American Prince: A Royal Romance (Sand & Fog Series Book 9)

by Susan Ward

  I don’t want to do it.

  I can’t stop myself.

  My lids press tightly shut, then I flash open my eyes.

  All my swirling emotions come to a screeching halt.

  It can’t be.

  Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing?

  No, no, no. It can’t be.

  I haven’t seen Damon yet!

  The End…until May 22, 2019!

  You don’t want to miss the dramatic conclusion of Khloe & Damon’s love story in book 10 of the Sand & Fog Series American Princess.

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  OTHER BOOKS BY SUSAN WARD

  The Parker Saga Books in reading order:

  The Parker Series

  Lost In Him (Chrissie & Alan)

  Caught In Him (Chrissie & Alan)

  Found In Him (Chrissie & Alan)

  Only Him (Chrissie & Alan)

  The Sand & Fog Series

  Broken Crown (Alan & Chrissie)

  The Girl of Sand & Fog (Kaley & Bobby)

  The Girl in the Mirror (Krystal & Jacob)

  Ethan (Ethan & Avery)

  Gone Guy (Eric & Willow)

  Return to Us (Eric & Willow)

  The Last Girl (Khloe & Damon)

  The Last Guy (Khloe & Damon)

  American Prince (Khloe & Damon)

  American Princess (Khloe & Damon)

  A Very Damon Holiday: a sweet, sexy standalone novella (Khloe & Damon)

  The Affair without End Series

  One Last Kiss (Jack & Linda)

  One More Kiss (Jack & Linda)

  One Long Kiss (Jack & Linda)

  One Forever Kiss (Jack-Lena-Linda)

  The Locked & Loaded Series: A Parker Saga cross-over series. Get to know the hot and brave bodyguards who protect Alan Manzone and his family:

  Dillon Warrick books (M/F Romance):

  Pistol Whipped

  Graham Carson books (M/M Romance):

  The Manny

  His Man

  All In

  Skyler Mathews (M/M Romance):

  Skyler

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  Excerpt

  Chrissie Parker and Alan Manzone

  Lost in Him

  The Parker Series Book One:

  The room is so quiet it is deafening.

  I find Alan on his bed, casually reclined against a stack of pillows, dressed only in flannel pajama bottoms, and reading—of all things—the Wall Street Journal. There is a fire lit, the silver candlesticks flicker with flame, the bedcovers invitingly turned down as if in preparation for some sort of romantic scene. But he is focused on the Journal.

  He doesn’t look at me and I feel stupid hovering by his door, so I start to wander around the bedroom, trying to still my frantic pulse. It’s a good thing that it’s an interesting room, otherwise my deliberate study would seem silly.

  Even Alan’s bedroom is something I find weird and demands a certain amount of mental analysis. It looks like something from a nineteenth century English manor, elegant to the point of being almost a touch prissy. There’s an antique mahogany king-sized bed facing the fireplace; floral wingback chairs with pillows positioned before the hearth; and high-tech conveniences camouflaged in antique furniture. There’s a Monet on the wall; tall, polished sterling silver candlesticks; crystal; and fine, leather-bound, first edition books of classic literature. I sink down before a small, mahogany table where I find a stack of newspaper: Barons; the New York Times; the Washington Post; and the Daily Telegraph.

  The warmth of the fire surrounds me like a caress, but I am quaking like a leaf. I wasn’t sure what Alan expected after he walked out of the kitchen. It would have been logical to assume that I would leave. But he knew I’d follow him. I don’t know why he’s ignoring me now. I look at the lit candlesticks—he wanted me to follow him.

  I bite my lower lip and stare at my knotted fingers. I stayed alone in the kitchen for what seemed like ages, and now that I’ve done exactly what he expected me to do, nothing.

  I struggle for something to say to break the silence. “You do have seven bedrooms. I counted them twice. But there are seven only if I include yours.”

  He folds the Journal, tosses it on the table and fixes those penetrating, mesmerizing eyes on me. “Is this the room you want?” he asks, his voice gentle. “I meant it when I said you could have any room. It doesn’t have to be my room for you to stay.”

  Does he not want me in his room? A ragged breath forces its way from deep in my lungs. “Do you want me to go?” I murmur.

  “Of course not. I want you here.” His voice is husky, and his eyes are wandering in a leisurely hold that is tender and oddly comforting.

  Excerpt

  THE GIRL OF SAND & FOG

  Oh shit, silence. I don’t like the way Mr. Jamison is staring at me at all.

  He leans over his desk, scribbling frantically on the dreaded pink sheet. He holds it up to me and points to the door. “Principal’s office now, Miss Stanton! If you can’t be respectful of the opinions shared in class then keep your opinions to yourself. We don’t criticize each other’s ideology. Not in this class. We encourage open and respectful dialogue.”

  I gather my things, feeling the heavy stares and smirks of the silent room, and strangely I realize that I am even more irritated since I haven’t been booted from class for the British vulgarity, but for showing disrespect for liberal politics.

  I snatch the pink slip and smile, but then again, what should I have expected? I mean really. I’m in an affluent city in Southern California.

