Bad Boy Prince: A British Royal Stepbrother Romance

by Vivian Wood

  I know that the doormen will take care of the mess in the elevator. I just have to get myself straightened out. In my current mindset though, it’s easier said than done.

  I strip off my shirt and then my jeans, then toss them in the hamper in my walk-in closet. If the RAF did anything for me, it taught me to be neat and precise, even in times of stress.

  I head into the huge dark stone and glass shower, pressing a button that activates all five of the shower heads. I turn the heat up high and step in as soon as steam starts to curl and rise. Once I’m under the shower’s comforting heat, though, I’m at a loss.

  I keep trying to focus on Charles, on the race and the blackmail scheme. On how furious I am at Bram, that he’d let himself get in so deep that he’s compromising me. And Kit, who barely even fucking knows Bram.

  But at every turn, I have to think about Kit, and that inevitably leads to the same series of questions. Those questions lead to the same answers, and I can’t handle the way those answers make me feel.

  Was she really pregnant?

  I thought we were so careful. But I can smell a liar from a mile away, and I don’t think Charles was feeding me bullshit about any of it…

  Why didn’t she tell me?

  She didn’t trust me. I was an insensitive prick about her father’s scandal, and she realized I’m not exactly father material. Or at least I wasn’t at nineteen years old.

  Is there some way that maybe it wasn’t mine?

  No. What Kit and I had back then, what we have now, it’s deep and real. There’s no one else, never has been. I can’t imagine a single scenario where she gets knocked up and it’s not mine.

  I keep kicking these same thoughts around, a vicious cycle, and wondering what I’m supposed to take from it all.

  Am I that terrible, that Kit couldn’t confide in me? What was she going to do, go raise it by herself in the States and never tell me about it?

  The thought of Kit as a single mother, trying to raise my kid alone, it just guts me.

  When Asher died, I thought that the years of being a spoiled, privileged playboy had finally caught up with me, that I was getting what I was owed from the universe. All that pain, all that self-loathing, I clung to it, blaming myself.

  And yes, I was partly to blame. I’ll always bear that burden.

  But this… this thing with Kit, her getting pregnant… She’d just lost her father, her family name was worthless, her mother had vanished into herself, and all Kit really had was me.

  And fucking asshole that I am, my response to her questions about our future? Maybe… we could keep it secret… I could meet someone else…

  I lean against the shower wall, water pounding down on me, and I struggle to draw breath. If I was the crying type, I would cry. If I was a junkie, I would get lit right this fucking second.

  This feeling, this weight, it’s unbearable.

  I have to do something. Before today, I would have given Kit the world just to see her happy.

  Now, I feel like I owe it to her.

  I turn off the shower when it finally goes cold, yanking a towel from the warming rack and wrapping it around my body. I walk over to the huge vanity mirror over the sink and wipe away the steam, looking at my reflection.

  I wince; I don’t like myself right now, considering that all the shit I did in the past created the motherfucker I’m staring at in the mirror.

  I turn and leave my reflection behind, toweling off and getting dressed in brusque motions.

  In all the confusion and turmoil, I know one thing: the story can never, ever get out.

  Not for me, not for the sake of the royal family.

  For Kit. Because I don’t want the thing that I did, that I did to her and made her go through alone, to ruin her again. That fucking story is never going to see the light of day. She’s never going to feel public shame over this, because she’s already carried too much of this weight on her own, in secret.

  Right then and there, yanking a t-shirt down over my head, I make a promise to myself and to Kit.

  I will make this go away… even if I have to kill Charles with my bare fucking hands.

  And I know inside, even though I’m the fucking bastard who fucked her over in the first place, that I’d do anything to protect Kit. Anything at all, regardless of the consequences to myself.

  Because she’s my girl.

  Because she’s sexier and more glamorous than any other woman I’ve ever met.

  Because since she’s come back into my life, I can’t even look at another woman, don’t fucking want to either.

  Because she cares about me, even though I’m a fucking prick.

