by Madeline Ash
Guilt pierced deep. “Yes,” she managed to say.
“I didn’t think you’d come.” His eyes were wide. ‘I—I thought I’d never . . .” And with a breathy growl, he lifted a hand to cup her face. His palm was warm on her skin, his fingers pressing into her scalp behind her ear.
She leaned into his touch, willing herself not to cry.
“I’ve missed you.” His thumb brushed a path across her cheek.
She gave a nod and hoped he knew what it meant.
“Have you been okay?”
If it weren’t for the painful lump in her throat, she might have laughed. No. She hadn’t been okay. She’d been out of her mind. She had a job she didn’t deserve. A secret task that was taking too long. A new home that made her skittish and uneasy. And the best friendship of her life had realigned squarely into heartache. She didn’t know where the lies ended, the truth began, and if either really mattered when Kris would soon be King of Kiraly.
“Hey.” Suddenly Kris was propped up on his elbow, his face way too close to hers. Or not quite close enough. His hand still held her face, and concern filled his gaze. “Are you okay?”
“Not really.” And it was only going to get worse. “I . . .” Her fingers tightened around his shoulders. “I’ve—missed you, too.”
His eyes flickered, surprised.
“More than is good for me,” she admitted under her breath.
“Actually,” he said as desire shadowed his features. “I get the feeling that missing each other is about to make things as good as they can get.”
And just like that her blood flushed and it was all she could do not to lower herself over him. It was obvious what he meant by things. Hands and mouths and him moving strong and practiced inside her. In a world where she’d never lied to him, their prolonged yearning would pack one hell of a release. Even now, the temptation to surrender to him almost bested her. His lust had always commanded hers. One hazy look and her insides practically moaned.
She clung to resistance only because his embrace wasn’t meant for her.
Once, when she was a girl, a new teacher had called her by the wrong name at school. Lola, sweetheart, could you collect the pencils? Lola, with rows of gold stars beside her name—not Frankie, with her heavy black asterisk and the last of many final warnings. Lola had been holidaying in Dubai with her family, and despite knowing it was wrong, Frankie had felt a secret thrill to be mistaken for someone greater than herself. She’d collected the pencils. Set the classroom chairs on the desks after the bell. She’d even walked with the teacher all the way to the staff room, carrying her folders, just so she’d receive a warm smile and be told she was a good girl.
Kris was like that teacher. He held her because he didn’t know who she truly was. And even though it was selfish and ugly to fool him, his appreciation lit her up like sunlight on water and she couldn’t find the strength to plunge herself into the dark deep below.
She didn’t move, didn’t speak as his attention fixed on her mouth.
“All these months,” he murmured, “I’ve thought you hated me.”
His lust-thick voice wove need between her legs. “I could never hate you.”
“Frankie.” He brought himself closer, so close the warmth of her own breath returned to her in the intimate space. The coils of their attraction tightened. “I’ve regretted the way we parted every day since I last saw you. I’d wanted to ask—that is, it’s something I’ve always wanted to . . .” His hand tilted her face carefully toward him and his next words blew a sweet promise against her lips. “Can I kiss you?”
Yes.
A throat cleared in her ear. She went rigid.
“Shall we move in?” Hanna asked, tone neutral. “Or give you some privacy? Either option is cool.”
Oh, Jesus. Her team.
“Move in,” she answered, head reeling in sudden panic.
Kris stilled. His focus lifted to her eyes, brow nudging down. “Was that a yes?”
Grief clutched beneath her breastbone as she gave a slight shake of her head.
His frown deepened when she ducked away from his hand and stood up. “You’re leaving?” He sprang to his feet, looking alarmed. “I’m sorry I asked that. I didn’t mean to—you found me. So, we’re okay now, right? We need to talk. About everything. Please tell me you know that.”
“I know.” And boy, was it going to be one harrowing talk. “I’m not leaving.”
