Perry and Her Princes

by Serena Akeroyd

  The right of Gemma Mazurke to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author.

  Copyright © Gemma Mazurke 2018

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  Perry & Her Princes

  Serena Akeroyd

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  HER HIGHNESS, PRINCESS PERRY

  SECRETS & LIES

  Chapter One

  “What’s wrong?”

  Tilting her head away from the view outside the limo’s window, Perry stared under her lashes at George DeSauvier the Third.

  Yes. The third.

  The guy she’d met and known since college was, bizarre though it may be, a prince.

  An honest to God prince.

  And she regularly shot the shit with him, because royal or not, he was actually a cool guy and the best friend she’d ever had.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” she immediately denied, still looking at him in his rather royal get-up.

  She wasn’t used to this George. She was used to the one who wore jeans and tee shirts. Sure, they had fancy labels on them, but they were still regular. Even his work clothes didn’t look this special, and in his three-piece suit, he suddenly seemed very, very regal. As well as gorgeous.

  Panty-melting gorgeous.

  She’d never seen tailoring like the suit he was wearing. The teeny-tiny stitches were a dead giveaway that every piece of clothing was custom made by hand, and toss in the sheen of luxurious silk, the suit all but screamed money. But Jesus, the man came from Veronia. Where they literally crapped gold before breakfast.

  Okay, maybe not literally. Still, they were loaded. And George crapped gold at least twice a day.

  On top of that, he was delicious. Where did it say in royal decrees that princes had to be handsome? She wasn’t sure. But he was. Very much so.

  Enough that, many times in their friendship, she’d often wished they were more than just friends. Still, he’d come to mean a lot to her, and she’d never wanted to screw things up by taking things to another level. It probably wasn’t even allowed. Some law written in the annals of his country’s rule book undoubtedly said royal blood and common folk couldn’t marry.

  Not that that stopped her from loving him, of course.

  As a friend. Or so she tried to tell herself and putting that in jeopardy wasn’t worth it—that was a fact.

  Even if he did look like sin with his glossy black hair glinting in the Veronian sunlight, showing off chestnut and mahogany highlights that any woman would kidnap her stylist for. His stormy blue eyes could flash from gray to blue in an instant—depending on his mood. He had a beak of a nose, Roman and unashamed, topped by strong dark brows that reminded her of wings. His forehead was demarcated by a widow’s peak, his jaw strong and stubborn.

  He wasn’t pretty-boy-handsome. He looked like the man he was. One hundred percent.

  But in his suit? With his hair slicked back instead of tousled? He was more man than she could handle.

  Though her ability to handle him, or not, was not her current issue.

  “There’s definitely something wrong,” he countered, and reached for her hand. Bridging their fingers, he settled the union on his lap—exactly where she didn’t need to be caged.

  Moments before, when they’d climbed into the limo, she’d thought about perching on that lap and riding him until the cows came home.

  Hell, the buffalo and woolly mammoth too.

  Sucking in a breath as she tried to dispel those images, she murmured, “I’m just nervous.”

  “I’d never have guessed,” he said wryly, and she elbowed him in the side.

  “Shut up,” she chided, but her own lips were twitching at the sight of the mischievous grin curving that beautiful mouth. “And forgive me for sounding very ‘Prince & Me’—” She’d loved that movie back in college, when binge-watching TV hadn’t really been a thing yet. “–but it’s the first time this Tennessee girl gets to meet the royal family of a country half a world away. You tell me how I can be anything other than freaked out?”

  His eyes were twinkling when he turned to look at her—the gray-blue gleaming almost cerulean when he was happy or amused. “You meet with a royal four to five times a week, Perry. It should be nothing to you now.”

  She grunted but knew she couldn’t argue. Not really. They did meet up four to five times a week. For coffee or dinner, to watch a movie or to hang out and work on their own particular shit in his or her apartment. Still…

  “You’re not like a normal royal person though, are you?”

  “A royal person?” he snickered. “Wait until I tell Edward that one.”

  She glowered at him. “Don’t you dare.” Edward was George’s elder brother.

  While George was second in line, Edward was the crown prince of Veronia. She’d only seen him on the TV and in the tabloids. Even that was pretty rare thanks to the nation’s privacy laws where the press was concerned.

  This was the first time she’d be meeting any of George’s family, and describing herself as nervous was the biggest understatement of the year.

  They were never going to be like George.

  He’d been educated in England and then had gone to college for his MBA in the States. He’d had to have more bodyguards than the President on campus at first, but he’d led a relatively normal student life when the brouhaha had calmed down. And since his graduation, he’d stayed in Boston. Had worked there.

