It's because I’m crazy in love with her. Have been from the first moment I saw her.
Day one on the job I was summoned to meet the duke when Daria stormed into her father’s study wearing a wrinkled mini-dress and smudged eye makeup, demanding he stop donating to some charity because the night before she’d overheard the founder bragging how the funds support his jet-setting lifestyle. I couldn’t tear my gaze away; she was like a hungover, vengeful fury with wild, dark hair and eyes that flashed with blue lightning. She refused to leave until Edwin swore to reroute the donations from the other charity to Geneva’s Children’s Hospital that same day.
It took every ounce of my training to keep the dumbass grin off my face. Good thing, too, because she probably would’ve introduced her stiletto to my favorite part of my anatomy and had me fired. Then I never would’ve heard the fucking end of it from my brother and cousins about epically failing the Real-World Test—the ridiculous name we gave our family’s tradition of kicking the kids out of the proverbial home-nest to act as contributing members of society.
Joke’s on them. Not only did I pass the RWT, but I blew right by the one-year finish line and kept on going. Something no one else in my family has ever done.
Still, I probably should’ve gone home a while ago. I tried. Or at least I thought about trying. But whenever I pictured myself leaving Geneva, I’d make an excuse to put it off a little longer. And the blame for that can be laid firmly at the dainty feet of one Daria Copeland—the enigmatic wild-child duchess with a heart of gold. A heart she hides behind fake ulterior motives and pretended personal gain.
I don’t know why she does it, but I’m determined to figure it out one of these days. As long as my real identity stays a secret, I’m free to stick around for as long as I want. Or, in my case, for whomever I want.
As always, I’m at Daria’s side—an unnecessary precaution in her own home, but I don’t give a shit and she never orders me to stand down. Not that I’d listen. Discreetly dropping my gaze, I catalogue every detail as she sits waiting in one of the ornate high-back chairs.
Unsurprisingly, she didn’t listen to Talia’s suggestions for this morning’s meet-and-greet. Her raven-dark hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders is the only soft thing about her appearance. Completing her look is the usual dramatic eye makeup, deadly stilettos, and one of her signature mini-dresses that reveals way more of her creamy skin than it could ever hope to cover.
Knowing Applebaum is about to get an eyeful of the duchess, and will no doubt create indecent images of her in his mind, I see red. I should be used to this by now; Edwin’s been parading men in front of her once a month for the last year, hoping she’ll start dating one of them and no doubt tame her wild ways. But watching another man fawn over Daria never gets any easier.
Taking a deep breath, I rein my shit in, then give her the heads up. “Your father and the duke will be here momentarily, your grace.”
“Thank you, Mr. Blackstone. I’m positively giddy with anticipation.” Leaning back in the chair, she crosses a long leg over the other and stares absently out at the gardens.
She appears unaffected, bored even, until I notice her repeatedly scraping at the cuticle on her thumb. It’s her only tell—a subconscious tic when her anxiety starts to rise.
I turn my head so the twins can’t hear me from where they’re talking on the sofa. “Did you take your meds this morning?”
She tucks her thumb into her fist and whispers, “No, Mr. Nosey, I forgot in all the excitement of preparing to meet my future husband.”
“Like hell he is,” I growl before I can stop myself. Her head snaps up to arch a single brow at me. She’s alluded to this before—that her dad isn’t merely hoping she’ll date one of the nobles but intends for them to wed—but the very idea is beyond preposterous. “The old ways are long gone, Duchess. Your father can’t force you to marry anyone.”
“No, of course, you’re right,” she says with a tightness that attempts to tug the corners of her mouth into a smile, and fails spectacularly.
Damn it, there’s something going on here that she hasn’t told me. Despite her hardass public persona, Daria’s a daddy’s girl who would ultimately do what Edwin wanted if she thought it was important enough to him. Even if she has to sacrifice her own happiness in the process.
Before I can analyze the situation further, the double doors to the study swing open. Duke Edwin Copeland struts in with Applebaum close on his heels. The children rise and greet their father with affectionate hugs from the girls and a manly thumping of the back between the men. Then the dog and pony show begins.
