by Nicole Snow
Nobody ever said being Prince was easy.
I'm eating a late brunch the next day, wondering why I can't stop thinking about Serena's idiotic suggestion.
Maybe it's because the damned thing is...well, not so stupid after all.
Anything involving her would be a disaster, of course. But stepping out, finding a girl I can use to play pretend, just to get the media jackals and grandmom off my ass...no, that's not insane.
I've always been a fan of making my problems disappear overnight. When I see an opportunity, I don't let go.
Right now, a big, fat one is staring me right in the face. I can practically see it now.
Just a few minutes of playing pretty with my fake love a week. Maybe a dinner or two, just to keep up appearances, and keep her on good terms.
That's all I want. All I need to pull this off before I go back to drinking, whoring, doing whatever I damned well please.
My hero shine didn't last long when I left the service and Afghanistan, no matter what the nicer boys in the press try to say. Not like it suited me anyway.
I'd rather do scandal than play hero a thousand times over. Hero is a role I don't understand, and never will. It's dangerously detached from reality.
No, fuck hero. Afghanistan taught me life is short, more than anything else, and I'd better make the most of every day in case there's not another.
Hero's something I'll never understand. A suit that won't ever fit.
That's for grandmom, with her pomp, her tradition, her endless charity balls. Me, I know exactly what I am.
I just need to dial it back enough to prevent the Bearington crown from falling into the streets instead of my hands once grandmom's done.
I need a girl to play the part, to give me a new image. An actress, that's what I'm after.
Preferably, a girl who doesn't know a thing about who I really am, and who won't think twice about upsetting the whole arrangement because she starts to get attached.
Smiling, I sip my coffee, tasting all the sweet notes of the Hawaiian plantation it's imported from, just for me. Truthfully, everything seems bright and decadent and beautiful today.
It's glorious, because I woke up with my head straight, instead of a hangover. And it's only going to get better, damn it, because I have a plan.
I'm finishing up my goose eggs and coffee when Victor knocks. “You know it's open!”
He comes in, a somber look on his face, very much back to being my personal servant instead of my chaperon for Her Majesty.
“Your Highness, I heard about Miss Hastings and her chat last night with you in the club. I'm deeply sorry, particularly because I'm the one who's warned her about inappropriate discussions before. If you'd like me to discharge her from her position immediately, I certainly would have no qualms.“
“No. It's my fault for bringing her to bed. She's crushing like a stupid schoolgirl,” I tell him, owning up to it, as much as the bitch annoys me. “She's doing her job, giving me ideas to iron out my image. As long as she's doing that, she ought to keep what she's earned. She'll get over the rest of it, I'm sure, she's a professional at heart. Don't let her go, Vic. Just...keep her the hell away from me for awhile. Please.”
“Understood, sire,” he says, the look on his face telling me that's going to be easier said than done. “Is there a reason you've called me up here?”
“Yeah. I've been thinking about the Warwicks, wondering how they're doing.”
Victor narrows his eyes. Probably wondering what I'm really up to.
Screw him. He doesn't need to know. Not until it becomes absolutely necessary to spell everything out. Not a day sooner, because I know he'll try to talk me out of it, if he even gets a hint of what I'm after.
“If you're certain, Your Highness, it would be my pleasure to find out and relay the message for you.”
“I'd like that. I'd also like to know exactly what's wrong with her father, and what their finances look like.”
Victor blinks. “Prince, I can find out the details of his condition without issue. The financial arrangements might be another matter. As you know, they're both foreign nationals, and the kingdom has no agreement in place with the United States to look so closely at their private details.”
“Give me a damned break.” Shaking my head, I fold my arms and glare at him. “No more games, Vic. You know as well as anybody that they've had special agents checking over the island's bank accounts forever. Trying to catch the rich assholes who tried to use our banks as a conduit to Switzerland to avoid their taxes. It was all over the news, just a year or two ago.”
