by Katie Knight
Sutherland was a short, stout man of brisk manners and few words. He and her father were old friends. “He’s fine to guard the king. I’ve got someone else in mind for head of my detail.”
Greaves raised a bushy white brow but remained silent.
“I want him.” She pointed to the blond Adonis still leaning against the wall by the window, looking for all the world as if he were bored to tears. “Zachary Raybourn.”
“But, your grace—” Greaves sputtered. “He’s not even been with the team for a year yet. And he’s not a Prylean citizen. He’s American.”
“All the better.” Esme bit back a smile at the way the old man said that last word, more like an unsavory curse than a nationality. She pushed to her feet, blood pounding and knees wobbling. Her late mother had always said that being a good monarch demanded firm judgment and a will to succeed. Esme had the drive to become the next queen down pat. The judgment part was still in question. But Raybourn was really the only choice she had. All the other men were loyal to the Prylean constitution. At least Raybourn didn’t give two hoots about her country or its dark-age ways. He was here for the job, at least from what she could tell. And he kept his mouth shut, which was even more important. Heck, he’d barely said more than two words beyond the normal civilities to Esme the entire time he’d been in the family’s employ. “I want him to be the lead of my personal team or no deal.”
She gave a quick side-glance to see Raybourn had straightened and was looking as stunned as she felt. Good. She raised her chin to him. “Do you accept the position?”
Raybourn hesitated, then smoothed a hand down the front of his black suit coat. “Yes.”
To say Zachary “Z” Raybourn was surprised by the princess’s offer would have put it mildly. He wasn’t sure yet how he’d work this to his advantage, but he would. He always did. He wasn’t known as the best card shark in the royal guard for nothing. Not that he didn’t appreciate the palace and all its ancient grandeur, but he longed for a good burger and fries and some decent beer for a change, not the watered-down stuff they called ale here in Prylea.
“Your grace, I realize that we said you could choose your own team leads, but Mr. Raybourn is not a wise choice.” Greaves cleared his throat. “Perhaps someone more experienced and well-versed in international diplomacy might be a better selection. As I said, Sutherland is—”
“Already occupied with the king,” Z supplied helpfully. “I’m fully capable of leading the princess’s security detail, Mr. Greaves, I assure you. I was fully briefed on all things Prylean prior to being sent here and I am American. No one knows how to handle a difficult situation in the States better than me. It’s my homeland.”
He knew damned well why they were pushing for Sutherland instead of him. The guy supported the parliament’s current nationalistic views and with the king stepping back from his duties and handing more and more responsibilities off to others, Sutherland and his cronies wanted to keep the monarchy in the hands of their puppet—the princess’s cousin Silvester. Z hoped that by Esme going to America and handling the meetings her father had been scheduled to preside over with the government, it would show everyone she was a capable leader and that there was no reason for her not to be Queen of Prylea.
And yeah, maybe his last SEAL mission hadn’t exactly ended as he’d wished—it had been a total disaster, truth be told. That didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of running a tight ship when it came to those under his protection. Hell, he had the scars all over his back to prove it.
Bad enough he’d been stuck here playing babysitter for half a year. He was ready to get back in the game, ready for more. If this wasn’t exactly a huge promotion, at least it was a start. Besides, Prylea was a big piece of the puzzle in the United States’ arsenal as far as friendly ports where they could keep their military at the ready in case of attack were concerned. That was the whole reason he’d been lent out to the royal family—as a gesture of cooperation between the two countries. Silvester had recently made speeches hinting at his plans for a more nationalistic policy and less friendly relations with the US. It was contrary to the choices the king had made over the last several decades, but the king currently lacked the strength to speak out against him, and there were many in parliament who liked the idea of returning to the “good old times” when Prylea stood for itself alone. The princess was the only one standing against him, and Z intended to give her all the support she needed—blustering cabinet members or not. He’d stood his ground in front of screaming drill sergeants and irate four-star generals. He could sure as hell withstand a load of bogus crap from a room full of tired old men looking to protect their own asses.
