Going Deep Boxed Set (Books 1-4)

by Virna DePaul

  So many charms, Arabella thought glumly as Celeste turned away. So many charms, and I can’t have any of them.

  When she and Royce returned to the hotel after the game, she promptly shut herself in her bedroom and cried for two hours straight. She was almost certain Royce could hear her, but she didn’t care. Afterward, she ate dinner with Royce shadowing her every move, as she vowed to herself that she would try her hardest to let Kyle Young go.

  Chapter 8

  “Dude. What is up with you, man?”

  Kyle glanced at Heath, staring at him with furrowed brows. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  “Sure. Except you’ve looked like shit for weeks now and you don’t even come out after games anymore. And if you do, you only do it for a little while before making some excuse. Are you on your period or something?”

  Kyle flipped his friend the bird, but it was halfhearted. He had been testy and depressed, ever since he’d said goodbye to Arabella. Princess Arabella of Salasia, he reminded himself, a woman out of your league, a woman who’d graced you with her presence for exactly one day. The princess who’d returned home to her palace and would probably marry some aristocrat one of these days, while Kyle could only sit around remembering their fun night in New York City while binging on a plate of nachos.

  The day after he last saw Arabella, the team had returned to Savannah and were now practicing for a game coming up next week. It should’ve been enough to distract him, but for the first time in his life, his career seemed unimportant. His talent, wealth, and fame seemed unimportant.

  Yes, he had worked his way up in the ranks and was proud of his success in his career. He’d bought multiple mansions across the country, furnishing each with luxurious couches and beds and tables, expensive artwork hanging on the walls. He drove fancy cars and ate at the best restaurants, and he was well aware of the fact that he could get any woman he wanted with just a wink and a smile.

  But all that seemed insignificant now. Because he only wanted one woman—a damn princess who had fucked him, fucked him over, then left him.

  Of course she’d left him.

  It didn't matter how many cars he had or how many bottles of Chardonnay he bought, he was still a kid who’d grown up in a trailer park. He had no lineage and nothing to recommend him as a prospect for a princess and he was pissed at himself for even caring about such a thing!

  “Young, are you going to be present today or should you go take a nap?” Coach demanded, hands on his hips and a stormy expression on his weathered face. Nearing his mid-fifties, Coach had a tendency to ride his players hard—especially his star players, like Kyle, Heath, and Alec. Heath had gotten an earful last month when he’d been messing around with Camille Pollert, an up and coming NFL photographer, but after Camille had voluntarily quit her position to focus on her own photography—and Heath had gotten his head out of his ass—Coach had given his grumpy blessing to the relationship.

  Now, it was Kyle’s turn to get his ass ridden. “I’m here,” he said, standing up. “Where else would I rather be?”

  “Don’t be a smart ass. I know you’ve been moping because your dog died or whatever, but now’s not the time to get soft.” Coach pointed a finger in his face. “We’re frontrunners for the Super Bowl this year, you hear me? We can’t fuck around, and I can’t have my best quarterback fumbling the ball like you’ve done during practice.”

  During their most recent scrimmage, Kyle had fumbled the ball—uncharacteristic of him—and Coach had been so livid that spittle had flown from his mouth. Not a pretty sight.

  This is what happens when you get all hyped up on a girl, Kyle told himself. He mentally shook off the cobwebs, not wanting anyone to suspect the real reason why he was distracted. Heath and Alec both kind of knew, but they were good enough friends not to mention it in front of Coach, who’d probably have an aneurysm if another one of his players allowed a woman to fuck with his performance.

  “Get on the field, boys!” Coach barked. “We need to practice the new play. It’ll be a real winner if y’all do as I tell you. Now, move!”

  Coach blew his whistle, and the team got into position. The play depended on Kyle successfully running the ball in for a touchdown, but if he fumbled it, the entire thing would be ruined. Normally, he’d be exhilarated by playing the lynchpin, but now, he suddenly felt clammy and anxious. Like he was about to go on stage and puke his guts out before he opened his mouth.

