Pretend Princess With Benefits: A Royal Fake Marriage Romance

by Lara Swann

  I’ve been too focused on simply getting this far without vomiting to have any idea how long has already passed since my father’s call. Probably too long to be good.

  Well, what do the fuckers expect?! They know the shit you get up to after a major job...

  But Sullivan is a demanding bastard. And it doesn’t go well for the guys that piss him off. I might be able to get away with more than most, but the sorry, I was fucked up on booze and women excuse isn’t going to fly.

  So I suck it up and try to fight my way to some form of awareness on the short ride over. It takes until we’re halfway there before it even occurs to me to wonder what the hell this is about.

  I hope to god it’s not some emergency hit that needs to be taken care of now - because I might be able to get some pants on and stagger my way over to Sullivan’s office, but there’s no way I can give that sort of performance today.

  I might be one of the premier hitmen in the city - with a near-perfect record despite my young age - but right now, your average street thug could best me. He wouldn’t even have to try hard - a little yelling, and I’d be on the floor.

  But if this was an emergency hit, there’d be no reason not to call my father instead - from the sound of it, he’s already there, and he’s one of the few that can best me. Not to mention, he’s not hungover. So this is something else.

  The pounding in my head flares in pain as I struggle with it, and I remember that thinking isn’t a great idea right now.

  Nothing I can do about it anyway. Sullivan will tell me what he needs, and I’ll accept. Hopefully with a little sleep and a few days to recover first, but saying no to the boss of the Irish mob isn’t an option.

  “Hey, man—” The cab driver’s irate voice breaks through my confused thoughts, and I glance up to see that we’ve come to a stop for something other than the constant traffic lights of the city.

  The large building that houses Sullivan’s office looms in front of us and I run a hand through my hair as I mutter an apology for my distraction, then fumble some money out of my wallet.

  “Sorry. Keep the change.” I open the door and step out, taking a moment to settle my stomach from the ride before I continue the one-step-forward game that’s got me this far.

  As I get buzzed in and start the long ascent of the large staircase that dominates the center of the building, I slowly realize that I am starting to feel a little better. Not take-on-the-world good, as I’m used to, but enough to face Sullivan. Thank god.

  This place used to be a simple apartment building - with two or three apartments branching from the corridors on every level - but when Sullivan took over the penthouse here, the mob started buying up the rest of it, and now it’s a pretty good headquarters for all the most important members of his family.

  My father is waiting at the top level, just before the corridor to Sullivan’s office, and he pushes himself off from the wall as he sees me. His silvering brown hair and dull blue eyes set in rough, strong features are nothing like my own jet-black hair and bright green eyes, or the finer features I usually cover with a rugged line of stubble.

  That slightly delicate set to my face sets me apart from the typical street thug look most of these guys have, and I used to resent not looking tougher - until I grew into the tall, broad-shouldered build my father did give me, and became deadly enough that no one looks twice at me anymore.

  Now, it just makes me wonder occasionally what my mom must have looked like.

  My father steps closer before giving me a long look up and down and then wrinkling his nose in a way that tells me I must look and smell pretty bad.

  I give him a crooked grin and nod towards the door down the hall. “So, ya’know what this is about?”

  For once, his face stays pretty serious as he nods, unaffected by my antics. “I’ve got an idea. Just go in, listen, and accept the job.”

  “Yessir.” I give a mock-salute.

  Did I just slur that? Shit, am I still drunk?

  “—outta there as soon as possible…look like shit.” I struggle to refocus on what he’s saying.

  “That bad, huh?” I give a grunt of laughter. I hadn’t bothered to check the mirror this morning.

  “Must’ve been some night.” There it is - that familiar twinkle of amusement, as if he knows exactly what I’ve been up to. I’m pretty sure he does - hell, I’ve spent most of my life following his not-so-pure example.

  Bonding over shit like that with my father might be unusual for most guys - and maybe it would be different if I had a mom to worry about - but he’s raised me with the only life he’s ever known. And she hadn’t wanted anything to do with us.