  Because she understands me, from my royal pedigree all the way down to my tarnished soul.

  Because she makes me happy, the one fucking bright spot in my bullshit-filled life right now.

  Fuck. I need to just admit it, even if it’s just to myself.

  Because I fucking love her.

  And no one’s ever going to fuck with her again.

  No one.

  15

  Rex

  Shit. This is not good.

  The second I step into the rain-dampened side street and see that there are half a dozen cars idling, waiting for the race to begin, I know that I’m even more fucked than I thought.

  Rafe and Jack are waiting for me in street clothes, standing beside the second car in the lineup. I wasn’t sure I’d ever have a reason to bring out the bright yellow Porsche Cayman that Rafe and Jack outfitted for street racing, not after Asher died in this same kind of race.

  But here it is, warmed up and ready for me, polished and purring. If the circumstances were a little different, I’d be excited.

  “Guys, thanks for coming,” I tell them as I walk around the car, inspecting it.

  “Anytime,” Rafe says. “It’s not a thing, not between us, Rex.”

  I give him a long look and shake my head.

  “No, it’s a big deal. This isn’t like back in the day, when none of us had anything to live for. You both have legit jobs at the track now. And bloody hell, Rafe has a toddler now. I know that you’re both risking a lot to be here, so… thank you.”

  I pull out two thick envelopes of cash, but both of them are already shaking their heads.

  “Nah, man. We’re doing this for old times’ sake,” Jack insists.

  “Take the fucking money, or I’m not even getting in the car.”

  Jack turns and looks over his shoulder, drawing my attention to the numerous other racers. All Tamil Boys, all glaring at me like they want me dead.

  “I don’t think that’s an option anymore,” Jack says, but he takes the envelope and nudges Rafe to do the same. “Besides, you got something to live for, yourself.”

  “Oh yeah?” I ask, running my hand over the Porche’s hood.

  “Lady Katherine?” Rafe says with a slow grin.

  I scowl, though I don’t mean to be a dick. Kitty’s the last topic I want to discuss right now.

  “It’s like that, huh?” Rafe says, his grin going wider. “That’s how Jenny used to make me feel before I finally locked her down and put a ring on it.”

  “Can we just talk about the race?” I ask, shaking my head. “I thought it was going to be a straight one-on-one, not this…”

  I wave at all the cars surrounding us.

  “Yeah, I got the race map here. It’s a cannonball, every man for himself,” Jack says, spreading a single sheet of paper on the car’s hood. Standard rules: stay within two blocks of the route, no intentional damage of other cars, etc. First one to reach the gates of the palace wins.”

  I roll my eyes. “Nice choice, ending at the palace.”

  “That was my idea.” I turn to find Charles approaching. Despite his face still being black and blue from the beating I gave him earlier in the week, he’s looking even more smug than usual. He’s wearing a three-piece suit in this trashy back alley, for god’s sake.

  “Why are you here?” I ask,
already impatient.

  “To secure my investment, of course.” He arches a brow. “Katherine, come on out!”

  And of course Kitty walks around the corner, looking around with wide eyes like some innocent baby deer stumbling into a den of lions. She’s wearing this pale pink dress and these tall white heels, with her hair done up so she looks like some kind of 1920s movie star ingénue.

  “Fuck,” I mutter.

  Jack grabs my arm and gives me a warning look. “Be cool. Don’t play into it, whatever he’s trying to do.”

  He doesn’t let go until I give him a nod.

  Charles strolls up to us and runs a finger down the hood of the car.

  “Fuck off with that,” Rafe says, shooing him back. “This car is worth more than your miserable fucking life.”

  Charles gives Rafe a sour look, then turns to me. “Don’t forget what we’ve agreed, Alasdair. You play by the rules all the way till the end, make sure it looks like you’re going to win. Then I want you to fake a flat tire before the finish line.”

  “You know that if they realize you’ve fixed the race, they’ll kill you,” I tell him. “You’d just vanish without a trace and turn up in the river a week later, dead as a doornail. Not that I’d be upset.”