  Suddenly, that reminded him of Arabella as she sang the National Anthem. Had she been nervous before she went out there? He hadn’t even congratulated her on how well she did. He’d beaten himself up at least ten times since then over it. He remembered how her voice had peaked and soared and caused his entire body to be on edge. Although physically she seemed young, sweet, and even innocent, her voice had a womanly, sophisticated quality to it. Worldlier, even sensual, as her singing echoed throughout the stadium. Kyle wondered if she’d ever get the chance to tour like she’d mentioned wanting to do. Could princesses tour the world as singers, he wondered? Or was that against the Princess Code of Conduct they probably made them sign when they were born?

  “Young! What the fuck are you doing out there?”

  Kyle was wrested from his reverie when he realized that the play had started and he hadn’t moved. Hadn’t run or moved the ball for first down. Just stood there like an idiot.

  Coach kept yelling at him, and the spittle was beginning to fly. “Are you dying? Or are you just stupid? I swear to God, Young, if you’re coming down with something, I’ll come out there and wring your neck myself…”

  Practice deteriorated from there. Kyle played as best he could, but his head wasn’t in the game, and Coach only got angrier. After another dismal play, Coach blew his whistle and ordered the entire team off the field, telling them he couldn’t stand to see them fuck around like little princesses any longer. Hearing that word did nothing to help Kyle’s situation.

  Kyle knew he’d be getting an earful from Coach later that evening, telling him to stop screwing around, but when he entered the locker room to take a shower, he didn’t even care. What the fuck was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he shake this woman?

  Returning to his home on the outskirts of Savannah that evening, Kyle tossed his gear inside the front door and went straight to the kitchen for another whisky. A palatial mansion with a five-car garage, pool, and fountain, Kyle’s house bespoke wealth and fame, but inside, it still managed to exude a hominess that he preferred. He enjoyed his money, but he also liked the simpler things, too. Like a cheap beer cold from the fridge, he thought, changing his mind, as he tipped a can back and sank it down, the cool liquid sliding down his throat. He took out another and went straight to his TV room, decked out with the newest electronics and with every TV station known to man available to watch.

  He drowned his sorrows in a baseball game, but he found himself thinking about other things and not even paying attention as the game progressed. A headache threatened to shut him down for the night. He was tired and was almost ready for bed at 9:00 PM. He rolled his eyes at himself. When had he become such a pansy? What had Arabella done to him? Maybe she had lied about her princess status too and was really a witch, because that was how he felt—bewitched. Under a spell he couldn’t shake. Next he would be signing up for AARP and crying watching The Notebook.

  Annoyed by the ball game, he started flipping channels, unable to find one that could hold his interest. He flipped and flipped, about to turn the TV off entirely, when he saw a familiar face flash across the screen. His heart almost stopped: it was Arabella, her pretty, smiling face in a news story on some entertainment channel. How had he never seen her before? He would’ve fallen for a face like that immediately.

  A voiceover spoke, as images and news clips played. “Princess Arabella of Salasia has been spotted with none other than a Salasian nobleman. You wouldn’t think that was odd, except this was the very eligible bachelor Count Frederic. And they were seen alone yesterday.”

>   Kyle watched as photos of Arabella and an older man—some dude in his early 40s—were put on screen. They weren’t holding hands, but they were spotted eating dinner at a restaurant and that would be enough to drive Kyle crazy for days. Maybe even months or years. Kyle’s hackles rose at the images. The thought of her with another man—no matter how platonic—made him want to create a Kyle-shaped hole in the fucking wall.

  “We’ve been speculating about who the princess may marry for a few years now,” the voiceover continued, “but no one seemed to stick. Has that changed with Count Frederic coming to the forefront of suitors? We’ll continue to track this story, and let you know if you should be listening for wedding bells in the future!”

  One last image appeared, with Count Frederic smiling down at Arabella. She wasn’t smiling, per se, but she didn’t look unhappy either. The image flashed by so fast that Kyle couldn’t study her expression. Was she really considering marrying this douchebag, with his receding hairline and thin lips? Ugh!

