Her Cowboy Prince

by Madeline Ash

  “It could be better. He’s trying to get too close,” she admitted, and with a hole the shape of dread in her chest, added, “But I have a backup plan.”

  That night, Frankie sat next to Kris at the bar of the Bearded Bunting, braced against his short-fused mood. Her team was positioned at all the entry-exit points, including both ends of the laneway behind the venue, and casual-clothed guards had been instructed to blend into the gathering. Frankie and Philip had pounced on Kris’s theory, arranging their own investigation into the attack on Tommy and Jonah, but in the meantime, Kris couldn’t so much as turn his head in a public place without half a dozen guards clocking the movement.

  The bar was booth-lined with a packed dance floor, while the rear courtyard was even more crowded with brightly dressed locals coming together at the end of a hard day. The whole place was loud and lively, filled with people laughing, calling out and telling stories at the tops of their lungs. No wonder Kris liked it here. The throng absorbed his status and he could sit at the bar like any other guy in a black tank, unbuttoned plaid shirt and jeans. Which, to Frankie’s continued bewilderment, was a lot of them. This cowboy-chic fashion trend worked in his favor.

  He’d just accepted his second drink from the bartender, and was rolling his shoulders, stretching his neck, eyeing the room like a fighter in the ring spoiling for an outlet for his surging testosterone. It was dangerous. Every time she looked at him, her temperature rose, and when he’d leaned in earlier to ask what she wanted to drink, he’d smelled so sexy that some delirious instinct wanted to rub his scent all over her naked body. The man was practically vibrating with a sinful energy.

  Holding her breath, she leaned in and spoke under the noise. “You’re acting volatile.”

  His answering grin was utterly wild.

  Christ.

  He got this way when he felt out of control. Attempting to balance out the scales by being out of control.

  “Get out of predator mode,” she told him firmly. “We don’t need trouble.”

  He drew challengingly from his beer, eyes locked on her. “You could handle it.”

  “What?”

  He slid a forearm along the counter toward her. Edgy, magnetic. “Trouble.”

  “Your Highness,” she said, nodding at the bartender as he set a bowl of hot chips between them. “I recommend you dance this off.”

  He stayed close, eyes on hers, so she picked up her glass of lemonade and bit down on the straw. She wasn’t sitting next to gentle Kris, who gazed into her soul and murmured words she’d never forget. She was sitting next to Kris who had stress pent up inside him like a caged beast clawing to get out. And he wanted to let it out, with her as the closest target.

  “Your hair drives me crazy,” he said, voice coarse, eyes too intense for so few drinks in.

  She scarcely bothered to raise a brow. For the sake of her prince’s privacy, her earpiece wasn’t broadcasting this conversation to the entire security team, but for the sake of his safety, it was being received by Hanna and Peter. Peter lurked near the dance floor and Hanna laughed easily as she fended off unwanted attention farther up the bar counter.

  “You keep it so short at the sides.” Kris’s attention moved across her scalp. “There’s no opening for me to tuck your hair back.”

  “If you paid attention to the look on my face,” she said, “you’d see there’s no opening for you to do a damn thing.”

  His attention slipped to the side of her neck. “Will you dance with me?”

  “No.”

  “Will you storm onto the dance floor and haul anyone off me who gets too close?”

  Frankie scanned the room, feigning distraction. “Possibly.”

  “What if they put their hand on my ass?”

  “Depends if it looks like you want it there.”

  “What if they take me back to their place?” His question was quiet, but not careful. Proof that she was another contributing factor to this mood. “What would you do then?”

  “Scout their home before you go in, make them sign a nondisclosure agreement, and wait in the car out front.”

  Scowling, he pulled back and drained his beer dry. Not the answer he wanted. He signaled for another drink, grabbed a handful of chips, and turned to talk to the guy on his other side.

  Frankie was down to the salt at the bottom of the bowl, watching the room without interest as Kris continued to chat with the guy and his friends, when someone brushed against her shoulder. She tensed, turning with a frown.

