King Size: A Royal Bad Boy Romance

by Lexi Whitlow

  “That’s fair.”

  “I have a question,” she states, “and I need an honest answer.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I reply.

  “What happens if your brother skips town, decides he doesn’t want to be king?”

  I try my best not to reveal just what I think of the question. “My brother will do his duty; it’s what he was born for. He’s just sowing the last of his wild oats right now. He’ll be back soon, and we can all go back to the way things were.”

  She asks a few more questions, the last being, “Am I allowed to say no? Or is this a command performance like the party on the yacht, and making me come here to hear you out?”

  “You’re allowed to say no,” I assure her. “But I very much hope you’ll say yes, and I’m willing to go to some lengths to get you to yes.”

  “I’m listening,” she says.

  “First, I think I can part with one of the smaller royal estates under my care. I’ll let you choose which one. After that, we could probably work out a grant or two to get you started in business for yourself. I believe you’re a fashion photographer as well as an artist?” She nods. “Cymrea doesn’t have a big fashion industry, but London does, and it’s possible we could pinch some of that work and send it your way. Plus, being on the arm of a prince helps get clients for that sort of thing.”

  She’s listening alright. A smile—the first real, full one all night—turns her lips ever so slightly.

  “And as a final inducement, I believe an upfront cash payment is appropriate, followed by a final payment at the conclusion of our business. That, in addition to a generous allowance to cover expenses like your everyday clothes and such. The household will cover the cost of gowns and formal wear for the events you’ll attend with me.”

  “How much are we talking?” Norah asks, trying to put a price on her freedom.

  “You open the bidding,” I say, allowing a small, self-satisfied smile. She’s taken the bait. I’ve hooked her. Now I just need to reel her in.

  “A hundred thousand dollars,” she says.

  I can’t stifle the laugh that slips out. “How about… a million euros? Half now, half when we’re done.”

  She grabs the arm of a chair and slowly lowers herself down. “A million euros?”

  I may have given her a stroke.

  She swallows hard. She looks down at her hands, and seeing them tremble, presses her palms flat on the table. “Good Lord,” she whispers. “Good Lord.”

  “Is that a yes?” I ask.

  She nods. “Yeah. Yeah. That’s a yes.”

  I would have gone to three million.

  “Outstanding,” I say, lifting my glass. “It’s a deal. But there’s just one last thing you have to agree to.”

  She cocks her head at me. “What?”

  “You can’t ever call me an asshole in public again. You’re welcome to do it in private when no one else is within earshot, but from here on out, you have to at least act like you like me, even if you hate my guts.”

  Norah grins, lifting her glass to touch mine. “Fine, if you say so. Just know that wherever we are, no matter how much I’m smiling or fawning for the cameras, I’m thinking the whole time, ‘what a fucking asshole.’”

  “We have to make a small detour,” I say, showing Norah into the car. “We need to get this show started, and the fastest way to do that is to let the press open the speculation. That’ll get my mother’s attention, and she’ll insist on meeting you.”

  “What do you have in mind?” she asks as Duncan pulls off, headed toward town rather than back to her friend’s house.

  “Just a little PDA on the boardwalk, under the lights,” I say. “The paparazzi know I’m in town, and they’re all hanging around. It’ll take about ten minutes before we’re flashbulb central.”

  “Good God,” Norah says. “This is crazy.”

  “You have no idea how crazy,” I laugh. “It’s gonna get crazier. Take me at my word.”

  Duncan parks the car in a public lot above the boardwalk, overlooking the beach. The sun is just starting to make its way down, but it’s still plenty bright, with a warm, gentle breeze coming from the southwest. I take Norah’s hand in mine, leading her down the steps to the walkway. The air is clean and salty, the water blue out to the horizon, and high tide is rising on the sandy beach twenty feet below us.

  As a child, I loved coming here with my nanny. We could do that then because no one knew who we were, as my mother did an excellent job of keeping our faces out of the spotlight. We were just two little boys on the beach with a woman everyone assumed was our mother. Today, it’s rare that I get to come out in public. I miss it.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” Norah says.

