by Chase, Emma
Which means for S&S Securities, business has been booming. We have our regular, serious clients who truly need guarding and a fancier set who just enjoy knowing a trained professional has their back.
But we don’t fuck around—we protect them all the same.
The firm expanded so much, Lo and I took on another partner—James Winchester. The three of us always did work well together, and it’s been smooth sailing ever since James hopped on board.
I’ve hung up my guarding boots and only rarely take a shift with a client—sticking to training and supervising day to day. Because I’ve come to appreciate Abby’s penchant for a consistent schedule and reliable routine.
Especially once our son was born.
We named him Oliver and he’s almost three years old now. He’s got my hair and Abby’s eyes—he’s a holy terror and a blessing in one—exactly the kind of lad my mum says she always wished on me.
Ollie’s favorite pastime is roughhousing with his uncles and Logan’s boys. He’s tough and quick-witted and gives back as good as he gets. When his uncle Luke comes to town he teaches him chess, a game Oliver’s picked up with fascinating ease. He also takes piano lessons—at the Dowager Countess of Bumblebridge’s insistence—because she swears he’s a regular Haddock prodigy.
But to me and Abby, he’ll always simply be the most perfect thing we’ve ever done.
I take him to the shop with me every day I can. But six p.m. is closing time.
“Get your shoes on, Ollie—time to go,” I call to where he’s wrestling around in the rink with Lo’s brood.
Lo and Ellie took a break from popping out kids like there’s going to be a shortage after number four.
Their third, Izzy, wags a finger at Oliver when he doesn’t get up fast enough.
“Are you deaf, Ollie? Your dad said it’s time to go. Move it.”
At six years old, Izzy is a fucking hilarious combination of Ellie’s tiny stature and Logan’s personality. She’s the only girl in the bunch and she runs the rest of them ragged.
My boy rolls his round eyes to the ceiling—but then he gets his shoes on and scurries over to me. I lift him onto my shoulders and carry him there as we head to the hospital to pick up his mum. He pelts me with adorable questions the whole way.
Why are the walls of the Tube station blue?
Why does the hospital have so many windows?
When will I be big like you?
And why and when and how and why again. He keeps me on my toes, and there’s not a single thing about it that isn’t amazing.
We come out of the lift on the surgical floor and Abby’s there at the nurse’s desk, her delicate brows drawn together and her pouty lower lip trapped between her teeth in concentration over a chart. She’s wearing dark green scrubs that she still manages to make gorgeous, and her hair is up in a copper bun, with a few wispy tendrils escaping to frame her lovely face.
And the sight of her and all that she is to me kicks me right in the gut—every time.
When she senses us, she looks up—smiling stunningly—which sends a surge of hunger straight to my cock.
That happens every time too.
“Hello, my loves,” she says—pressing her mouth softly against mine, then peppering Ollie’s little outstretched hands in devoted kisses. She takes him from my shoulders and holds him close, and he rests his face against her neck with a happy exhale.
“How did it go?” I ask her.
“Splendid—without a hitch.”
I rub her shoulders, because she did a heart transplant today and I know her neck is probably stiff.
“Tired?”
“Not so much.”
Abby’s been hinting she’d like to start trying for a little brother or sister for Oliver, and the hot little grin she sends my way tells me I’ll most definitely be getting lucky tonight. Twice—at least.
When Ollie was on the way, we moved out of Abby’s flat into a rowhouse with more space and a perfect pretty garden. For a long time, I didn’t think a man like me would get off on domestic activities like making dinner and bath times and bedtime stories.
But life is funny like that—how it spins you around and shakes you out into something more beautiful than you ever could’ve imagined.
The thirst for a challenge—for an adrenaline rush—that used to drive me is now quenched by other, infinitely better quests.
Like the joy that punched through me when I slipped a band of gold on Abby’s finger and she whispered “I do” beneath a banner of white roses in front of our friends and families.
Like the thrill of seeing her complete the gauntlet of her last year of residency—watching that dream come true for her.
Like the excitement that spiked in my veins—that felt like I was having a bloody heart attack—when Abby was two days past her due date and her green eyes looked up into mine and she told me it was time to head to the hospital.
And like the indescribable exhilaration that pounded in my chest the very first time I held my son.
When Ollie is down for the night, Abby takes a bath and then slips between the sheets into my arms—bare and beautiful and every inch of her mine.
The only chasing I’m interested in these days is after our rowdy boy—or after my wife when she’s feeling especially frisky.
And it’s all so damn good.
Because I already caught the most precious prize in the world—Abby’s tender heart, her rapturous body, her sweet soul, her love.
And along the way of that mad merry chase . . . she caught mine right back.
The End
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, Emma Chase, writes contemporary romance filled with heat, heart and laugh-out-loud humor. Her stories are known for their clever banter, sexy, swoon-worthy moments, and hilariously authentic male POV’s.
Emma lives in New Jersey with her amazing husband, two awesome children, and two adorable but badly behaved dogs. She has a long-standing love/hate relationship with caffeine.
