The Royal Arrangement: Prequel to The Rebel Queen

by Jeana E. Mann

“He had a business emergency.” I follow the statement with a pleasant smile to prevent more questions and to mask the twist of rejection in my gut. Nicky didn’t even say goodbye. Deep down, I know there’s more behind his departure than business. I don’t know why I feel so sad about it. He’s not my soulmate. I don’t even like him.

  Father inclines his head toward the blond man. “Is that Prince Heinrich of Androvia?”

  “I don’t know.” I’ve heard the name before. His reputation as a shrewd businessman is overshadowed by the intrigue of his royal title. Admirers cluster around him, eager for the attention of a future king. My heart skips a beat at the sight of his regal profile—a straight nose, strong chin and forehead, a jaw carved from granite. He could be the golden stranger. I bite my lower lip and pray it’s not him. “We’ve never met.”

  “Yes. I’m sure it’s him.” The ice clinks against the sides of his glass as he prepares for another sip. “I’d like to speak to him. Come with me. I’ll introduce you.”

  “No.” My answer arrives too quickly. An encounter with someone who might be from the Devil’s Playground rattles my composure. Father lifts an eyebrow. I clear my throat and try to soften the refusal. “Maybe later.”

  Sensing our attention, the prince turns to face us. My gaze connects with his. The bottom drops out of my stomach. For the span of a heartbeat, I can’t breathe. Is it him? I try to picture his face with a mask covering his eyes. The brunette at his side places a hand on his forearm. Jealousy prickles along the back of my neck. I don’t know why. I’m not interested, yet I can’t stop thinking about him at night when I’m alone in bed. An incoming group of guests blocks my view. When the crowd thins, the prince and his companion are gone.

  “You and your mother have done an amazing job tonight. The work you’re doing here is important, honey. I’m so proud of you.” Father’s words draw me back to the shattered remains of my family. He knows I’m angry with him for the chaos he’s caused.

  “Your tie is crooked.” I grab the ends of Father’s bowtie and straighten them. In the past, his words of praise meant the world to me. Now the compliment rings hollow like our relationship. He smiles down at me. I concentrate on the tie. Having him here is comforting and confusing. He used to be a rock of stability in my life. The day I met his mistress changed everything.

  “Thank you, dear.” The warmth of his arm heats my shoulder as he gives me a hug. “I guess you’re speaking to me again. Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

  “Not even a little.” Although my tone is flat and my expression is neutral, I’m seething inside. His adulterous affair with Lavender Carpenter was a personal attack on the stability of our family unit and a blow to my heart. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to trust you again.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Lines of good humor bracket his mouth. Most people think we look alike with our blue eyes and tall stature. Right now, he seems like a stranger. “I’m the same man I’ve always been.”

  “Not to me.” Tears burn my eyes. I fight them away. “You used to be kind and compassionate and honest.” Those traits got him elected to two terms in the White House. I was so proud of him. “What happened? Is it Mom? Don’t you love her anymore?” The thought of my mother’s potential anguish blossoms into an ache beneath my ribs. She doesn’t know about the affair, and now I’m complicit in his deception. His secret keeps me awake at night, contemplating the ripple effects of his infidelity.

  “You’ve just described every loser in the history of mankind. Those characteristics don’t accomplish goals.” A waiter arrives with a glass of liquor on a silver tray for him. The conversation lulls long enough for Father to place his empty glass on the tray and claim the new one. “Haven’t you learned anything from me?”

  Random acts of Father’s kindness spin in a loop amid my childhood memories—his kisses on my scraped knees, the protective grasp of his fingers on my five-year-old hand as we crossed the street, his soothing words after a nightmare. Those are the actions of a caring human being. The recollection of his hand on Lavender Cunningham’s ass taints those memories.

  “Yes,” I reply. “I’ve learned never to trust you—or any man—again.”

  The next morning, I awaken with a headache. In need of caffeine and aspirin, I throw on a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt and walk down the block to the coffee shop. The throbbing between my temples increases at the corner newsstand. Nicky’s face splashes across the tabloids. Each photo depicts him in the arms of the same sexy Hollywood starlet. She’s filming a movie in New York City and hitting the clubs at night. Their smiling faces taunt me. I shouldn’t be devastated, but I am. The wound in my chest throbs. He found someone else. Someone younger. Someone prettier. Someone more famous. Someone who isn’t me.

