Hot Heir: A Royal Bodyguard / Secret Heir / Marriage of Convenience Romantic Comedy

by Pippa Grant

  “I can’t wait to get to know my new grandson-in-law.” She looks him up and down and winks. “I think you got the best of the lot of these royals that are invading Alabama. Shewee, he’s a hot one.”

  Viktor cuts a look at me that suggests he would’ve had more stipulations if he’d met Meemaw before our hasty wedding.

  “I’ll go grab some cookies,” Gracie says.

  Everyone breaks into motion, and soon I’m trailing my own party out the door.

  Just me and Manning bringing up the rear.

  He turns a cool stare on me. There was a time—not all that long ago—that I was judging him. Measuring him. Making him prove he was good enough for Gracie.

  Now, the tables have turned. “Don’t make his life difficult,” he says shortly.

  No threats.

  No promises.

  No smile either, though, which makes his words every bit a threat and a promise.

  If I make Viktor’s life difficult, someone will make sure mine is as well.

  And he knows why we got married, even if the Amorian palace envoy that Viktor sent packing once we’d signed all the paperwork at the courthouse believes we’re in love.

  There’s a yelp and a crash above.

  Manning’s omnipresent smile is gone as he looks toward the ceiling. “He’s a far braver man than me,” he murmurs.

  I’ll deny this if you ever repeat it, but I think Viktor’s a far braver person than me too.

  He returns to the room as another thump sounds. He points Manning toward a trick door hidden in the seams of the wallpaper that I’m not supposed to know about, and he races up the stairs, two at a time.

  Manning shakes his head with a sigh, though his smile is coming back. “He’ll need to learn to stop doing that,” he says thoughtfully.

  “Do you really think he can?”

  “Not likely.”

  “Me neither.”

  And if it means Papaya’s safe from herself while we find a more constructive use of her brains and her energy, then I guess I’ll just have to deal with playing the part of a doting wife in the meantime.

  So long as I don’t get attached for real.

  Because hot as that kiss was, my life is here. In Alabama.

  And Papaya and I will be back, and we’ll be back better than ever.

  We will.

  If I repeat it enough, maybe I’ll believe it.

  8

  Viktor

  While I’m generally quite competent at reading expressions, I find myself utterly unable to translate the pensive look drawing Peach’s light brows together as the armored stretch SUV in which we’re riding takes yet another turn in the mountains of Amoria.

  We’re twenty minutes from Cara Palace in Cherise, the capital city of Amoria, and I fear she might be plotting my demise.

  It’s rather easy to read Papaya’s sullen pout and Meemaw’s gasps of delight as she clicks pictures of the Alps at every bend in the road. But Peach—she’s neither sullen nor delighted.

  And still ridiculously quiet, as she has been since the moment we set foot on the aircraft in America.

  Unlike Leonie, the palace representative sent to fetch me last week, who is still talking. She’s a chirpy girl of no more than twenty-five, with curly black hair, a perpetual smile, and the suppressed energy of a squirrel. She’s spent the past week jabbering at me in near-perfect English, though I’ve also heard her use German and Italian, the two official languages of Amoria.

  “The coronation shan’t be for another six months, Your Majesty, as we need to give the country time to mourn, of course. However, as your marriage is new, I’ve taken the liberty of authorizing a wine and cheese garden party next week with the nobility so that they may congratulate you. Before then, you’ll be meeting with several of the European Union’s Heads of State, of course, and Her Majesty will also be—”

  “Ill,” I supply.

  “Indisposed,” Peach corrects.

  From the evening of our hasty marriage until our departure from the States last night, a week later—temporary custody papers signed and rushed passports in hand—I’ve not seen her alone for more than five minutes’ time, and we’ve not agreed on anything in those five minutes, from the necessity of packing pillows—completely unnecessary—to the idea that we might travel separately—ludicrous.

  Though I daresay we have a shared low opinion of the judge who failed to request a background check on me or even interrogate me beyond asking if it was true that I was to be the king of a country before agreeing that Peach might continue adoption proceedings for Papaya now that she’s wed.

  It rather put Peach’s predicament into a new light, and I suddenly understood why she might have trust issues, with role models such as that judge.

  Had he not seemed to consider Peach’s gender a larger issue than her capability, I should have been pleased at his request that we provide regular reports from the Amorian school district about Papaya’s progress, and that we reappear near the holidays for finalization of the adoption should we prove adequate parents.

  As the judge has no doubt I will accomplish, as he told us directly.