“Good.” He stepped toward her and grabbed her hand. She didn’t allow herself to grip him back. “Come with me up to the . . .” His attention shot over her shoulder. “Hey. Nice timing.”
The security cars had pulled up at the end of the lane. She stood rooted to the spot, back turned, pulse pounding in her ears. A car door clicked closed and footsteps sounded on the alley stones.
“You hurt?” Hanna asked in Frankie’s earpiece. “Your posture looks weird.”
“I’m fine.” Apparently, she slouched when her organs collapsed from impending loss.
Kris eyed her, looking confused. “Good.”
“Your Highness.” Peter spoke clearly.
“Hey there,” Kris answered. “Sorry about earlier. I thought you were right behind me.”
Instead of accusing him of a bald-faced lie, Peter simply said, “If you’re both ready now, we’ll escort you back to the palace.”
“Sure.” He leaned in, his thumb brushing over her knuckles, and spoke just to her. “You’ll hate it, but this team follows me everywhere. If you ride with us, we can talk in my rooms. Or, you know, any room of the palace you want. I’ll show you around. It’s stupidly big. We might get lost. But you’ll love the kitchen. You’ll want to live there, I swear. I’ll take you there first, okay?”
Soft words, a little cautious, like he feared he was losing her. It sliced her apart, and defenseless, she hauled ass behind her emotional guard. She was going to need the distance to effectively sever their friendship at the neck.
“Your Highness,” Peter said again.
“Coming,” he answered, and tugged her hand lightly. “Coming?”
She wasn’t Lola. She never would be.
And Kris would always be royalty.
“I can’t,” she said, and slid her hand out of his. She stepped back.
“Frankie.” A plea spoken with desperate eyes. “Don’t do this again.”
“Kris.” Her skin broke out in a cold sweat. For the first time since they’d met, she dropped her affected American accent in his presence. “I tackled you.”
He started smiling. “Trust me, I noticed. You’ve never so much as touched—” He stopped. For a few sickening seconds, he stared at her, smile fading. “Why did you do that?”
The eyes of her team prickled on her back; her answer rose like bile in her throat. “Because Philip told me you requested it.”
Kris blanched.
“Your Highness,” she added, and inclined her head.
Silence, but for the sharp hiss of his inhale.
The world spun. The cobblestones were a blur at her feet.
Then, “What did you just say?” His question was nothing but breath.
Shrugging off her jacket, she forced her chin up and found him staring at her shirt. Palace-issued uniform, with a stiff collar, and the royal coat of arms embroidered on the breast. She’d borrowed it from Hanna. Her gun and shoulder holster were strapped over the top.
His face was blank with incomprehension.
“I understand this might come as a shock, Your Highness, but I work for the royal guard,” she said, her voice as hollow as her heart. “And I have since the day we met.”
Frankie’s words spread through Kris like slow poison.
At first, he failed to process them. I work for the royal guard. The statement made so little sense that he followed her into the back of the car in blank silence. Then, as they set off and a shard of light from the street hit her stark features, her confession slipped, a little too hot, into his bloodstream.
Reaction reared painfully in his chest—crude and undeveloped—but he pushed it down.
She must be having him on.
Except she was wearing the palace security uniform—sitting with an empty space between them, hands balled on her thighs, staring straight ahead. No. He shook his head as something nasty punctured inside him.
“Frankie,” he said.
She tensed. “Wait.”
“For what?” They’d been apart for months. “Part two of this prank?”
Her throat flexed and she swallowed. “I’m not doing this here.” She kept staring ahead.
The puncture ripped wider. No. She couldn’t have been lying since the day he’d met her. It would mean too much; erase too much. He shifted, spreading his knees and turning his shoulders toward her as his reaction started to take form. Voice low, he murmured, “You’re going to have to do something more than ignore me.”
Her hands bunched tighter, and his focus shifted to the snagged skin of her knuckles. He reached toward her. “You’re bleeding.”
