What matters is that when he does realize I was here, he understands it was because I’m proud of him.
Becoming famous as a cape-and-tights-wearing hero who had gained his superstrength and powers by being bitten by thousands of radioactive water bears (a.k.a. hardy microscopic tardigrades) might not have been Eric’s dream, but his fans adored him. At least one child in every first-grade class she’d ever taught had found out Rachelle was related to Eric Westerly, Water Bear Man. She’d even made the mistake once of saying she was. The children had wanted to write to him, FaceTime with him, connect with him in some way that one would expect to be able to when their teacher was his sister.
The dynamics of her family weren’t something she could explain to a room full of six-year-olds, or even their parents when they’d become equally excited. Eventually Rachelle had added a qualifying word out of necessity. Whenever she’d been asked about Eric, she’d said he was her estranged brother, and for those who required more clarification, she’d added, “We don’t talk.”
I’m here to change that.
Brett says family is what we make it. Nicolette believes our family defines us. Mom says love doesn’t just happen—it takes work. And as Grandmother likes to say, “We are what we do. If you want something but do nothing to attain it, you are no better than someone who isn’t intelligent enough to know what they want.”
I can’t believe I’m taking advice from any of them.
Her oldest brother, Brett, hadn’t been part of her life until he’d gotten engaged to her best friend. Her mother was still recovering from being exposed as a liar. Rachelle had defended her out of love, but she still struggled with how her mother could have cheated on their father, let everyone assume the divorce had been his fault, then married Mark, the man she’d had an affair with—without ever telling anyone he was Spencer’s biological father.
Nicolette was still struggling with not knowing for sure who her father was. She’d recently decided to table the conversation and spend time away from the family instead.
And Delinda? It wasn’t so much a choice to take her advice as much as Rachelle being unable to not hear her voice in her head. Rachelle only visited her grandmother on days she was feeling unusually confident. Delinda was gifted in knowing exactly what to say to demolish a person’s self-esteem. Unlike Nicolette, who didn’t hide her disdain for the matriarch of their family, Rachelle usually defended Delinda. She was, after all, their only living grandparent.
Spencer, who used to avoid their grandmother, too, now said she had a nicer side. Rachelle had yet to see it, and that he did was confusing. He was now the one jumping to Delinda’s defense. The very fabric of her family was changing, and that was another reason Rachelle had needed to leave.
Yes, she’d come to London for Eric, but also for herself. Rachelle had lost her footing. She was no longer sure where she fit into her family.
Luckily, I have this experience to put it all back into perspective. Comparatively, I was doing well back home. This is how it actually feels to not belong.
She walked by more photographers, who didn’t raise their cameras as she passed. Putting on a brave face, she flashed a smile anyway. Three hundred feet had never felt so far.
There was a sudden change in the energy in the crowd. A palpable excitement swept over them. They surged forward as security came down the aisle, ensuring they stayed behind the ropes.
Unable to resist, Rachelle stopped and turned. The crowd behind the photographers came to life, screaming with excitement. “Prince Magnus!” started as a call out of recognition and then was repeated by enough to sound like a chant.
A tall, muscular man in a light-gray suit stepped out of a Rolls-Royce, his dark-brown hair conservative and short. The way he filled out his tuxedo instantly made Rachelle wonder what he’d look like without it, and she shook her head. Her reaction to him surprised her, since he definitely wasn’t her taste. She preferred someone less dynamic, someone softer. His features were so ruggedly perfect that she would have thought they were airbrushed if she’d seen him in a photo rather than in person.
He started down the red carpet, disregarding the photographers as if they were of no more importance than anything on the bottom of his shoes.
A woman in the crowd yelled out, “I love you, Prince Magnus.”
He didn’t acknowledge her. Was he that accustomed to public adoration?
Rachelle realized she was holding her breath. She didn’t want to find that level of arrogance attractive, but it was hot. What kind of woman would turn such a man’s head?
One of the photographers yelled out, “How sick is the king? Do you think it will be days? Weeks?”
Another called out, “Is it true you’re about to ask Princess Isabella to marry you? What are you more excited about? Becoming king or tapping that?”
The prince froze and turned on his heel toward the photographer who’d asked the last question. A hush fell over the crowd. The prince’s lips twisted. It was the kind of smile a predator indulges in just before it goes in for a kill. He took a step toward the photographer who had raised his camera to take advantage of the opportunity.
“Ask me that question one more time,” the prince commanded in a low tone.
The photographer continued to snap photos.
The prince stepped closer. “Look me in the eye and ask me. But before you do, consider that right now you are no one to me. Do you want me to know you? Do you want me to remember you when I leave here? Be sure you do before you utter another word.”
The photographer lowered his camera.
“He’s threatening you,” the man beside the silent photographer said. “Are you going to let him get away with that?”
“I meant no disrespect,” the photographer said.
“What a pussy,” the other man jeered.