  “I’m free to hang out with everybody,” Papaya announces, her scowl momentarily abating. “I can schmooze with the VIPs. You know, the Very Important Presidents. Do any of them have Very Cute Sons?”

  “No,” Peach, Leonie, and I all answer. Meemaw gasps and takes another picture of the mountains. It seems she’s not been outside the southeastern United States in her entire life either.

  “Can I get a mountain lion?”

  “No,” we chorus again.

  “What about a mountain goat?” Danger is now brewing in the girl’s expression.

  “Miss, he’d eat all your shoes,” Leonie tells her. She switches to German and says something to one of the guards.

  My German is rusty—my father spoke it less and less as he aged—but I’m fairly certain she just asked the guard to confirm the escape route in the north tower has been sealed.

  I stare at her as I would anyone I’d caught rifling through His Highness’s—through Manning’s drawers.

  She ignores my silent inquisition, which makes me wonder if the palace staff is accustomed to being abused by the monarch, or if she’s merely inept at reading facial expressions. “And I’ve scheduled you with the Italian and German tutors for every morning for the next month.” She continues to go through her phone, spouting off details about meetings, appearances, and ceremonies.

  “Have my family arrived?” I interrupt.

  She darts a look at Papaya and Meemaw.

  Not because she’s confused as to which family I’m referring, I’m quite positive. Rather, I suspect she’s wondering how my mum, sister, brother, and brother-in-law shall take being related to people named Peach, Papaya, and Meemaw.

  I’ve had little time to share details with my family this past week, which has honestly been somewhat of a relief, though I know I’m merely delaying the inevitable.

  “Your brother and your—er, his—ah—”

  “His husband,” I supply.

  She touches her neck and buries her head over her phone as though she’s consulting something. “Er, yes, Your Majesty. Your brother and his husband have arrived. As you requested, we’ve settled them into the finest bedroom in the king’s apartment.”

  Peach slides an unreadable frown at Leonie.

  I’m aware of which laws she wishes for me to address first for changes and modern updates, but I have my own agenda. Hers shall have to wait.

  “Ooh, look at all the people. Hi, people!” Papaya hits the button on her window, it rolls down, and she waves at a small crowd of no more than seven squinting at us from the gravel driveway of a chalet. “Do you have a goat I could—”

  Peach lunges for the window button at the same time I dive for Papaya and yank her back. The guard in the front seat belatedly moves, sees that we have it under control, and says something in Italian to the driver.

  “
Is he locking those?” I ask Leonie.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” she answers promptly.

  “Pray do not fall out the window,” I tell Papaya.

  She rolls her eyes.

  “Open that window again, and we’ll chain you up in the dungeon,” Peach adds.

  “Oh, sweet,” Papaya replies. “Are there skeletons? And spiders? Can I have a sleepover in the dungeon? You’ll probably have to buy me dolls to sleep over with though, since you’re not going to let me have friends.”

  Peach’s cheek twitches, and the scents of guilt and regret waft through the interior of the extended SUV.

  “You’ll make plenty of friends,” she says quietly. “And if a sleepover in the dungeon is what you want, then I’m sure we can make that happen.”

  “Right. Until it’s too dark, or too musty, or too unguarded.”

  “Papaya—”

  “Stop!” Papaya shrieks. “Stop the car!”

  The car slows. Leonie says something to the driver in Italian, the front seat guard answers, and Papaya bangs her shoulder into the door, yanking on the handle that thank the gods appears to have been disabled from the inside. “Stop! That poor thing! He’s hurt! And we’re just leaving him there!”

  “Who?” I demand.

  “What?” Peach adds. “Where?”

  The car slows again. Papaya’s still banging on the door, attempting to go through the metal. “Stop,” I tell her.

  “Back up,” she yells. “Back up!”

  “Papaya—” Peach starts again.

  “You take me from my home and you drag me halfway around the dadgum world and Fred’s back there hurt and scared and needing me and you won’t back up!”

  “Fred?” I signal Leonie to have the driver turn around, though my instincts tell me I shouldn’t. How in blazes would Papaya know a man’s name?

  Still, if someone’s hurt—

  Peach shoots me a look I can’t read.

  It might be thank you.

  Or it might be excellent work, numbskull, you’ve just failed your first parenting test.

  Whatever it is, it’s definitely not Once we’re at the palace, I intend to corner you at the first opportunity, rip your clothes off, and see if we can replicate that kiss from the night we wed, because I’ve been unable to think of anything but your hands and your mouth and your body since.

  Not that I’ve had any such notions.

  I’ve had precious few moments of enough peace to allow them.

