Royal Rogue: A Sexy Royal Romance (Flings With Kings Book 3)

by Jessica Peterson

  He looked at me pointedly. “Of course it’s a big fucking deal. And as much as I’d like to have you drawn and quartered like a long haired Mel Gibson for lying to my sister and breaking her heart, we know you’re not responsible for the theft. We saw the tape.”

  I swallowed. Hard.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Jack rubbed his hands together, looking back down. A long beat of silence stretched between us.

  He looked up. “I think you do.”

  I met Jack’s gaze. Shook my head. You’ll get no more from me.

  I’d still conned Jane. I’d lied to her. Whether or not I was the one who tried to steal the painting didn’t change that.

  Jack put his hands on his knees and let out a sigh, looking away.

  “My sister—she’s been through a lot. Jane’s strong, and she’s bloody smart, too. But during her divorce, it was like a light went out, you know? She was getting that light back on her own, bit by bit. When I saw her with you, though—that fucking light was on, and it was brighter than I’d ever seen it. She hasn’t smiled like that in years, Charlie. Fucking years. It’s like she was more herself—more at home in her skin—than she’d ever been before.” He turned his head to look at me. “She knows the difference between the truth and a lie. And a lie doesn’t light someone up like that.”

  I didn’t even try to blink back the tears this time. My lies were so enmeshed in the truth at this point it was hard to tell which was which. Jane was in love with me. But who was I to her, really? Maybe I’d only lied outright about being a billionaire. But I’d also left out vital pieces of the truth. Could she really have fallen in love with me if she’d known that I conned people? That I took people’s money by illegal means?

  This was Princess Jane we were talking about. The woman who’d made giving back her life.

  One thing I did know. How I felt about Jane—that was truth.

  Who she was when she was with me—that was the truth, too.

  “I do love her,” I said, tears streaming into my mouth. The salt thickened my saliva. I was definitely going to be sick. “I love her for being exactly who she is. She’s excellent. She means everything to me, Jack.”

  He nodded. “I know. That’s why I want her to be loved like that. And if you weren’t the one who stole the painting—well. Then you should apologize to her, tell her the real story, and let her decide whether to forgive you or not. I want to see her smile like that again, Charlie. If you can make that happen, you should.”

  Jack looked at me for another beat. Then he pressed into his knees and stood up, feet shuffling on the ground.

  “An officer will be in shortly to have you sign some paperwork, yeah?” he said.

  I nodded. “I’ll take care of the community service. And anything else Jane wants me to do.”

  Jack scoffed. “Right now, I think she wants you to die.”

  “She just needs to say the word,” I replied, offering him a tight smile.

  He looked at me one last time, eyes searching my face. Taking my measure. Trying to put the pieces of this fucked up puzzle together.

  Looking up at him, the fluorescent lights made my eyes burn even worse. I liked the pain. Wanted more of it. I liked to imagine the more I felt, the less Jane did.

  He turned for the door.

  “Jack?” I said.

  Looking over his shoulder, he said, “Yeah?”

  “If I give you something—a letter, maybe, like a note—would you pass it on to Jane for me? She can choose to read it or not. But you’re right. I owe her an explanation. I want her to know—” I sniffed. “I want her to know the truth.”

  Jack looked at me for a beat. At last he nodded, clearly reluctant.

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Thanks.”

  He nodded again. Hesitated, like he wanted to say something.

  “Good luck, Charlie,” he said.

  Then he left. The silence in the room was deafening.

  A deep, heavy loneliness descended on me. Buried me in an avalanche of all the worst feelings.

  I was alone again.

  Only what I deserved.

  I opened the door to my apartment and closed it softly behind me. Owen was sitting on the couch, emptying a bag of potato chips into his mouth. I let out a mirthless scoff. He was stress eating—an old habit that, thanks to his twenty-five-year-old-boy metabolism, didn’t seem to affect him all that much. Mom had loved the fact that Owen had been a bottomless pit growing up. It was satisfying to cook for him, because he always asked for seconds and thirds and fourths, until he’d finally just go over to the stove and finish the rest straight out of the pot.