  If Kyle were fair, he’d admit the count was handsome in a boring, stable, and aristocratic way, but he didn’t feel like being fair right now. He crunched his beer can, tossing it against the wall. “Fuck my life.”

  Resorting to his phone for help, he began searching for images of Arabella and the count, intent on seeing for himself if she were a lost cause. Because if there was even the slightest bit of hope… They popped up immediately, and Kyle zoomed in on each to look at Arabella. He’d become pretty good at analyzing her face when they were together, and he prided himself on being able to tell what she was thinking and feeling.

  In the photos, she had certainly perfected the serene expression, he thought darkly, but as he studied each image, one thing stood out to him—she seemed uncomfortable. She wasn’t touching the count, wasn’t smiling up at him—like she had with Kyle—and she often had her arms crossed or her body angled away from him. Tension drew her mouth into a line, and there was no blush in her cheeks and neck. That had been her telltale sign. She didn’t love the guy. He could see it on her face, underneath that calm exterior. He knew his duchess, and one thing was for sure: she didn’t want any of this.

  Someone was setting her up—her family, most likely.

  But, could Arabella marry a man she didn’t love? He had a feeling she could and most likely would, if it meant making her family happy. At the thought of that, his heart dropped to his stomach.

  She can’t marry this guy. She can’t. She’ll be miserable.

  He remembered her face in that supply closet, the tormented biting of her lip, the agony of not knowing what to do, the expression that begged him to take her far, far away. She hadn’t wanted to leave him, but she’d had to. Out of duty. Deep in his heart, he hadn’t wanted to let her go, either. But how could a football player like him end up with a woman of royalty? It would never work.

  His phone rang just then. As expected, COACH’s name and face flashed on the screen. He winced, but picked up, knowing Coach would go ballistic if he ignored him. “Young!” Coach barked. “You still alive?”

  Kyle could’ve given any sarcastic reply. Instead, he said, “Yep, Coach, still alive and breathing. What’s up?”

  “Well, I should chew your ass off for practice today, but I’m too tired and have had enough beers to take the edge off. But I also just got an interesting phone call from Jacques York, the NY Knights owner. Remember him?”

  Kyle sat up straighter. Jacques York was from Salasia. Bella had told him that. What did that guy want? “What does he want with us?”

  “Well, he invited you on a trip to Salasia, along with a few other players from other teams, to be a part of some charity thing. I can’t remember what it’s for—probably kids with cancer or something—and I said you needed some time to clear your head, so you’d be good for it. You, Dawson, and LeBrun leave tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? What about our next game?”

  “You’ll be back in time for practice, and next week’s our bye week.” Kyle was stunned. Him, going to Salasia? Where Arabella also happened to live? He stood with renewed energy just then and ran upstairs to his room to start packing. This was fate—he knew it was. It had to be. This was the universe telling him to stop Arabella from getting with some guy she didn’t want and…well, he’d figure out the rest when he got there.

  “Young, you still there?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he replied absently, digging through his closet. He hadn’t even put away his suitcase from his trip to New York. What kind of clothes would be acceptable for meeting a princess on her home turf? “When’s the flight?”

  “Bright and early, 6:00 AM. The driver will be by to pick you up at 4:00. Do us proud, Young, and come back to us a real quarterback again, okay?”

  “Sure, Coach.”

  “And Young?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Go get that girl.” He could almost hear the wink in Coach’s voice. Had he been so transparent?

  No matter. He hung up, tossing his phone on the bed. He didn’t care if he had to do some naked auction for charity, he was going to Salasia, and he was going to find Arabella and convince her she was going to ruin her life if she married Count Frederic. Okay, they weren’t even engaged, but the writing was on the wall, and there was no way he could let that happen.

  And what, you’ll offer yourself as an alternative? his mind played devil’s advocate.

  He batted away the thought. Just focus on one problem at a time, he told himself. Kyle wasn’t 100% convinced that he was the right man for Arabella, Princess of Salasia, but he knew the count wasn’t the man for her. And if he were going to be in the same country as her, it would be his civic duty to inform her as much.

