Royal Pain

by Tracy Wolff

  “Yes. You know, to a restaurant. Where we order food, have some wine and some conversation, maybe split a gooey, decadent dessert and then take a walk on the beach.

  “I know this great place down the coast. It’s small, out of the way, but it makes the best coq au vin you will ever taste.” I tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, lingering just long enough to trail my hand down her baby soft cheek. “I’d really love to take you there, if you’d let me.”

  I know a million women who would jump at that suggestion—hell, probably more like two or three million, if I’m being honest. But the wariness is back in Savvy’s eyes and she looks more uncertain than I’ve ever seen her.

  “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” she says, taking a few cautious steps back from me.

  I follow. Of course I do—retreat and pursue seems to be the modus operandi of whatever we’ve got going on here. “Why not?” I demand as I stalk her across the room, taking one step forward for every two she takes back.

  “I told you the other night that I didn’t want this. And then I told you again when you got here. You’re the one who can’t seem to understand.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe the reason I have such a hard time understanding is because we both know that if I got on my knees right now, you’d let me do anything I want to you.”

  I reach for her to prove my point, but Savvy’s having none of it. “Because I’m a crown chaser?” she demands as she slaps a hand against my chest.

  “No, because you’re as hot for me as I am for you. The chemistry between us is off the charts and I don’t see anything wrong with two single, unattached adults exploring that chemistry. Especially since we never run out of things to talk about and we seem pretty damn good at making each other laugh. Going on a date seems like a no-brainer to me.”

  “Yeah, as long as that date’s at some tiny hole in the wall where you don’t have to worry about the press catching the new crown prince with someone inappropriate.”

  “Wait. What?” I grab her hand, pull her close. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it.” Then she’s twisting her arm, trying to break my grip. But that only makes me more determined to hold on, because something isn’t right here. I don’t know what it is yet, but I’m hell-bent on figuring it out.

  “I am going to worry about it—”

  “Why?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I like you and I’m pretty sure you like me, too. Are you going to tell me that’s not true?”

  “It doesn’t matter if I like you—”

  “Right now it’s the only thing that matters. We enjoy each other’s company and want to fuck each other’s brains out. It seems like a win-win to me.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Actually, it is.”

  “Really?” She looks deliberately out the window at Niall, Lucas and Avery, all of whom are doing their best impression of not watching me while actually watching me.

  “So, let me get this straight. You don’t want to date me because I’m a prince? I’ve gotta tell you, sweetheart, it usually goes the other way around.”

  “Believe me, I’m aware. And if I wasn’t, you and your giant ego would be sure to remind me.”

  “Hey now.” I clutch a hand to my chest in fake injury. “Leave my giant ego out of this.”

  “How can I when it’s the biggest thing in the room?”

  “Oh, yeah? That’s really the story you want to stick with?” I shoot her an incredulous look. “And in case you’re wondering, I’m not the least bit offended.”

  “I can tell,” she answers drily.

  “Come on, go out with me.” I bring her hand to my mouth, press a lingering kiss to the center of her palm. “I promise it will be fun.”

  She purses her lips, tries to look disapproving. “Fun isn’t what I’m worried about.”

  “Well, maybe it should be. In fact—”

  A knock on the door cuts me off mid-thought. I glance out the window at my detail, about to give them a what-the-hell look for letting us get interrupted. But only Lucas and Niall are standing there. Avery is nowhere in sight.

  Goddamn it.

  “Ignore it,” I start to tell Savvy, but it’s too late.

  She’s already calling, “Come in!”

  The door creaks open and Avery’s standing there, looking for all the world like a recalcitrant toddler, complete with hands shoved deep into his suit pockets. I give him a look that tells him to turn around and go back the way he came, but he’s not having it. The man is obviously more afraid of Roland than he’ll ever be of me.

  Sure enough, after dodging my look, he clears his throat and says, “Sorry, Kian, but Roland called. You’ve got a meeting at the palace in an hour, followed by dinner with the American ambassador.”

  I want to tell him the meeting can wait, want to tell him—and Roland—that everything can wait. But that’s what the spare would do. The heir doesn’t have that luxury, not when duty calls.

  “Okay, thanks. I’ll be out in a few.”

  I obviously don’t sound convincing because Avery continues to stand there. At least until I give him the look I usually reserve for putting Roland in his place. Then the guy all but runs for the hills.

  “That wasn’t nice,” Savvy tells me after he’s closed the door behind himself.

  “I never claimed to be nice.”

  “C’est la vie.” She cocks her head. “You have, however, on numerous occasions claimed to be a prince. And last time I checked, princes belong in their palaces. You should go.”

  “Savvy—”

  “Go, Kian. We can talk some other time.”

  She gives me a light shove toward the door, but I’m not leaving until I pin her down. “Like when I take you to dinner. When’s your next night off?”

  “Tonight.”

  Fuck. Of course it is. “Tonight doesn’t work for me.”

  “I heard. Those pesky Americans, always getting in the way. Tell the ambassador hello from one of his citizens, will you?”

