Big Bad Royal: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance

by Tia Siren

  “Good morning, your highness,” I said with a smile as he leaned down to kiss my cheek. “There’s coffee in the pot and I’ll share my Pop-Tart with you. Did you sleep well?”

  “I did,” he said with a yawn. He clutched the blanket around his shoulders as he filled a cup with coffee and carried it to the table. He slid into the chair across from me and frowned at the Pop-Tart in my hand.

  “What is a Pop-Tart?” he asked.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said, holding it out so he could take a bite. “It’s just the best breakfast pastry ever.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” he said, making a face. “I believe the croissants at the Café De La Rue in Paris might be just a tad better.”

  “Such a snob,” I said, grinning as I ate the rest of the Pop-Tart. I nodded at the window. “The storm’s over. Carl will have the roads cleared by noon.”

  “Ah, very good,” he said. He brought the cup to his lips and took a noisy slurp. “So, I can make it to the summit this afternoon, then come back here tomorrow night, and we can leave for Kosnovia on Monday.”

  I blinked at him for a moment as the Pop-Tart threatened to come back up. I licked the crumbs off my lips and said, “Leave for Kosnovia?’

  “Yes, of course,” he said with a happy smile. “You can pack while I’m at the summit. Take only what you don’t want to leave behind, because I will buy you anything you need once we are home.”

  “Home?”

  “Yes, in Kosnovia. I’ll call the travel office and have them book two first-class tickets to Kosnovia for Monday afternoon.” He noticed the frown on my face. He reached out a hand across the table. “What is it?”

  “You’re serious?” I said, staring at his hand. “You really are serious?”

  His forehead wrinkled over his brown eyes. “Yes, of course. I thought we had decided to marry and have a family. We have to do that in Kosnovia.”

  “I thought…”

  He pulled back his hand and tucked it inside the blanket. “You thought what?”

  I shrugged and rolled my eyes. “I thought we were just, like, I don’t know, role playing or something.”

  He looked at me as if he didn’t know the meaning of the words. “Role playing?”

  “Yes. You know, you’re a handsome prince and I’m the damsel in distress, trapped in this ice palace. You come along to save me…” I gazed into his eyes and realized at that moment that this wasn’t a game to him. This was all very real. Holy. Fucking. Shit.

  “I was not role playing, Rebecca,” he said, raising his chin and looking proudly down his nose at me. “I am Nikolay Rostov, crown prince of Kosnovia.” He paused and tilted his head to the side. “Rebecca, don’t you believe me?”

  “Well, I mean, I believe your name is Nick and you sound a little like you come from Russia, but…” I swallowed hard when I noticed the hurt in his eyes. “Oh my god, you really are serious, aren’t you?”

  “I am completely serious,” he said sternly. The muscles in his jaws pulsed. “And I thought you were serious, too.”

  I threw up my hands and shook my head at him. “My god, Nick, we just met. We haven’t known each other twenty-four hours. Yes, we had great sex and I find you incredibly attractive and I like you a lot, and maybe someday I might want to marry you and start a family, but not now. I barely know you.”

  “We would get to know each other in Kosnovia,” he said. His face was growing red. His Russian accent grew thicker the more upset he got.

  “But, Nick, I don’t love you.”

  The blanket fell off his muscular shoulders when he shrugged. “I don’t love you either. We will come to love one another, like my mother and father, and my grandmother and my grandfather, and—”

  “I get the idea,” I said, holding up my hands. “Nick, I’m sorry, but I can’t marry you and move to Kosnovia. And I’m certainly not ready to have a child. Not with you or anyone.”

  “I see,” he said. He studied the tabletop between us for a moment. “I will use your shower once more if you don’t mind to wash off the stain of our night together, and then I will get dressed and wait downstairs for the roads to clear.”

  “You can wait up here,” I said, a little hurt that he’d used the word “stain” to refer to the amazing night we’d just spent making love. I gritted my teeth and forced myself not to cry. “It’s cold down there.”