Edwin introduces the twins, then grandly presents his eldest like a prized racehorse that grates on my nerves. He gets points for not batting an eye at her choice of outfit, though. “And finally, the reason you came all this way,” Edwin says, pride glittering in his eyes, “my beautiful daughter Daria, Duchess of Geneva. Daria, I present to you, Cyrus Applebaum, the esteemed Duke of Sasquine.”
“Your grace.” The man steps forward and bends low over Daria’s hand before kissing it. My upper lip curls. “It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you at last.”
Tactfully pulling away, Daria bestows him with what I call her PR smile. “The pleasure’s all yours, your grace.”
Talia gasps, and Thomas tries to cover his laugh with a cough. Edwin looks ready to blow a gasket, but Daria expertly diffuses the situation by laughing and pretending it was all a joke. Applebaum doesn’t look convinced but plays along to save face.
For the next half hour, I watch with increasing difficulty as Edwin sings Applebaum’s praises and Daria picks at her thumb until a patch of raw, pink skin surrounds her nail bed. Her eyes are tight, her body cemented in the chair.
With everyone’s attention on the guest of honor, I lean down and whisper, “Where are your pills?” When she hesitates, I press. “You’re about to jump out of your skin.”
I stare hard into those blue pools as she weighs her need for the medicine against feeling weak for needing it in the first place. “Bedside drawer.”
I give a curt nod, make a discreet exit, and reach my destination in record time. Crossing the enormous room, I head for her bedside table. But before I can complete my mission, my gaze catches on a scrap of silk tossed on her unmade bed. It’s the practically see-through top she had on earlier when she baited me in the hall.
Bait that I took in a moment of fucking weakness. Every day it gets harder to resist her—another reason for my Sundays off. By Saturday, I have enough chinks in my armor to be dangerous and need a day to reinforce my defenses.
Today’s Friday, and I’m alone in her bedroom, staring at lingerie that was nestled against her warm skin mere hours ago. I know I shouldn’t torture myself like this, but fuck if I can stop my hand from lifting it to my nose and dragging her intoxicating scent deep into my lungs.
“Christ, get a grip, man,” I chastise myself. “You’re so fucked in the head over this girl.” Forcing myself to focus before I do something colossally stupid, I return the lingerie where I found it, open the top bedside drawer...and freeze.
Not a single pill bottle to be found. Instead, I’m staring at a stack of romance novels with dozens of colored tabs sticking from the pages, and next to them is what I can only describe as an arsenal of sex toys.
Shock, arousal, and white-hot jealousy circulate through me in a matter of seconds. Jesus, she must use these with the men she brings home. The men I’d like to choke with my bare hands for getting a taste of what’s mine.
My Duchess.
My Daria.
Without thinking, I grab the top book and flip to the pages she’s marked. In addition to the tabs, she’s highlighted passages. Very specific passages. My mind reels at what these could mean, but I do a quick check of the next few books to be sure I’m not imagining it.
I’m not.
Daria highlighted dozens of explicit sex scenes, the pages worn from frequent handling. I’ve essenti
ally stumbled onto a road map of my duchess’s sexual tastes, and fate must be looking out for me, because they align perfectly with mine. Various combinations of male dominance, bondage and rope play, rough sex with hints of sadomasochism...
I’m already half-hard, but when I see the last book, my cock stiffens into a goddamn steel rod.
Kidnapping the Duchess.
Snatching it up, I flip through her tabbed pages. I exhale a harsh breath and drag a hand over my stubbled jaw. “Fucking hell, she’s trying to kill me.”
Remembering the reason I’m here, I start replacing the books just as Daria bursts into the room. “Bottom drawer, they’re in the bottom drawer!” She skids to a stop when she sees the open top drawer. Her eyes fly wide, but as always, she recovers quickly.
“Quite a collection you have here.”