“Look, let’s consider this a trial run, eh?” Z said to appease the glaring opponents in the room. He met Esme’s wary gaze and flashed what he hoped was a confident smile. “We’re traveling to Washington, DC. Hardly a hotbed for insurgency. And Sutherland will be there as backup if I need him.” He wouldn’t. “If anything goes wrong, you can switch us out and be done with it. No questions asked. Deal?”
He held out his hand to Greaves. The old man exhaled loud and reluctantly shook on it.
Z bit back a grin and barely resisted winking at the princess. He was going to be her head of security, at least for this mission. He was going to get a chance to work the troops on the ground, so to speak. He was going to be free at last.
And he was going to enjoy every second of it.
CHAPTER 2
Four days later, Z was seriously reconsidering his life choices.
“Just try it harder, please. Honestly, you won’t hurt me.” The princess’s crisp, calm tone cut through the din of party echoing down the secluded hall. “I’d expected a SEAL to be more…aggressive.”
Biting back a snarky retort, Z leaned back slightly and glanced around from the shadows of the alcove where they were hidden to make sure there were no eavesdropping paparazzi lurking about. This mission was already turning into a major cluster, at least from his perspective. The last thing they needed now were compromising photos of Princess Esme splashed all over the tabloids, with the back of her fancy designer dress wide open and Z’s hands fumbling around near her ass.
In truth, the situation was perfectly innocent. The princess had been schmoozing with world dignitaries in the main ballroom of the National Building Museum. It was a black-tie charity event to help battle poverty in the local community by uniting corporate and world leaders, donors, and volunteers. The theme was “Absinthe Dream” and the huge marble arcade gallery was decorated with green decorations and lighting. They’d been served a gourmet four-course meal, most items of which Z couldn’t identify, then the table had been cleared and a dance floor had been set up with a live band to play music from the forties while the power elite wheeled and dealed.
Z had been content to hang back and watch the festivities from the sideline, keeping an eye on his charge and communicating with the rest of his team stationed around the area via the Bluetooth device in his ear. It should’ve been easy-peasy. It turned out to be anything but.
Thankfully, the princess had been just a few feet away from him when one of the ambassadors had accidentally stepped on the train of Esme’s ridiculously frou-frou—and ridiculously expensive—gown. She’d gone to move one way, and the dress hadn’t gone with her due to the ambassador’s ill-placed foot. Next thing Z knew, there’d been a tiny, but audible clicking noise and the back of the princess’s strapless dress had begun to slowly open from the top down. Luckily, his reflexes were hyper-fast from his time in SEALs, and it was only a moment before he had his arm around her, holding her dress closed as he escorted her quickly from the ballroom and over to this quiet alcove in the hallway.
Normally, he’d have enjoyed the view of a gorgeous woman’s bare back, but the princess was his job, not his girlfriend. Besides, she needed his help right now, not his libido getting out of hand. He tried to coax the broken zipper up again, but his fingers slipped, landing on the smooth, creamy
skin of her lower back. Warm and silky.
Not helpful, dude. Not helpful at all.
That’s when the toe-tapping started. A constant clack-clack-clack of her uber expensive stiletto sandal against the polished marble floor. “Whatever it is you’re doing back there, can you please hurry up?”
“I’m trying, your highness.” He did his best to keep his tone even and bland but figured a bit of annoyance must’ve crept out anyway, given the narrowed look she gave him over her shoulder. The stupid earpiece kept slipping out of his ear because of the angle of his head, and he cursed softly, clicking it off and letting it hang down his chest. He’d be fine protecting the princess himself in this small space, and he’d put the dumb thing back in his ear as soon as he was finished anyway. “That guy did a real number on this zipper. It’s all out of alignment and a couple of teeth are missing. I’m trying to get it to work again but rushing me isn’t helping. This isn’t exactly my forte. I’m used to getting women out of these things, not into them.”
He winced, regretting those words the minute they left his mouth.
Smooth move, dumbass.
God, he’d dealt with raids on sniper-infested enemy villages that were less dangerous than this current situation. Don’t touch, don’t look, don’t think about her at all. Just get the damned dress zipped and get on with it.