  He jumped when he saw me, dropping the bag. Crumbs scattered everywhere.

  He was on his feet and wrapping me in a hug in one heartbeat flat.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said into my shoulder. “I’m so fucking sorry, Charlie. If I had known—”

  “Don’t,” I replied, gently pushing him away. I’d called him on my walk home and told him the whole story. “Just don’t, okay? I’m tired, and I have a lot I need to get done tonight.”

  Owen’s expression contracted. “I feel terrible.”

  “Yeah, well. I feel worse.”

  I headed for the kitchen, where I tore off a sheet of butcher paper. I grabbed the only writing utensil we had in the house—the Sharpie Owen used to mark his sandwiches. Then I turned on the light above the table and sat down.

  “Tell me what I can do,” Owen said.

  “What?” I uncapped the Sharpie.

  He pulled back, blinking. “To help you get your girl back.”

  My hands went still. I didn’t know whether I should laugh or cry or scream my fucking head off at him.

  “Owen,” I said, as calmly as I could manage. “Jane’s not coming back.”

  He took a step towards the table. “It’s my fault—”

  “It’s mine,” I said, spearing him with a glare. “And honestly, does it even matter? We’re both scumbags to do what we’ve done all these years.”

  Owen met my gaze. “That’s not fair. We don’t have a choice.”

  “Now we do.” I turned back to my paper and pen. “I can’t get my girl back. But I can change the way we do things.”

  I heard Owen swallow.

  “What are we gonna do, Charlie?”

  I shook my head. “Only thing we can do. We’ll keep giving Jimmy his monthly payments. I’ll get another job at night—maybe bartend. Something that pays cash. I don’t know. I do know the conning is done. What we do—Owen, it hurts people. And I don’t want to hurt people anymore. Even if that means being in debt to Jimmy for the rest of our lives.” I looked at him. “Even if that means losing the deli.”

  He drew a breath. He blinked, his eyes suddenly wet.

  “I’ll be sad to see it go,” he said quietly. “But you’re right. We can’t keep doing this. Mom would understand.”

  I grunted. He was right on that account.

  Picking up the pen, I held it over the paper. Where the hell did I even begin?

  I looked up when my brother slid into the chair beside mine.

  “Please,” he said. “Let me help. You’ve always bailed me out when I was in trouble. Let me return the favor for once, okay?”

  “You just want to feel better after I took the fall for you tonight, don’t you?”

  “Well. Yeah. A little bit. But my intentions here are mostly good. So.” He clapped his hands. “You’ve never played Mr. Darcy before. But that doesn’t mean we can’t put together one hell of an ‘I’m sorry Lizzie I love you’ letter.”

  It was my turn to pull back. “Since when do you know your Jane Austen?”

  “Since Keira Knightley played Lizzie Bennet.” He tapped on the paper. “Time to focus, Charlie. We gotta make this good.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Jane

  I limped from the conference room down the hallway to my office. My legs felt
like lead. So did my heart.

  Mondays were never fun. But this one was especially brutal. I had to tell everyone in the office that allergies were to blame for my red, swollen eyes; I hadn’t stopped crying since I’d last seen Charlie on Friday night.

  The wound he left still felt so, so fresh. Like it was cut open every time I took a breath, reminding me that I was alive and that I was in love with a man who’d lied to my face. Who’d tried to steal from me.

  I hated him. Fiercely.

  Almost as fiercely as I missed him. I missed the way he made me feel. I missed his laugh. Missed coming downstairs in the morning to see him smiling shyly at me from behind the sink. I’d never met anyone like Charlie. But then again, Charlie did not exist.

  At least not the Charlie I knew.