With a crooked grin, she closes the door to her room and saunters toward me. “Don’t be such a prude, Mr. Blackstone. Some people like to play board games at sleepovers.” She plants her hip on the back of the settee and shrugs. “I like to play sex games.”
Oh, Duchess, you have no idea who you’re messing with.
I stretch my neck to both sides until I hear and feel the satisfying cracks of releasing my tension. Then I slowly advance on her as I shed the final threadbare layer of my restraint.
“Izak,” she says warily, breaking out the name she usually refuses to call me. She takes a step backward, then another. “What are you doing?”
“Do you enjoy torturing me, Duchess? Teasing me? Pushing me to see how much I can take before I snap and fuck you senseless on the nearest surface?”
She scoffs, but her bravado falters when her ass hits the wall. She has nowhere to go. But I’m not stupid enough to think that a Daria between a wall and a hard place is a defeated Daria, so I stay alert.
She glares up at me as though she is a full foot taller and not the other way around. “Don’t flatter yourself, bodyguard. I’m much too busy fucking my way through the kingdom’s elite to be concerned with the help. Pick up any tabloid on any given day and you can read all about it.”
I tilt my head, analyzing her words. “Does that bother you? That they capitalize on showcasing your private life?”
“Don’t you think I’d be a bit more discreet if it did?”
Fair point. If anything, Daria plays up to the cameras, whether paparazzi or fellow clubbers. As the only one in her family with midnight hair and a brazen, carefree spirit not typical of royals, the media dubbed her the black sheep of Copeland Manor when she was just a teen. The older she got, the more “carefree” turned into carelessness, earning her the new moniker Duchess of Debauchery.
Or was it the other way around?
Suddenly, it hits me. “It was them,” I say, staring deep into her eyes. “They labeled you, so you decided to live up to their expectations.”
Vulnerability flashes across her face then disappears. “You’re no Sigmund Freud, Mr. Blackstone. You’d do well to remember your job is to guard my body, not shrink my head.”
Her head. Fuck. I stride back to her nightstand and open the correct drawer where I find her pills. She’s no longer on the brink of an attack, but she shouldn’t skip doses. Returning to stand in front of her, I hold the small tablet up, giving her a silent instruction with my eyes. I stop breathing when her lips part, allowing me to place it on her tongue. Allowing me to care for her, however briefly, and I feel fucking high with the rightness of it flooding my veins.
“I’m right, aren’t I,” I prod with enough steel in my tone to make it less question and more gentle demand.
She hesitates, but only for a moment. “What if you are? Are you hoping for a treat or pat on the back, is that what you want?”
“I want the truth. And we’re not moving from this spot until I hear it from you.” She glares daggers, waiting for me to back down like anyone else would in the face of Daria’s ire. But I’m not just anyone, and she might as well learn that now. “Take your time, Duchess. I have nowhere else to be.”
She makes a frustrating sound in the back of her throat. “It doesn’t matter. It’s like the old ‘which came first, the chicken or the egg’ riddle. Was I already a party girl who liked to sleep around, or did the media give me the excuse of simply living up to the public’s expectations? No one cares so long as there’s another sordid story about me they can discuss at the breakfast table.” Daria shrugs a slim shoulder. “So, you see, it doesn’t matter who or what I was first, because in the end, it’s who I am now.”
Something about her is off. The mask of indifference she wears like armor is firmly in place, but her tone is lacking her usual bite. She actually sounds...hurt. And there’s a vulnerability in her eyes that makes me want to tear the world apart until I’ve obliterated whatever’s putting it there.
My mind races, scanning every piece of Daria trivia I filed away before I came to Geneva, and every detail about her I’ve committed to memory since. The more I think about it, the more certain things begin falling into place, like puzzle pieces revealing a hidden picture…
The strict NDAs preventing anyone from speaking about their time with her. The security reports from her night guards who claim to never hear so much as a peep coming from her room, even when entertaining “guests.” And probably the most telling thing of all: the absence of smug satisfaction on the men the following morning as she quite literally shoves them out the door.