  “Ha, ha. If I get caught, so do you. And since I’ve got Katherine down here, hanging out with both of us, you can be sure that she’ll be on their list, too.”

  “Are you trying to get me to kill you? Is that what you want? I genuinely can’t tell,” I snarl.

  Kit walks up to us, looking between us with an anxious expression.

  “Can I talk to you?” she asks me.

  I glance at her, and of course all I can think about is the secret that Charles leaked. Shame fills me, and I can’t even look Kitty in the eye. Lucky for me, a three-minute-warning whistle sounds.

  “Can’t. Out of time,” I tell her.

  Charles has this amused look on his face. I can tell he’s enjoying the rift he’s caused between me and Kit, which makes me feel a new level of fury.

  “Rex,” she says, stepping close to me and catching my hand. I can’t pull away. I turn and look down into her face, at those big gray eyes brimming with tears. “Please don’t do this.”

  “He told me,” I say.

  She bites her lip and looks down, a tear breaking free to roll down her face.

  “Hey,” I tell her, lifting her chin with a finger so that our gazes connect once more. “I’m sorry that you didn’t think you could tell me. Then, or now. I’m not going to let anyone else know your secret, though. It’s our secret now, ours together.”

  “I don’t want you to race, Rex. Let Charles go to the press,” she says, giving her head a shake. “My reputation isn’t worth risking your life.”

  “Come here,” I say, drawing her into my arms. I hug her tightly, then kiss her lips. The kiss is much too brief; they always are, with Kit. I always want more, always.

  “Do me a favor, get out of here as soon as you can, okay? I have a bad feeling about what Charles is planning,” I tell her.

  She gazes up at me and nods slowly. “Of course.”

  “Very sweet,” Charles snarks from the background. “Good to know that she probably would have left me eventually, anyway.”

  I sigh and step back when the one-minute whistle sounds. Charles takes a phone call and slinks off into the corner, leaving us alone for a few moments.

  “Go home,” I tell her.

  “No, no way,” she says, shaking her head. “I’ll meet you at the palace gates—”

  She never gets to finish her sentence, though, because the thirty second whistle goes off.

  “See you at the end,” I say, giving her one more kiss before I slide into the driver’s seat and fasten my seatbelt.

  Kit moves off and I take a deep breath, trying to center myself. Before I know it, the checkered flag comes down and I’m slamming the car into drive, peeling out after the first car. The familiar smell of burning rubber fills my senses.

  We fly out onto the open streets, tires squealing on the wet pavement. My pulse pounds as we fly through a big intersection, narrowly missing a couple of sedans that are trying to run the yellow light.

  Too close, already. It’s funny, this doesn’t feel nearly as good as it used to.

  Maybe because I have something to live for now, I think.

  I grab the map off the passenger seat and check it, which slows me down. Another racer passes me as we round a sharp right turn, and I curse.

  It never occurred to me that I genuinely might not be good enough to win anymore, but I’m rusty and out of practice. It’s close between me and the second place driver for a while, then I overtake him and challenge the driver with the lead. We drive in a wide arc, cutting around the more populated streets of downtown Valencia City.

  We’re neck and neck practically the whole next ten minutes. I’m sweating and tense, adrenaline pumping through my veins. Muscle memory takes over, and I start to really gain on my challenger. I could win this, maybe. If I’m super aggressive, I think I can.

  We come up on Queen’s Bridge, this narrow steel bridge that’s going to dump us out mere blocks from the palace gates. It’s only got one lane going each direction, and almost no room for error; two cars can barely pass each other on the bridge at low speeds without a sense of danger.

  I glance at the bridge, then at the car just before mine. I put the pedal to the metal and pull up beside him, glancing over to see his scowl.

  Good, be fucking mad.

  I swing wide to avoid an oncoming car, then arc down the wide street to pull in front to take the lead in the race. I hit the bridge first, the other guy right on my bloody bumper, and we fly down the bridge.

