The world didn’t stop turning, though. And their country sure as hell didn’t stop needing a leader. Despite having a fully functioning Parliament and a spanking new prime minister, they still needed a king.
Or, at the very least, for Christian to act like the king.
“If you’d rather, Your Highness, we could take up these discussions with someone else in the royal family. Your aunt, Duchess Mathilde, perhaps? Or Princess Genevieve?”
Christian noticed that his ferocious grandmother didn’t get suggested. Ha! They were cowards. He’d sic the grand duchess on them as punishment for boring him to the brink of, well, guillotine ramblings.
It was an exit strategy that would probably turn out for the better, overall. “That’s an excellent thought. You know, my grandmother has more state dinners notched on her tiara than anyone else in the palace. Why don’t you get on her calendar?” Then he turned around in time to watch them, yes, blanch.
“Certainly, Your Highness. As you wish.” Two of them bowed and scraped and hightailed it out.
That left him with Sir Kai. Who crossed his arms and stared down the prince from steely gray eyes.
“That was mean. Punitive, I dare say.”
Christian didn’t see the point in lying to his private secretary. He trusted him to know everything—and figure out how to spit-polish his screw-ups whenever necessary.
Nothing wrong with sidestepping the truth, though. “You can’t deny that my grandmother could do a state dinner blindfolded.”
“Oh, she knows everything about them. And will run roughshod over those two to get it done exactly to her specifications.”
Christian shrugged as he dropped down onto the blue velvet couch. “Works for me. Seeing as how I have no thoughts on seating arrangements, music, the menu, the flowers, or the fucking order of toasts.”
Kai arched a salt-and-pepper eyebrow. “You don’t usually swear in meetings.”
“Well, I’m not in a fucking meeting anymore, am I? I’m just stuck here with you.”
“A thousand thanks, Your Highness,” the older man said drily. “I feel so seen. So necessary. Appreciated.”
Christian didn’t have that many people he could wholly let down his guard around. His immediate family—not the innumerable hanger-on cousins, great-uncles, etc., who’d gladly elbow each other out of the way for a photo op with anyone higher up the line of succession. His best friend, Elias. Kai. Probably less than a dozen, all told.
So when he did drop the layers of formality and protocol and propriety…well, sometimes he went too far.
His temper got shorter, his patience thinner, with every day this facade of a cover-up continued.
He raked his fingers through his hair. “Sorry. You don’t deserve to catch the shit mood I’m trying to slough off.”
“I’ll survive. As a matter of fact, I do believe ‘mood receptacle’ is in my job description.”
“Really? I thought it was ‘emotional spittoon.’ Did you jazz that up in hopes of a raise?”
Kai turned a chair away from the desk to face the prince. He expertly flipped up the tails of his upper-level palace staff uniform before sitting. “Any one thing in particular that sent your day off the rails?”
“I had”—Christian paused to do a quick tally on his fingers—“eleven meetings today, as well as a photo shoot and a luncheon. None of them were with the one person I actually wanted to speak with.”
In a far softer, kinder tone, Kai asked, “Your father’s doctor, perhaps?”
“He was supposed to give me a report yesterday. He’s late.” Christian wasn’t pissed that an underling wasn’t snapping to do a prince’s bidding. He was pissed that his father wasn’t well, wouldn’t allow anyone to help him, and that the doctor didn’t have any answers.
“I’ll go out on a limb and assume that means there’s no news.”
“Well, that in and of itself is an update, isn’t it? And only takes twenty seconds to craft into an email. No, he’s dodging me. Today’s luncheon was in honor of some staff at his own hospital, and Dr. Elonth still gave me the slip.”
“Did you consider he might’ve been tending a patient?”
All day? The man didn’t perform sixteen-hour transplant surgery. And, if that were the case, he would’ve had an assistant send word to the palace. No, this was intentional. For fuck’s sake, Christian was being ghosted by this doctor.
So yeah, he let his irritation hone his tone into the sharpness of an assassin’s blade. “The king’s his patient. And he shouldn’t leave the palace until he sees him.”
“If that were so, we’d need to bring up a cot for him. Seeing as how the king has repeatedly refused to speak with him.”
Kai was always the standard-bearer for the voice of reason. Logic. Calm.
Christian wasn’t in the mood for any of that. “He opens the door for food. For the maids. And, might I remind you, we don’t actually have a guillotine in this country. So why can’t Dr. Elonth force his way in, uninvited?”
“Why haven’t you?”
Fuuuuck.
Yes. Technically, if he threw Dr. Elonth under the bus as a coward for not breaking into the king’s chambers? Fairness would mean Christian acknowledging he’d submitted a change of address to be camped out under there himself.
Why hadn’t he? Or Genevieve? Or his gran?
Because it had happened so gradually. They’d kept waiting “a few more days” for King Julian to pick himself up out of this funk. Confronting the king meant acknowledging the severity of whatever kept him holed up in his rooms.
It almost felt like giving up on the strong, indefatigable leader. The man hadn’t crumpled under the pressure of his baby daughter disappearing, or his wife’s ensuing suicide. He had the strength of ten men, the strength to hold their entire country together in rocky times.