  “I’ll be sure to do that, right after he kicks my ass at billiards.”

  “He’s a pool shark?” she asks, incredulous.

  “You have no idea. He annihilates me every time we play.”

  “So why do you still play with him?”

  “Diplomacy, obviously.” I grin. “And because I’m determined to beat him one day, considering I’m a pretty decent pool player myself.”

  She laughs then, and it lights up her whole face, makes her even more beautiful than she usually is. “Seriously, when can I take you out?”

  “I’m working the rest of the week.”

  “Every night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How about lunch? We could—”

  “How about you call me in a few days and maybe we can work something out.” She arches her brows. “I assume you’ve got my number?”

  It’s not the answer I’m expecting or that I want. It’s certainly not the answer I’m used to when I go through the trouble of asking a woman out. “Am I getting the brush-off here?”

  “You sound so shocked.”

  “More like disgruntled. I—”

  She cuts me off. “It’s not the brush-off. It’s the let-me-think-about-it.”

  “What’s there to think about?”

  Before she can answer there’s another knock at the door. I glance out the window, notice that it’s Lucas who’s missing this time. They sent in the big guns.

  “Really?” Savvy follows my gaze with a wry look of her own. “That’s the argument you’re going with?”

  I give in then, partly because I don’t have it in me to hassle an unwilling—or even uncertain—woman and partly because she’s right. Dating me is a lot, especially right now, and I owe her the chance to think about it.

  “I’m going to call you. Every day until you say yes.”

  She smiles. “You can do that.”

 
; “I am going to do that.” I lean down, drop a fast, hard kiss on her lips. “And I’ll start by texting you right now. Just in case you want to call me.”

  Chapter 6

  “What do you mean you still have no leads?” the king demands late the next afternoon, his closed fist hitting the thousand-year-old table that fills up most of my father’s private conference room. “It’s been thirteen weeks since the crown prince disappeared and not one of our intelligence agencies has been able to find out anything? Are you all incompetent?”

  The heads of our security council and main intelligence agency exchange uneasy looks. Not that I blame them—every day we sit through these damn briefings hoping, praying, that there’s a break in the case and, except for the first week when we were all still in shock—my father has never let any emotion show. This one untethered moment of fury is both unexpected and unsettling to everyone in the room.

  Including me.

  Ranting and raving and throwing out desperate, crazy ideas on how to find Garrett is usually my department.

  Before this happened, I’d spent years keeping my mouth shut at daily security briefings—this stuff was always Garrett’s job—but that isn’t an option anymore. Besides, I’m as anxious as my father to get an answer about my brother’s disappearance.

  “I think what my father means, gentlemen, is that we’re going crazy here. My brother is missing and we don’t know if he’s injured, if he’s dead—” My voice breaks a little on the last word and I stop for a moment. Clear my throat. Take a sip of water. And pretend that I’m talking about someone—anyone—else besides my twin brother and best friend. “It’s obviously a matter of utmost security that we find out who is responsible so that we can—”

  “We need to know who to punish for this!” my father’s voice booms out, his fist once again striking the table. “This has gone on too long already and we look weak in the international community. Foolish. The Crown Prince of Wildemar has disappeared and not only do we not know where to look for him, we don’t know who’s to blame for this, or who to punish for it. If this continues, we’ll lose our standing in the world and that I will not tolerate.”

  The words hit deep. Of course that’s what my father is worried about. Of course that’s what he cares about. Not Garrett—not what’s happening to him—but how our country looks to others.

  I want to hate him for it, want to tell him just how heartless I think he is. But he’s right, and I know it. I hate that I know it, but I do. As does every other person in this room.

  We’re not a normal family and this isn’t just a normal kidnapping (as if there is such a thing). We’re the ruling family of the most influential constitutional monarchy in the world and it’s our responsibility and it’s our duty—to Wildemar and the world—to ensure that we do whatever is necessary to keep it safe. And if that includes a proportional response (again, as if there is such a thing) for the kidnapping of our crown prince, then that is what we have to do.

  And while I can’t blame my father for his pragmatism and concern for our country when it’s my job to understand it better than anyone else, I sure as hell can hate the truth behind his words. Can hate myself even more for understanding it.

  Pierre Sandoval, director of the National Security Committee exchanges another look with Jean-Luc Bollinger, the head of the BI, our main intelligence agency. Several long seconds pass as the king—my father—and I look back and forth between the two, waiting for we’re not sure what.

  I just want to know where my brother is, just want to know how to get to him. Everyone tells me I need to prepare for the fact that he’s already dead—hell, logic demands that I acknowledge that’s probably the case.

  But neither logic nor these heads of intelligence agencies understand what it is to be a twin. They don’t understand that no matter how afraid I am that Garrett is dead, there’s a part of me that’s sure that he isn’t. A part of me that is certain that I would know, that I would feel it deep inside if my brother—my twin—was dead.

  “What?” I finally demand when the silence gets to be too much. “What aren’t you telling us?”