The prince’s attention turned to the second man, and the smile returned. “Do you have something you’d like to say to me?”
That man squared his shoulders and looked like he might spit on the prince. “You think you’re above us because you have a title? You’re lucky we want to photograph you at all. Without us, no one would care about you. The whole idea of a ruling class is outdated and pathetic. I can say whatever I want. What are you going to do, throw a jewel at me?”
The prince’s smile widened, revealing perfectly white teeth. “You think he’s afraid of me because of my title? That’s so cute. I’ll remember that. And you. Thank you for giving me something to do after the premiere.”
“What does that even mean? Can you believe him?” the man snarked, looking around for support. He found none. The people on either side of him had retreated.
With a nod, the prince turned away from him and started down the red carpet again. One could have heard a pin drop. Rachelle understood what held them enthralled—she had never seen someone with such presence. He felt dangerous.
Legally, Rachelle didn’t think there was much a prince could do while outside his country. The paparazzi were notorious for antagonizing to create a story. Royalty, even more than regular people, couldn’t go around threatening anyone in public without facing consequences for it—could they?
Not a single camera raised as he walked by, but for an entirely different reason than why they hadn’t for Rachelle.
Rachelle couldn’t tear her eyes from him as he approached. Her stomach quivered with a sexual anticipation that was new to her. She’d never been one to idolize celebrities or plaster her walls with images of half-clothed men, but she could now understand why some did. Here was a man worthy of a fantasy or two. Or three.
When his attention settled on her, her jaw went slack. His eyes were not light brown. Not green. They were somewhere between with flecks of yellow—gold. Absolutely stunning. Closer and closer until Rachelle forgot where she was. There was only him and how her body hummed beneath his slow appraisal.
“Waiting for me?” he asked in a low growl.
Only my whole life. She ope
ned her mouth, then snapped it shut and swallowed what would have been a humiliating admission. He towered above her, and she chastised herself for instantly imagining how easily he could lift her if he wanted to. She’d had sex with other men, but none of them had sent her genitals into code-red lust.
She remembered being slightly disgusted when her best friend had used their teenage color-code categories of attraction to explain how she felt about Brett. No one wanted to imagine anyone feeling that way about their brother. Plus, Rachelle had considered it an exaggeration. A code red was romance-novel crap. She’d maintained that that type of mindless attraction didn’t happen in reality.
I was wrong.
Holy shit.
He offered her his arm. “A gentleman never refuses a beautiful escort.”
Beautiful? Me? Feeling as if she’d stepped into a dream, Rachelle laid her hand on his arm. It flexed beneath her touch, and she swayed against him.
Wow. Just wow.
As Prince Magnus escorted the beautiful but apparently mute woman down the rest of the red carpet, he found himself unusually tempted to accept Eric Westerly’s token of apology. This woman might not speak English, but he’d find a way to explain his refusal once they were inside. She wasn’t the first woman to be offered up to appease him, and she likely wouldn’t be the last. It was a practice Magnus found repulsive. He would say as much to Westerly after the idiot visited Finn in the hospital.
His mother had been the heart of his family. Although she’d been gone for more than a decade, she’d ingrained in Magnus a deep respect for women. They were the backbones of civilized society. Which was why men viciously tried to control them or reduce them to nothing more than a gift to another man. Weak men were threatened by the power of change a good woman could wield.
His father’s legacy had begun as a tribute to his wife while she was alive, yet had sadly only come together after her death. The high number of women graduating from his country’s universities was evidence that his mother continued to make a difference. Women were remarkable when given a chance to be.
He glanced at the woman on his arm. She hadn’t come from nowhere. Somewhere she had a mother and a father. Did they worry about her? With a nudge in the right direction, would she return to them? He’d give her name to Jules. He handled the philanthropic side of their business. He’d have connections to agencies that could offer this woman options other than the life she’d somehow fallen into.
For now, he would handle the situation with discretion. Without knowing Westerly’s arrangement with her, he had no way of assessing if refusing her services would endanger her.
As soon as they were inside the building, he led her off to one side of the room. “Do you speak English?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered huskily.
“If you wish, you may be my escort for the premiere. I will make it appear that you please me. No one need know what I am about to say to you.”
Her eyebrows shot up, but she remained silent.
Magnus took out a business card and wrote his friend’s cell phone number on it. He handed it to her. She accepted it as if she’d never seen a business card before. It was hard not to feel sorry for her. “Call that number. Jules Mansfield is a good man. He’ll help you leave here if you wish to. He can set you up with a job and whatever else you need to start again. The choice is yours, but you have a choice if you want one.”
“I don’t understand.”
Westerly had good taste when it came to women. Despite the truth of her situation, this woman had an air of innocence that was appealing. Looking into her eyes, Magnus felt a reluctant attraction to her. He reminded himself he was a healthy male responding as any man in his prime would. However, what he felt in that moment didn’t matter any more than it mattered in any other part of his life.
