Royally Bad (Royally Wrong Book 1)

by Lee Savino

  “I’m sorry. If it wasn’t for me, they wouldn’t have dug it up.” He threads his fingers through mine. “You told me everyone has secrets. We’re probably the only two people in the world with none.”

  “I made my bed.” The words come out hollow. “I’m going to lie in it.”

  He rises and stretches out beside me, drawing me down onto the coverlet. “Lie in it then. With me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We don’t have to deal with any of this. It’s bullshit. I don’t care what these people think of me. I care what you think. And you’re right. I have enough wealth, and enough of a platform, I can do something. I can make a difference.” He kisses my hand again. “Help me.”

  “Theo.” Now my throat clogs. “I should’ve asked you from the beginning, day one that I started working for you. What do you want? I can make Theo Kensington. But who do you want to be?”

  He closes his eyes. Opens them. “I want to be happy,” he says. “I want to be free.”

  “Paint the picture for me. Let me see it.”

  “I want to get up in the morning and do something that matters. I want to skateboard on the weekends. And come home to a beautiful woman.” He caresses my cheek.

  “Beautiful, intelligent woman,” I correct.

  He rolls on top of me. “Beautiful, intelligent woman.” He punctuates each word with a kiss. “Stay with me, Vesper. I don’t know what I’m going to do about the board, and the queen, but I don’t care. I want you.”

  We get distracted for a few minutes, and then my phone rings. Out of habit I look for it. Theo, gentleman that he is, grabs it for me. “Evans,” he grimaces, and answers it. “You’re fired.” He tosses the phone on the bed and climbs back to me.

  “What was that?”

  “He sent Nessa to me. I just know it. Maybe he wanted to deflect attention from you, or, I don’t know.”

  I ponder this as he slides me back into his arms. “I think I know what to do about the board.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Resign.”

  He stares at me.

  “You don’t want to be on the board? Don’t be on the board. You still have a majority stake in the company. Your vote has weight.”

  His shoulders slump. “It’s my father’s legacy. I can’t let him down.”

  “Your father made himself. I bet he’d want you to be your own man. Besides, he didn’t build his company for you. He built it for her. To prove he was good enough for a princess.”

  After a moment, Theo nods. “You’re right.”

  “Send them a letter of resignation. Bow out quietly. Tell them you want to focus on your volunteer efforts. Which is true. If in a few years you change your mind, you can petition for reinstatement.”

  A slow smile spreads across his face. “You gonna solve all my life’s problems for me, smart girl?”

  “Probably,” I answer. “Give me a few minutes.” We laugh.

  “What about Sweden?” he asks.

  “What do you want to do about Sweden?”

  “You think I can get away with blowing off an audience with a queen?”

  “I wouldn’t advise it. But what do you want?”

  “I want to go,” he says after a pause. “It would mean a lot to my mother, if she was alive. I want to make peace with her family. For her.”

  “All righty then,” I grab my phone and sit up. “Let’s go see the queen.”

  On his private plane, Theo lounges beside me, worrying the long sleeves of his dress shirt. He rolled them up just enough to show the black edges of one tattoo. Miss Mavery would make him wear it properly, but I think he looks hot.

  He slides down in his seat, long legs splayed. I flick his thigh.

  “Ow.”

  “The queen will not appreciate your man spread.”

  “Fucking A.”

  “Or cursing. Or slouching.”

  “All right, all right,” he sits up. “Motherfucking Henry Higgins around here.”

  “I know that reference. Watch it.” I waggle a finger before opening my laptop to check on things. My stomach still clenches at the thought of checking social media, so I go straight to my email. There’s one from Mina with only the message: “007 requesting contact.”

  “Can I make a phone call?” I move to the seat with the phone near it. The stewardess helps me dial out. Mina answers on the first ring.

  “I took the liberty of contacting some of your old friends. Well, your old clients. I don’t know if you’d call them friends.”

  My stomach plummets to my knees. “You didn't.”

