Royally Mine: 22 All-New Bad Boy Romance Novellas

by Susan Stoker

  “You had this all planned? How did you know I would be here?” I asked as I took my drink from him.

  “I didn’t. I had the harbor on my list. There were about ten other spots where I was going to look for you as well. So there are ten other champagne bottles on ice spread throughout Monaco. Lots of feathers too.” He took a sip of his drink and casually sat back as he looked at me with a smile. “A guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do.”

  “You’re kidding right?” I asked. “Please tell me you are kidding.”

  He shrugged. “You’ll never know.”

  “Prick,” I teased.

  “I can be.” His face grew somber. “I definitely can be.” He leaned forward and placed his glass on the table. “I’m sorry, Cheri. The way I went about getting you here, and the way I acted last night was not fair to you.”

  “What was wrong with last night?” I asked. “I remember us having a good time.”

  His face lit up. “That it was. But you do deserve better. I didn’t bring you to Monaco just so I could fuck you at a high-end club.” He smiled. “Don’t get me wrong, I definitely wanted to fuck you, but that wasn’t the reason I really wanted you to come back to me.”

  I raised an eyebrow in curiosity as I sipped from my glass, enjoying seeing this more sensitive side of Roman. It reminded me so much of the boy who had grown to a man. Warm familiar feelings—other than the passion and the sexual need of last night—came flooding in.

  “I wanted you to come back to Monaco to marry me. You know this. But just because you do know the royal arrangement, and you always have, doesn’t mean you don’t deserve a proper proposal.”

  My heart stopped. The pounding started in my head again. My ears rang. I wanted to run. Fast.

  No. No. Fight it. Don’t try to escape.

  It’s Roman.

  Roman lowered himself to one knee and reached for my left hand. “My sweet Cheri, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? Will you please marry me?”

  I sat stunned, not once having expected Roman to ever do such a thing. My already opened mouth opened wider when he pulled out a Tiffany-blue box from his pocket. Opening the lid, he lifted out a beautiful diamond ring in a platinum setting. It wasn’t so big that I would hate the obscenity of it, but instead it was the perfect size. It appeared antique in appearance, and I instantly fell in love with it. Roman knew my style through and through—feathers and all.

  I nodded with tears in my eyes. I couldn’t believe I was acting like one of those girls. The type who cry at amorous gestures—but I didn’t give a damn. This was the most romantic moment of my life, and if I wanted to cry, I was going to cry. “Yes, yes! I will marry you,” I said as I allowed him to put the ring on my finger. It fit perfectly which again I expected from Roman. He always covered all his bases.

  I put down my glass, wrapped my arms around his neck, and placed my lips to his. I kissed him differently this time. Not out of lust but out of love. When I pulled away after the most tender of kisses, I said, “Promise me that we won’t have a huge wedding. I can’t take that.”

  “I don’t know if I can promise that. Your mother is going to go crazy. It’s her I worry about.”

  “If I can control my mother, will you promise me that you won’t let all the planners and organizers step in? Please?”

  He smiled and kissed me on the tip of my nose. “I will promise you if you promise me something.”

  “Anything!” I agreed, desperate to avoid a full-blown media circus of a wedding.

  “No more running. I don’t want to go to bed every night and worry if you’ll be in the bed the next morning.” He gave me a wink. “I happen to like morning sex.”

  I playfully shoved him, but then nodded. “Yes, I promise. No more running. Unless…”

  His eyebrows rose and his jaw tightened. “Cheri—”

  “Unless we run away together. Together.”

  “Together,” he repeated.

  “Until death do us part—”

  “It shall be our royal duty,” he said as he leaned in and kissed me with all the love of the years past, and all the love still to come.

  ~The End~

  About Alta Hensley

  Alta Hensley is a USA TODAY bestselling romance author who has had #1 top-selling books in dark, contemporary, BDSM, science fiction, thriller, humor, suspense and historical. She writes the hot, dark, and dirty romance.