Guess the crucial word there being “had.”
Past tense.
When Christian looked up, the sympathy in Kai’s eyes almost sent him over the edge. Which was not how he wanted to end this shitstorm of a day.
“You should call it a night,” he said abruptly. “Thanks for staying late to give me a hand with those last couple of meetings.”
“I can stay,” Kai demurred.
“So what—I can infect you with my misery? That’s a bad plan. I’ll head down to the pool and swim it off.” He stood, even shrugged out of his sport coat.
“As you wish. Good night, Your Highness.” Kai took the hint/command and left.
But Christian had no intention of swimming. Being alone with his own thoughts would only lead to more wallowing.
No, what he needed was to get out of his head. Out of the subdued hush of Alcarsa Palace. Away from the reminders of title and responsibility and gravitas.
He needed to stop being the prince. Escape it all.
Which he knew exactly how to do.
Christian hooked his jacket over his shoulder and blasted through the door to his office. As he hurried past niches filled with marble busts and statues, his bodyguard fell in two steps behind. “Marko, I’m calling it a night. Batten down the hatches. Pull up the drawbridge.”
“Yes, Your Highness. Should I also set the Royal Dragon on watch?”
“Are you sassing me?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Keep it up and I might set you on moat-digging duty. A drawbridge would be a good addition to the palace.”
“Or you could upgrade the television in the staff lounge.”
“Aww, you want to watch my speeches in ninety-inch HD? I’m flattered.” With a laugh, Christian slipped into his suite of rooms. And kept going straight back to the last window in his bedroom. The one conveniently located by a maple tree—the very best tree for climbing. A quick peek confirmed that no recent trimming had cut off—literally—his escape r
oute. He changed into shorts and a red tee and shimmied down the trunk, silvered by the moonlight.
Even though it felt sometimes like the Royal Protection Service kept him locked up in the palace, they concentrated on keeping people out. So it wasn’t hard for Christian to evade notice as he wove in and out of gardens to the mews. And the freedom of the motorcycle—and even more so, the anonymity conferred by its helmet.
Fifteen minutes later, he walked into his favorite bar. The one where nobody would photograph him, or even approach him, unless it was to offer sympathy on the day’s soccer scores. The one where he could drink and laugh and shoot billiards and stuff his face with pretzels like a normal twenty-nine-year-old man.
And then Christian froze, right at the end of the bar. Because at the other end he spotted the gleaming auburn hair of his sister’s…sister. The slightly uptight, mouth-wateringly beautiful woman who’d moved into his palace.
Mallory Wishner, who he thanked God was not in any way, shape, or form blood-related to him, despite her sister-like bond of growing up with Kelsey.
This night was suddenly looking up.
Chapter Two
Mallory couldn’t tell if the bar was nice because everything in Moncriano’s capital was both ancient and charming—or because her bodyguard had chosen very, very carefully where to bring the princess’s sister to get wasted.
Because that was, indeed, her entire plan for the night.
Drink.
Eat a pretzel the size of her head.
Maybe flirt with the semi-hot guy who’d been eyeing her from the corner. Except that flirting would require conversation.
That conversation.
Because every conversation she’d had with a stranger since returning to the country followed the same lines:
How are you? You’re so brave. What’s the princess really like?
If she wasn’t fine, she wouldn’t be out at a bar, would she? As for the brave thing, it just wasn’t true. She’d gotten shot, cried from the pain and from the fear of dying, and then woke up in a hospital. Nothing brave about that.
Especially not when you considered how not brave Mallory felt every time she remembered that getting shot probably had long-term consequences. No-children-for-her consequences.
Which she tried not to think about.
Tried hard.
Tried constantly.
The drinking part had barely begun. Mallory had a lovely sampler of five mini-glasses of local brews. Her way of integrating into this new place. And she’d ordered a pretzel.
But the crowd on a Tuesday night was light—not much good opportunity for people watching. In other words, hanging solo at a bar was boring. Not to mention a little bit depressing.
Clearly it was time to shake things up. Throw a few darts, pre-pretzel. She chugged one mini-beer in preparation, as one does before throwing sharp objects.
“If you’re trying to drink away a rough day, that’s not going to get the job done,” said a mellow baritone voice in her ear.
The voice that always skittered a tingle down her spine. As if every word poured a line of maple syrup onto her skin, and if she held her breath, maybe he’d lick it up…
Mallory swallowed hard and then swiveled to see Prince Christian tucked in between the stools, setting a motorcycle helmet on the bar. She kept swiveling to get past him to jump up and curtsy.
Sadly, jumping off a stool wasn’t in her repertoire of smooth moves. She slid off, banged her knee on the leg, and would’ve landed on the floor if not for his strong hand catching her biceps.
Very aware of protocol, she still bent into a fairly recognizable curtsy. “Your Highness.”
He settled his hands at her waist and picked her up as though she weighed less than a napkin, putting her back on the wooden stool. “Women fall at my feet all the time, but I didn’t expect it from you. I haven’t even given you my knee-weakening wink yet.”
“Simply observing the proper respect for the heir to the throne.”