  “Yes, and they were very interested in keeping your reputation intact. They like to keep things private, as you know.”

  “You didn’t,” I repeat, feeling sick and giddy at the same time, like I’m flying through the air without the airplane.

  “The story is pretty much being hushed up. It’s overshadowed by all the royal prince stuff, anyway. The spotlight won’t swing again to you, and if it does, all the press will see is a beautiful woman who worked to put herself through college. The reports of you being an escort are greatly exaggerated. I mean, smart people will know, but you’re not going to have people calling you a whore on national television. It’s all wink, wink. Nod, nod. Hush, hush.”

  I clutch the edge of the seat, trying to make sense of her babbling.

  “Are you okay?” Theo mouths at me.

  I nod, not sure whether I should cry or whoop with triumph. Calling my old clients is a bold move, but Mina’s right. A lot of them are very powerful, and still care for me. I would never reach out to them, so Mina did it for me.

  I could cry, she’s such a good friend.

  I also could kill her.

  Mina is still prattling on. “I'm not sure we can destigmatize sex work with one press conference, so it’s the best I could do. Honestly, V, you should be fine. You're going to Amsterdam, right?”

  “Sweden.”

  “Close enough. I mean all those European countries are so close together. Holland to Sweden is like me driving to New Jersey—and they don’t have a problem with sex work like we do in America. In Holland, I mean, not New Jersey. Not that you were a sex worker, but we all know what escorts really do—”

  “Mina,” I cut in. “Thank you. What you did was genius. Just, please, stop trying to make me feel better.”

  Mina blows into the phone as she sighs in relief. “Thank, fuck. This empathetic shit is hard.”

  “I really appreciate it.”

  “Let me know what else I can do. I’m on standby, ready to destroy your enemies.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Well, if it is, I’ll be all over it. I'm here for ya.” We say goodbye and she hangs up.

  I set the phone down, my hand trembling a little.

  “Vesper?” Theo watches me, concerned.

  “It’s handled,” I whisper, and clear my throat. “My past. My reputation. We’ve done as much damage control as we can do. It’s handled.”

  “Do I want to know how?”

  “No.” I press my fingers to my lips, wishing I could hold everything in. “But I’ll tell you if you want.”

  He slides from his seat and comes to sit beside me. “It doesn’t matter.” He takes my hand and kisses it. He’s been doing that a lot.

  Maybe a playboy can turn into Prince Charming.

  Theo keeps a hand on my back as we walk into the Stockholm palace. The massive building is the official royal residence.

  “There are three floors and fourteen thousand and thirty rooms,” our guide intones. “Done in a Baroque style.”

  As we walk through the gilded rooms, I catch a glimpse of a nymph statue, cavorting under the grim stare of some important Swedish dude’s portrait. Looks familiar.

  “This place is gorgeous,” I whisper. “I can’t imagine ever wanting to leave.”

  “Stockholm syndrome,” he says with a completely straight face.

  I’d elbow h
im in the ribs, but I don’t want to get beheaded for assaulting a prince. Theo and I spent all night researching as much as we can about royal protocol. We only got through several centuries worth, but I’m confident we can get through this royal audience without a major gaffe, like starting a war.

  I hope.

  The guide leaves us in a room with vaulted ceilings and polished parquet floors.

  “Nervous?” I whisper.

  He answers with a huff that could be ‘yes’ or ‘no’.

  “You’ll be fine. You look so handsome.” And he does.

  The doors open. We both turn as an entourage enters, led by a steely-haired woman with dark eyes.

  “Grandmother,” he bows.

  “Theodore,” she says in perfect English, with a slight British accent, and offers her cheek. He kisses it lightly. There’s no hug or warm greetings, but it’s okay. It’s a start.

  Theo steps aside and draws me forward. “Allow me to present my media specialist and the smartest woman I know. Vesper Smith, my girlfriend.”

  The queen raises an eyebrow, looking like her grandson, except for a poker face that would make Miss Mavery proud.