  “Hey,” said a man with wavy hair, dark skin, and eyelashes for days. He held cash in one hand, presumably waiting for his drink, and smiled at her as he leaned against the bar.

  “Hey,” she said, eyeing him over.

  “I haven’t seen you here before.”

  She wanted to say I’m with numbnuts, but instead said, “First time.”

  “You look good in those shorts.”

  She bit back a groan. Complimenting a woman’s legs was the most generic pickup line in Kiraly—mountain living worked wonders for the thighs—but admittedly, hers were on full display in her green high-waisted cutoffs. She’d dressed to blend in. She’d matched it with a cherry summer-weight jacket to conceal the gun in her shoulder holster. Before she could answer, Kris was leaning into her space, arm stretching along the counter in front of her, and saying, “Yeah, well you should see her in a crown.”

  Shock slackened the man’s face. “Woah. Sorry, didn’t see you there, Highness,” he said, and hightailed it into the crowd without waiting for his drink.

  Frankie rounded on Kris, her temper snarling. “What was that?”

  He relaxed, sprawled against the bar, closer to her than he should be. “What?”

  “That,” she snapped.

  “That what?”

  “You were being—” Her jaw slid as she bit the word back.

  Eyes glittering, he leaned all the way into her space. Close, closer, until their breaths merged, and it was all she could do to glare him down without her eyes crossing. He challenged her in a voice sharp like drawn claws. “I was being what, Frankie?”

  “Territorial,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “You’re my bodyguard, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t you dare—”

  He cocked an eyebrow, as if he couldn’t possibly fathom what she meant.

  “—make it sound so possessive,” she finished.

  “Mine,” he said again, daring her, and she sensed his primal thrill at saying such a thing in the middle of a crowded bar. “You’re mine and he can’t have you.”

  “Brute.” She flicked another glance over his shoulder—and stopped breathing as fear detonated inside her. Hand snapping to her earpiece, she said, “Secure the baby,” and launched off the barstool straight at the man who was coming up behind Kris for the fourth time in twenty minutes, withdrawing his hand from his pocket with a dark shape in his grip.

  Kris landed on his front behind the bar counter. Peter crushed him and Hanna dropped into a crouch by one shoulder. His heart hammered; his muscles deadlocked.

  “What the hell is going on?” he shouted over the public’s startled screams. His cheek was pressed into a sticky spill on the wooden floor, and all he could see was the feet of the bar staff as they gathered at the opposite end. “Where’s Frankie?” Suddenly he was struggling like a deer in a drop net. “Where the fuck is Frankie?”

  “She’s handling it.” Hanna’s thigh was pressed against the back of his head and right shoulder, her weight bearing down to help keep him pinned as she presumably watched over the top of the counter. Not that Peter needed help.

  “Handling what?” Kris roared, pushing against the resolute weight on his back.

  “The threat,” she answered severely. “Now don’t act like a man who thinks his wife can’t carry the groceries. She’s got this.”

  “Got what?” He could hardly process what she was saying. “What’s happening?”

  “A man was clos
ing in on you.” Her words were clipped. “Frankie’s subduing him.”

  “Still?” Panic clawed inside his lungs, shredding his breath. “Help her, for God’s sake!”

  “Wait.” Hanna paused. “Oh, man.” Then she chuckled low in her throat. “Yeah, now he’s down.”

  Kris struggled again. “Let me up.”

  “Not yet, Your Highness,” Peter said firmly, leaning his weight more securely onto him. “Our team needs to conduct body searches of everyone present. Then you’ll be safe to stand.”

  “Why?” Then it struck him, and he bucked under Peter’s hold. “The prick had a weapon. Did he get her? Is she hurt? If he laid a finger—”

  “She’s fine.” Hanna’s hand briefly passed over his shoulder blade. “It was pepper spray and she didn’t give him the chance to use it.”

  But it might have been a knife. A screwdriver. A gun. And Frankie had thrown herself at the man without hesitating.

