically—are so subtle, so tiny, that we’ve successfully tricked our parents on more than one occasion. Not many people are going to be looking for the pinprick of a mole that Chris has on his left ankle. We’re talking that miniscule level of shit. In every other way, looking at him is like me looking into a mirror.
As identical as we are physically, however, our personalities are the opposite–we’re as different as night and day.
I’ve always been hesitant; he’s always been the go-getter. It’s not that I don’t or won’t go after the things I want, but in general, I’ll think it over for a while whereas Chris never does.
“What would we need to test it on?” he says, arching an eyebrow.
“Girls.”
Chris scoffs. “You think girls aren’t going to like a tattoo? You’re crazy, man.” The tattoo artist cracks a smile, but he doesn’t look up from his work.
“Well, certain girls.”
That’s another difference between Chris and me. His attention tends to….wander. Chris dates a new girl every week, and they’re typically the kind who like to get right down to screwing in the backseat of someone’s car or their parents’ spare room.
I’ve dated a few girls, and it’s always been a long-term kind of thing. At least, as long-term as it gets during high school. Date someone a year and you’re practically married.
Which, it turns out, is too boring for some people—namely, my last girlfriend, Sarah. She liked that I could afford to take her on all the fancy dates she wanted. What she didn’t like was that I wouldn’t sneak out with her as often as she wanted.
Not that my Dad would know, or care.
Unless it’s on a day when he decides that he does, and then there’s hell to pay.
Whatever. I’d rather not go through the hassle of buying my way out of some underage drinking charge.
Or worse.
Christian has been going to parties most every weekend, and I know he’s doing more than drinking at those things. I can see it by the hazy glaze in his eyes some mornings, even if he won’t admit it to me.
Even my fun-loving father doesn’t get behind drugs.
This weekend, Chris is throwing a party at one of my father’s rentals in the city. It’s a massive penthouse that’s currently between renters. What’s convenient is that Dad leaves tomorrow for a five-day business trip to survey some of Pierce Industries’ factories in China, so there’ll be plenty of time to have the place cleaned after the party.
It’s not the state of the penthouse carpet that has me worried. When I asked Chris earlier this week what type of party he was planning to have, he looked away before he answered.
“Just drinks,” he lied.
It won’t be just drinks.
“What are you going to do, Eli? Are you too much of a delicate flower to go through with this?”
“No,” I say, shooting him one of my “I can be as cool as you” looks. The tattoo artist makes a few more strokes on the design, and then it’s finished.
Chris is right. It looks cool as hell.
And maybe it’s lame, but I want to impress him.
“I’m doing it,” I say confidently.
Chris reaches out with his free arm and gives me a fist bump. “I knew you would.”
“It looks sick,” I say, as the tattoo artist wipes down Chris’s arm with rubbing alcohol and begins applying Vaseline to keep the new piece de resistance moist.
“You’re damn right it does,” Chris says, bending his neck down to get his first real look at it. “Just think, Eli. You’ll finally be edgy. How will the ladies resist?”
Chapter One
Quinn
I’ve been in New York City for five minutes, and it’s already spitting on me.
Literally.
The moment I step out from the terminal into the taxi line, the heavy gray clouds that have been hanging ominously low over the city open up. The roof over the taxi stand isn’t worth a damn against the rain, which is being driven by a squally summer wind, and of course I’m not wearing a raincoat and I don’t have an umbrella.
The last thing I’m going to do is drag my oversized suitcase, stuffed with the clothes and books I couldn’t bear to leave behind in Colorado, onto a city bus.
All I want to do is get to my new apartment, but the city is not playing fair.
What a welcome.
I straighten my shoulders in a display of resilience. The one positive in this situation is that my traveling outfit consists of a black tank top and yoga pants, far better than the thin, pale pink t-shirt a woman three places ahead of me in line is wearing. She doesn’t have a raincoat, either.
The line inches forward, and finally it’s my turn to get into one of the waiting taxis.
I yank on the handle of the back door to the cab, only to discover that–of course–it sticks, and I narrowly avoid falling backward into the man waiting behind me in line. With another jerk on the door handle, it finally releases and the door opens on squeaky hinges.
This has to be the most run-down cab in the entire city. A fine layer of grime seems to cover every available surface of the vehicle and it reeks of stale cigarettes. Country music blares from the front of the cab.
No problem, I reassure myself in my most upbeat mental voice. It’s only going to be half an hour.
I slide along the torn and patched back seat and wrestle my suitcase in beside me—there’s no way I’m going to deal with the trunk—and then I lean awkwardly over it to haul the door closed. I
t’s only when I look forward again that I notice the taxi driver leering at me in the rearview mirror.
Gritting my teeth, I give him a smile, my lips pressed together tightly.
“Where to, sweetheart?” he rasps, not turning to face me.
I had memorized the address of my new place—well, my friend Carolyn’s place—and I rattle it off to him, doing my best to sound as if it’s not my first time in New York City.
“Great,” says the driver in his raspy voice, as he steers the taxi away from the curb. “That’ll give us plenty of time to get to know one another.”
The sound of his voice makes my skin crawl, but I’ve been traveling all day. I’m only half an hour away from my new apartment. I’d give this creep a piece of my mind, but I just don’t have it in me right now. Instead, I pull out my phone to scan through my social media accounts.
That doesn’t last long. It was terrible enough to find out that my fiancé, Derek, had been cheating on me for a year with my best friend. Former best friend. On top of that, now every time I open one of my social media apps, there’s another message from a well-meaning friend or rabid gossip hawk wanting to know what happened?!?!? You two always seemed so happy together.
I swallow the lump in my throat and open up the Maps app, watching the small blue dot representing the cab hurtle down the expressway at fifteen miles per hour over the posted speed limit.
The driver swerves the taxi into the opposite lane. The jolt throws me into the door next to me, and seconds later the red Ford Explorer he cut off speeds up alongside us, the driver red in the face and shaking his fist at us. My heart pounds. What the fuck is wrong with this guy?
Now that we’re on I-495, there’s nowhere for me to get out.
The cabbie raises his middle finger at the driver of the Explorer and bursts forth a croaky guttural laugh. Then he glances back into the mirror to look at me.