  The moment she’d found out about what Gerard Stone was involved with, she’d gone ape-shit about having a hitman’s child. I’m not sure how much he ever really cared for her, but he fought like all hell for me - there was no way she was getting rid of his child.

  They’d come to some agreement that she’d go through with it, and then he’d take me and we’d both disappear from her life. And since then, he’s raised me the only way he knows how - teaching me everything he knows and setting me up for a major position in the Irish mob.

  So I enjoy our unique relationship and have fun with all the shit we get up to - but I never forget what he’s done for me.

  I flash him another grin before moving past, towards Sullivan’s office.

  I don’t usually get this fucked up, so yeah…it was a good night. And after the way I’d silently taken care of one of Sullivan’s rivals the night before, I’d deserved it.

  I knock once, and get a curt invitation to enter before stepping into the large office.

  Patrick Sullivan - an average-looking man with hard, calculating eyes - looks up from behind the large mahogany desk and pins me with a glance, as he always does. Sometimes it’s hard to believe just how much power and influence this mostly-ordinary man has - and other times, it’s hard to believe anything else.

  Today it’s the latter, and I move forward slowly - carefully. Not just because I’m all too aware that I might trip and fall flat on my face, but because that’s the sort of behavior Sullivan prompts.

  My heart speeds up just a little, as it usually does in his presence, and I get that familiar tension that tells me everything I do here is just as important - and skillful - as my ability to kill without being seen or heard.

  “Caleb.” Sullivan stands and comes around to the other side of his desk to lean back against it, and I immediately know something is different.

  I’ve received a dozen orders for a man’s death from behind that desk - straightforward, no-nonsense requests. And Sullivan has never started like this - or narrowed the space between us.

  An uncomfortable feeling forms in my stomach - more than the slight tinge of nausea that’s still there - and I wish for the hundredth time that I’m feeling just a bit sharper this morning. But I’m not, so I follow my father’s advice and just nod - keeping quiet, and letting him speak.

  “I’ve got a…special kind of job for you.” His eyes drill into mine, as if registering every little reaction, but I’m pretty sure I’m in too much of a daze to give one. “I’ve received several death threats recently - on my daughter’s life.”

  Oh.

  So this was personal. I nod immediately.

  “You want me to take the guy out.” My voice doesn’t rasp or struggle, and I’m momentarily impressed with myself.

  Until Sullivan shakes his head, eyes narrowed. “No. We don’t know who it is.”

  I frown. Death threats usually came with a warning to back off from something - or give something up - that lead you nicely back to the man responsible.

  “Whoever the fucker is, it’s obvious he’s doing this to mess with me. Here.” He hands me a few papers and I glance down automatically.

  Then I freeze.

  The picture - the girl - looking back at me stops everything. Rich blond hair swings around her shoulders as she glances over to a point nea
rby the camera, showing sparkling blue eyes and an easy, happy smile that lights up her face. Her back is to the camera, but there’s just enough profile to make out the hot curves on her tall, lithe body.

  Simply put, she has the sort of natural, stunning beauty that most girls would kill for. But that’s not what catches my attention - I’ve known stunning women. I’ve known jaw-droppingly gorgeous girls. Hell, I make a habit of spending a lot of time with them. But this one…even from the photo, I can tell she’s not aware of it.

  There’s no provocative swing to her hips, no teasing smile or the twinkle of I’m fucking hot knowledge in her eyes. And the idea of that is so unbelievable that I’m left speechless. Speechless - and more, as my cock twitches uncomfortably in my now-tight jeans.

  “I know.” Sullivan’s tone is grim, and belatedly drags me out of my stupor. “I was shocked when I saw them, too. We’ve got a real problem here.”

  I glance up at him, trying not to look as bemused as I feel. Then I look back down at the paper and finally register what we were talking about before she appeared.

  Which makes the blond bombshell his daughter.