“That's true, Your Highness, but I don't see how American nosiness has anything to do with –“
“No buts. I'm not asking you to comb through the personal accounts of anybody at the US embassy. I'm just asking for the financials on the Warwicks. Two journalists nobody's going to start an international incident over. Can we do that?”
I wait tensely for the answer, and it better be yes. Vic hesitates.
Finally, he bows his head slightly. “Of course, sire. Anything you wish. I'll have to file a request with the intelligence office. You know how these things go. Hopefully, they'll process it promptly, and pass along something I can give to you by late tonight.”
“Make it happen. Mark it high priority, or whatever. I want that file.” Dismissing him with a wave of the hand, I stand up and head to the shower.
This bathroom is bigger than most people's homes. I've taken a couple dozen girls underneath the mock waterfall and the marble benches. Just last week, I fucked a brunette with fake tits here, pressing her against the wall, stretching her hair so tight in my hand the water sprayed her in the face when my cock took her over the edge. She took it without complaining, all for me.
Fuck. My dick wakes at the memory, pulses next to my belly button when I lather fine soap and water across every rock hard inch of me.
They all love it, this body.
The eagle tattoo crisscrossing my chest, wings spread wide, eyes set like a bird about to tear any lesser man's eyeballs out. The mad, dark stripes going up my arms, tapered like the royal flourish.
I'm a living tapestry. Something the press has always screamed about when they've caught little flashes of my tattoos sticking out my collar, or coming out the cufflinks near my wrists.
A million men would laugh all over the continent if I came out on the front pages shirtless.
Their wives would get wet, guaranteed, imagining what this wild, royal, unforgiving body could do to them.
And their nasty little fantasies about me – every last one of them – would be right.
I've got nasty on the brain, too. I grab my cock, all ten inches, and start stroking it like a demon.
It isn't that nameless brunette I fucked last week in this shower I'm thinking about. Isn't even the supermodel from Poland I sent home with a sore pussy several weeks further back, the one who's shared beds with half the billionaires and royals left in Europe.
I'm thinking about the girl I'm going to pretend to love.
Erin, Little Miss Warwick, with her soft American accent and hips begging to be wrapped around a good man's waist. Too bad for her there's nothing good about me.
I'll fill her anyway, fuck her, take her in ways she's never seen with those sweet, innocent eyes.
I want to corrupt her. Bad.
Even more than I want to use her to get my personal bullshit off my back, once and for all.
Christ, I'm a bastard.
Doesn't stop me from leaning into the wall, grunting like a bull, when I finally bring myself off, thinking about how she'd convulse on every inch of me.
I'm straining for precious breath by the end of it. Then I finish washing up, a sour frown pulling at my lips.
“Fuck you for thinking this'll be easy,” I tell myself, staring into my own ripped reflection while I towel off.
I'm sure she'll take the offer, when I find her weakness, and throw it in her face. They always say yes
to me, every woman who isn't related by blood, or wearing a thousand year old crown on her head.
No? That's a word I can't imagine.
Erin's going to be the perfect cure for all my woes. If only I can go several months without sinking my dick into her, making things complicated.
She'll either save me from the vultures who won't stop picking at me and the entire royal line, or else.
Yeah...or else she'll ignite the biggest scandal the monarchy has ever seen.
By the time I've got the towel wrapped around my waist and I step up to the huge mirrors to comb my hair, I'm smiling.
Whatever else I am, I love a challenge. I love a high. I'm the richest, most famous adrenaline junkie in the world.
Prince Hung is officially on the prowl, and he never comes home empty handed.
This whole wicked situation promises excitement. Sexual, emotional, scandalous, glorious excitement.
And that irresistible risk is the reason she's in my sights. I'm making Erin Warwick the hottest fake Princess the world's ever seen.
3
Make Believe (Erin)
I'm downstairs in the lobby, waiting in line to check out. Dad's finally well enough to travel, and we're about to get the red eye flight home.