  I know it’s ridiculous—these feelings of hurt and rejection. We should have ended things a long time ago. It doesn’t make the sting any worse. Like a fool, I hung on to him, more frightened of being alone than unhappy. The funny thing? I’m mad at myself for allowing this to happen.

  The longer I think about his betrayal and the way he ghosted me last night, the angrier I become. I’m tired of men disrespecting me. My ex-husband’s affair, my father’s adultery, Nicky’s cheating—the three deceptions blend together inside my head. I down a double shot of espresso and grab a taxi, hoping to put an end to this charade once and for all.

  Nicky lives in a swanky tower of condominiums on 67th Street. The front desk clerk buzzes his apartment to announce my arrival. My palms sweat on the elevator ride to the top. I have no idea what I’m going to say when I get there. Only that I deserve better treatment, and I won’t allow him to disrespect me again. By the time I reach his apartment, my temper is on the uptick. He answers the door wearing a pair of black boxer shorts and nothing else.

  “This is unexpected.” Instead of inviting me inside, he blocks the door, forcing me to stand in the hall. “Did we have a breakfast appointment or something?”

  “No.” This is such a bad idea. I’m tempted to sprint back to the elevators. Instead, I draw in a deep breath to bolster my courage. “I want you to explain this.” I shove the tabloid magazine into his chest.

  The paper crackles as he glances at the cover then smirks. “That’s a great photo. My hair looks phenomenal. Did you see this, babe?” He hands the paper over his shoulder to the woman behind him. It’s the starlet. She’s wearing panties and his tuxedo shirt, the same one he had on last night. My humiliation is complete.

  “Oh, nice photos,” the girl says. “I love free publicity.” Her enormous hazel eyes rove over my rumpled T-shirt and yoga pants. “Who’s this?”

  “I’m Everly McElroy. I’ve been sleeping with Nicky, too. Did he tell you, or is he lying to you as well?”

  “Yeah, I know. I don’t mind.” With a sleepy smile, she wraps her fingers around his bicep and tugs him backward. “Come back to bed, baby. She can come too.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Come on. Don’t be mad.” Nicky’s words lack conviction.

  “It didn’t have to end like this. You know that, right?” I stand in front of him, feeling like my chest has been ripped open, and wait for an explanation that never arrives. After an uncomfortable beat, I shake my head. Without a backward glance, I flee to the street. A cool breeze rolls up from the road, swirling my hair into my eyes. I press a hand to my stomach, fighting a wave of frustration. My life is falling apart.

  7

  HENRY

  For the next month, my duties as a prince are demanding. After the meeting with Roman at the Devil’s Playground, I jet off to London for tea with the Prince of Wales then cross the globe to preside over the opening of a new vineyard in Tuscany. Between a Boston polo match and a royal wedding in Sweden, I deliver food and supplies to Somalian refugees. Manhattan charities beg for my presence. And I manage to fit a few in. The relentless royal schedule fills my days. In the mornings, however, I wake up with an erection tenting the sheets and visions of long auburn
hair wrapped around my shaft. Memories of Nicky’s date continue to haunt me. Prudent judgment warns me to let his mystery girl go, but I can’t. Mostly because she’s unattainable. For a man who can have anything he wants, she’s become the ultimate prize.

  On my first morning back in Manhattan, Shasta drops an unmarked envelope onto my hotel desk. She’s been at my side for years, acting as my most trusted advisor.

  “What’s this?” I ask, shoving aside my laptop.

  “It’s the information you requested about the girl.”

  “Ah, yes.” The girl. Long legs, perfect tits, and a smile that could light up the darkest of skies. It takes all of my self-control to hide my excitement. “You found her?”

  “When have I ever failed you, Your Royal Highness?” She rolls her expressive brown eyes behind the blue plastic frames of her glasses. My life would be shambles without her calm capability and organizational skills. When I gave her the task of finding my fantasy woman, I never expected her to succeed, but I should have known better. Shasta always comes through for me.