  Shit.

  I recoil as if he can read my thoughts, and then try hurriedly to unthink everything that just went through my head.

  Shit shit shit.

  Guiltily, I force my eyes away from the photo and finally see the words that Sullivan must have been referring to.

  “Pretty little thing…so innocent. Does she know who her Daddy really is?”

  Something inside me chills, and it’s enough for me to forget my preoccupation with her photo. Instead, I start flicking through the other papers he gave me - letters, I realize.

  “Life is so fragile, don’t you think, Patrick? I’m sure she’d be…hurt…to know you’ve never found it precious, too.”

  “Have you ever lost anything that truly matters to you, Patrick?”

  Each comment is accompanied by another photo, but I’m distracted enough now that I barely notice the way every angle seems to enhance my first impression of the girl. Okay, maybe not distracted enough. But at least I’m not just standing here ogling her in front of her father anymore.

  I look back up to Sullivan, my frown a reflection of his own expression. The comments are disturbing enough, but the real problem is that there’s no demand accompanying it - no sign of blackmail or anything that gives us a way in. Just pure hate-mail.

  Someone who doesn’t just want to kill Sullivan’s daughter, but wants to terrorize him with it first. For no other reason than some unknown grudge against Sullivan - and, maybe even the Irish mob itself.

  It’s not exactly surprising that Sullivan’s made this kind of enemy - but the real question is, who has the balls to actually act on it?

  And to send letters announcing the intention first, to provoke whatever Sullivan might do to protect his daughter. That’s if this is even a real threat, which isn’t guaranteed.

  Fuck, what a headache.

  “I’ll kill him for you when you find the guy.” I confirm to Sullivan.

  Surprisingly, I find that I want to. I’m usually fairly indifferent about my kills, but the idea of someone wanting to take out that sort of sweet, beautiful girl from the world bothers me. Maybe Sullivan would expect loyalty to drive me instead, but hell, he runs the Irish mob in Baltimore - he probably deserves this.

  I could easily imagine him ordering something similar for someone else’s child - who knows, maybe that was what happened to this guy. The want-to-be-killer’s grudge is almost certainly justified. I’ve never really cared about the right and wrong of it all, but I’m not going to fool myself into thinking I’m on some good side here.

  But the girl…she doesn’t deserve this shit. And for some reason, that matters right now.

  “…okay?” Sullivan finishes, and I blink at him as I realize I don’t have a clue what he just said.

  “Uhh…sorry—” I shrug in apology and his frown deepens, but he lets me get away with it.

  “I said I didn’t call you in here to talk about killing him. My daughter starts her second year of college next week, and I can’t have her exposed and unprotected while I hunt for this bastard. I need you to keep her safe until we find the fucker.”

  I blink, and only just catch myself before asking him to repeat it again, sure that between the pounding headache and my dunk confusion, I’ve misunderstood something.

  “I don’t know shit about keeping anyone safe.” I say bluntly, disbelief overriding caution.

  Sullivan just folds his arms and narrows his gaze at me. “You’re good enough at setting up kills - just work out what you’d do, then stop it.”

  That is not how that works.

  Except I don’t say it - because he knows that as well as me. Sullivan may be a lot of things, but he isn’t an idiot, and he knows hitman and bodyguard are two very different skillsets. But the set of his shoulders and the intent look in his eyes makes it clear that he’s going through with this regardless.

  “She’d be far safer if you just brought her in here, boss.” I reason, clutching at anything that might change his mind about this fucking terrible idea. “Surely she won’t mind missing a couple weeks of school if you explain her life is in danger?”

  “She doesn’t know about this - the Irish mob - any of it.” His admission is grim, but it carries a heavy note of warning too, and my stomach turns.

  So what you’re saying is you want me to go play college student while trying to protect your daughter from an unknown threat, without letting her know any of that is going on?