  Uh, huh, sure. Keep telling yourself that, pal. And I’m sure you don’t want to sleep with her again, either.

  Kyle stuffed clothes into his suitcase with more force than necessary at the memory of making love with Arabella. He’d never had sex with a woman who’d affected him so much, and the memories of that night lingered in his mind like the remnants of a dreamy spell.

  The next morning, as the Bootleggers’ driver drove him, Heath, and Alec to the airport, Kyle could barely contain his anxiety and giddiness. The look on her face when she saw him would be priceless.

  I’m coming for you, Duchess. Ready or not.

  Chapter 9

  Arabella stared at her plate. Beautifully cooked scallops and the most tender of vegetables graced the fine china, but her stomach twisted at the sight. Or maybe it was the conversation flowing around her that was making her sick, all the talk about her future without anyone asking her for input.

  “Are you unwell?” Count Frederic leaned over and asked in a murmur. In his early forties, the count was still a bachelor, and a prime one at that. Of the Salasian aristocracy, he wasn’t related to the royal family, but his blood was almost as blue as Arabella’s. With his dark eyes and dark hair—albeit somewhat thinning—he presented an appealing, put-together kind of man who was also kind and thoughtful.

  Arabella liked him. She did. He was solicitous, polite, and always wore the neatest of suits, and his mustache was always trimmed to perfection. If he had gray at the temples, so what? It lent a distinguished look—at least that was what her mother said.

  Arabella forced herself to smile. After all, there was nothing terrible about dining with the count—again. “I’m fine,” she answered quietly. “Merely a little tired. It’s been a busy few days.”

  Frederic smiled in return. “That it has been. Be sure to try the scallops. They’re perfectly cooked.”

  Of course they are, she thought morosely. When were they not? In fact, when was anything not perfect in her world? The dining room was perfect, the chandelier overhead was perfect, her gown was perfect, the food was perfect. Not a speck of dust, not a chipped cup, nor a dirty fork in sight. Laughter and wine surrounded Arabella, but it was like she was encased in her own shiny bubble. A bubble-cage, really. A cage she desperately wanted to escap
e.

  After returning home from New York City, her mother, Elisabetta, had been enraged at Arabella for going off on her own, and when Mother was angry, it was in a cold, ruthless kind of way. “You ran off with a man you hardly knew,” she’d hissed, lecturing her daughter all afternoon the second she’d arrived home at the palace.

  I’d gotten to know Kyle better than Count Frederic, Arabella thought now.

  “You gave us all such a fright that I’m not certain I can ever forgive you! How could you, Arabella? How could you disregard duty, respect for yourself, your family and lineage? How could you endanger yourself in such a way? Not only that, but you were seen kissing this strange man! You had to play the whore along with everything else?”

  She’d flinched at her mother’s harsh words, but had said nothing. What could she say? Mother had made up her mind, and nothing Arabella could say would change it. Instead, she found refuge in thoughts of Kyle, in his azure eyes, the memory of his commanding kisses, and before she knew it, her mother’s lecture had disappeared into the background.

  What is he doing now? she’d wondered. Did he still think of her? Or had he already moved on with another woman? At that thought, her heart contracted painfully. She couldn’t blame him if he had, as they had no future together, but it still hurt to imagine it. Every memory of Kyle hurt.

  “Are you listening to me?” her mother had demanded. “Arabella!”

  “Yes, Mother?” She’d gritted her teeth and practically bitten her mother’s head off.

  Mother had thrown the iPad displaying the offending photo onto a chaise. “I knew this would happen. I knew letting you go alone to New York City would only cause trouble. You need a firm hand to guide you, and I can see that neither I nor your father can do so any longer.”

  Arabella frowned, which her mother scolded her for—frowning caused wrinkles, and no one wanted a wrinkled woman, did they?

  Her mother had continued, “Count Frederic has been asking about you, and I think it’s time to consider him as a possible suitor. You will go to dinner with him this Saturday.”