  Being a multi-published author in the romance genre, Alta is known for her dark, gritty alpha heroes, sometimes sweet love stories, hot eroticism, and engaging tales of the constant struggle between dominance and submission.

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  Her Royal Master by Renee Rose

  Chapter One

  Day One

  Chelsea

  Naked, chained to a wall on the Prince of Halsburg’s yacht, I struggled to breathe. The other four girls bound near me giggled and flirted. Apparently they’d understood what they’d signed up for. Welcomed and enjoyed being stripped and put into bondage by a group of testosterone-laden young royals who had more interest in the silver platter of cocaine than the naked women strung up for them.

  Me? I’d bitten off more than I could chew. In so many ways. I had no business being here. For one thing, I wasn’t a call girl like the rest of them. And I wasn’t here for the money, although five grand for three days’ worth of work had sounded amazing.

  But now, I was pretty sure I was going to die. And if I did happen to survive this insane experience, I would probably come out so scarred, I’d be damaged goods for life.

  One of the young prince’s party boy entourage fastened a collar around my neck. I jerked my head away, which brought a sharp slap across my face. He pinched my cheeks, scrunching my lips up.

  “None of that, or you’ll get your first whipping.” His tone sounded cruel through the thick Austrinian accent, but he grinned as he twisted to look over his shoulder at his friends. This was all just a big game to the pretty boy young royals. “This one’s feisty.” I heard enthusiasm in his voice, like he relished putting me in my place. Big shot dom wanted to show off his skills to his playboy friends.

  Jesus, fuck. What had I gotten myself into?

  He tightened the collar, and I gagged against it.

  “Too tight,” I choked. I had strangulation issues. Always had. When I was a kid, my brother knew my best tickle spot was my neck because I hated being touched there. So it’s possible the collar wasn’t too tight, and it was my own panic that made me hyperventilate, but knowing that didn’t help.

  My vision tunneled as I fought for breath. Lights started to dance in front of my eyes. I yanked at the wrist cuffs pinned to the wall above the giant, room-sized orgy bed, but couldn’t twist my hands free.

  Through my hazy vision, I saw a dark figure approach.

  Oh God—not him. Anyone but him.

  Darius, the prince’s older and disgraced cousin. The angry, tattooed black sheep of the Halsburg royal family. His brows were down in slashes, mouth firm, and his gaze was locked on me.

  I squirmed harder against my bonds. Of all the wild party boys, Darius was the last one I wanted to piss off. He’d been charged with assault and battery on his girlfriend last year in a scandal that rocked the entire royal family and solidified the nickname he’d earned in his twenties—the Devil Duke.

  He leaned over me. Lip curled in scorn, he slid a finger under my collar. “You’re not choking, princess.” For some reason, his accent was sexier than the rest of theirs. He unbuckled the collar anyway, and I went limp with relief.

  “I’m taking this one.” He unclipped my wrist cuffs.

  “What?” the prince called over the noise of boisterous laughter. “Where are you going?”

  “I need a little private time with her.”

  “Hell no! We want to watch,” one of them called in a stuffy British accent.

  “Oh, come on,”
another jeered. “We’re already short a girl, and Darius has to take one for himself?”

  My heart slammed against my ribs. My head swam, and I was pretty sure I was close to cardiac arrest.

  The duke pulled my wrists to lift me toward him, then angled his wide shoulder under me, tossing me upside down over it.

  I shrieked, kicking, and his fingers tightened on my thigh as he strode out of the bedroom and into the tiny corridor. I swung my head around, catching a view of the expensive, wood-paneled walls and the duke’s muscled ass, which filled his worn designer European jeans in a way that ought to be illegal. The duke’s black dog, Shadow, trotted behind us, tail wagging, trying to lick my face, like it was a big game.

  “Fucking dom wannabes,” I thought I heard Darius mutter before he kicked open a door at the end of the hallway, and I went flying onto a queen-sized bed in a small bedroom.

  He shut the door, commanding his dog to stay outside, and folded his arms over his well-built chest. “Okay, little girl. Who the fuck are you, and what are you doing here?”

