by Katie Knight
“What? That makes no sense at all.”
“I know.” Z raked a hand through his damp hair and cracked open a sports drink. “You can’t share what I’m about to tell you with anyone. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“The current king of Prylea is dying. He’s got maybe a month, at most. A week, at least. Their law states a woman can’t rule. Princess Esme is the king’s only child. Without a son, the crown will go to the king’s nephew—who has been bragging right and left about all the shitty things he’ll do once he’s in power.”
“Bummer for the princess.” Deacon sat back, crossing his muscular arms. “Still don’t see what that’s got to do with you, bro.”
Z glanced over at the staircase leading up to the first floor then listened closely for any footsteps to signal Es might be awake. She was a notorious early riser, but considering it wasn’t even five in the morning yet, Z thought his privacy was secure.
“She asked me to get her pregnant.”
Deacon just blinked at Z a second, his face blank. “Say that again?”
“Princess Esme asked me to make a baby with her.” He had to force the words out of his constricted throat. It was wrong to have even considered such an insane idea, let alone talk about it with his SEAL buddy, yet he couldn’t seem to help himself. “If she’s pregnant with a son when the king dies, the baby will be the heir to the throne and the princess will be his regent until he’s eighteen. I said no, of course.”
“Damn straight, you did.” Deacon shook his head and mumbled a curse, looking away. “What the hell kind of assignment are you working there, bro?”
“I ask myself that question on a daily basis.” Z laughed. “Seriously, though. I can kind of see her point, ridiculous as it is.”
“Oh, man. You’ve got to tell me this now.” D sat forward, listening intently as Z explained all the politics and intrigue happening behind closed doors in the picturesque little country of Prylea. When he’d finished, D whistled and sat back again. “Wow. Talk about a soap opera. And there’s really no other way to stop this Silvester guy?”
“Other than a fake marriage and producing a real heir? Nope. Not that I can see. Her, either. And she’s spent months looking into this.” Z sighed. “The king could’ve solved it all years ago by enacting new legislation, but that possibility’s gone now. He’s too sick to even travel at this point and he doesn’t have the political backing to get it through their parliament anyway. Silvester’s smart. He’d been quietly gathering supporters since he got out of college. Not sure what he’s offered these people, but whatever it is, he’ll make good if it means he gets to ascend to the throne after the king’s death without anyone getting in his way.”
“Dude. Wow.” Deacon rubbed his jaw, then narrowed his gaze on Z. “How do you feel about this Princess Esme?”
Z shrugged. “She’s fine. Nice enough. Smart. Likes to talk too much, but other than that she’s okay.”
“Are you attracted to her?”
“Huh?” Z scrunched his nose. “No. She’s my boss. I mean, Es isn’t ugly. She’s fine. Brown hair, hazel eyes, creamy skin.”
“Okay then. Nice. And you’re on a nickname basis with her too? Cool.”
“What? No.” Z scowled. He hadn’t meant for that to slip. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter what I call her or what she looks like. There’s no way this is happening.”
“Right. Sure.” Deacon gave him one of those looks they used to exchange on the battlefield, right before they did the exact opposite of what their enemy expected. His tone said he could see straight through Z’s bullshit and Z didn’t like it one bit. “Okay. So, I guess my question is, do you agree with her? Is getting married and producing an heir the only way to keep her country safe? Hate to say it, bro, but this does kind of pose an international threat, you know. Prylea’s a huge supporter of the US military and we’ve got that big base there. It’s really the only place in the region where we can stage missions for the Middle East without threat of attack or spies. Maybe you knocking her up could prevent an international incident.”
“That’s it. I’m ending this call now.” Z reached for the laptop to close the screen, laughing as Deacon leaned down to stop him. “You going to stop being a smartass?”
“Never.” D flashed him a broad grin, all white teeth and snark. “But you love me anyway. Seriously though, dude. Don’t rush to judgment on this. Think it through. Have you ever thought of having a family of your own someday?”
“No.” Firm answer. Blood family only left you alone and broke your heart. Better to make your own family from trusted friends, at least in his opinion. “No kids.”
Deacon scoffed. “C’mon, man. Kids are a blessing. Got two myself. Don’t knock it til you try it. And friends are great, but family always comes first.”
“Not for me.” Hearing Deacon go on about his beautiful wife and daughters only reinforced his own beliefs that having a family of his own was not for him. “Not now. Not ever.”
“Well, that’s even better then, according to your logic.”
“Huh?”
“Look, man.” Deacon sat forward again. “You said you like this Princess Esme, right? She’s smart, talks a lot—which is good because you hardly say a word in social situations.” Z flipped him off. D just grinned and continued. “And she’s not ugly, as you so eloquently put it. Do you think she’ll make a good queen mother?”
From what time he’d spent around Esme, she seemed kind and good and nice and patient, all qualities he associated with his own mother and she’d been excellent. He resisted the urge to rub the ache in his chest. “Yeah. She’ll be a great queen and mother.”
“There you go then.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“If you’re so sure you don’t want a child, then this is your perfect set-up. You marry into royalty, sire a kid, then walk away.”