  “Never, but there’s always a first time,” I reply, teasing. Taking the envelope in my hands, I turn it over a few times. The cadence of my heart escalates. For all I know, this woman could be a grocery clerk, a barista, or a dog walker. The possibilities are thrilling. Not that it matters. My interest in her is purely sexual. “Have you read the contents?” I wave the envelope.

  “Of course. I had to know what kind of woman requires three private detectives to find.”

  “And?” I lift an eyebrow.

  “Now, I understand.” Shasta clasps her hands in front of her, waiting for my next command. “She’s quite unique.”

  I’m as excited as a child on Christmas Eve. Taking my time, I break the seal and fold over the flap, drawing out the pleasure of the unknown. Documents, photographs, and magazine articles flutter onto the desk. My breath catches in my throat. The mystery girl stares back at me from an eight-by-ten glossy photograph through wide blue eyes. I drink in every inch of her oval-shaped face, her slender nose, and bee-stung lips. It’s her.

  Everly McElroy was the stunning beauty chained to Roman Menshikov’s dungeon wall. In a million years, I never would have guessed her identity. This isn’t your average woman off the street. This woman has raised millions of dollars to fight sex trafficking, lobbied to change laws, and rallied to protect those less fortunate than herself. In fact, I attended one of her events last night. I dig through the photographs until I find one that catches my attention. She’s riding a gray mare, her round ass encased in snug white breeches, a blue ribbon in her hand and a smile on her face. It’s her smile that captivates me most: bright, sunny, and carefree.

  I lean back in my chair to contemplate the implications. Not only is she the star of my wet dreams, but she’s also the daughter of my adversary. The consequences of any contact between us could be catastrophic. On the other hand, she might provide valuable insight into Don McElroy’s schemes. No wonder Nicky didn’t want me to know her. I tap a fingernail on the desk. Complications like her provide an intriguing layer to the tedious duties of royalty.

  At my elbow, Shasta waits patiently, hands clasped in front of her severe blue suit. I scribble a message on a blank piece of paper and hand it to her. “Send Ms. McElroy a dozen red roses—make that two dozen—and give her this note. Clear my schedule for tonight. I’ll be going out.”

  EVERLY

  The clock at the Devil’s Playground strikes midnight. I’m grateful to say goodbye to such a disappointing day. I perch on the edge of a chaise lounge, rise to leave, and sit back down again. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since Nicky humiliated me at his apartment door. Now I’m sitting at his sex club, waiting on a man who may or may not be the Crown Prince of Androvia to ravish my body. It’s too crazy to comprehend.

  This afternoon, a handwritten invitation from the masked stranger arrived at my apartment along with the biggest roses I’ve ever seen. Throughout the day, I’ve changed my mind a dozen times. Who does something like this? Yesterday, I would’ve laughed at the suggestion, but tonight, I’m too hurt and angry at the men in my life to care. All I want to do is forget them. If screwing a stranger does the trick, I’m all for it. This is the perfect scenario. No names. No faces. Just sex.

  The heels of my shoes echo on the marble floor as I pace from one side to the other, a glass of chardonnay in hand. This special playroom is dubbed the Sultan’s Lair and mimics the boudoir of a sheik. Sheer scarves cascade from the ceiling. Sumptuous furs and velvet throws cover an enormous round bed. In the center of the room, a fountain plays in a shallow pool. Five jewel-encrusted bottles sit on a shelf near the bed. Massage oils, warming lotions, lube. A box of condoms. The chest on the floor holds dildos, vibrators, butt plugs, and various other toys in sealed packaging. I lower the lid, almost toppling the lamp from the adjacent nightstand. I’ve never been so nervous in my life. After another circuit of the room, I sit down and wipe my sweaty palms on the embroidered covering of the chaise.

  From my seat, I have a clear view of the door. Soft classical music drifts through the room from hidden speakers. After an eternity, there’s a knock, the click of a lock, and a slice of light as the door swings open. The moisture leaves my mouth. Broad shoulders fill the opening. I swallow hard, pressing a hand against my stomach to quiet the butterflies inside. It’s him. Looking taller, sexier, and oh-so mysterious with the mask covering his eyes. He scans the dimly lit room, catches sight of me, and strides in my direction.