  ***

  Six Hours Earlier

  Chelsea

  I shoved my earplugs in deeper to block out the sound of my roommate puking and reread the lead paragraph of the long interview I’d written about an American who called herself DJ Sunshine. My feature on the rise and popularity of female DJs in Ibiza would hopefully prove to my editor at Rolling Stone that I wasn’t just partying in Spain for the summer, but covering cutting edge music news.

  And prove to myself that following Derek, aka, DJ Deadbeat—my boyfriend at the time—to the hip Spanish island hadn’t been a total loss.

  My roommate, Allegra, stopped heaving and groaned.

  I sighed and pulled out the earplugs. I should see if she needed anything. I hardly knew the tall, leggy model from Italy. Basically, we had nothing in common, other than both needing a place to stay for the month that didn’t cost an arm and a leg.

  I’d moved in last week after I’d finally admitted to myself that Derek’s immersion in ecstasy and the party lifestyle was more than recreational.

  I headed out to the bathroom, but a knock at the door interrupted my planned check-in. Damn. I hoped it wasn’t Derek.

  A tall blonde with a miniscule waist and fake boobs stood at the door, her face tight. “Where’s Allegra?” she demanded in a thick Slavic accent—probably Russian.

  “She’s sick. She’s been throwing up since midnight last night.”

  “No,” the blonde groaned, slapping her pretty forehead through a thick layer of makeup. She pushed her way through the door on her red fuck-me stilettos.

  The sound of retching from the bathroom made her stop and wrinkle her nose.

  She turned and looked speculatively at me—a full up and down sweep. “You’re pretty enough. You look a little like her. Can you take her place?”

  “On a model shoot?”

  “No.” She tapped one manicured nail against the screen of her phone in a rapid nervous gesture. “Escort.”

  Escort. And I’d thought Allegra was a model.

  She glanced at the screen of her cell phone. “The Prince of Halsburg has a yacht leaving in thirty minutes. I needed six girls. Already one canceled. I can’t show up with four, he will never contract with me again.”

  The Prince of Halsburg? As in the future ruler of Austrinia?

  “Five thousand Euros for three days; confidentiality is assured. Required, actually. I’ll give you a bonus of one thousand Euros for stepping in at the last minute. But don’t tell the other girls.”

  Whoa, whoa, what?

  An escort to the hot young royal whose face had adorned every tabloid for the last two years? The Prince of Halsburg was in Ibiza, and I’d missed it? What kind of reporter was I, anyway? The young twenty-two-year-old royal was fast following his older cousin, Darius, in developing a reputation for partying, showing up in places like Ibiza, London, Paris and New York with an entourage of his sexy and wealthy friends from Cambridge. And I was being offered three days on his private yacht.

  Yeah, I’d probably have to put out. Either for him or one of his buddies. But from the photos I’d seen—and believe me, I’ve stalked the prince and his posse a fair bit—none of them were hard on the eyes. Would sex with a hot young royal really be a hardship? Couldn’t I consider it my rebound after Derek? I’d come here hoping for adventure, hadn’t I? And in exchange, not only would I get paid more than I made all summer, but I’d probably have enough material to write my first book. The book that would solidify my career as a journalist. A book that would sell millions of copies. The book that would make up for my mistake in trusting a man.

  I drew in a deep breath, knowing I was crazy. “Okay.”

  “Good.” The blonde stuck out her hand. “I’m Marina. You’re Allegra.” She gave me a hard look. “I already have paperwork and photos approved for Allegra. It’s too late to change. Understand?”

  Perfect for me—I’d officially be undercover. I nodded.

  “Let’s go,” Marina urged.

  “I just need to pack a bag.” I spun around in the tiny Spanish flat, trying to get my brain on straight.

  “You need nothing.” Marina’s thick accent made it sound more like nothingk. “A bikini, nothing more.”

  A bikini. Right. Because I was going as a call-girl.

  Whatever. Reporters make sacrifices for the good stories.

  I dashed to my room and threw a few bikinis in a bag, along with my toiletries, and what really mattered for this job—my laptop and phone.