  I nearly choke when I see the other driver pulling into the lane next to mine, trying to overtake me.

  Is he fucking crazy? If a car comes up that lane, this guy and the other car are fucking dead.

  He paces me almost all the way down the bridge, but I won’t let him overtake me. Then I see the telltale bouncing flash of headlights. Someone is on the bridge now, heading right for my competitor.

  I glance over at him, and he’s grinning at me.

  Fuck. He’s going to play chicken with this other car, try to get me to drop back and give up the lead to save the oncoming driver’s life.

  I floor it, trying to give the Tamil driver enough space to get over behind me, but the headlights are coming closer, closer. Then the other car is on us, horn blaring. If the other driver panics and spins out, we’re all fucked.

  Then I remember, in a sudden flash, that I’m supposed to throw the fucking race.

  I slam on the brakes, dropping me back, back. The Tamil guy pulls in front of me just in time for us to pass the innocent driver in the other lane with an audible whoooosh and a blare of his horn.

  To my surprise, when we shoot off the bridge and onto the street a few seconds later, my challenger slows way, way down and gives up the lead. Since I’m supposed to lose at the last second, this means that I have to slow down in order to lose to him.

  Three more racers are on our heels before we know it, and one of them overtakes all of us. We hit the finish line at the palace gates in an awkward gaggle, unlike anything I’ve ever seen in a street race before.

  Something bad is going down, I just can’t quite figure what. I pull up on the sidewalk behind a couple of my competitors, only a few hundred yards from the palace gates. When I get out of the car, Charles and Kit are already there.

  Charles is on the phone, his expression sly. Kit runs over to me and throws her arms around my neck, but I’m distracted, watching this fight that’s about to pop off between the Tamil guys and my blackmailer.

  “You think you’re smarter than Tamil?” an outraged male voice shouts.

  Everyone’s staring at this huge tattooed Asian guy who’s stalking over to confront Charles. Charles’s mouth moves, saying something to the guy, but I can’t make out what he says. The scheme
has been uncovered,

  “No one fixes a race with Tamil, not even the fucking Prince himself!” the guy screams pointing at me.

  Fuck.

  “Kit, run!” I tell her, but of course she just shakes her head.

  Two big guys jump Charles and another three storm toward me and Kit. I glance around, then start hauling ass toward the palace gates. The Queen’s guard will be there, and they’ll protect us if it comes to blows.

  Then I hear the screeching of tires as several white news vans pull up, their doors opening to spew camera crews and reporters. They’re all looking right at me, which means that they were expecting me to be here. The paparazzi aren’t far behind, and soon they’re chasing me and Kit.

  Fucking Charles has ratted us out to the press. Of course. Of course he did.

  “Prince Magnum! Lady Katherine! Are you involved in this illegal street race? Is it true that you’ve had a secret relationship for half a decade?” I tow Kit along toward the gates, but even I stumble at one particular question from the crowd. “Charles Ford’s new tell-all alleges that Lady Katherine aborted your baby, Prince Alasdair! Is it true? Did it break your parents up?”

  I look at Kit, who’s in tears now. I turn around to the crowd.

  “No comment! If you get any closer to the Lady, I will make your lives very difficult,” I warn them.

  Then I sweep Kitty up into my arms and jog up to the gates, which are already opening just wide enough to admit me. I step into the palace’s protection, leaving the press behind, hugging Kit to my chest.

  Inside though, my heart is heavy as lead. All our secrets are out on the table. We’ve done all our blackmailer asked, and still been sold down the river. And worse, Charles has twisted and spun our story to his own sick imaginings, making the tale as inflammatory as possible.

  I carry Kit over to the small guard house, out of sight of the photogs, and set her down in a desk chair. She’s not crying anymore, but she’s not responsive when I squeeze her shoulder and tell her everything will be all right.

  We’re in a blank, windowless little box, and it feels claustrophobic. Still, there’s nowhere else for us to go unless we want to face my grandparents’ rage. I, for one, would rather walk back out into the screaming press.