“You’d think for what this thing costs, they’d make the zipper out of indestructible titanium or something, right?” He chuckled, hoping to cover his early snafu, but only shoving his foot further into his mouth if her continued silence was any indication. He squinted at the zip and managed to get the pulley wedged over one of the missing teeth so that he could carefully work it upward. “I’ve got it working again, sort of. There’s still an opening near the bottom though, where the zipper doesn’t connect anymore. Got anything in that tiny bag of yours to hold it together, your highness?”
From watching her closely over the last couple of days, he knew she probably did. Esme Hollycombe was nothing if not organized and well-prepared. Plus, she did all those fussy hobbies like knitting and crochet and even embroidery and lace making. Z wasn’t the kind of guy to know much about those, except his mom had liked them too. A familiar pang of sorrow stabbed through his chest as he straightened, one hand still holding the open bottom of the zipper closed. Whenever he thought of his parents, God rest their souls, the same grief pinched his heart. It had been twenty-six years since they’d passed and the pain still felt as fresh as it had back then.
“As a matter of fact…” the princess said, digging around in the red satin clutch that was made of the same fabric as her dress. “I do have something.”
Z gave a silent snort and grinned. He’d known she would.
She passed him a needle and a tiny spool of black thread over her shoulder. “It’s the wrong color and the thread is a bit too thick, but if it gets me out of this mess and back into the ballroom, I don’t care.”
He grabbed them and quickly threaded the needle then kneeled again to stitch together the bottom zipper. Not exactly Martha Stewart perfection, but you’d be amazed the skills that a guy picked up as a SEAL. Once, he and his team had been out in the Kandahar desert, middle of nowhere, nothing but sand for miles, and one of the guy’s pants had split right down the middle. Funny, but potentially deadly, given the temperatures and the poisonous scorpions running everywhere. Thankfully, one of the guys had stowed an emergency repair kit in his backpack and Z had drawn the short straw, getting the dubious honor of sewing his buddy’s pants back together. Good thing he’d spent years by his mom’s knee as a kid, watching her do her crafts.
Handling a needle and thread came second-nature to him now.
Not that he told people that. A SEAL had a reputation to uphold after all.
The princess sighed, and he felt some tension leave her body beneath his hands. “Listen, I’m sorry I snapped at you, Mr. Raybourn. I’ve just been under a lot of pressure lately. That’s no excuse, I know, but I haven’t felt like myself in a while. With my dad’s illness and my cousin gunning to throw our country into chaos as soon as he takes the throne, it’s all such a mess.”
“Considering where we are and what we’re doing, I think you can call me Zachary. Or Zach. Or even Z. That’s what my friends call me,” he said, knotting the thread then biting it off with his teeth. He straightened and handed her back the needle. “Not to step out of line, your highness. You can call me whatever you want.”
She took the needle from him and dropped it back into her tiny bag, then assessed him with a narrowed stare. She really was pretty under all that pomp and circumstance she hid behind. Shoulder-length sable hair, bright hazel eyes, creamy skin for miles, and pretty pink lips. He looked away fast from those. Best not to tempt fate, especially when it was forbidden.
“Fine. Z it is. And you may call me Esme when we’re in private anyway. I doubt that Sutherland would appreciate you being so casual with me in public. Duty and all.” She smiled and the world seemed to brighten a tad. “Like I said, I really do apologize for being so cross. I’m just worried about everything.”
He relaxed a bit, leaning a shoulder against the marble pillar beside him and crossing his arms. “Yeah. If you don’t mind me saying so, that cousin of yours is a real piece of work. I’d advise you to keep an eye on him if I were you. He’s got his eye on the prize and he doesn’t care who gets hurt in the process.”
“I know.” She shook her head and rested her hips back against the wall behind her. “Sadly, we used to be friends, back in school. Then when my father was diagnosed with cancer and Silvester realized he’d soon be king, it seemed the potential power awaiting him went to his head. Now we barely talk and when we do, it’s only to trade insults with each other.”
Her speech had grown less formal as she opened up to him. That was another thing he’d noticed about her, not just in the last few days, but in the six months he’d been at the palace. She put on a brave, formal face for the world, all fancy talk and precise perfection, but he had to wonder what she was like out of the spotlight, when she was alone. Perhaps he’d finally get a glimpse of the real Esme Hollycombe. Suddenly the mission didn’t seem so dire anymore.
…
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