Scandalous Box Set

by Layla Valentine

  I bite my lower lip. “Have men in my bed.”

  A dark chuckle rumbles through him. “But you’re such a bad girl, Jane-Ann.”

  I reach out and fling the back of my hand at his chest. He shields himself, laughing the entire time, and then catches my hand and presses a kiss to my knuckles.

  “If you think I’m going to judge you, don’t worry. You may not do this often, but I do.”

  Something dark swirls in the back of my mind at the idea of how many women he has been with before me, but I let it float away. I sit up against the headboard, wondering what to do next. But before I can decide what to say or do, Christian slips out of bed and begins grabbing his clothes from the floor.

  “You don’t have to go.”

  I hate that I sound desperate, but I want to prop the door open for something else. Something more. Even though I’ve only known this guy a few hours, I like him. With him, I found the spark that had always been missing with Colby. I’m not ready to let it walk away without making an effort.

  He pulls on his slacks, and I can’t help but watch the way his muscles stretch and flex as he gets dressed.

  “I’m sure you are ready to have your bed back,” he says. “I’m a notorious blanket stealer.”

  I loosen my grip on the blankets, as if trying to subliminally tell him I don’t need them. “I don’t mind.”

  “You’ve been a wonderful host for me on my first day in America,” he says, buttoning his shirt with expert fingers. “But jet lag has hit me like a cast iron to the face, and I worry when I fall asleep that I may stay that way for a full twenty-four hours. I’d hate to inconvenience you.”

  Excuses. He’s making excuses, yet I’m still trying to convince him. Trying to get him to stay when it is obvious he doesn’t want to.

  Doesn’t he get that it makes me feel disposable? Sleeping with someone—twice—and then leaving immediately is shady. It’s sleazy. He must know that, which is why he is trying to frame it to seem like he is doing me a favor by leaving.

  “No inconvenience,” I say. “I have the entire weekend off. No plans.”

  Christian doesn’t give any pause to my words as he slips into his shoes and grabs his phone from my bedside table. “You’ve been lovely, Jane-Ann. A pleasure from beginning to end. But this would never work.”

  I stare at him, wondering if he means what I think he means. When he gestures from his chest to me and back again, an anchor of disappointment and embarrassment sinks to my stomach, holding me in place.

  “This?” I ask.

  His mouth turns up in an apologetic smile. “You. Me. You and me. It just wouldn’t work beyond a one-night stand.”

  Hearing him say one-night stand makes me feel nauseous. I knew that is what this was, but usually neither party specifically addresses it that way. He is supposed to lie and say, This was fun. Maybe I’ll call you sometime.

  “I mean,” he continues with a shrug, “like I said, my parents would never approve. The King and Queen are quite strict about my future, and an American would likely be at the bottom of their list of potential matches.”

  King and queen. I narrow my eyes. “You can’t stay the night because you’re royal?”

  He holds up a finger. “Exactly.”

  God. What a prick.

  “Asshole.”

  His blond brow furrows. “Excuse me?”

  “I can’t believe you are keeping up this stupid story. It was funny at the bar, but now it is a little overplayed, don’t you think?” I wrap the sheet around my body and stand up, too annoyed to stay seated.

  He tilts his head to the side, his mussed hair flopping over his forehead. He runs a hand back to push it off his face.

  “You honestly don’t believe me?”

  I want to punch him in his perfect nose. I mean, the sex was incredible, but maybe it would have been better to finally give into Colby’s advances. I’m sure he has learned some new tricks since we first slept together when we were teenagers. It probably would have been fine, and I know he wouldn’t have embarrassed me by making up some ridiculous excuse to avoid seeing me again.

  I wave Christian away, padding into the hallway, the blanket trailing behind me like a wedding dress train. “No, I completely believe you. I’m sure there is some state emergency that requires your immediate attention. In fact, you’ll probably be on the next flight back to Kalambria or Seahorsetown or wherever you are from.”