  I smile, pausing at a wide stone post installed hundreds of years ago when the first seawall went in. It’s four feet high and three feet square, made of solid granite. It occurs to me that this stone would look good with Norah’s lovely ass planted on it. I lift her up, setting her onto it before she knows quite what I’ve done.

  She laughs. I don’t know if she’s laughing with me, or at me. I don’t care.

  I step close, spreading her knees between my hips. “You really are beautiful,” I say, which is the second truthful thing I’ve said to her today. Three glasses of whiskey, and I’m letting my guard down.

  “Shut up, Your Royal Dickness,” she says.

  “No, it’s true,” I say. “If it wasn’t true we wouldn’t be here.”

  I lean in, finding her mouth, slipping my hand around the back of her lovely head. I part her lips gently, more gently than I did last time we were this close. Instead of citrus and spicy peppers, I taste peat bogs and orange wood. I taste strawberries and cream. I taste Norah, her precious heat. She kisses me back, slipping her arms over my shoulders. She sucks me into her, breathing me, even though she thinks I’m a “fucking asshole.”

  “Prince Owen!”

  Right on cue.

  “Prince Owen. Who’s your girlfriend?!”

  The flashbulbs are blinding. There are at least three of them, all shouting at us, all snapping shot after shot.

  In a nanosecond, Duncan is between them and us, and I’m hustling Norah back to the car, back to safety.

  “Jesus,” she huffs as I pull the door closed against more paps and their cameras. “They’re like piranhas.”

  That couldn’t have gone better if I’d staged it.

  My mother is going to wake up tomorrow with headlines giving her something else to think on besides my crazy brother and the fact that I’m twenty-seven years old and still not married. When she confronts me with it, I’ll confess that Norah and I have been seeing one another secretly for more than a month—which is sort of true—and that I’m installing her as my Official Companion, which is my prerogative.

  Mother may not like it. Norah’s not one of her chosen duchesses, but she’s better than any of them, and she’ll do just fine for both our purposes.

  5

  Norah

  Sinead lays the paper down on the table. She gapes at it, then up at me. “Seriously?” she insists. “Are you for real? You’re seeing the Prince, and you’ve been keeping this a secret?”

  The lurid photograph splayed across the top fold of Today’s Mail—the worst tabloid in all the Northern Isles—would lead one to the conclusion that Prince Owen and I are more than just casual acquaintances.

  Earl Whatsit stares at me with unrestrained horror. “This is insupportable,” he states indignantly.

  I have no idea what that means. I signed a non-disclosure agreement. I signed a detailed contract. I can only give them the “official” story.

  “We met in Paris,” I say. “We hit it off, but things got complicated. Then we reconnected again, and… yeah… we’re dating.”

  We’re “dating,” and this afternoon a car with a security detail is going to show up to escort me, my suitcase, and three boxes of books to my new residence inside the palace grounds at Beaumaris Cast
le in Cymrea. Collin—Owen—informed me of this as he sent me off after our brief but exciting stroll down the boardwalk at Saxony.

  “I’m headed home to Cymrea tomorrow, and you’re coming with me,” he said, squeezing my hand between his.

  He’s paying me a million euros to relocate, and I really can’t complain. I’ve worn out my welcome with Earl of his Holy Whatsitface, anyway.

  I’ve endured a week of fittings, elocution classes, and a crash course in Anglesey history. If I thought Sinead and the Earl put me through my paces ahead of the royal cruise, I was sadly mistaken. This world I’ve entered is beyond comprehension: everything is artifice, pretext, and staging.

  If I’m dressed in blue, it means I aspire to marrying into the royal family. If I wear yellow, it means I’m just a friend. Red signifies I’m simply a passing fling. Green is the color of revolution and opposition to the monarchy. Orange implies I’m a fascist, bent on enslaving the whole nation.

  What’s left? Apparently I’m to be outfitted in fifty shades of gray with a few highlights of teal, as no one seems to have assigned any symbolic intrigue to that hue.