“Whoa. Wait a minute. That sounds so cold and calculated and—”
“Logical?”
Damn. Deacon had him there. Before he’d called to Facetime his friend, Z had turned on the all-night news network and had caught the tail end of an interview with Silvester. The king wasn’t even dead and buried yet and that bastard was already running his mouth on TV about his plans for when he took over rule of Prylea. He was going to close the boarders, isolate the country just when it was starting to make its mark on the global stage, and remove the US base from its lands. Yeah. All of those things were awful ideas. Much as he hated to admit it, perhaps Deacon had a point about the whole international incident aspect. Throughout history, marriage contracts had been made to secure countries. Why not now? It would keep Es on the throne and would ensure the important military base would stay open. Looking at it that way, giving Esme what she wanted would make him a freaking patriot. A national hero.
“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you, dude?” Deacon said, giving him a knowing smile. “You are, I can tell. Just be sure to let me know ahead of time what the gender is so I can send a baby shower gift, okay?”
This time Z did close the laptop on his friend after saying goodbye and promising to call again the next morning for another workout. As he made his way upstairs, Z was deep in thought. Could he really do this? Marry Es and have a kid with her, putting aside his past and the future he’d planned, to save her throne and her country? It was a lot to ask.
Then again, so was taking the job in Prylea in the first place and things had turned out all right there. As he passed Esme’s door on his way to his own quarters on the third floor, Z stopped and stared. He wasn’t ready to make a decision just yet, but he was further along than he’d been earlier.
Chapter Six
Two days later, Esme sat by her father’s bedside again in Georgetown Hospital, knitting up a storm. Usually, her hobbies helped calm her, but today she doubted there was an afghan big enough to quell the tsunami of tension inside her.
Her father’s worsening condition was foremost on her m
ind. He’d seemed to weather the trip to the States well enough, napping beneath his blankets or perusing his favorite financial newspapers while sipping sherry on their private jet. Yes, he’d looked more pale and drawn than usual, but considering the disease he’d battled so bravely for the last few years, she’d taken courage from the fact he could still laugh and joke with her.
Now, though, he’d been in and out of consciousness since his arrival in the ICU. In order to provide more security, the hospital had moved her father into a private room earlier that morning. The Prylean security team had cordoned off nearly the entire floor, allowing only the medical staff near the king.
As she sat in the quiet room with only the hum, whirr, and hiss of the monitors and machines attached to her father to keep her company, she felt more isolated that she had in her entire life. Which was saying something, considering she lived in a virtual royal bubble as it was.
She sighed and finished her overhand seam, then sat back and stared out the glass wall beside her to the hallway beyond. In the distance, she caught sight of Z speaking with one of his men. They’d had little to no contact these past forty-eight hours, and she couldn’t say she blamed him for wanting to avoid her. God, what an idiot she’d been, blurting out her offer like that to him. But hindsight was twenty-twenty, and it was too late to change things now.
Looking back, if she’d not rushed into things that night in the shadows and fumbled her delivery, she might have stood a better shot with him. He would have been perfect, too. He met all of her requirements and was one of the few people she trusted these days. Going through the list from the state dinner had certainly been an exercise in futility. Not one single acceptable candidate in the bunch. Most were too old or too sordid or just too… blech. At least compared to Zachary Raybourn. And yes, she knew that holding most ordinary men up to the lofty standards of a handsome, young, robust ex-Navy SEAL was ridiculous, but still.
If Esme was truthful with herself—and she always tried to be, no matter how difficult—then she had to admit that she’d never seriously looked for anyone else to fill the job except Z.
Esme groaned and rubbed her tired eyes. Ugh. In her haste to save her future and the turmoil of her emotions over the looming demise of her father, she’d forgotten the number one rule of any successful negotiation—What’s In It For Me. A baby would certainly solve all of her problems, but to a man like Z, it would only be a burden, a millstone around his neck. She should have emphasized the fact that he would only need to be present for the first year, that afterward she’d raise the baby herself. It would be her fighting to have the laws of her country amended so that women could rule equally alongside men, her who would change the diapers and handle the late-night feedings, her who would deal with all the mundane and miraculous moments that went into raising a child successfully. All he needed to provide would be his sperm and one year of his life. That was it.
She exhaled slowly and picked up her needles again, the steady clack-clack oddly comforting. She’d been so sure of her powers of persuasion that she’d even gone so far as to have her most trusted advisors back home draw up contracts and all the necessary paperwork for whoever became her chosen candidate. Good thing she hadn’t had them put Zachary’s name on them, which had been her inclination at the time. Instead, there were blanks where the name of her baby daddy would go. Her shoulders slumped at the reality that she might never be able to fill those empty slots now.
A figure passed by the glass doors and Esme glanced up to find Z outside, now speaking with her father’s doctor. God, he was so gorgeous, even in these dreary conditions. Where the fluorescent lights above normally washed out even the best of complexions and cast everything in a yellowish glow, he only seemed tanner, healthier, sexier.