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ALSO BY EMMA CHASE
GETTING SOME SERIES
Getting Schooled
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THE ROYALLY SERIES
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Royally Endowed
Royally Raised
Royally Yours
The Royally Series Collection
THE LEGAL BRIEFS SERIES
Overruled
Sustained
Appealed
Sidebarred
THE TANGLED SERIES
Tangled
Twisted
Tamed
Tied
Holy Frigging Matrimony
It’s a Wonderful Tangled Christmas Carol
Keep reading for a free sample of
Royally Endowed
PROLOGUE
Logan
SOME MEN THINK WITH THEIR cocks.
You know the type. Quick smooth-talkers, shifty eyes always scanning for a nice pair of legs, a set of full tits, or a tight arse they can pant after.
Other blokes think too much with their brains. You know that type too. Annoyingly careful, slow-moving, constantly parsing their words like they already know whatever they’re saying is going to come back and take a bite out of them.
I’m not either of those.
I always go with my gut. When it clenches with a warning, I act—no hesitation. When it tugs and nudges, I pause and reevaluate. When it twists and writhes, I know, guaranteed, I’ve cocked up big-time.
My gut is my best friend, my conscience, my most lethal asset.
And it has never let me down.
It’s my gut that drags me to her door. That roots me in place as I knock. That gives me the wo
rds—pleading, unfamiliar remorseful words—I’ll gladly say to make this right.
To get her back.
Because while my gut is brilliant, sometimes I can be a real fucking idiot.
Yesterday was one of those times.
“Ellie. It’s me—open up, we need to talk.”
I sense movement on the other side of the solid oak door—not in sounds or shifting shadows beneath it, but more of an awareness. I can feel her in there. Nearby and listening.
“Go away, Logan.”
Her voice is tight, higher-pitched than usual. Upset.
“Ellie, please. I was a twat, I know . . .” I’m not keen on begging from the hallway, but if that’s what it takes . . . “I’m sorry. Let me in.”
Ellie is difficult to anger, quick to forgive; she just doesn’t have it in her to hold a grudge. So her next words fall like an axe—cutting my legs right off from under me.
“No, you were right. The princess’s sister and the East Amboy bodyguard don’t make sense—we’ll never last.”
Did I actually say that to her? What the fuck is wrong with me? What I feel for her is the one thing in my life that makes sense. That matters.
But I never told her that.
Instead . . . instead, I said all the wrong things.
I brace my palm against the smooth wood, leaning forward, wanting to be as near to her as possible. “Elle . . .”
“I’ve changed my mind, Logan.”
If a corpse could speak, it would sound exactly like my Ellie does now. Flat, lifeless.
“I want the fairy tale. I want what Olivia has . . . castles and carriages . . . and you’ll never be able to give me that. I would just be settling for you. You’ll never be able to make me happy.”
She doesn’t mean that. They’re my words—the insecurities I put on her—that she’s hurling back in my face.
But God, it fucking hurts to hear. Physically hurts—stabbing deep into the pit of my stomach, crushing my chest, grinding my bones. I meant it when I said I would die for her . . . and right now, it feels like I am.
I grab the doorknob to walk inside, to see her face. To see that she doesn’t mean it.
“Ellie—”
“Don’t come in!” she screeches like I’ve never heard her before. “I don’t want to see you! Go away, Logan. We’re done—just go!”
I breathe hard—that’s what you do when pain wrecks you, breathe through it. Then I swallow bile, straighten up, turn around and walk down the hall. Away from her. Just like she wants, like she asked. Like she screamed.
My brain tells me to move faster—get the hell out of there, cut my losses and lick my wounds. And my heart—Christ—that poor bastard’s too battered and bloody to express anything at all.
But then, just over halfway down the hall, my steps slow until I stop completely.
Because my gut . . . it strains through the hurt. Rebels. It shouts that this isn’t right. This isn’t her. Something’s off.
And even more than that . . . something is very, very wrong.
I glance up and down the quiet hall—not a guard or a maid in sight. I look back at the door. Closed and silent and still.
Then I turn and march straight back to it. I don’t knock, or wait, or ask for permission. In one move, I turn the knob and step inside.
What I see there stops me cold.
Because whatever I was expecting, it sure as fuck wasn’t this.
Not at all . . .
CHAPTER 1
Logan
Five years earlier
“YOU WANTED TO SEE ME, Prince Nicholas?”
Here’s a confession: when the powers that be first offered me a position on the royal security team, I wasn’t interested. The idea of following around some self-important aristocrats who were in love with the sound of their own voices—and the smell of their own arses—didn’t appeal to me. The way I saw it, guards were only a step above servant-boys—and I’m no one’s servant.
I wanted action. A blaze of glory. Purpose. I wanted to be a part of something that was bigger than myself. Something noble and lasting.
“Yes, Logan—have a seat.”