  My eyes began to well. Ducking into my office, I closed the door behind me and let out a breath. I had too much to do to keep falling apart like this. It was embarrassing. After crying my way through my divorce, I swore I’d never show up to work all weepy again. But here I was, so upset I’d had to leave a meeting early.

  Breathe. That’s all I had to do. Keep breathing. And one day the bleeding would stop.

  Objectively I knew Charlie was a con. A criminal. But I couldn’t stop thinking about how quickly he’d taken the fall for his brother. He hadn’t wavered in his defense of Owen, not even under questioning. He’d been willing to go away for a very, very long time for a crime he hadn’t committed.

  Leave it to me to fall for the con who had a heart of gold.

  But he was still a con. He’d still lied to me. I couldn’t square the thief with the loyal, kind-hearted man.

  At the end of the day, the question still remained: could I ever trust Charlie again? Could I ever be with him—which would require truly forgiving him—now that I knew the truth about who he was and what he’d done?

  I took another deep breath. Thank heaven it was past five o’clock. I’d finish the proposal we’d been working on at home. I hadn’t been able to sleep, so I might as well make the most of my insomnia.

  Heading for my desk, I drew up short when I saw an envelope on my keyboard. There was a sticky note attached to it.

  J—

  Charlie wanted me to give this to you.

  —Jack

  I puckered my brow. What the hell? Since when were Charlie and Jack in contact?

  I crumpled the sticky note in my hand, heart thumping as I looked down at the envelope. It was puffed up a little, like there was a lot of paper inside. I reached down to pick it up. My hand shook.

  Jane. My name, all caps, was written in black marker on the envelope. I heard Charlie’s voice in my head. Calling me princess. Honey.

  I opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of—well. I didn’t know what it was. It felt like the same paper Charlie had wrapped his sandwiches in. I unfolded it, revealing an uneven rectangle with curving edges. A note was written in the center, the lettering neat but the lines crooked.

  My heart clenched. I didn’t want to read it. But I couldn’t keep my eyes from moving hungrily over the words, devouring them in one gulp.

  Dear Jane,

  You’re a princess. I’m a thief. This isn’t a Disney movie. We never had a chance in hell of a happy ending. But I still wish I could have given you one.

  When we met, I had you pegged as a snob. All polo and private jets. But you turned out to be the exact opposite. I fell for you the first day we met.

  I lied to you about a lot of things. I don’t expect or deserve your forgiveness. You’re too good for me. But I was always honest about my feelings for you.

  I hope you’ll find true happiness one day. That’s the only way I’ll ever be happy—knowing you’re okay.

  I’m sorry—

  Charlie

  PS—don’t let your blackjack game go to crap. Practice it every day, all right?

  I dropped the letter into my lap. My face crumpled. I covered my eyes with my hand, digging my thumb and fingers into my temples.

  I wept. Not cried. Wept. I fell down on the edge of the desk, clutching it to keep me upright.

  This letter was so Charlie. But that was just it. I didn’t know if he was going to be this bloke going forward—the good one—or the thief. Did he mean it when he said he was done lying? Or was that just part of another con?

  My pulse skipped at a knock on my door.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m busy at the moment.”

  I began to frantically wipe my eyes anyway.

  “Jane.” Jack’s voice was muffled. “It’s me.”

  I let out a breath. “I’m still busy.”

  A pause.

  “Please let me in, Jane. I hear you crying in there.”

  I let out a sigh. My lungs and heart felt sore. Like I’d just run a marathon in subzero temperatures. “Fine.”

  The door opened with a click. Jack stepped into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. His eyes immediately went to the letter in my lap.

  I held it up. “Why’d you give this to me? I thought you hated Charlie.”

  “I thought I did, too.” He crossed his arms. “But now I’m not so sure.”

  “Oh?” I said, wiping my cheek on my shoulder. “And why is that?”

  “Because I think he is in love with you,” Jack replied. “I heard the way he talked about you. I saw the way he looks at you. Like you hung the bloody moon, love. He cares about you. Deeply. Which leads me to believe he wouldn’t break your heart. Not intentionally. I believe him when he says his conning days are over.”