The erotic novels that are highlighted and tabbed like she’s researching or taking notes for reference…her arsenal of toys…
Fuck me. I’m such an asshole.
“Bullshit,” I say with a fair amount of confidence. “That’s not who you are—not back then or now.” I crowd her against the wall and brace my hands on either side. I’d apologize for believing the worst of her if I didn’t think she’d view any kind of softness as pity right now. So I’ll settle for shining light on the truth, at least between us. “You don’t fuck the men you bring home at all, do you?”
“Of course not,” she says. But before I have the chance to think I’m right, she leans in and adds, “They fuck me.”
I pause, wondering if I’m projecting my own wishes onto the situation. Then shake my head. “I don’t think they do.”
“I think it’s none of your goddamn business what we do.”
“And that’s not an answer.” I change tactics, my confidence growing again. “What are the toys for, Duchess?”
She frowns with exaggerated pity. “Oh, you poor thing. I could recommend some good porn sites to start you off—”
Lightning fast, I pin her wrists above her head with one hand and let the other mold a path down her body. My thumb deliberately grazes her nipple, and I’m rewarded by Daria’s mouth parting on a soft, keening moan. “I’m not leaving until you’re honest with me, Duchess. Until you’re honest with yourself. And believe me when I tell you I can keep you on the brink of pleasure for a very, very long time.”
My hand slips between her thighs as I trace the shell of her ear with my tongue. When I plumb the seam of her pussy through the triangle of damp silk, I hear the words she’s uttered a thousand times in my fantasies. “Izak,” she whimpers. “Please.”
I can’t hold back my groan of satisfaction. “I knew my duchess would beg me sweetly.” I circle her needy clit with varying pressure as I push her toward her release. “Now, no more lies. No more pretending. How many of those men have you been with?”
“How many?” she repeats absently as her lids slide closed and her hips roll forward to chase my touch.
When she doesn’t give me what I want, I pull my hand away as punishment. She tries to squeeze her thighs together to prevent it, but only good girls get rewarded. I drop my voice nice and low, using the tone I bring out whenever I expect to be obeyed—whether in the field, or in the bedroom. “Give me a number. Answer me, Daria.”
Crystal blue eyes snap open, shining with desire and a hint of desperation. It’s the first time I’ve
called her by her given name, and I’m not sure which of us it surprises more. I like the way she responds to it, though. I wonder how many different reactions I could get out of her using her name like a dirty secret while dabbling in a little edge play. My cock jerks in my pants, definitely on board with that idea. Finally, she says the last number I ever expected to hear.
“Zero.”
“Zero,” I repeat doubtfully, my eyes narrowing to study her. For once, I can’t tell if she’s being facetious. But I can tell that her defenses are coming back online, so I wedge my hand sideways between her tight thighs and start a slow see-saw motion over her pussy. She fights it for all of three seconds before she melts more with every stroke. “You’re telling me you’ve never been with any of the men who signed those NDAs?”
She lets out a tiny gasp as I graze her clit with my thumb. “Not one.”
I’m supposed to know everything the duchess does, every move she makes. Frustration rides me hard to realize I’ve been in the dark on a lot of things. Things I don’t know and should. Not only because of who I am to her, but because of who I want to be.
I slip my hand into the front of her panties and give her more pleasure as I ask for more answers. “If they’re all part of the act, then who have you been sleeping with, your grace? And how the hell are you pulling it off without my team knowing about it?”
Two of my fingers slide through the wet heat of her smooth folds. She mewls in the back of her throat with need, and a wave of her musky-sweet scent hits my nose. I’m playing with fire, and I don’t know how much longer I can control myself when all I want to do is fuck her up against this wall until she screams my name out to the heavens.
“Goddamn it, Daria, you’re driving me mad,” I say, my lips grazing her neck as I speak. “Tell me so I can hate every fucking man who’s had you before me. Tell me.”
She arches her back, pressing her tits into my chest. “Zero…no one.”
Kidnapping the Duchess: A Hot Bodyguard with Secret Identity Romance, Racy Royals #1 Page 2