It's going on midnight. Honestly, I can't wait to get the hell out of here, to leave behind this miserable, evil island that's shattered both our dreams and given us nothing but tragedy.
“Checking out,” I say, stepping up to the counter.
The man behind the computer nods politely, takes my card and info, and begins typing away. Just before I think he's about to print out a receipt, he frowns, deep lines crossing his forehead.
“Miss Erin Warwick, right? Hmm. I'm terribly sorry, I can't process this request.”
I blink in surprise, wondering what kind of new complication is about to bite us in the ass. “Huh? What're you talking about?”
“There's a hold on your account, madame. VIP request, you understand, from someone in the government. I need you to step outside near the front, Miss Warwick.”
The government? I resist the urge to turn around, wondering if I'm about to be arrested and detained.
Anger takes over. My fist comes down, banging loudly on the wood. “I don't have time for this crap. My father's upstairs, very sick, and we can't be late for our flight. I have to get home. If there's some kind of hangup processing his credit card, just bill us later.”
“No, no, nothing like that,” he says, slowly looking through me like I'm a ghost. “I need you to step outside and meet with the party waiting for you. Please.”
He talks like a mouse. Practically begging me to do what he says. A chill runs up my back, and I slowly turn, sensing the five big men in their perfect suits before I even see them, standing next to the door.
“Are you done yet? You've scared the poor man enough,” a voice that shouldn't be here says.
It's a voice I recognize. Regal, cocky, and completely in love with his own power.
No way. It can't be him...can it?
Oh, but it is. Prince Silas steps out from behind the guards like he's here for a stay, and annoyed with me for holding him up.
“There's the lady I'm looking for. Hello again, Erin,” he says, that trademark smile forming dimples on his handsome face.
“Prince Silas?” Total shock rips through my core as he closes the distance between us, grabs my hand, and pulls me forward.
“My driver's waiting for us. If you'll come along kindly, there's something I need to talk to you about.”
He's pulled me through the door, and I'm halfway down the stairs when I start to completely lose it.
“No, no! I can't go now. I have a flight to catch soon. I need to get my father to the airport...”
“Nonsense. I'll make sure he's personally helped to the gate by my aides.”
“I need to be on that plane, Your Highness.” I bite my tongue when I use his title. I say it the same way I want to call him a jackass to his stupid, smug, mysterious face. “What's this all about? Have I done something wrong?”
He doesn't tell me until I'm in the car, plopped back in the wide leather seat with him. It's a big SUV, and the back feels a lot like a limo, with a cool black interior and more leg room than any vehicle should have.
“You'll be fine. My promise, love.”
Love? Is he fucking kidding me?
“I really don't think so. It's going to take at least an hour to get through security. I ought to be bringing dad down right now, heading for the gate.”
He laughs. Chuckles in a rich, deep tone like I've just told him a dirty joke. He's shaking his head when my heart beats mad, and my fingers twitch, ready to slap that wicked smile off his face.
I don't care if it'll get me detained and cause an international incident. If he doesn't stop, it'll be worth it, I swear.
“What's so damned funny?” I say, glaring at him.
“You're so procedural, aren't you? It's like you don't realize you're riding with the second most powerful person in the whole kingdom. Do you really think I can't bypass the usual red tape, love? Get you and dear old dad a private jet back to the States the instant I snap my fingers?”
He holds his hand out and the cabin echoes with a loud snap.
I can't take this anymore. I grab him with both hands, shoving his arm as hard as I can. I keep going, reaching forward, falling into his chest while I try to slap him with both my palms. The momentum from the SUV lurching around a tight turn only helps me topple into him.
I grit my teeth. Prince or not, he's being a royal asshole, and I'm nobody's doormat. Nobody's – not even to the man who has everything.