  “Sigmaran,” he says, his eyes wide and sparkling.

  I hate how much he’s enjoying this exchange. How did I not realize he was such a sadist?

  “I am Prince Christian of Sigmaran. Remember that. It will give you quite a shock when you look it up.”

  I don’t want to prolong this anymore. He’s ruining what should be a marvelous post-sex high, and I just want to go back to sleep. I march to the door and hold it open, staying behind it so people driving by on the street below won’t catch a glimpse.

  “Nice to meet you, Christian.”

  He tucks his rumpled shirt into his pants and shakes his head. “Christian is my real name. I swear it.”

  “I’m sure it is. And I’m Princess of Morocco.” I gesture for him to keep moving.

  He pauses in the threshold and peeks around the door, his blue eyes vibrant even in the moonlight. “I’ve met her on several occasions. Lovely woman.”

  I can’t take another second. I push the door closed, slamming it firmly against his back, and Christian stumbles into the hallway.

  “Okay. I’m going,” he says. “Sorry this wasn’t as nice as one of your royal romances. I hope you still had on okay time, though.”

  His voice is muffled through the closed door as I lean against it, but I can still hear him.

  “Pleasure meeting you, Jane-Ann.”

  I roll my eyes and mumble under my breath, “Pleasure was all mine, Prince Christian.”

  Chapter 6

  Christian

  For as much money as I spent on the hotel, I expected the bed to be comfortable, but it feels like a rock. My hips ache, and my back hurts from rolling around all night. Maybe I should have stayed at Jane-Ann’s place.

  Staying over felt wrong when I knew it wouldn’t go anywhere. Wasn’t it easier to just let her think I’m a giant jerk and then move on? We had incredible chemistry and some of the best sex I’ve ever had, but that didn’t change the fact that I’m the prince of a country she’s probably never heard of and my parents would sooner die than see a common American on my arm.

  Hey, there’s an idea. If I were in a hurry to claim my title, dating Jane-Ann would speed up the process.

  I push the thought from my head and roll over. I don’t want to speed up the process. I don’t want my title. I want a semblance of a normal life for just one month. One week, even. I want to go out and meet a woman naturally without her already knowing who I am—thinking she knows everything about me because she read an article about my favorite post-gym snack.

  Jane-Ann’s long blond hair and heart-shaped face appear in my mind. I don’t want to meet a woman. I want to get to know her.

  If things were different for me, I’d stick around. I’d take her out on a proper date and hold her hand. My reputation as a playboy precedes me in Sigmaran, but I can be a gentleman. I can be chivalrous. I could sweep her off her feet better than any fictional prince could.

  But I can’t. Which is why I left.

  Falling asleep in her bed for even a few hours was a strict deviation from my usual protocol. If I go home with a woman after the club, I’m in and out with no room for any misunderstandings. But with Jane-Ann, I’d lingered. I’d dozed naked in her bed. I’d woken up with her laying next to me. And we’d done it all again.

  No wonder she threw me out of the house.

  Part of it was that she refused to believe I was actually a prince. I liked that she treated me like any normal guy, so I hadn’t made any real effort to prove it to her, but it probably would have softened her anger had she known. B
ecause the reasons we can’t be together are vast and varied, and not just on my side.

  Most women don’t want the rules and scrutiny that come with being royal. Their entire lives will be dissected by the press if there is even a possibility they are my girlfriend. Jane-Ann doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who would want to deal with that. She certainly didn’t want to deal with my crap. And I can’t honestly blame her.

  After thirty more minutes of rolling around sleeplessly on the mattress, I get up and take a shower. I use the small bottles of shampoo and body wash provided by the hotel so I feel like I’m on vacation. They smell like cucumber and leave a strange film over my skin, but its better than the sticky feeling I got from sitting on the airplane for so long.

  When I get out of the shower, I put on clothes from the Go Bag. If I’m going to stay in America any longer, I’ll need to buy more clothes.