  I carefully set the letter down on my desk, even as my pulse thumped. I wanted what Jack was saying to be true. But only time would tell.

  “Does it even matter? We still ended up here. Like this.” I motioned to my face.

  Jack looked at me. “He did lie to you. But consider his side of the story, Jane. The real story. Sounds like he didn’t have a choice. He started out thinking he could con you, yes. But then he met you and you changed everything. His plan. Him. Jane, maybe you changed him. People don’t change easily or that often. But you changed each other for the better, and I think…” Jack scratched the back of his head. “I think he really will go legit. He’s transforming himself because of you. For you.”

  I swallowed. Took a breath that got caught in my swollen throat. God, how I wanted to go along with everything Jack was saying. But I’d been down that road before.

  I’d fought.

  I’d believed.

  And I’d lost.

  I tapped the letter on my desk. “Sounds to me like Charlie thinks I should stay away from him.”

  Jack took a step toward me. “That just proves my point. He thinks he doesn’t deserve you.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t,” I shot back. “Charlie can start over. Wipe his slate clean. But that doesn’t change what he did to me. And he did it knowing full well what I’d been through before—knowing that Michael had broken my heart, too.”

  Jack tilted his head. Then he reached for me, pulling me into his arms.

  I started crying.

  “I just want you to be happy, love,” he murmured in my ear. “You were happy with him. I hate to see you let that slip through your fingers.”

  I nodded, even as I recognized that it was too late for me and Charlie.

  He was right to say we never had a shot at happily ever after. Our story had been over before it even began.

  I walked into my office a week later to find a sheet of paper on my keyboard. Same spot where Jack had dropped off Charlie’s letter.

  I froze, a cold wash of panic moving through me. Another letter from Charlie? But why? He wouldn’t reach out again. That wasn’t like him.

  Then again, who knew what he was really like?

  I moved closer. Saw that the page was printed out from a computer.

  So not another note from Charlie.

  My heart hiccupped. I couldn’t tell if it was relief I felt or disappointment. Probably both.

>   Still my hand trembled as I picked it up. Reading it, I furrowed my brow. It was a progress report of sorts, sent to the Queen by—wait, that was Natalie Gonzalez’s name there at the bottom. The woman who ran Camp Code, which had received a grant from The Foundation last year.

  Mr. Zeller has settled into his volunteer role quite nicely. He is an active participant, an enthusiastic camp counselor, and an excellent addition to our team. Our students adore him, as do we. Thank you for allowing him to come to us this summer!

  I read the letter again. And then again, my mind racing. I knew the Queen had mandated two hundred hours of community service for Charlie in lieu of pressing charges. But I didn’t know he’d chosen to do that community service at one of the organizations I was involved in.

  An organization he knew I was passionate about.

  I put the letter down and looked out the window, the afternoon sun making me squint. I didn’t want to read too much into what it meant. But Charlie could’ve picked any place to volunteer. A homeless shelter. A hospital. Our family was involved in all sorts of charities and causes.

  He’d picked one of mine, though. And I couldn’t help but feel…warmed by that fact. He was acquainting himself with my work. Getting involved.

  A con, working at a summer camp for girls learning how to code. It was laughable.

  It was cute.

  I sniffed, giving my head a shake, and turned back to my desk. I was being stupid. Charlie wasn’t volunteering out of the goodness of his heart. He’d planned to steal a fucking Warhol from my bedroom, and now he was serving his time.

  The fact that he was volunteering at Camp Code was just a happy accident.

  Nothing less. Nothing more.

  But the progress reports kept coming. Every Monday, I’d find one on my keyboard. Week after week of praise for Charlie.

  He’s become an indispensable part of our team.

  Charlie has already completed his two hundred hours, but he continues to volunteer. He says he enjoys the work too much to leave.