  I shove the door open a little too hard, not giving a shit and not even provoking comment from Mr. Jamison. I must have really rocked his world and I think I’ve finally found where intolerable conduct goes over the line with my teachers. Any language that isn’t politically correct speak crosses the line and will be dealt with. No one even seemed to notice that I’d call the girl a “twat.” It’s not on the description of my infraction, and the twat comment is where I would have started listing my crimes and offenses.

  I show the pink slip to the office secretary and am instructed to sit down on the waiting room sofa outside the principal’s office. After five minutes, the door opens and in meanders a boy, pink slip in hand, who is directed by pointed finger to the seat across from me.

  He drops heavily on the bench facing me and says nothing. He closes his eyes and crosses his arms.

  There is something strangely familiar about the guy, but I chalk that up to probably having passed him in the hallways. He isn’t exactly cute, but he isn’t exactly unattractive either. He is interesting, quite a unique specimen at Pacific Palisades Academy. He has that guy’s guy intensity that radiates an air of not giving a shit, though somehow in a strangely intelligent way, and I am surprised to find it mildly thrilling.

  He is taller than me, a good thing since I rarely find guys of adequate height for my five-foot-ten-inch frame, and he has a lean, nicely muscled body like a surfer, a slightly worldly aura somehow accomplished by
his clothes that are more European style than American, and the most penetrating hazel eyes I’ve ever seen.

  Interesting. I can’t tell what he is, since he’s such a hodgepodge of mismatching things that it is impossible to identify the group he falls in with at school.

  I sit there staring at him, fiddling with the pink detention slip, and when the office secretary leaves, those hazel eyes open and he asks, “You’re Kaley Stanton, aren’t you?”

  Shit, not this again. And it’s such a disappointment because there was a slight prick of interest before he spoke and his voice—well, I never expected that—but it made the hairs on my body stand up.

  “Oh, fuck me!” I snap, letting loose my fallback response, the knee-jerk reaction that comes from perfect strangers knowing my name.

  “Not on the first detention.”

  That is the first quick comeback I’ve heard in two months here. I try hard not to smile and can’t stop myself. Arching a brow, I counter, “I’ll probably be here next week. Maybe you can fuck me then.”

  Those hazel eyes sharpen on my face. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

  I tense. Why would he think I’d recognize him? “No. Should I?”

  The guy shrugs. “What landed you in here?”

  “Fomenting political insurrection. You?”

  “Jerking off in the gym.”

  It is hard to tell if he is serious or just trying to shock me. Masturbation is a perfectly acceptable topic of conversation at PP Academy. PP Academy…I laugh, stare at him hard and say, “I’m glad you didn’t offer to shake my hand.”

  The boy doesn’t smile and I bite my lip to stop my laughter.

  “You look and sound just like your dad. Sans accent, of course,” he says in a heavy, all-knowing way, irritating me and sounding as though he’s irritated by his own discovery.

  OK, it’s time to stop this now. The boy is messing with me, but unfortunately I’m a little off-kilter from my bizarre internal response to him and whatever it was I heard in his voice when he made that annoying assumption on my parentage.

  I snap, “How would you know?”

  “I just saw him a month ago in Munich,” he replies casually, twirling his own pink paper around his finger.

  “Did you really? Do you have a psychic hotline? Do you speak with the dead as well as see them? My dad has been dead over ten years.”

  The guy shrugs again, leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. “You’re funnier than Alan Manzone. He’s a real prick these days.”

  Before I can stop myself, yet again I respond to his baiting. “Alan Manzone is a prick every day.”

  The boy just shakes his head. “No, he’s actually a really cool guy.”

  “He’s a narcissistic asshole.”

  “You really hate him, don’t you?”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Probably,” he says. “Do you want to get out of here? If we stay, Williams will keep us until after six cleaning the bleachers. We won’t get in trouble, you know. No one wants to deal with my mother so they won’t call her. I don’t think they’ll call Chrissie either. I never stay for detention. Do you want to get out of here?”

  I stare up at him apprehensively. Who is this guy? He says everything with such an air of knowing unenthusiasm. Debating with myself over whether to leave with him, I ask, “If you don’t stay why were you on the bench?”

  “I saw you leaving class with the pink slip.”

  That pleases me more than I want to be. Direct and honest in a no-bullshit type of way. Another rarity at PP Academy.

  I give him the stare. “You know, you could have just said ‘hi’ to me in the halls. You didn’t have to be a stalker about the whole thing.”

  “Sure, I could have. But meeting on the detention bench makes a more interesting story, don’t you think?”

  “Interesting for who?”

  “My mom and dad, who by the way, think that I am gay.”

  That level of honesty wrapped in self-confidence is too appealing. I don’t want to get close to any guy, something tells me especially not this guy, but somehow I feel myself being drawn to him.

  I sink farther back into my seat. “And are you gay?”

  “Hell no. I just like to fuck with my dad.”