  Owen—I’ve finally gotten used to calling him that—staged three more clandestine outings where the photographers caught us engaged in absurdly public displays of affection. He’s adept at building a solid case for this fake relationship. Everyone thinks we’re the real thing.

  Today, for the first time in eight days, I have the afternoon to myself. My apartment at Beaumaris is wonderful, but it lacks a few things—like a toilet brush and dish rack—to make it perfectly functional.

  “Where are we going, ma’am?” Duncan asks as he drops his shades low on his nose.

  “Is there a Target?” I ask. “Or something like it. I need to get some household things. Wal-Mart would work.”

  Duncan looks confused.

  “Ikea. Ikea is what I’m looking for. Tell me there’s a fucking Ikea.”

  “There is no Ikea in Cymrea,” Duncan says haughtily. “There’s one in Bristol, but I’m certainly not crossing the border to England to deliver you to a sodding Ikea.” He pauses. “Ma’am.”

  I sigh. “Then take me to whatever most closely resembles a sodding Ikea.”

  Duncan delivers me to the only thing resembling a department store on the entire island. It’s a place reminiscent of a five and dime, a time capsule from another era.

  I locate my dish rack and my toilet brush, then make my way to the check-out counter. That’s when things move south—quickly.

  “Miss? Excuse me, miss!”

  I turn toward the strange voice calling me. The next thing I know I’m framed in a reporter’s viewfinder, flashbulbs popping off in my face like strobe lights. I’m holding a toilet brush in one hand with a look of absolute shock on my face. I’m sure Owen will be thrilled.

  “If Crown Prince Lloyd abdicates, do you and Prince Owen plan to marry?”

  “Prince Lloyd is rumored to be suffering from a mental breakdown. Is Prince Owen going to be the next king?”

  “Have you and Prince Owen set a wedding date yet?”

  One photographer becomes three, and then ten. They shout questions at me rapid-fire, pressing in too close. Duncan steps between me and them, but they surround us.

  The next thing I know, Duncan has a gun in his hand, backing them off with the barrel pointed straight ahead. “Let’s get you out of here,” he says, pulling me under his arm, hustling me back to the car while the photographers stalk twenty paces behind.

  Speeding off, he glances at me in his rearview. “Are you okay? That was much too close.”

  I’m fine. A little shaken. I nod at him.

  “We’re going to have to rethink your security protocol,” Duncan says. “I’ll speak with the Prince about it today.”

  Why would they think Crown Prince Lloyd is having a mental problem? Why would they think he plans to abdicate?

  Right after I arrived in Anglesey, Earl Whatsit said there was a rumor afoot about Owen succeeding to the throne, but he made light of it, like it was a joke. Maybe there’s something to this. Maybe Owen’s been leading me down a merry path.

  I need to get to the bottom of this.

  “Duncan, tell His Royal Pain in My Ass that I need to speak to him posthaste, or our deal is off, and I’m going to the press with some deep palace intrigue.”

  Duncan nods without expression, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Duncan passed your message along,” Owen says. “I’m sorry about the paparazzi, but it’s no reason to get testy or start making threats.”

  He’s standing over me with his arms crossed, peering down his nose at me like I’m an errant child. He’s infuriating, and infuriatingly handsome. It would be so much easier to really hate him if he weren’t him. Six feet, perfect, slightly messy hair. Deep set blue eyes that look almost thoughtful if you catch him off guard. And the lean, muscular body of a swimmer. His easy manner can change from formal and appropriate to downright dirty at a moment’s notice—and I catch myself almost liking him.

  “Where is your brother? And why do the tabloids think he’s having a mental breakdown?”

  If he clenches his jaw any tighter, he’s going to chip some of those perfect pearly whites. “I told you, he’s out of the country on a personal issue,” Owen says. “It’s none of your business.”

  “Oh, it’s very much my business when I’m accosted by a rabid gang of bloodthirsty reporters who only back down when guns are drawn,” I snap back at Prince Pompous. “It’s my business when the whole world thinks I’m your intended and you’re going to be king, which makes me a prisoner for life inside this fake romance you’ve dreamed up. Tell me what is going on.”