  He looked me squarely in the eye and said, “It cannot be as cold as it is up here.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Rebecca

  Well, to say that my morning didn’t go anything like I’d thought it would would be a gross understatement. I’d thought Nick would get out of bed, join me at the breakfast table, drink a little coffee, maybe have a bite of my Pop-Tart, and then bend me over a chair and take me from behind. Then we’d get in the shower and play “I’ll wash yours if you wash mine.”

  Instead, Nick now hated my guts and I felt like a total douchebag. And I couldn’t blame him. But in my own defense, how was I supposed to know that he was being sincere?

  I mean, my god, how often did a Russian prince stumble into a dive bar during a snowstorm looking for a wife to make a baby with?

  Not to mention the fact that I’d only had one man in my life and he’d turned out to be a lying prick who beat the shit out of me. And Nick was so macho with his “you’re gonna suck my cock” crap…

  Okay, strike that. I actually liked that part.

  Shit. Way to go, Becca Boo, you fucking idiot. Way to go.

  * * *

  I sat there at the table sipping the last cup of coffee while Nick took a hot shower and got dressed. I resisted the urge to spy on him again. You’ve done enough, chided the little voice inside my head. Leave the poor man alone.

  Nick came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel and went directly into the bedroom to get dressed. I heard the bedroom door close and lock. A few minutes later he came out of the bedroom wearing the sweats and T-shirt from the night before and a pair of running shoes.

  He had his leather jacket over his arm and his suitcase in his hand. I assumed his expensive suit was stuffed in the suitcase. I was sure a prince would have a backup Armani or two in the car.

  Wow, that was nasty.

  You have no right to be nasty, Rebecca.

  Stop it.

  “Do you think the roads are cleared yet?” he asked as he put on the leather jacket and zipped it up. I could tell that he was forcing himself to be polite. He didn’t look at me as he spoke. He busied himself with putting on his gloves.

  “I think so,” I said, offering a smile he didn’t see. “I heard Carl’s snow plow go by a few minutes ago, so the road to the Overlook should be clear.”

  “Fine. Then I’d better go.” He picked up the suitcase and moved to the door leading to the stairwell that went to the kitchen below.

  “Yes, I guess you’d better.”

  He opened the door and stared down the darkened stairwell for a moment, as if he were staring into an abyss he was being forced to go down into. He spoke again without looking at me.

  “I’m not the man you left with before, Rebecca,” he said solemnly. “I would never do anything to hurt you.”

  “I know that.” I took a deep breath and released it slowly as tears filled my eyes. “It’s just that, well, I can’t just leave this place…”

  “I understand,” he said quietly. He turned his head to look at me and our eyes finally met. The machismo and bravado had left him for the moment. There was a great sadness in his eyes that I knew I had caused. It made me feel like shit. A single tear ran down my cheek.

  He said, “You can’t live your entire life barricaded in this bar like it’s some high castle because you were hurt once before. The world is passing you by, Rebecca. You just have to give it a chance.”

  Before I could say anything, he went down the stairs and got into his car.

  I went to the window and watched him drive away.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Rebecca


  The moment Nick left, my old life came roaring back and I fell into my routine. I cleaned the kitchen, took a long hot shower, got dressed, and opened the bar in time for the lunch crowd to straggle in.

  When I said lunch crowd, I meant the five or six regulars who came in for their recommended daily allowance of grease, hops, and barley. The same five or six would be back for dinner and, if the weather permitted, drink until it was time to close.

  As I served the lunch crowd their usual beer and burgers, I caught myself glancing out the window. I knew Nick was a proud man. He was a freakin’ prince, for Pete’s sake! He wasn’t going to come crawling back to try to convince me to leave with him. I’d had my shot. I’d fucked it up. As usual.

  Besides, why would he want some barmaid from Snowcap, New York, when he could have a real princess or, at the very least, a Hollywood actress or a Victoria’s Secret model!