Esme shook off those thoughts quick. If—and that was a huge IF—she somehow could still convince Z to get onboard with her plan, their tryst would be for the sole purpose of procreation, no emotions involved. This was a strategic move, a necessary involvement, not a grand romance. Theirs would be a private affair, filled with nondisclosure forms and prenuptial agreements. Two people coming together to achieve their goals, nothing more, nothing less.
No matter how her stupid pulse quickened at the thought of sleeping with Z.
From the graceful way he moved, to his easy confidence, she could tell he’d be an excellent lover. He was always so kind and attentive and conscientious, all traits that would translate well in the sack. Not that Esme had that much experience or any concrete evidence that Zachary Raybourn was a sex god. Nothing except her feminine instincts.
And those instincts said he’d be very good indeed.
Now, if she could just somehow convince him to say yes, she’d be all set and could move on to the next phase of her plans—conception.
Z glanced into the room, a mix of wariness and concern in his blue eyes. He finished speaking to the doctor, then poked his head through the doorway and gave her a tentative smile. “Doing okay?”
She nodded, swallowing hard around the sudden constriction in her throat—part sadness, part apprehension. “I could use a bit of a break, actually. Would you walk with me down to get some tea?”
“Of course.” Z stood still and stoic just outside the door as she set her knitting aside, then leaned down to kiss her father’s cheek. The king didn’t stir at all, but the nurses said he could still hear her.
“Wish me luck, Daddy,” Esme whispered in his ear before straightening.
Once out in the hall, Esme and Z walked silently down the bright, shiny corridor to the small, empty waiting room at the end of the hall. She and the security team had set up a sort of temporary snack station there, with protein bars and energy drinks and, of course, a tea pot and coffee maker.
“So, the doctor said there’s no change in your father’s condition,” Z said at last, closing the door behind them for some privacy.
“Yes. But he did move his fingers earlier. The nurses said that was a positive sign he might regain consciousness soon.”
“Are you still planning on going to the state dinner tonight?” Z sank down into one of the chairs at the small, round table to one side of the room. “I’m sure they’d understand if you cancelled, under the circumstances.”
She fixed herself a mug of hot water, then chose a nice, calming chamomile tea from the basket. Ripping open the tiny packet, she unfurled the tea bag into the steaming mug. “I’m not sure there’s much point now. I’ll admit I’m not really in a festive mood at present and with us not finding any viable candidates for…” Her voice trailed off as Z’s gaze locked with hers again. “Well, you know.”
“Listen, your highness, about that.” Z straightened as she took a seat across from him and gave him a pointed stare. “Sorry. Esme. I know I—”
“Wait.” She held up a hand to stop him. “Before you say anything, please let me speak first. I wasn’t very articulate about my plans the other night and for that I apologize.”
“Not articulate?” He raised a brow. “Not sure how you could’ve said what you wanted anymore plainly, but okay.”
Heat prickled her cheeks, but she forced herself to continue. “No. I meant I wasn’t clear about what exactly I would require of you.”
His eyes darted from hers, down to his crotch then back again.
He wasn’t going to make this easy, and she probably deserved that, given how blindsided he’d seemed the other night, but she wasn’t one to give up a fight, either.
“Look. The more I think about this, the more my producing the next heir of Prylea seems to be the most expedient and effective solution to this problem. My loyal staff back home have been sending me regular updates on Silvester’s activities and with my father currently out of commission, he’s been even more blatant about his awful plans for when he claims the throne. I have to do something now rather than later. My only regret is that I didn’t act sooner.”
“I’ve been thinking about this a lot, Es. And there’s one major issue I
don’t think you’ve considered yet.”
“What’s that?”
“Say you do go through with this and get pregnant. There’s a fifty-fifty chance it’ll be a girl.” Z glanced over at the door then leaned closer. “A female child won’t put you any closer to the throne than you are now.”
“True. But Silvester can’t claim the throne until we know I’m not carrying a boy. If I refuse to find out the sex of the baby, that gives me nine months to try and get the laws changed.” She dunked her tea bag rhythmically into her cup rapidly to keep her shaking fingers occupied. “Parliament can’t force me to find out my unborn child’s gender. There’s no law stating that, thank goodness. And I’ll love my baby no matter what. But I don’t see any other option at this point.” She exhaled slow and sat back, choosing her next words carefully. “I’m sorry if I upset you the other night with my forward offer. You just seemed like such a perfect candidate on paper. And I apologize for not making it clear that I would hold you to no obligations where this child is concerned. I realize now what a burden it would be for a man such as yourself—dedicated to your career and your service in the SEALs. I would never want to hold you back from returning to the lifestyle you love, nor would I seek anything beyond your original help with conception, and your continued protection until the child is born.”
“Es, I really want to help you. I just never expected for you to ask something like this.”
“Would it help sweeten my offer if I told you I might be able to get you back on your SEAL team right away after the year of our marriage is up?” Technically, he’d been committed to a three-year attachment to Prylea, but she could work around that—she had made major contacts with their allies over the last year. She’d provided many favors for the United States diplomats and politicians, all in the hopes of forging stronger bonds between their countries. If calling in repayment of a few of those favors now meant she could keep her throne, then Esme wasn’t above doing that. “I’ve got several contacts within the Pentagon. I could make some calls.”