  George was an Americanized Veronian.

  He drank pickle juice from the jar and yelled at her for throwing out the crumbs—basically pure sugar—from the bottom of cereal packets.

  They drank beer together in front of Red Sox games, yelled at the TV as they dove into pizza, and had gorged on funnel cakes at the fair.

  The rest of his family?

  They were going to have sticks up their asses, Perry just knew it. Knew it and was dreading it, because she was about to meet them, and decorum wasn’t exactly her middle name. She barely kept it together at faculty meetings never mind at receptions with monarchs!

  “You’re you. They’re not.” It was as simple and as terrifyi
ng as that.

  His lips twitched at her weak reasoning. “Royal or not, they could never be me. I’m one of a kind.”

  “Your ego certainly is,” she retorted with a huff, tugging her hand from his and folding her arms under her boobs.

  As usual, they bounced.

  Jesus, breasts were annoying.

  She was saving up for a breast reduction, but every time she found another first edition, the surgery was thrown on the backburner.

  Her obsession with books was almost up there with her obsession on the man at her side and shrimp cocktail-flavored chips.

  It was a problem—of the twelve-steps variety.

  Glaring down at her boobs, which were always so, so there, she moved her arms and tugged at her jacket.

  They’d changed on the plane ride over here—private jet, of course. Only the best for royalty.

  She’d spent the first four hours of the nine-hour journey gawking at everything.

  Having only ever flown in the cattle section, this kind of luxury was beyond anything her plebian mind could have dreamed up. When they’d landed, the limo hadn’t been something to sniff at either.

  “Do I look okay?”

  He sighed. “Yes. You look fine. I picked the damn outfit, didn’t I?”

  Though it had been mortifying giving him her sizes, she’d passed this task onto him. She was a scientist, dammit. Not some fashion blogger.

  She went to work in black pants and a smart-ish white blouse. She basically dressed like a nerdy waitress. In fact, waitresses had more style than she did, and there was no way in hell she was going to meet a royal freakin’ family in clothes that would put their staff to shame.

  A neat skirt suit had been his selection. Tucked in at the waist, the jacket was navy blue, which set off her skin tone well and matched his suit—although she wasn’t certain if that was intentional or not. She was pale by nature, too pale, but the color made her look a little less pallid. Seemed to bring out the faint rose in her cheeks as well.

  The tailoring cut into her waist, augmenting what little shape there was, and made her hips look trimmer. It didn’t button, but hung loosely, revealing the almost golden shirt he’d picked for her. It wasn’t shiny gold, like lamé, but it was a shocking enough shade of yellow that she’d never have picked it in a million years. Yet somehow, it suited her.

  Made her hair, hair almost as dark as his, seem to have more tones than it did. Hers was just dark brown. His was like a freaking advert for hair dye.

  The skirt was tighter than she’d have gone for herself. It clung to her ass and thighs in a way that had made her groan with mortification in the private bathroom on the jet. Still, she’d given him free dibs to do what he had to do, and boy, had he.

  She was also, for the first time in her life, wearing heels.

  Honest to God heels.

  “You do know you’re going to have to be my crutch, don’t you?” she grumbled again as she rocked her feet in the clunky things on her feet.

  How did women wear these things?

  “I’ll be your crutch any day of the week,” he teased. “Just stick close to me, and we’ll make sure you don’t fall on your butt and flash everyone.”

  Before her cheeks could burn with heat, she snapped, “Like I could flash anyone in this skirt. The damn thing’s so tight I can barely breathe.”

  He snorted. “Just because it fits, doesn’t mean it’s constricting.”

  “My clothes fit.”

  “No. They don’t. They’re all four sizes too big. There’s a difference.”

  She huffed. “I hope the other clothes you bought me don’t cut off blood supply to my legs too.”

  He just stared her down, unapologetic as hell. “You shouldn’t have given me free reign.”

  She grumbled, “I see that now.” Perry prodded him in the side, and grunted back at him when he grabbed it and firmly held her hand in his.

  He’d always been touchy feely, and she’d always liked it, but at the moment, she was too on edge to be held down.

  Still, when she tried to tug her fingers from his grasp, he clung tight.

  So tightly in fact that she turned to look at him to read his expression.

  He wasn’t glowering down at her in outrage, if anything he was looking out of the window. Seemingly ignoring her as he took in his homeland.

  One thing she’d noticed in her short time here, was how special Veronia was.

  Beautiful? Sure, but different too. Unique. Bridging cultures in a way that charmed her American soul down to the ground.