  New York Times bestseller list, here I come.

  ***

  Darius

  One of the escorts boarding Sweet Surrender didn’t fit the mold.

  I stroked my black Labrador Retriever Shadow’s ears and stared at the beautiful brunette standing in line, trying to figure out why she made warning bells go off.

  Too wholesome.

  No, it was the way she looked around the yacht. She lacked the giddy excitement of the girls who couldn’t wait to be on a yacht, or meet royalty, or even the practiced boredom of Marina, the professional who sees the whole thing as a job.

  I sat above deck, watching as Samson, my cousin Kaspar’s head of security and handler, double-checked the call girls against their paperwork as they boarded the yacht. I’d insisted each woman undergo a background check and sign an extensive non-disclosure agreement, along with her individual contract, which itemized hard limits. Between Samson and I, we had to make sure this rodeo never went public.

  I hadn’t liked using prostitutes, but Samson insisted it was better than picking up a handful of the random eager women ready to throw themselves at the royal pack of playboys. After all the scandals I’d caused and been dragged through over the last ten years, staying out of the public’s eye with the sexual proclivities of this group wasn’t a bad idea. If the press got a whiff of the prince’s fetishes—and mine—the royal family would take yet another hit in popularity and the queen would have my ass. She already blamed me for Kaspar’s corruption.

  I’d introduced Kaspar to the BDSM scene, yes. But the drugs, alcohol and non-stop partying were all him. Not that I hadn’t done the same when I was twenty-two. Before my father died, and I really went off the deep end.

  The brunette took in the scene with a cool and assessing gaze, as if memorizing every detail. Her eyes landed on me, and her expression sharpened as if she knew exactly who I was.

  That’s right, baby. The Devil Duke is on board.

  The girl had done research. And right then, at that moment, I knew I’d be the one to make sure she didn’t put it to use.

  I slid off the wall where I’d perched and stalked over to the line.

  Samson held the files on the girls. I positioned myself behind him as the girl reached him, and looked over his shoulder at the paper.

  “Allegra Vivaldo?” Samson asked.

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  Shadow’s tail thumped against the deck. What do
you know? He liked her. My dog was usually a one-man show. He’d bonded to me as a pup and took no interest in anyone else. Shadow’s interest only increased mine.

  As Samson checked her documents, I measured the copy of her Italian passport against her face. Superficially, she matched the girl in the photo. Beautiful. Long, thick brown hair. Sultry brown eyes. But she sure as hell wasn’t five foot nine. More like five four. And that yes had sounded distinctly American.

  “Italian, hmm?” I allowed skepticism to show on my face.

  She was good. I only saw a flicker of panic before she hit me with a haughty, bored expression. “Sì.”

  Shadow stood and circled around Samson to sniff her. Instantly, her mask fell away, and her face split into a breath-taking smile. “Hi, boy.”

  Definitely American.

  She held the back of her hand out for Shadow to sniff. He licked her hand.

  Her whole body went soft. She dropped her bag, leaned over and gave my dog the full treatment, crooning nonsense as she stroked his face and ears. When she looked up at me, her face was friendly, almost shy. “Is he yours?”

  I folded my arms across my chest, defending against the urge to bust out of my dom-asshole role. I wasn’t the nice guy. Everyone knew that. I was the original party boy, before Kaspar. The tattooed trouble-maker, the black spot on the Halsburg name.

  But her fresh-faced innocence disarmed me. “Shadow,” I said.

  “Ooh, of course, you’re Shadow, because you’re a furry black dog, aren’t you?” she crooned, rubbing Shadow all over.

  It was ridiculous and adorable, and Shadow loved it. Only because of his approval, against my better judgment, I let her pass when Samson waved her through. I should have demanded she prove herself right there. Should have thrown her off Sweet Surrender, because I knew she wasn’t who she pretended to be. But she was an enigma. A puzzle I needed to solve. A smart, sexy woman with an agenda. I’d keep a close eye on her. Whatever her objective, I wouldn’t let it play out. I owed my family that much after what I’d let happen last year with Madison.