  “How do you do,” I curtsey to the queen.

  Her eyes narrow.

  This is it. The next words out of her mouth will either accept me or make it clear I’m not welcome.

  Theo’s hand tightens around mine. I’m not going to let you go, he told me. Nothing matters, as long as we’re together.

  “So this is the woman who brought my grandson back to me.”

  “Yes, grandmother. I wouldn’t be here without Vesper. She convinced me we should meet and have a relationship. I’d like to try.”

  “It has been too long. Far too long, and entirely my fault. When your mother left, I listened to my advisors. They told me to cut her off, to retain the respect of the realm. I did so, and it was a balm for my hurt pride.” Her voice drops. “What I wouldn’t give to go back and do it differently.”

  “Grandmother,” Theo says in a gentle tone he’d started to use more and more.

  “There’s nothing for it. We must make amends while we can. Life is very short. You look so much like your mother.” Theo takes the queen’s hand and squeezes it. Are there tears glittering in the monarch’s eyes?

  The queen clears her throat, becoming imposingly regal once more, but Theo keeps his tender expression.

  “As for swaying public opinion, maybe your girlfriend will have some ideas about that.”

  “I’m sure she does,” Theo says. “She’s brilliant.”

  Queen and prince turn to me, with matching smiles.

  Ms. Mavery, if you could see me now.

  Epilogue

  Two years later…

  “We’re going to be late,” I say, breathless.

  “I don’t care. I never did stand on ceremony.” Theo grips my hand tighter.

  We rush past the paintings of solemn Swedish kings. After two years of regular visits to the palace, I can name almost all of them now.

  “In here.” Theo pulls me into an alcove. Gold leaf glitters in the wallpaper, but it’s pretty modestly decorated overall. At least there aren’t nymphs romping. Not that there need be. Theo has made it his life’s mission to chase me down each and every hall after hours and have his way with me. I still get a thrill whenever I see an original Klimt hanging in the Gold room. Theo did things to me under the famous painting that would make a porn star blush.

  My dress twitches up. I whirl and smack his hand. “Not now. There are people around. Tourists!”

  “Not today. They cleared the place out for the wedding. I’ve always wanted to do you here.”

  He kisses me, and I forget why I was arguing. While he distracts me with lips and tongue, he backs me against a divan.

  “Right here,” he growls, ripping off his tie. He turns me around and ties my hands behind my back. Heat bursts between my legs.

  “Bend over.” He tips me forward over the couch arm and tosses up the skirts of my dress.

  “Fuck, is this for me?” He plays with the straps of my garter belt.

  “No, it’s for Anderson Cooper.”

  SMACK! His hand lands on my ass.

  “Bad, bad girl. Pandering to the press again.”

  “You know it.” I wriggle my bottom at him.

  He teases me with the tip of his cock until I’m begging for it.

  “You want this?”

  “Mmm, yes.”

  “You sure? You gonna be a bad girl?”

  “I’m your bad girl. But if you don’t fuck me soon, we really are going to be late.”

  He spanks me a few more times, then thrusts inside.

  Afterwards, I stand in front of a giant, gold framed mirror and fuss with my hair. With my golden braid and blue dress, I look like an ice princess.

  We asked for a small wedding. Small turns out to be four hundred people, with another few thousand in attendance in the streets, waiting to see us. I scandalized everyone when I refused to wear white, but the queen backed down her disapproval when Theo threatened to show up shirtless.

  We’re not a typical royal couple, and I like it that way.

  Theo stands beside me, straightening his tie. “I checked the news before I came,” he says. “You’re more popular than I am.”

  “Don’t you forget it.” I swat his arm.

  “Careful, Mrs. Kensington,” he says.

  “You can’t call me that,” I protest. “Not yet. First you have to marry me.”

  “I’ll call you whatever I want,” he grips my bottom, hard and kisses me.

  “You’re looking quite handsome today, Prince Theo.”