  Excerpt

  BROKEN CROWN

  I shut off the shower, deciding not to call Chrissie. I dress for an excursion on my bike. Traveling the rural splendor of the United States on a Harley is one of the few things left in my life I still enjoy. The decision this time has nothing to do with savoring the scenery. The days it will take to travel from New York to California will give me a chance to back out if sanity decides to return. The call ahead of time will do neither of us any good if I decide not to see her.

  I sink down onto my bed to make two phone calls. I tell my assistant to clear my calendar for the next month, and hang up as she bellows every reason why that isn’t possible. Then I call the garage to get my bike ready.

  I tuck into a backpack only what I need for the journey to Los Angeles. I almost leave the bedroom when I recall the lump in my sheets. Tucking the bracelet into my pocket, I reach out a hand and shake the body in my bed. “You need to get dressed and get the hell out of here, love. I’m going to California. If you’re a whore, I’d like to pay you first. If you’re a nice girl, leave me your number.”

  The brown-eyed beauty sits up, pulling with her the blankets to cover her naked flesh. Morning after modesty, another farce since my memory isn’t so dim that I forgot what we did last night. Those pouting red lips smile.

  Ah, Boston bred. The girl isn’t ruffled by any of it.

  Smoothly charming, she says, “I’ll bill you. Though it’s often considered a blurry difference, I’m not a whore. I’m your attorney. One of your divorce attorneys. I brought the finalized settlement contracts, and though you missed our meeting, I waited ten hours in this apartment for you to return to sign them since your ex-wife has an irritating proclivity to change her mind. I thought it best we jump on the offer and settle it fast since you didn’t have a pre-nuptial agreement.

  “When I tried to explain, you jumped on me. I thought what the hell, it’s been a slow day and I’m earning five hundred bucks an hour for this. Why shouldn’t my job have an occasional perk? You have been interesting. I’ve never been laid by a man who holds an infinity band while he fucks me. I think it’s better I don’t tell you the things you mumbled. I’ll only warn you that you should be relieved it’s covered under attorney/client privilege since my meter ticks until you sign those documents.

  “The contracts are on the dresser. Please sign them so I can shower, dress and go. It’s Saturday, in case you don’t know what day it is, and I play racquetball at six. That I didn’t expect you to know. It was a subtle attempt to speed you up in the signing.”

  I laugh softly. My attorney is charming. I go to the dresser and do a quick study of the contracts. “Thank you for not boring me with whatever I mumbled and thank you for promising to bill me so it’s privileged. You can, however, bore me by letting me know how much this is costing me.”

  Panties and bra in place, my attorney scrambles from my bed, gathering her clothes, then snatches the signed contracts from my hand.

  “Me, I cost you seventy-two hundred for this meeting. Your ex-wife cost you one-hundred-sixteen million two hundred-twenty-seven thousand, a combination of cash, future cash, and an interesting assortment of personal property. You did, however, manage to retain the Malibu house that, against my advice, you battled her over, the bill from me five-hundred thousand over the value of it.”

  I clutch her chin a little roughly and give her a hard kiss. “You, love, were a bargain.”

  I leave her, half dressed, staring at me from my bathroom doorway. It sounded theatrical even to me. Chrissie would have given me such shit for those theatrics, but the girl seemed to be expecting something like that so I played along.
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br />   Or enjoy the first novel in the Perfect Forever Novels: The Signature. Available Now. Please enjoy the following excerpt from The Signature:

  She became aware all at once how utterly delightful it felt to be here with him, alone on the quay, with the erotic nearness of his body.

  She closed her eyes. “Listen to the quiet. There are times when I lie here and it feels like there is no one else in the world.”

  “No one else in the world? Would that be a good thing?” he asked thoughtfully.

  “No. But the illusion is grand, don’t you think?” she whispered.

  Krystal turned her head to the side, lifting her lids to find Devon’s gaze sparkling as he studied her. He shook his head lazily. “No. The illusion wouldn’t be grand at all. It would mean I wasn’t here with you.”

  It all changed at once, yet again, and so quickly that Krystal couldn’t stop it. The ticklish feeling stirred in her limbs. Devon’s words, as well as the closeness of their bodies, should have sent her into active retreat, and instead she felt herself wanting to curl into him. What would it feel like if he kissed me? Would I still feel this delicious inside? Or would that old panic and fear return?

  Laughing softly, Devon said, “I’m not used to relaxing. Can you tell?”

  “I wasn’t used to it before Coos Bay either. There is a different pace of life here. At first I thought there was no sound. That’s how quiet it seemed to me. Then I realized that there is music, beautiful music in this quiet.”

  After a long pause, he murmured, “You’ll have to bring me here every Saturday until I learn to hear music in the quiet.”

  Krystal smiled. “Once you hear the music it’s perfect.”

  “It’s perfect now to me.” His voice was a husky, sensual whisper.

  He was on his side facing her. When had that happened? An inadvertent thrill ran through her flesh, and she could see it in his eyes—the supplication, the want, and an unexplainable reluctance to indulge either.

  Devon was no longer smiling, his eyes had become brighter and more diffuse. His fingertips started to trace her face with such exquisite lightness that her insides shook. For the first time in a very long time, she felt completely a woman, and wanting.