  On the coast between Monaco and Italy, they were currently riding down a boulevard that had the glorious Mediterranean Ocean sparkling beside them. She had that side because she’d never seen the Med—as he called it—before, but he was looking out onto the towns they passed from the airport to the royal palace in Madela, the capital city.

  Whenever people saw the limo with its little flags flying on the fender, they stopped, stared, and then started waving at the vehicle.

  It was sweet to behold, and she realized that the royal family was beloved here. Nice to see in these dark times.

  She was here for George, not the country. He’d said Veronia needed her, so here she was.

  But it was nice to see she wasn’t helping a douchebag leader, but a royal family the people loved and who cared for their nation. Now she thought about it, whenever people started waving, he tensed at her side.

  “When was the last time you were back here?” she asked out of curiosity.

  Now she thought about it, it had to be a long time. Like four years? That couldn’t be right, could it?

  But they’d stayed together for the last four Christmases… that was when folk usually went home, right? Well, apart from her, she thought guiltily. In this, they were both as bad as each other.

  He cleared his throat. “Five years ago.”

  She stared at him. “How did I not figure that out sooner?”

  He shot her a look, which combined with his wry smile, almost had her blushing. “Because you’re worse with dates than a two-year-old?”

  She huffed. “I’m not that bad.”

  “You’re chronologically challenged,” he argued. “And we both know it. If calendars with reminders didn’t exist, we both know you’d be lost.”

  She blew him a raspberry, uncaring that the gesture made her seem the two-year-old he’d just labeled her as. “That’s not fair. When it comes to the important stuff, I know my shit.”

  “It’s totally fair. You’re a scientist, Perry. It’s kind of disturbing that you can’t remember stuff for toffee.” He just cocked a brow when she flipped him the bird, but the faint amusement curving his lips disappeared as he murmured, “I’ve not considered this home for a long time.”

  She blinked. “Why not?” He’d spoken of Veronia before. Often. But it had always been with love and a warmth that spoke of a place that was home.

  He cut her another glance. “Never you mind, nosy.”

  She elbowed him in the side. “That’s no answer.”

  She was relentless with him because he was with her. Such a cop-out would only have had him peppering her with more questions.

  However, fate was on his side as he pointed out of the window. “That’s Masonbrook Palace.”

  Her mouth dropped open, all thoughts of his weird mood fading into dust at the sight of the palace.

  Well, it was more of a castle really. Where they waved to their public on wedding days and christenings.

  The portico was pillared, and cars swept through its tunnel to alight onto the entrance of the castle. But the portico’s roof was used as the terrace. She’d seen it so many times on a TV screen and in a magazine that she couldn’t deal with seeing it in the flesh.

  As they neared the palace, she gulped at the sight of the armed guards in traditional dress. She’d seen the kilt-like uniforms before, but in person, it had her eyes widening. Tens of armed and kilted men guarded the grand gates that soared tw
enty feet into the air and were decorated with the royal Bear and fighting Lion-stamped crests of the reigning royal family.

  The DeSauviers had ruled Veronia for four hundred years, and their family had helped forge the country into the rich and proud nation it was today.

  Either side of the neatly graveled drive, there were endless lawns. She could imagine gardeners cutting the damn thing with nail scissors and winced at the notion of how much water was wasted on maintaining the grounds which, though wasteful, were astonishing in their beauty.

  Huge flowerbeds with roses the size of her head decorated the manicured lawns, and at the head of the drive, where the car had to turn into the portico, there was a kind of ornamental roundabout that had a fountain spouting water a hundred feet into the air.

  She gaped at it all, even as her conservationist heart died a death at the sight.

  As the car pulled into the portico, armed guards appeared out of nowhere to line up against the two openings and ensure the Prince’s safety as he alighted from the vehicle.

  Her door was opened at the same time as George’s, and a white gloved hand appeared in front of her for her to use as aid in leaving the car.

  Aid she was relieved to have if she was being honest. These heels weren’t wise on flat floors. Never mind graveled ones.

  She smiled at the attendant who was dressed in a smart black suit and white shirt and gripped his arm tightly as he helped her around the car.

  When she could, she dove back to George’s side, clutching at him to stand tall and upright.

  He chuckled as they headed onto the wide bottom step that led to the palace entrance, then he ironed his face of all emotion in the blink of an eye between making sure she was standing straight and turning on his heel to face his men.

  George snapped a salute to the left. The armed guard replicated the sharp movement within a handful of seconds and with such precision, a clapping sound echoed through the air. George turned to the right and gave another crisp salute.

  He turned back to her and gripped her arm, then helped her up the stairs. They walked arm-in-arm through a grand front door the size of the giant in the Jack and the Beanstalk stories, and in to a carpeted entranceway.