  “And you look like a goddess.”

  “Maybe you need glasses.”

  “Maybe,” he grins. We both know his corrective eye surgery went off without a hitch a year ago. “But I don’t need to see to know how beautiful you are.”

  I flush.

  He offers his arm. “Come on. Let’s make you a princess.”

  The End

  Want more smexy royal rom coms by Lee Savino? Read on for an excerpt from Royally Fake Fiancé

  Royally Fake Fiancé - Chapter 1

  “Oh yeah, baby. That’s the spot. That’s the spot.”

  Not again. I swivel in my chair and give the kitchen wall the evil eye.

  “Give it to me, big boy. Oh yeah. Oh yeah.”

  The espresso maker gurgles and shoots a stream of frothed milk into my mug. I slide off the chair and walk around the bar to collect it.

  The shrieking continues a few rooms over, faint but clear. “Oh yeah. Oh yeah. Oh yeah.”

  I detour and slam my hand against a patch of bare wall between two oil paintings of lemons. “Will you stop?”

  Silence. I check the paintings to make sure my thumping on the wall didn’t disturb them, and head back to the new love of my life, the object of my desire, the fresh steaming liquid from heaven that is my morning latte.

  I’m about to take a sip when the voice calls again, “Give it to me, big boy.”

  “Enough!” I set down my cup with all the reverence the Archbishop of Canterbury lowering a crown. Then I stride out of the palatial kitchen, my bathrobe billowing out behind me like a cape. “I don’t think so. Not again.”

  I round the corner and almost take out a giant vase. With a growl, I gather my robe close and ease sideways between two Louis XVI armchairs. I keep forgetting this place is a museum. It’s a miracle I haven’t taken out a Ming vase by now.

  “Give it to me. Give it to me. Oh yeah. Oh yeah!”

  “Oh, no,” I clear the parlor and speed through the outer hall, past more oil paintings full of naked folk frolicking through epic landscapes, made all the more creepy with the porn-like commentary.

  “Oh yeah! That’s the spot!”

  The closer I get to the voice, the smaller and crackly it sounds, like it’s coming from a hidden radio. I open a door and pause as humidity blasts me in the face. Sunlight shines
full bore from a skylight onto a thick canopy of leaves. The room before me is a jungle. A literal jungle. Or as close to one as a sunroom full of jungle plants can be.

  The voice falters a moment, then continues full force: “That’s the spot! Oh yeah!”

  “Oh no,” I shout. “I’ve waited. I’ve been patient. You have been at it... All. Night. Long!” I step over the threshold to the grand sunroom and bat giant banana leaves out of my way. My robe brushes giant ferns that have been growing since the Jurassic era. I bushwhack gently towards the hot ‘n heavy commentary, wishing I brought a machete.

  Not for the plants. For the loud-mouthed “lover” who has crowed for the last time.

  “Big boy! Big boy!” The sound of wings fluttering makes me change course. I duck under a flowering branch and head to the front of the room where giant windows overlook a perfectly manicured garden.

  A parrot, grey except for white patches around its eyes and a splash of red on its tail sits on his perch in a patch of light, bobbing its head in time to its cries. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  I clear my throat.

  The sound cuts off abruptly. The bird twitches, cocking his head at me.

  I fold my arms across my chest. “Are you finished?”

  “Big boy?” the bird gurgles.

  “No.” I raise a finger. “I’ve had enough. I was okay with this... the first time. Even the second and third time. I thought it was funny. Now, you know what I’m thinking? No? I’ll tell you.” I level my finger at the bird. “Parrot à la King!”

  I stalk forward, my finger still out. The bird dances from foot to foot as I approach, nervously fluffing its feathers.

  “Roasted Parrot,” I enunciate clearly. “Kung pao parrot. Parrot cacciatore.”

  The parrot ducks his head as if in contrition. I’m not fooled. There is nothing but mischief in its beady little eye.

  Its curved beak seems to grin as it asks again, “Big boy?”