  Owen slumps, then slides into an overstuffed chair in the middle of the parlor. He looks deflated. He may even be pouting. It’s hard to tell. He’s delicious, even when brooding like a brat.

  “Okay,” he relents, shaking his head, letting it fall back on the cushioned chairback in utter defeat. “My brother is in Bora Bora, hanging out with a bunch of lunatics with shaved heads who fancy themselves The Exalted Order of the One True Toth. They worship a statue of a baboon, chant at the thing all day long, and believe the world is going to end on the thirty-first day of February, 2037, when Toth will magically appear from the heavens to take them to some planet hiding behind the moon.”

  Wait. What?

  “But there is no thirty-first day of February,” I say, then realize the absurdity of my own statement. Laughter comes to me; I can’t suppress it. Giggles peal out as I try to process what the hell he’s just said.

  “Go ahead,” Owen sighs, staring up at the ceiling, not reacting. “Laugh. Lord knows I’ve laughed about it enough. But no one’s laughing anymore.”

  “You’re serious? Your brother, the Crown Prince of Anglesey, has joined a cult? The next king is going to be a baboon-worshipping Hare Krishna?”

  That’s rich. That’s awesome! That’ll be fun to watch. Get me some popcorn!

  “Probably not,” Owen says, resignation dragging his tone to the dungeon.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, still snorting back giggles.

  He sits up, his face now stern, serious. He folds his hands together between open knees, his eyes fixing mine in a steady gaze. “I mean he’s either going to voluntarily abdicate, or he’s going to be declared unfit to rule and be deposed. There’s a committee of twenty-seven judges, nobles, psychiatrists, my mother, along with several other members of the royal family, secretly flying to Bora Bora right now. So far he’s refused to come home. One way or another, he’s coming home now, even if it’s in a straightjacket. We were going to give him some time to come to his senses, but the idiot gave an interview to some reporter. We were able to suppress its publication, but that stunt was enough to put everything in motion. My mother is apoplectic.”

  “Oh my God,” I say, realizing exactly what this means. “You’re going to be king.”

  Owen he
aves a heavy sigh. “Maybe,” he says. “I’ve got a few cousins who might arm wrestle me for it.”

  “How could they?” I ask. “You’re the king’s son, too.”

  “I’m the king’s unmarried second son,” he replies, still holding my gaze. “If I’m to have a prayer of becoming king, I need to be married, or at least engaged.”

  “That isn’t part of our deal,” I say, feeling the Earth tilt beneath me. I need to sit down; I feel queasy. “This was supposed to be temporary. This isn’t even real.”

  “It’s become very real, very quickly,” Owen says. “I’d like to re-open our deal, throw some things in, convince you to marry me. When Mother returns from this trip and the news comes out about Lloyd, I want to have a fiancée and a wedding date ready to announce, to put as much of a positive spin on this fiasco as I can.”

  He’s lost his mind.

  “I’m serious,” Owen insists. “Your father lost everything to that conman Mackoff. I can restore what he lost and then some, along with paying off your family’s debts.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “I’ll give you Brynterion as your own private residence, so when you decide you’ve had enough of me, you’ll have somewhere to retire that’s befitting of your status.”

  What?

  “Of course, you’ll become Duchess of Brynterion, which comes with an annual income of sixteen million euros. I can probably throw in a few more titles and smaller estates to round the numbers up.”

  Oh. My. God.

  “And I think your friends, the Earl of Hereford and his lovely wife, Sinead, would appreciate being elevated to the Marquess and Marchioness of Westmoreland, with that estate and its income at their disposal. The Earl inherited a title and a nice, very ancient house that’s badly in need of repair. He didn’t inherit the money to keep the place up. Unless he wins the lottery, he’s going to be the last earl to ever walk those halls.”

  That’s awful.

  “What more can I offer you?” Owen asks, something akin to pleading in his expression.