  My outraged expression probably gives away exactly what I’m thinking, but I don’t come close to saying it. It’s obvious that’s exactly what he’s expecting from me, and there’s only so far I can push. Especially with his daughter’s life on the line. I’ve never quite seen Sullivan like this before, and I instinctively know I’m not getting out of this one.

  The last thing I want to do is play bodyguard, but I take my father’s advice and give Sullivan a quick nod instead.

  If you already know your fate, there’s no point fighting. I can process what it means when I’m not hungover as fuck and likely to get myself killed by saying the wrong thing.

  And more than that…the image of Sullivan’s daughter is fresh in my mind, and even if I’m going to make a terrible bodyguard, some part of me refuses to leave her to fend off threats she doesn’t even know about.

  Who knows, maybe a couple of weeks of college life could even be fun - hot girls, awesome parties - the kind of innocent life I’ve never even thought about.

  Sullivan gives me some more details that I hardly pay attention to - time, place, logistics - and then I turn to go, my head feeling like it’s about ready to explode.

  Sullivan’s voice stops me with my hand on the doorknob. “I’m trusting you with my daughter, Caleb. Don’t let me down.”

  Great.

  I give a brief acknowledgment and then walk decidedly away from Sullivan’s office, needing to put some space between me and this crazy plan.

  There’s only one cure for this kind of gods-forsaken hangover.

  More alcohol.

  Chapter Two

  Alana

  I drive past the proud University of North Carolina signs and iconic buildings, smiling at the thought of being back on campus as I pull up in front of the large dorm building that will be my home for the next year.

  There are already a few students and their parents walking around - lugging boxes up stairs and settling into their new accommodations - but not as many as the next few days will bring.

  I’m here a little early, but I like it that way. I get a chance to check out the books I’ll need from the library before the usual rush, read up on my first few classes, and avoid the last-minute panic that usually unfolds. Plus, I get a little time to settle in before the crazy start-of-term parties that always kick off and turn previously respectable dorm rooms into a mess of half-naked bodies, alcohol and ch
aos.

  That’s not exactly my favorite thing, but I’ve been looking forward to being back on campus all summer, so even that thought can’t deter me as I finally shut off the engine and step out to survey my over-full car.

  Another student-and-mom couple passes me and I feel a little pang as I remember the fun my Mom and I had last year in setting everything up. I’m not the type to get homesick, but it gave me something to cling onto when I was feeling nervous about starting college.

  Now that I’m in my second year I have no reason to be nervous, so when Mom mentioned a conference that she was desperate to go to this weekend, I’d said it wasn’t a problem. And it shouldn’t be a problem. But those slightly awkward-anxious butterflies are back again as I glance up at the stately building and wonder who I’ll be living with this time around.

  C’mon girl, you’re fine - and it can’t be worse than having Bryan around last year.

  I shake off the silly insecurities and remind myself that at least I’ll be seeing Mel and Lily soon. I pull out the first box and look back up at the large building, smiling wryly as I eye the tall windows near the top.

  Of course, I told Mom it was fine before I knew I was on the third floor…

  Convincing myself that the exercise will be good for me, I nudge the trunk closed with my hip and stride over to the main door, which has already been propped open by another a student before me.

  By the time I get to the third floor, I’m not out of breath, but I definitely wish I didn’t have to make this trip twenty times.

  At least you lucked into a single room this year. The ‘college roommate’ experience is definitely not all it’s cracked up to be.

  My eyes dart around the corridor, looking for my room as I walk past the kitchen and common space.

  Thirty-one…thirty-three…thirty-five…

  Shit.

  I stop abruptly as my expected view of thirty-seven is blocked by a man leaning against the doorway. And not just any man.

  The ridiculously-sexy type - with a rough, powerful body and ruggedly handsome face looking back at me. The kind that would make any girl stop and stare. Bright blue eyes, perfectly curved jet-black hair and a line of stubble around his jaw that’s just made for sex. My eyes dart down to check him out before I can stop myself, and it’s immediately obvious that isn’t the only part of him made for sex.