I’d distinguished myself in the military pretty quickly. And Winston—the head of Palace Security—had taken notice. They were looking for very particular qualities in Prince Nicholas’s personal team, he’d said. Young lads who were quick on their feet, loyal and ferocious when required. The type who’d be just fine bringing a knife to a gunfight—’cause he wouldn’t be needing a fucking knife or gun to win.
After only a few weeks, I had a different take on the position. It came to feel like a calling, a duty. Important men make things happen, get things done—they have the power to make life easier for the not-so-important people.
I protect them, so they can do that.
And the young prince sitting across from me, behind the desk in the library of this luxurious penthouse suite—he’s an important man.
“How old are you, Logan?”
“My file says I’m twenty-five.”
If Saint Peter was a fisher of men, I’m a reader of them. It’s a skill that’s essential to this occupation—possessing a gut feeling for what someone else’s intentions are. The ability to read a man’s eyes, the shifting of his feet—to know what he’s capable of and just what kind of man he is.
Nicholas Pembrook is a good man. To his core.
And that’s a rare thing.
More often than not, important men are prime scumbags.
His mouth twitches. “I know what your file says. That’s not what I asked.” He’s also not a fool—and he’s been lied to enough in his life that he’s got an ear for things that don’t ring true.
“How old are you really?”
I look him in the eye, wondering where he’s going with this.
“Twenty-two.”
He nods slowly, massaging his thumb into the palm of his other hand, thinking. “So you signed up for the military at . . . fifteen? Lied about your age? That’s young.”
I shrug. “They weren’t real discerning at the recruitment office. I was tall, solid and good with my fists.”
“You were still a child.”
“I was never a child, Your Highness. Any more than you were.”
Childhood is when you’re supposed to muck up, figure out who you are, what you want to be. You’re given permission to be a jackarse. I didn’t have that privilege; neither did Nicholas. Our paths were set before we were born. Opposite paths, sure—but whether you grow up in a shack or a palace, the expectations and demands of those around you tend to snuff out innocence pretty damn fast.
“Why’d you leave home so young?”
Now it’s my turn to smirk. Because I’m not a fool either. “You know why. That’s in the file too.”
I’m good at identifying scumbags because I come from a long line of them. Criminals—not especially successful ones. Petty, scrounging, desperate enough to be dangerous—the kind who’ll smile to your face, pat you on the back, then stab you as soon as you’re not looking.
My grandfather died in prison—he was in for murder committed during an armed robbery. My dad will die there too, hopefully sooner rather than later—he’s in for manslaughter. I’ve got uncles who’ve done stints for a whole range of criminal activities, cousins who’ve been killed in broad daylight in the middle of the street and aunts who’ve pimped out their daughters without a second thought.
By the time I was fifteen I knew if I stayed in that shit-hole, I’d start to stink. And then I’d have only two options: prison or the cemetery.
Neither one of those worked for me.
“What’s this really about? All the questions?”
It’s always better to cut to the chase, deep and quick.
His gray-green eyes focus on me, his face probing, his shoulders slightly hunched, like an elephant’s sitting on them.
“Now that I have Henry in hand, the Queen wants us back in Wessco, in two days. You know thi
s.”
I nod.
“I want to bring Olivia home with me, for the summer.”
For a time, I was on the fence about the pretty New York baker. She put ideas in Nicholas’s head, made him reckless. But she’s a good lass—hardworking, honest—and she cares about him. Not about his title or his bank account. She couldn’t give a shit about those and probably would prefer him without them. She makes him happy.
And in the two-odd years I’ve worked with the Crown Prince, truly happy is something I don’t think I’ve ever seen him be.
“Is that wise?” I ask.
Olivia Hammond is a sweet girl. And the Palace . . . has a knack for turning sweet to sour.
“No. But I want to do it anyway.”
And the look on his face—it’s raw and exposed. It’s yearning. From the outside looking in, you’d think there’s nothing a royal could want that he can’t have. Nicholas has private planes, servants, castles and more money than he can spend in a lifetime—but I can’t think of a single instance when he did what he wanted, just for the hell of it. Or when he let himself do something he knew he shouldn’t.
I admire him, but I don’t envy him.
“Olivia wants to come, but she’s worried about leaving her sister alone for the summer. Ellie’s young, still in school and . . . naïve.”
She’s got a wild streak in her too. As bright as the pink in her blond hair, which has been joined by blue, then green, during the two months we’ve been in New York.
“I could see her attracting trouble,” I comment.
“Exactly. Also, Ellie will have to run the coffee shop on her own, with just Marty for help. Olivia’s father is—”
“He’s a drunk.”
I’m good at spotting them too—can smell them from a mile away.
“Yes.” Nicholas sighs. “Look, Logan, you’ve been around long enough to know that I don’t trust easily, or often. But I trust you.” He pushes a hand through his black hair and meets my eyes. “Which is why I’m asking you. Will you stay in New York? Will you help Ellie, watch over her . . . make sure she’s safe?”