She yanked her hand away. “A scrape. It’s nothing.”
“Jesus, Frankie.” He hadn’t treated her with care when he’d roughed her onto her back. “Where else are you hurt?”
Her answer came a beat too late. “Nowhere.”
“Then explain what’s going on,” he said firmly.
She hesitated before giving the tiniest shake of her head. When she next spoke, it was with the rich vowels and swift cadence of Kiralian English. “He can live without it until tomorrow.”
He almost asked who she was talking to—then he caught Hanna’s eyes in the rear-view mirror through the soundproof partition. A chill raced down his spine as the guard swiftly returned her attention to the road ahead.
“For God’s sake,” he snapped, his veins prickling. “Hurry up and tell me this is a joke.”
Exhaling roughly, Frankie raised a hand to her ear, and after a moment of fiddling, set a small object on the seat between them.
A wireless earpiece.
For a second, he thought the car had crashed. His vision swam; his lungs seized as if he’d been winded, and there was the kind of violent silence that accompanied a sound too loud to process.
He gripped the door with all his might as the car glided through the palace gates.
“That is why I told you to wait,” she muttered.
He couldn’t respond; could no longer deny it.
Only once the car pulled up to the sweeping front entrance to the palace did he unpeel his grip. Still he sat unmoving, stunned, until Hanna opened his door with a murmured, “Your Highness.”
He stepped out into an unnerving, strange world. Frankie—his Frankie—was talking to Peter on the other side of the car.
“I’ll accompany him to his suite,” she said a little unsteadily. The low, throaty sound seemed to slam his lungs together, winding him for a second time. Her usual east coast accent was well and truly gone. “Station the overnight team. Tell them to ignore the shouting.”
“Right away, ma’am,” Peter said, nodding once.
Without a backward glance, she strode up the grand sweep of steps and disappeared into the lustrous glow of the entrance hall. The familiarity of her stride, the surety of her route had Kris pressing a palm to his chest.
She really had been here before.
Horror settling, he turned to Hanna standing straight and unobtrusive beside him. “Explain the last twenty minutes to me,” he managed to say.
She hesitated, her gaze skimming his. “I wish I could, Your Highness.”
Not the answer he wanted. “Is she really on your team?”
The young guard’s attention darted after Frankie. “She runs our team, Your Highness.”
His fingers curled. A reminder of strength as fissures cracked every part of his life wide open. “This whole time?”
She inclined her head.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak as he staggered through his soul for something to get him through this. It was too late for denial, for reason, and way too late for assuming innocence until proven guilty. Anger beckoned—he clasped it tightly.
Inside the palace, he took his time catching up to her.
He crested the grand marble staircase on the second floor, moving past the flickering gilt torchères that flanked it, and saw her figure retreating down the hall to the royal quarters.
Her shoulders stiffened as he drew closer. Nothing sounded quite like cowboy boots echoing off the polished floors. Her stride slowed—presumably so he could overtake her—and then faltered as she angled her head to one side and assessed him out of the corner of her eye. She stiffened further as she seemed to realize he was intentionally matching her pace.
She’d trailed him tonight. It was only fair that he returned the uncomfortable experience.
Their route passed Tommy’s chambers and the guards positioned on either side of his door, but she didn’t stop until she reached Kris’s own rooms. She knew where he lived, where he slept, and had never come to him. Gut cramping, he moved in as she opened his door and stood back with her feet apart, hands behind her back, and gaze lowered.
Unable to process what it meant, what anything meant, he halted in front of her. Half a stride apart, they stood in crippling silence. Her throat flexed. His heart raged. With a scoff, he turned inside.
By the time the door clicked closed, he had a palm pressed to the summer-warmed floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side of the sitting room. The night lights of the city below had the audacity to twinkle up at him. Appalled, he turned and found her standing just inside the door, her hands concealed behind her and chin tipped down.
“At ease.” His anger curled around the words like a talon.