One of the photographers had asked if he intended to marry Princess Isabella. Her parents were pushing for the union. So far he hadn’t refused that offer, although it was not his first choice. Marrying her would secure relations with her bordering country, but his mother had loved his father, and Magnus was reluctant to settle for less than a woman who adored him. Princess Isabella was quite in love with herself. Thankfully that was not his immediate concern. The confused woman before him was. He chose his words with care, attempting to make his point without insulting her.
“No matter what brought you here, you are not trapped in this lifestyle. Call the number on the card, and you will receive safe passage and assistance.”
“I’m sorry? Passage?” Her delicious little mouth rounded, challenging his moral stance.
Could such sweetness be an act, or had Westerly sent him a novice? His heart pounded in his chest, and his cock twitched to attention. For her sake, he needed to put distance between them. “I cannot accept your services this evening. Call the number on the card.”
“My services?” Her mouth snapped shut, her chin rose, and her eyes narrowed. “You don’t know me. Why would you think I would be offering you anything?”
Fuck, she’s hot.
If I’d met her any other way, she’d be mine tonight.
He traced the length of her beautiful neck with the back of his hand. “Don’t let your pride stop you from making that call. Trust me, I’m tempted. You’re beautiful, but you deserve better than this.”
“Don’t touch me.” She whipped herself back from his touch, and her hands settled on her hips, an act that pushed her breasts forward and nearly out of the slip of a gown she wore. “I don’t know who you think I am, but what you’re implying is disgusting.”
He could have accepted her claim and left her, but he didn’t. He had offered such help to women in the past. Some had accepted. Some had not. He’d always been able to walk away with a clear conscience. This was different.
He didn’t like the idea that leaving her there might mean she’d end the night with another man. Still, this was a novel attraction better not pandered to. He had no problem filling his nights with less complicated women—women who, like him, sought sex without emotional entanglements. This had the potential of being messy and full of drama.
Yet he couldn’t look away. Each angry breath she inhaled outlined her nipples against the thin material of her gown. He imagined picking her up, tossing her over his shoulder, and taking her somewhere where he could spend the night exploring every inch of her sweet body. “Disgusting isn’t how I’d describe it—simply ill advised. Take comfort in the knowledge that I would love nothing more than to spend the night with you, but I wouldn’t feel right about it.”
“What you shouldn’t feel right about is talking to anyone the way you do.” Her slap took him completely by surprise. His head jerked back, and he instinctively grabbed her by the arm, hauling her closer.
“I’m trying to help you.” Mind and body warred—offering his protection even as his cock throbbed with need for her.
“I don’t need help.” She attempted to pull her arm free from him, but after failing, raised her other hand as if she might slap him again. He caught that hand easily. He gentled his hold on her and told himself that the right thing to do was to take her out of there and ensure she found her way to a better place.
“What’s going on?” a male voice asked from beside them.
Still holding on to the woman’s arm, Magnus turned and found himself face-to-face with the very man he’d come to meet. Eric Westerly was his height, with an impressive build, but Magnus dismissed him as soft. Everything he’d read about Westerly spoke of a privileged upbringing before fame on the big screen. Magnus had little respect for a man who’d never had to fight for anything. He had even less respect for him now that he knew he was the type to gift a woman to someone. “Your friend and I are merely having a conversation.”
“Take your hand off her,” Westerly said between clenched teeth.
A surge of possessiveness swept through Magnus again. Was she from Westerly’s private stock? Had he had her? If so, it was for the last time.
There was no way Magnus would hand her back to him. “Too late to change your mind, I’ve already accepted your offer.”
“My offer?” Westerly asked, his expression hardening. “Get your hand off my sister.”
Magnus’s head whipped around. “You’re his sister?” His hold on her went slack, and she pulled herself free then.
“Rachelle Westerly.” She smoothed her hands down the sides of her dress as if trying to wipe his touch off. “I would have told you my name, but you were too busy trying to save me from a life of prostitution.”
Magnus smiled as he realized what this meant. She was not some unfortunate woman being served up against her will. He didn’t have to deny how she made him feel. Spending a few days in London suddenly held more appeal.
“I think you should leave,” Westerly said firmly. “Now.”
The reason for his visit came back, overshadowing his excitement. There would be time later to enjoy Rachelle, but first he had a promise to fulfill. “Not before we talk. My name is Prince Magnus—”
“I know who you are.” Westerly raised a hand and started speaking over him. “I wasn’t interested in speaking with you when you called. Now that you’ve offended my family, I have even less of a desire to. I’m sure my publicist has informed you I don’t do appearances. So, the door is that way. Thank you for coming.”
Magnus stood his ground as his temper threatened to flare. Finn’s doctors had told Magnus that the boy was telling everyone he met that his prince was so powerful that he was going to bring him a superhero.
However, Magnus admitted to himself that by allowing his dick to rob his brain of coherent thought, he had made the situation more complicated.
Royal Heir Page 2