  Kris pounded his fist against the sticky floor. The impact acted as a release, pain to fight the panic, so he did it again. And again. Anything to stop the fear from clawing its way up the back of his throat. He was breathing too fast, hardly taking in air, and his fist stung as he pounded it repeatedly.

  “Hey.” Suddenly Frankie spoke from beside him, voice low and heavy with concern. For a fleeting second, her hand closed over his fist. “Calm down.”

  “Frankie.” He made a grab for her, but she pulled away. A heartbeat later, his guards retreated, and he was on his feet, stepping closer to her, scanning her face, her body—noting that aside from mussed hair and the thundercloud of her expression, she looked unharmed. “Are you—?”

  “Stay back,” she muttered, and glanced behind him.

  A prickle passed down his spine, and he turned to see that almost everyone in the bar was watching him. They stood quietly, talking in hushed voices, contained by his security team. A couple of guards knelt on the floor, pinning his assailant.

  Kris switched on a smile. “Everyone alright?”

  He received grins in return, a few whoops, and one guy said loudly, “Your guard’s good, Highness.”

  “That she is. Sorry for the trouble.”

  He turned his back, jaw setting as he met Frankie’s bleak stare. “Do you know what his plan was?”

  Anger flickered across her face as she shared a look with Hanna. “He wouldn’t stop mouthing off at me,” she said, running a hand down her neck. “We have ourselves a psycho misogynist. Apparently, he didn’t intend to harm you, but get close enough to prove he could—because obviously with women highly positioned within your security team, your safety was at risk.”

  “Mother—” Kris spun around and found Peter blocking his path.

  “Pretty sure Frankie disproved his theory,” Hanna said.

  Hands balled by his sides, he turned back, his gaze returning to Frankie like a key sliding into its lock. His breath was still coming too fast, but it quickened further as she returned his stare, her green eyes unreadable.

  “Not the weirdest we’ve had.” Hanna tugged at her ponytail to tighten it. “I heard that in his youth, Prince Noel was pulled into a public restroom by groupies who declared he had to have a five-way with them before they’d let him out.”

  “I’ve had weirder,” Peter said. “Last year, a man tried to get at Prince Aron with a syringe because he wanted to run blood tests to identify markers of the royal gene.”

  Frankie snorted. “There’s someone who failed science class.”

  “Yeah,” Hanna said. “Everyone knows all you need is a cheek swab.”

  It was an effort to diffuse the tension, a few jokes to bring their stress down, but Kris’s muscles were locked tight as a bull’s, his heart stamping like a charge, and he couldn’t tear his eyes off Frankie.

  “Your Highness,” she said carefully, and the others glanced at him.

  “Get me the hell out of here.” His demand was roughshod, but she must have heard the crack of a man about to break, because she had him out the rear staff exit and inside the car before he even noticed the blood behind her ear.

  Frankie took him to the only place she knew that offered privacy and an open sky. She’d instructed Hanna and Peter to have their incident reports on her desk by tomorrow morning and set her earpiece to incoming only, because she had no trust in Kris to keep his talk professional.

  “We call this The Scepter,” she said, sitting on the top step without looking at him. She figured if they sat facing the city, rather than looking up over their shoulders, the palace didn’t even have to exist. A public garden stretched out directly behind them and the steep descent of endless steps fell away in front. The security team had swept the garden upon arrival, and finding it empty, had taken position around the perimeter. Impassable and out of sight, so it was just her and Kris alone under the stars. Exactly what Kris needed. “I used to come here growing up,” she said, sliding off her jacket. “Late at night. Just to breathe and watch the city sleep.”

  Without answering, he hunkered down beside her, planting his feet two steps below, knees wide. He leaned back on his hands, tipping his head to gaze at the sky.

  Then he said, “He drew blood,” and the fury in his voice betrayed that his silence since the bar in no way meant he’d calmed down.

  Frowning, she extended her arms in front of her, trying to find where he meant.

  “Above your ear.”

  “Oh.” She touched the tender spot with a shaking hand. “I headbutted him once I had him in a lock. I think I connected with his ear piercing.”