“Hey, hey! Easy, now,” he says, dangerously cool, getting a hold on me. Calmer than he should be, considering I've just assaulted his majestic, princely ass. “Don't hurt yourself, love.”
I look up, the deep blue gems in his face swallowing me up. That's when I realize he's gotten me under control with no more effort than if he'd picked up a kitten. He's overwhelmed me. Holding both my hands behind my head, sternly but gently, a skill he probably learned overseas in uniform.
“This can't be easy for you,” he whispers. “You've every right to be pissed, to lash out. I get that. I've practically kidnapped you.”
“Yeah, you have,” I say, feeling my muscles go slack. There's something vaguely gratifying about hearing him admit it. “You'd better start talking to me, Your Highness. Told you, I have a plane to catch, and I'm going to scream bloody murder if it leaves without me.”
Folding my arms, I look away from him, settling back in my seat. Everything outside is whipping by us. The SUV is flying through the capital, with men on motorcycles all around us. The royals must have a special pass to drive through the city like a bat out of hell, faster than any emergency vehicle I've ever seen.
“It won't. I'll see that it's personally grounded by my orders. I'll have the fucking captain hold the door open for you, with a pillow, a blanket, and a martini in hand. Or are you more of a wine girl?”
Slowly, I turn to him, disgust twisting my face. He's wearing that smirk again – the one that would almost be sexy if it wasn't for smugness. We must be staring at each other for about three brutal seconds before he winks.
“Hold tight, Erin. We're almost to the castle. Then I'll be more than happy to fill you in on why I'm so eager to sit down with you.”
No. I want to know now. I really do, and that's what I want to tell him, but the huge, imposing vista appearing through the window behind him puts me at a loss for words.
He wasn't joking around when he said castle. It's got to be Lucius, a medieval fort with huge gold capped spires I've only seen in the distance on the edge of the capital when the sun hits it just right.
Suddenly, they're a lot closer. And we're rolling across the literal drawbridge going over the moat, right into something from a fairy tale.
Except I'm not feeling charmed.
More like someone who's b
een taken captive, against her will, completely at the mercy of this strange, arrogant man for reasons I'm nearly afraid to find out.
The SUV jerks up a winding road past the castle's walls, and then we're next to a huge red door. It's smooth and modern, a more recent addition to the historic structure.
A man comes to Prince Asshole's side, pops the door, and he jumps out. Much to my shock, he rounds his way to my side himself, opening the door for me, reaching out with a hand.
“Come with me, love. You're the one in a hurry, aren't you?”
I jump out and brush past him, refusing his hand. He's right about the rush, but I'll be damned if I'm going to admit it.
I still can't wrap my head around this situation. And that goes double when he leads me into the castle, walking inside it like he owns the place.
Ugh. Technically, he does, and this could be his main home for all I know.
The place looks like a lodge, a luxury hotel, and a museum smashed together in one grand jumble.
Gold chandeliers, masterful paintings of the wilderness, handcrafted furniture in every corner. Classical music pipes through the hallways he leads me down, slowing when I start to lag, waiting for me with just a hint of impatience on his princely face.
We stop and wait for an elevator leading God knows where. My eyes finally aren't on him, but rather, on the huge ram's head protruding from the wall overhead, a long horned animal that's preposterously big, strong, and possibly extinct.
“My great grandfather bagged that one,” he says, catching me looking. “One of the last ones, back when the crown owned every square inch of the mountains for hunting. You know what they say about the horns on those bastards, right?”
I shake my head. The way the smirk on his face tightens up just a little more tells me I probably won't like the answer, but he's going to throw it in my face anyway.
“Ground them up into dust, and they'll make a man crazy. He'll go all night. His dick will grow another inch or two – no bullshit. He'll become the beast, focused on nothing but fighting and fucking.” He pauses, his nostrils flare, and he cocks his head. “Probably all rumors. Probably. It's hard to believe these creatures went extinct a hundred years ago if they were so good at fucking, isn't it?”