She lifted her face. Her features were blank as she met his stare.
“Where to start, sweetheart?” A quiet challenge and unmistakable swipe. He knew exactly how much she hated being called sweetheart.
She didn’t react.
“I hardly know what I’m feeling right now.” His voice came out cold. “But none of it’s good.”
Nothing from her.
“Just,” he said, and slowly raised a palm. “Tell me. Is this really true?”
After a moment, she inclined her head. Fierce, assertive Frankie just . . . nodded. She was acutely familiar, standing there with her spiky red hair; with her pale skin and the light freckles that he’d once complimented at his own risk. She should have been a verbal nudge away from rolling her eyes or dragging him out for late-night pizza—and it jarred that their intimacy had rapidly taken on a different shape. It was distorted and unfamiliar, as if their friendship had never been.
His teeth clenched against the pain. “Say something.”
“I understand my job has upset you,” she said, her tone measured.
“Your job.” His brain slipped over the reality of it, and edgy, he moved behind the armchair to his right. His fingers gripped the back, squeezing the cushioning. “Your job has no power to upset me. But you do, Frankie. You just told me that you work for the royal guard.” His focus stumbled as a vulnerable part of him pleaded for it not to be true. “That you have the whole time I’ve known you.”
Her green gaze didn’t waver. “Yes.”
Lowering his head on a hard breath out, he sank his weight into his shoulders. His entire life had already been shattered once this year. He’d lost his ranch, his town, his community. Now he would have to rebuild all over again without the friendship he’d had with Frankie.
“Our friendship was never real,” he said, the words breaking apart between them. He’d been her in; her reason to stay close to him and his family. Suppressing a noise he’d be sure to regret—too close to a wounded groan—he let go of the armchair and ran a hand firmly over his mouth. “You used me. You’ve always been using me.”
She waited until he looked at her to answer. “Yes.”
He tried not to show how deeply that cut, but his hand still ended up over his che
st. “You lied to me.”
“I lied to you,” she said, the admission peeling a thick strip off his heart.
“Every day.” His voice rose with his hurt.
Her expression didn’t change. “Yes.”
Another strip gone. “And it’s never bothered you.”
Her gaze flickered to the woven cotton rug at her feet. “I’ve never wanted you to know who I really am.”
It hurt to breathe. Anger. He needed the lifeboat of his temper to survive this pain. He fumbled for it as he demanded, “How could you do this to me?”
“You never told me you were a prince.” Her tone was neutral, but something in her gaze betrayed it as an accusation.
“I never told . . .” Suddenly his anger wasn’t hard to find. “Because I was never supposed to end up here!” The truth tore ragged from his throat. “Because this isn’t me, Frankie—not deep down or even halfway down, and you know it. But this—” He flicked a hand toward her uniform, her position in this place. “You came from this. You’ve lied to me since the day we met. You’ve tricked me.” Pain rose in him, threatening to swamp his strength, but he shoved it down. She’d claimed to be a private investigator but hadn’t divulged that he and his brothers were her major case. “I’ve spent every day I’ve known you thinking you were someone you’re not.”
And he had no idea how he was supposed to handle it.
“No,” he said, and closed the distance between them, staring at her in dawning dismay. He pressed a steadying palm against the door, angling himself toward her, and fought the pull of her body. She watched him, impassive, just outside of arm’s reach. “I haven’t known you at all.”
Her only reaction was to breathe in slowly through her nose.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” he said, hating his own weakness at even asking.
Her gaze was bleak. “You don’t know me.”
In the silence, her previous words surfaced. His eyes narrowed. “I never told you I was a prince. Is that what you said?”
She jerked her head, shoulders back.
“That day,” he said, the memory twisting like a torture tool in his mind. “You knew I wanted to tell you who I was, and you stopped me.” Disgust spilled down his throat. “All these months I’ve been sick over that. The way you left; the way I let you go.”