  I wasn’t ugly, but I was no Grace Kelly. And I sure wasn’t the kind of woman Nick Rostov was used to having by his side or in his bed.

  After the lunch rush (rush, who was I kidding?) I checked the satellite receiver and was relieved to find that my phone, TV, and internet were working again.

  There was no phone, cable, or cell service this far up in the mountains, so I’d been happy as a pig in mud when I’d found out I could get it all via satellite—at least when the weather was clear.

  I fired up my laptop and Googled the name Nick Rostov.

  “Son of a bitch.” I sighed as the search returned over a hundred thousand results. Nick’s gorgeous face popped onto the screen in a dozen photos. In the largest photo he was wearing an expensive suit, his hair was perfect, and his smile would have put George Clooney’s to shame. He was standing on a red carpet next to Jennifer Lawrence. Seriously? Jennifer Lawrence????

  The brief description next to his photo said: Nikolay II, prince of Kosnovia. Nikolay II is the reigning monarch of the principality of Kosnovia and head of the Princely House of Rostov. Prince Nikolay is the son of Anatoly II, king of Rostov, and the former Katarina Andropov of Ukraine.

  “Wow…” I said with a sigh. “He really is a prince.”

  My eyes scanned the page of headlines that had Nick’s name prominently featured. Some of them were gossip reports linking him to a bunch of different starlets and models. A few were press reports from various events he’d attended around the world.

  Then, the last headline on the page caught my eye. The link had been posted six months ago by a reporter for the London Times. It read: Rostov Dynasty Predicted to Soon Fall.

  I clicked the link and read through the story with a hand over my mouth. The story was about the people of Kosnovia demanding that the monarchy be put to an end. The country was ruled by a parliament patterned after Great Britain’s, but the monarchy was still in place and still owned much of the land and controlled much of the wealth. Kosnovia was having all kinds of economic issues now, and the people saw the royal family as an outdated, unnecessary, and costly waste of money. Parliament was set to take up the topic at its spring session.

  “Holy shit,” I said. I closed my eyes and recalled the conversation I’d had with Nick.

  He’d said, “My father thinks a royal wedding and a royal baby would endear the monarchy to the people again. Especially if I were to wed an American woman.”

  “Why an American woman?” I had asked.

  “My father believes the shallow Americans would stand with the Rostov family if the heir was half American. Like Princess Grace of Monaco. No one even knew where Monaco was until the prince married the Hollywood starlet.”

  “Whatcha doin’, Becca Boo?”

  I looked up to find Carl standing in the doorway, shaking the snow off his coat. I glanced at the clock. It was only seven.

  “What are you doing here so early?” I asked, closing the laptop and tucking it beneath the bar.

  “I skipped lunch,” Carl said as he dragged his feet to the bar. He rubbed his hands together and pretended to shudder. “And it’s colder than a witch’s tittie out there. I need to fill my belly with a little Budweiser antifreeze.”

  “When have you ever touched a witch’s tittie?” I asked.

  He slid onto a barstool and gave me his toothless smile. “I was married four times, Becca Boo,” he said. “I know all about witches and their titties.” He folded his gnarled hands on the bar and pushed his bushy eyebrows up. “How about a burger and fries and a mug of beer to wash it down?”

  “Coming right up.”

  Carl always made me smile. I yelled his order through the pass-through and then filled a mug with beer and set it in front of him.

  He took a loud slurp and sucked the foam off the tips of his moustache. Looking around the bar, he asked, “So, did that young man get off okay last night?”

  I blinked at him for a moment.

  Did he get off?

  Yes. Several times. Thank you for asking.

  I picked up a bar rag and started wiping the bar with it. I said, “Yes, well, actually he spent the night here and left this morning once you had the roads cleared.”

  Carl gave me a sly grin. “Spent the night, huh? Well, I hope y’all were able to stay warm in the cold.”