  But what will I do here? I could continue my tour of the local honky-tonks, earn my reputation as a playboy on American soil, as well. But after Jane-Ann, I don’t see how any other woman could stack up. She and I are so very different, but we connected. We had interesting conversation and great sex, and I think any other American woman would be a disappointment.

  I pull out my phone and check for the hundredth time. Still no missed calls or messages from anyone in my family. I expected them to blow up my phone and issue a missing person report.

  Though, maybe I shouldn’t be surprised there hasn’t been a big fuss made about my sudden departure. Father wouldn’t want anyone catching wind of something that could reflect poorly on the family.

  I can see the headlines now: Royal Family in Disarray? Prince Christian takes American Holiday. No, they’d keep this contained to only those who absolutely need to know. Though I do wonder how they’ll try to convince me to return if they aren’t going to call and beg.

  As I’m holding my phone it begins to ring, and I jump, surprised. It isn’t any number I recognize. In fact, it looks to be American.

  I answer on the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Prince Christian,” the nervous female voice on the other end of the line says. “This is Holly with the front desk.”

  Prince Christian. How did she know?

  “I’m sorry to bother you…Your Highness, but I need to know when you plan to check out.”

  I close my eyes and pinch my temples, knowing what is coming next. “I told the front desk yesterday I would be staying for an indeterminate number of days and would alert you when I planned to check out.”

  “Yes,” she says nervously. “That is fine as long as there is a valid payment method attached to the room.”

  “I left my card information at the front desk.”

  I can feel my hand start to shake. No wonder no one has been calling me. There is no need for them to call when they can just cut me off.

  Holly sounds like she might cry. “You did, but it’s now showing up as an invalid form of payment. I’m sorry. I’ve tried running it several times to pay for the room, but it isn’t working. It could be our computer, but your card is the only one causing a problem, so—”

  “It’s fine,” I say, trying to calm her down. “I think I know what has happened.”

  An audible sigh. “Sorry again for the inconvenience, Your Highness. If you are leaving today, checkout is at noon. Otherwise, we are happy to have you for another night.”

  I glance at the alarm clock next to the bed. It’s already eleven.

  The moment I hang up with the front desk, my phone buzzes. Almost as if my father planned it to happen that way. Knowing him, I wouldn’t be surprised if he managed to get a hidden camera in the hotel room somewhere so he could watch a livestream of me. I know it’s an absurd thought, but I still cast my eyes around the room just in case.

  I have a text from His Majesty King Dad.

  “Your accounts have been frozen. Unless you plan to get an American work visa, come home. There is a ticket waiting at the airport. Your flight leaves at 1.”

  Another message chimes in as soon as I’ve read the first. This one from my mother.

  “Please come home, Christian. We need to talk to you, and it will be better for everyone if your father doesn’t have to send someone to track you down.”

  The idea of staying and working in America, making my own way, is appealing for a second before I remember my brothers and my duty. One day, I’ll become King and be in charge of my own life. Until then, I just have to bide my time and keep my head down.

  With a sigh that comes from deep within my soul, I push myself off the bed and begin gathering my few belongings. If I want to make my flight with enough time to get through security, I’ll have to hurry.

  Chapter 7

  Jane-Ann

  Blakely is at the diner before I get there, which is surprising. I almost always beat her. She can’t handle her hangovers as well as I can, so I usually have to get several cups of coffee in her before she’s any fun. But as soon as I walk through the door, her eyes are wide and she waves me over to a booth near the windows.

  I squint against the sun streaming through the window and angle the blinds to ease the ache in my bloodshot eyes. “How are you so cheerful right now?”

  “That, my dear J-A,” Blakely says, nudging a chipped mug of coffee toward me, “is the benefit of finding a man to kiss early in the evening. I drank half as much as normal. I even did some yoga before I left the house this morning.”