His brows knitted together into obvious annoyance. “Well, quit it. We’re in a bar. This prince is off the clock. How about we just be two people who both really need a drink tonight?”
That was…unexpected. Mallory took a good, long look. His blond hair was rumpled from the helmet—so sexy—and he did, indeed, wear super-casual black shorts and a red tee. His long, muscular legs seemed to go on forever beneath the shorts down to his sneakers. It was the first time she’d seen that much skin on him.
Forget the wink. His knees were knee-weakening. Tan thighs, tan forearms, all dusted with that sexy golden hair. His broad shoulders and very big biceps strained the shirt to tautness that also emphasized his pecs. If you didn’t know he was a prince, you’d assume he was a sailor, since they were just blocks from the harbor.
A sexy sailor. Maybe a pirate.
But Mallory noticed other things, as well. The darkened shadows just beneath his eyes. The downward pull to his mouth. The dark shadows in his violet eyes, the unusual, identical shade to the woman she’d always called her sister—and always would, even if DNA didn’t hold up that claim anymore.
The prince looked exhausted. Beat up. And yes, as much in need of distraction and drinks as she herself was.
“I’m in if you are. Fair warning—I’m in a crappy mood. My entire plan for the night was to drink it away.” Mallory pushed the wooden plank holding three full samplers toward him. “If you’re on board with that, you can start with these.”
“Great minds think alike. It just so happens I came here for exactly the same reason.”
“On a motorcycle? That seems…dumb. I mean, unwise.”
Probably a bad move to call the crown prince dumb. Not because of protocol—just basic politeness. She and Christian had barely talked during her first trip to the country. Kelsey assured her he was nice, but to Mallory he was still more or less a polite stranger.
Albeit a very hot stranger who she ogled whenever the chance arose.
“I took the bike to escape. Someone will drive me home. Which reminds me, I should text Elias, let him know I’m playing hooky.” He handed the helmet to the bartender, who tucked it underneath the bar.
“Wait, you ditched your bodyguard?” The assassination attempt where she’d been shot—and Christian had been standing just in front of her—had happened only three months ago. Security was supposed to be an imperative for the House of Villani. So Mallory dumped protocol out the window and called him out on it. “That was dumb.”
“I needed to do something by myself. For myself.” He sounded unrepentant. His thumbs raced over his phone. “Nobody knows who I am on the bike. And in here, I’m as safe as the palace. This is a Royal Protection Service hangout. Half these tables are filled with off-the-clock bodyguards.”
Mallory whipped her head left and right, taking in the relaxed crowd and noting that nobody looked out of control. Or desperate. Or even rough around the edges. It was the Disneyland version of a bar: spotless, charming, and far from exciting.
“I knew when I asked Klaus to take me someplace to let my hair down that he’d choose the safe, boring route.”
“It’s his job to keep you safe. But as for boring? Well, that all depends on the company.” He sat down, stroking a hand back and forth on the polished wood of the bar. Then his eyes locked onto hers like a tractor beam. “And I don’t plan on being bored at all.”
Oh.
My.
Christian was known as the Playboy Prince of Europe. One who took his responsibilities seriously, but also played hard and with an almost conscientious work ethic to going through women. Mallory had assumed it was his title that had women bending over backward to be with him for a night.
She’d been wrong. It was his…charisma, even while worn out. His focused attention. Not to mention the sensuality of his wide lower lip and those hypnotic eyes.
Suddenly getting drunk with him seemed like a very bad, very dangerous idea.
But Mallory also couldn’t think of anything she’d rather do.
Lifting a glass, she waited for him to raise one and then clinked. “To having fun.”
They both drained the contents in two long gulps, eyes still locked. She wasn’t entirely sure how to stop looking into the violet depths. Or even the dark-blond scruff covering his jawline.
How would that scruff feel on the inside of her thighs?
Why was she bothering to wonder, as it could never, ever happen?
“Before we have all the fun, do you want to say what made your day utter shit?” he asked, ever the polite, well-trained conversationalist.
Ohhhhhh, no. How ungrateful would that sound? Thanks for letting me live, rent-free, in your beautiful palace, in your country, but I’m lonely and bored and miss my old life.
Mallory ran a finger around the rim of her glass. “Do you want to tell me what drove you to literally escape the palace?”
“Excellent counter. And no, I do not.”
“Ditto.”
“Then might I suggest a game of darts?” With a wicked gleam in his eye, Christian leaned in to whisper into her ear. Actually, he pushed back the hair around her ear first, which raced chills down her spine. “How about we make it even more interesting with a bet?”
There should literally be a claxon going off overhead, signaling the danger.
But there wasn’t.
So Mallory pushed aside the numerous logical ways she should laugh off his suggestion, or just flat-out turn him down. Instead, she asked, “Secrets or drinks?”
“Both, of course.”
“I’ll bet you won’t tell me when you lost your virginity.”
Christian signaled the bartender. “We’re going to need two more beer samplers. Back by the dartboard, if you will.”
“Right away, Your Highness.”
“They’re small enough that chugging one when you lose will be smarter than if we did shots.”
Tempting the Prince (Sexy Misadventures of Royals) Page 2