  Pierre reaches reluctantly for the tablet in front of him. “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he addresses my father. “We don’t have a solid lead at this point—which is why we haven’t mentioned anything about this yet—but we have managed to uncover a witness who might have interacted with one of Prince Garrett’s attackers on the day he was taken.”

  “Might have?” I demand, my heart slamming against my ribs. “Or did?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Pierre reiterates. “We’re trying to verify the lead, as well as track down the man she’s referring to.”

  “Who is she?” my father asks in measured syllables, the fury of earlier completely contained now—except for the fire raging behind his eyes.

  “She’s a barista in a coffee shop about three blocks from where Prince Garrett was taken.”

  “Why didn’t you find her in your original canvassing? Or the subsequent ones?” My father’s face looks carved from stone.

  “We missed her because she only worked the first two hours of her shift—then got an emergency call from a hospital in Lisieux about her father having a heart attack. She was home for three weeks with him, which is why we didn’t pick her up in the additional canvasses we did of the neighborhood. Her coworkers didn’t think it was important to mention that she’d been working the morning shift, so—”

  “How did you find her now?” I demand. “After three months? Did she come to you? And if she did, don’t you find that suspicious?”

  “We were at a dead end with the other arms of the investigation, so we started back at the beginning, just to see if we could get something new. We sent agents back in to canvass again, to try to jog memories. It’s always a risk, because the longer Prince Garrett is missing the more people might manufacture evidence in their own heads about seeing his assailants. The entire country—and much of the world—is swept up in the story. Faulty residual memories come as part and parcel of that.”

  “And yet you believe this girl?”

  “That’s why I was hesitant to bring it up. We don’t know if she checks out yet. We’ve questioned her closely, have verified her story, but we’re not done vetting her.”

  “When will you be done vetting her?” I feel like I’ll explode if I try to sit still any longer, so I push back from the table. Start to pace. “This should be your top priority!”

  “Believe me, it is, Your Highness. As is following up on the information she gave us.” Jean-Luc reaches for his tablet, swipes across it a few times. Seconds later, a sketch shows up on the smartboard mounted on the conference room’s back wall.

  “This is the best we were able to get out of her working with a forensic artist. It’s been three months. Still, we’re running it against all the security footage that we took from the area, covering the days before and after the attack—including from the coffee shop where she works. So far, nothing has, but we’ve still got a lot of footage to sort through.”

  “And Interpol?” my father asks. “Have you run the sketch through their facial recognition program? And the FBI’s?”

  “Again, we’re in the process of doing all of that,” Pierre assures him. “We just got this information a few hours ago and we’re putting everything we’ve got behind it.”

  “What makes you think this guy has something to do with Garrett’s disappearance?” I demand, staring at the sketch of a fairly average-looking man.

  “The witness mentioned that he had a very unique tattoo.” Jean-Luc swipes at his tablet again and this time a picture of a dark, frankly disturbing tattoo takes the place of the sketch on the smartboard.

  “Do you recognize the tattoo?” I shove my hands in my pockets so that my father won’t see how badly they’re trembling. Terror and hope are alive inside of me, a potent cocktail of emotions that’s shaking me more than I want to admit. Especially in this room, where the crown prince nee
ds to be as steady as a rock. As steady as his country needs him to be.

  “We do. It’s from a home grown liberation group that calls themselves the Dépassement por Liberté. They’re not a large group, but they’re an extreme branch of the Libération-Est. They want—”

  “To end the monarchy,” my father says, and for the first time his face is ashen. “Are you telling me you have proof this crackpot group has my son?”

  Ice slides through my veins, has everything inside of me stopping—freezing—as I wait for the answer I already know is coming. The Libération-Est is a radical group and has become even more so in the last few years since three of its leaders were put in prison for conspiring to blow up Palais des Fleurs, my family’s countryside home. If this group is a more radical offshoot of them, then I don’t even want to think of what they might be capable of.

  “We don’t know, sir. As you are aware, we’ve been looking at them all along, but nothing has popped,” Jean-Luc answers grimly. “Until now.”

  “So what are you doing about it?” I get in his face before I can even think about stopping myself. “Have you searched their compound? Pulled in any known associates? Obtained—”

  “We’re working on all of that, sir,” Jean-Luc says as he takes a few deliberate steps back. Only then do I realize how close I’ve been standing to him—and how close I am to plowing my fist through a wall.

  The idea of Garrett in the hands of these madmen? It’s enough to make me insane.

  This is the group that tried to kill my whole family in one fell swoop with that bomb. The group that has spent years sending “anonymous” letter bombs to the palace and organized anti-monarchy protests all over the country.

  The group that not only hates us, but will do anything to see us disappear.

  When Garrett was taken, we looked at them exhaustively—of course we did. But after months of close scrutiny, of infiltration by agents risking their lives, it was decided that Libération-Est wasn’t to blame. To find out now that some radical offshoot might be…“Rage” isn’t a strong enough word for what I’m feeling. Then again, I’m not sure such a word actually exists.