  His slow breath was unsteady. “You headbutted him.”

  “I wanted to Mace him with his own spray, but I’m bound by minimal damage.”

  “How’d you know he was there?”

  “I’d been watching the room.” She flicked off a bug as it landed on her thigh. “You know, doing my job. He’d walked past too many times, looking at the back of your head, and eyeing me off when he thought I wasn’t watching. His stance was different that last time. He was moving with intent.”

  Adrenaline had barreled through her blood. She’d had to trust that Hanna and Peter would keep Kris safe, that the guy was working alone, because she’d moved with tunnel vision—the clamor of the room reduced to a dull murmur in her ears, victim to her body’s chemistry in the frontline of a fight. Her breathing was still too fast; her skin buzzed.

  Kris shifted, leaning forward, stiff with tension. “I was scared for you.”

  “I know.” She’d seen how fiercely he’d beaten the floor, trapped beneath his guards, prisoner to his own status. “You’ll probably bruise.”

  “Wish it was caused by messing up his face.”

  “You’re not a violent guy.” She bumped him with her shoulder. “Let’s keep it that way.”

  The contact drew his attention and he swiveled inward to face her. Frowning, he asked, “You okay?”

  “Adrenaline,” she said, running her hands up and down her thighs. There was nothing she could do to stop the shaking, the mild nausea, not until her body had leveled out. “It’ll pass.”

  “Question,” he said, still twisted to face her. “Is my code name really baby?”

  She snickered and made the mistake of glancing at him. The desire in his eyes reverberated through her. “Yes.”

  “Because I’m yours?” he asked, the false innocence of the question drowned out by the dangerous undertone. A swollen heat inside her shuddered at the thought of him using the pet name on her. C’mere, baby, he’d growl in her ear, his hands on her skin, I need you to do that again.

  “Because you’re the youngest,” she said firmly.

  “Sure,” he said. “What’s Tommy’s?”

  “Chip.” For the chip in his front tooth. “Mark is Jack and Ava is Pixie.”

  Kris opened his mouth, but it was several seconds before he said in bafflement, “Jack?”

  “Mark’s totally a Jack,” she said. “You know, the trustworthy hero in every action
movie ever.”

  “That is very weird,” he said. “I like mine the best.”

  Of course he did. With his panic easing, Frankie sensed the prickle of his earlier restlessness settling back into place. He stretched, returning his palms to the cobblestones behind him. But this time, one hand crossed over into her space and he leaned into it, bringing his shoulder so close her whole arm seemed to blush. His attention, when she darted a look at his face, was roaming over her bare legs.

  Ignoring the arousal that feathered low in her abdomen, she said, “You’re in a mood tonight.”

  He hummed, a deep resonant sound that vibrated down her spine. “Can’t shake it.”

  She bit the inside of her mouth, praying for strength, until something he’d said a few nights ago finally registered in a gut-drop of realization.

  He hadn’t been with a woman since arriving in Kiraly.

  This sex-fueled cowboy was brimming with lust, an overfilled bucket left under a waterfall with no one to empty it, and the last thing anyone needed was his sexual frustration gushing over into his daily life. It would distract him from his training, his duty. Make him brash and careless. Horse riding and intense gym workouts weren’t enough to free this man from his primal urges.

  Philip had given her this job because she alone knew these untrained princes. She knew the security they needed. How to prevent trouble, he’d added, and maybe that was true after all, because she knew the man beside her wasn’t built for abstinence.

  Well, this was going to be as fun as a bludgeon to the heart.

  “I think we both know what might take the edge off,” she said very quietly.

  His look was flat-out incredulous.

  “I can line up an NDA,” she said, aiming for matter-of-fact. “We can head back to the bar. You won’t be short of willing—”

  “Stop talking.” He swooped in, twisting his body around to crouch in front of her, planting his hands on either side of her hips, bringing his face inches from hers. His eyes were bright, burning in the soft garden lights, and his voice was rough as gravel as he said, “Never suggest I have sex with someone who isn’t you.”