  “You’re a dirty old man, Carl,” I said, giving him a scolding look.

  “I used to be a dirty young man,” he said with a sigh. “But time and age took care of that.”

  I leaned back against the beer cooler and folded my arms over my chest. “Carl, did you talk to him at all while he was here?”

  Carl licked more foam off his lips and bobbed his head. “Little bit. Seemed like a nice young fella. Full of bullshit, though.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “I hope you didn’t fall for his line about being a prince.”

  I frowned at him and played dumb. “He said he was a prince?”

  Carl gave me a thoughtful nod. “Said he was a prince from somewhere in Russia. Damn Ruskies. Can’t believe a word those bastards say. There ain’t no princes left in the world. Everybody knows that.”

  “What else did he say?”

  Carl scratched his bearded chin and closed one eye to think. “He said in his country, when a man wants a woman he just grabs her and takes her home with him. Can you imagine that? They just kidnap the girl and force her to marry them. I told him if he tried that stuff over here it would land him in jail faster than he could say ‘kiss my ass, comrade.’”

  The cook yelled “Order up!’ and I grabbed Carl’s burger and fries from the pass-through and set it in front of him. He doused the fries with ketchup and then picked up the burger between his hands and brought it to his mouth. Before sinking what was left of his teeth into the burger, he paused to give me an inquisitive look.

  “That Ruskie didn’t try anything on you, did he, Becca Boo?”

  I smiled and shook my head. “No, Carl. He was the perfect gentleman.”

  I let Carl eat in peace and went to stare out the front window. The night sky rolled with gray clouds just a few feet above the treetops. The threat of more snow was on the horizon.

  I wondered what Nick was doing at that moment.

  I wondered if I would see him when he passed by tomorrow on his way back to New York.

  Probably not.

  And that was probably for the best.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Nick

  Don’t ever let anyone tell you that you could meet hot chicks at an economic summit in the middle of winter in fucking Overlook, New York. Or anywhere else for that matter. There were no hot and horny economics groupies. The only women who attended these things were old, dried up academic bitches who looked down their noses at me as if I were a five-year-old trying to sit at the grown-up table.

  I was sure that if I plied them with enough booze and blew the dust off their rusty old cunts, we might have had a good time. But that was not going to happen, especially since I was in a mood that the word “foul” did not begin to describe.

  Nevertheless, I tried to push through my speech for the good
of the summit and Kosnovia. I had not been invited to this summit because I was a handsome prince. I had a masters in economics from one of the most prestigious universities in the world. I probably knew more about Eastern European economics than anyone else in the room.

  But as I stood at the podium sharing my thoughts on the potential effects of Brexit on the Russian economy, all I could think about was the night I’d spent making love to Rebecca.

  Thank goodness I was standing behind a podium, because my cock chubbed a bit at the thought of seeing her lying beneath me, pushing her pussy into me as she came the third of fourth time.

  I forced the image of Rebecca’s face from my mind and managed to make it through my talk unabated.

  The audience offered polite applause that I barely heard.

  I left the papers for my speech on the podium and walked off toward the bar.

  I needed a drink.

  I needed lots of drinks.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Rebecca

  “Penny for your thoughts, Becca Boo.”

  I looked up to find Carl smiling at me. He’d finished his burger and fries and his mug was empty. He picked up the mug and shook it at me. “Can I get one for the road?”

  “You do know that you shouldn’t drink and drive,” I said, holding the mug under the tap to fill it with beer. I set the mug in front of him and removed the empty plate and set it on the pass-through.

  “My dear, I have built up an immunity over the decades,” he said, holding up the mug and smacking his lips. “I haven’t been legally drunk since 1982.”

  “What happened in 1982?” I asked.

  “Divorced my third or fourth wife,” he said, giving me a wink. “I came in here to celebrate, as a matter of fact.”

  “I thought you might have been celebrating my birthday,” I said with a sigh. “I was born in ’82.”