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t come.” His voice is deeper than I remember, rougher. The devastation of the day disappears. In its place, a thrill of anticipation forms in the pit of my belly. He’s back, and he’s here for me. I can’t wait to hear that sexy baritone whisper naughty things in my ears.

  "I was about to leave." An ache begins to blossom between my legs, brought about by the promise of illicit, non-committal sex. I press my thighs together, hoping he won't notice the way my hands shake as I lift my wine glass to my lips. The liquid sloshes up to the rim, almost but not quite spilling over. Goodness, he's delicious, dressed in black from head to toe. Tuxedos were made for men like him, men with broad chests, slim hips, and devilish grins.

  “Have you changed your mind?" He pauses a few feet from me. “Do you want to call it off?”

  I tilt my head up to catch a better glimpse of his face, his square jaw, the curve of his lips. “No, it’s just— I’m not sure what I’m doing here.” The air in the room thickens, making it difficult to breathe, and it’s his fault. His maleness is overwhelming.

  “If you’re here, it’s because you know I can give you something no one else can.” Those are cryptic words coming from a man with no face, no identity, and no name. “Isn’t that right?”

  “I— Uh— I’m not sure.” My heart thunders like a jackrabbit until the sound of rushing blood in my ears replaces the splash of water from the fountain. “I think so.”

  “Relax. We don’t have to do anything. We can talk if you’d like.” One of his hands removes the wine glass from my grasp and places it on the table at my side. His fingers slide through mine, pulling me to my feet until the tips of my breasts hover a millimeter away from his chest. God, I can feel the heat radiating off of him, through the thin satin of my gown and into my skin. His warmth pulls me to him, enveloping me, chasing away the chill of the unknown. “Or you can leave. The choice is yours. Anything that happens in this room is with your consent.”

  “No. I’ll stay.” The declaration flies from my lips, sneaking past my common sense. This is crazy. The words repeat over and over in my head, unheeded. I don’t run. Instead, I cling to his hand, enjoying the glide of his skin against mine. There’s so much power in his touch. It tingles along my skin, sizzling across my nerve endings, exciting every synapse.

  “Why did you come here tonight?” From behind his mask, his light eyes bore into me, searching out my secrets. “Tell me.”

  “Isn’t i
t obvious?” I place my palms on his chest and slide my hands up the front of his shirt. He’s as hard and lean as I remember, a wall of muscle wrapped in silk and linen. “I’m curious about you.”

  “But that’s not the only reason.”

  “I’ve had an awful year.” I close my eyes to blot out visions of my ex-husband with his assistant and their new baby, Nicky with the starlet, my father with Lavender. So many men. So many betrayals. When I open my eyes, he’s staring down at me. I moisten my lips to speak. The most important men in my life underestimated my value, a mistake I won’t let happen again. “I just need to forget about my life for a little while.”

  “Fair enough.” With the back of a finger, he strokes the side of my face. The light touch tingles in my breasts and thighs. “I might have been mistaken about you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought you were a good girl, but you’re not. Good girls don’t show up at sex clubs to fuck a total stranger, do they?”

  “No.” The dampness between my legs increases with every caress. His hand skates along the column of my throat, tickles along my collarbone. I like his chastising words, the heat in his gaze behind the mask, the hitch in his breath when I touch him. “I’m not a good girl.”

  “Good girls don’t wear dresses like this, do they? No bra, and I bet no panties either. Look at your hard nipples staring at me, your dress so tight I can see the outline of your pussy.” His gaze peruses my body, weighted down by lust. My gown is a luminescent blue that brings out the color of my eyes. The satin clings to every nuance of my figure. I would never wear something so trashy in public, but rules are made to be broken at the Devil’s Playground. He tweaks a nipple through the fabric, sending ripples of delight into my core. “Did you wear this dress for me?”

  No man has ever spoken to me this way. I’m confused and excited and—and grateful. “Yes. Do you like it?”