  Even the thought of a forward bend makes me groan. Especially when the last time my body was contorted, Christian was having his way with me.

  I take two long sips of the coffee, letting the heat cleanse me from the inside out.

  “Who were you making out with?” I ask.

  She raises her eyebrows. “Damon.”

  “Damon who?”

  “I didn’t catch his last name.”

  “Slut,” I scold playfully under my breath.

  Blakely reaches across the table and swipes at the single braid hanging over my shoulder. Then she leans her head back against the booth and hums contentedly.

  “It was good. Really good. Most guys who look like they could be action figures, have the same skill set as a plastic doll, if you know what I mean. But Damon knew what he was doing.” She leans forward, a hand pressed to the side of her mouth, her voice low. “Three times before midnight.”

  I widen my eyes. “That’s impressive stamina. Did you get his number?”

  Her smile falls. “I didn’t ask. It was incredible, but part of the reason we did it three times is because every time he opened his mouth, I wanted to shove a sock in it.”

  “Jerk?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Idiot. A beautiful, well-hung idiot.”

  I bite back a laugh. “I’m sorry.”

  Blakely glares at me. “You look it.”

  The waitress takes our orders—tall stack of pancakes with a chocolate milk for me, and the full English breakfast for Blakely with extra baked beans.

  As soon as the waitress leaves, I narrow my eyes at my best friend.

  “What happened to your usual chicken fried steak?”

  “For some strange reason, I have a craving for all things European this morning.” She lifts her eyebrows and slides her tongue over her teeth suggestively.

  I barely hold in my groan and lower my head to the table. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “That bad?” she asks, genuinely concerned.

  How do I explain an experience that was both toe-curling and mortifying? In which I wanted it to never end, but also couldn’t push him through my door fast enough?

  “He pretended to be a prince from some made-up country,” I finally say, wrapping my hands around my coffee mug. “He practically ran from my bedroom after an incredible round two because ‘the King and Queen’ would never approve.”

  Blakely curls her upper lip. “What a prick.”

  “Precisely what I thought. He saw a royal romance boo
k in my purse at the bar and must have found it especially amusing. It was ridiculous. He came up with some fake country name and everything.”

  “What country?” Blakely asks, pulling out her phone.

  I sigh and try to rifle back through the scrambled contents of my hungover brain for the name. “Sigfried…Santron…Sigmaran, maybe?”

  Blakely’s thumbs fly across her keyboard and after a couple second delay, she holds her phone screen out to me. “He doesn’t deserve quite so much credit. He didn’t make it up. It’s a real place.”

  I snatch the phone from her hand and scroll through the article. Sigmaran is a small Scandinavian island next to Denmark. The population is exceedingly wealthy, and…I glance up at Blakely.

  “What?”

  I read the paragraph again, my heart doing a kickflip against my ribcage. “Though they have no constitutional power, the Åström family has been the head of Sigmaran’s ceremonial monarchy for over eighty years.”

  Blakely pounds her palms against the table. “What does that mean?”

  “He told me his name was Christian Åström.” I shake my head as I say it. No way. It’s not possible.

  But Blakely eyes go wide. She snatches her phone out of my hand, and I don’t bother to pull my own phone out. My hands are shaking too much to do an internet search. A second later, Blakely slides her phone across the table.

  “Is this him? Is this the guy you met at the bar last night?”

  The picture is from some blog about the royal family. It looks to be a scan of a newspaper photo, so the quality isn’t great, but I can see a man and a woman leaving a bar together. His arm is draped over her shoulder casually, and she has her arms wrapped around his waist like she is a sloth clinging to her branch. The man has a similar build to Christian—tall and slim, but with good muscle tone. His hair is blond with a similar cut.

  When I finally let my eyes fall on his face, there is no denying it. Those cheekbones, that jawline, his wide mouth. The same mouth that licked me, that teased me, that had me writhing up against my hallway wall. That mouth belonged to the freaking Prince of Sigmaran.