  And I like to think I have a few more bits of sanity left that would prevent such thoughts.

  But it seems I have no say in the matter, as my mind occasionally has a mind of its own.

  As does Peach.

  Which is one of the things I find so utterly fascinating about her. She all but rolls her eyes at every mention of royal this or palace that in private, yet she’s dressed smartly as a queen and hasn’t pulled out a single one of her nonsensical Southernisms, nor has she threatened anyone’s kneecaps, manhood, or faces within earshot of Leonie or the Amorian palace guards.

  Perhaps I have found a suitable stand-in for a wife.

  Though as she intends to leave me, ‘twould be in my best interest to spend as little time dwelling on her as possible.

  We backtrack a kilometer, and Papaya once more tries to break through the door as we approach an animal tied to a mail post at the end of a gravel drive leading up the side of the mountain.

  “Oh, dear heavens,” Leonie murmurs.

  “What does the sign read?” I inquire of Leonie. The item in question is homemade, crookedly sticking out of a clump of overgrown grass, with something scrawled on it in Italian in dark, bold letters.

  “It says Fred’s starving,” Papaya replies.

  “Is that a goat?” Peach asks.

  “Neck’s too long. Maybe some kind of Amorian dog with a skin condition?” Meemaw suggests as she snaps pictures of it.

  “Looks like a miniature camel crossed with a giraffe,” Peach muses.

  “Camels have—ugh—humps—oof—and Fred—erp—doesn’t,” Papaya informs us all primly while she attempts to yank the door handle out of its hinges and dislocate her shoulder with the glass of the window.

  Ah, to be young again.

  The animal in question appears to be a tan sheep with a long neck, crooked ears, and thick black fur obstructing its eyes over a heart-shaped nose at the end of a short snout.

  The rest of its fur is coming out in clumps, one of its legs is bandaged beneath the knee, and it keeps opening its mouth as though it’s attempting to snatch flies from the air.

  “It’s an alpaca,” Leonie informs us all.

  “Oh, a llama,” Meemaw says. “He’s so broken, I missed it the first time.”

  “An alpaca,” Leonie corrects. She attempts to say more, but I shake my head at her.

  We’ve no time for picking up every stray animal alongside the road, and though I’ve known Papaya only a short time, I suspect this is another attempt to see how far she can push things.

  “To the palace,” I order.

  “No!” Papaya shrieks.

  “The sign says it’s free to a good home, Your Majesty,” Leonie murmurs. “And the palace has stables.”

  Peach twists to face us, blocks her mouth from Papaya’s view, and adds quietly, “And it’ll most likely be dead in three days by the looks of it.”

  Papaya shoves her in the shoulder. “Not if I take care of him.”

  “How do you know it’s a him?” Meemaw inquires. “I can’t see any dangly bits.”

  “You can’t see anything at all under that furry bush,” Papaya replies.

  Peach cringes.

  I sigh.

  Meemaw nods. “That’s a decent point, young lady.”

  Papaya turns her blue eyes on me. “Fred needs me. Haven’t you ever had a pet? How would you have felt if your parents had tied it to the side of a road for any old stranger to come along and grab it? What if someone makes him into alpaca burgers?”

  And now Peach is watching me.

  Studying me.

  Judging me.

  “Have you ever had a pet?” she asks in a quiet tone that suggests she has, and she’s never quite recovered from parting with it.

  I open my mouth, and then I do the one thing has never ended well.

  I hesitate.

  And ten minutes later, Fred is snuffling at my neck from the cargo space behind me.

  Welcome to Amoria, Your Majesty.

  9

  Peach

  Lordy gracious, a llama.

  We’ve been in Amoria for under two hours, and Papaya has already acquired a live llama.

  Alpaca.

  Whatever.

  But she’s gone from angry, sullen teen to happy child for the first time since I told her we were moving.

  Which I didn’t do until after the judge signed the adoption paperwork.

  Temporary adoption paperwork.

  Fucker.

  Her eyes are shining while she sits beside Viktor and Leonie and strokes Fred’s fur, promising him she’ll take him skiing and feed him chocolate cake and make me buy him the best llama bed in the history of llama beds. I haven’t seen her this happy about anything in the last three months—even when she was talking about Brantley, and even less so in the week since I told her we were moving.

  “Nearly home, Your Majesty,” Leonie announces.

  I can’t decide if she’s annoying or soon to be my best friend. Probably both. Other than catching Viktor and me in that what the fuck kiss in the carriage house, she hasn’t annoyed me much. She talks more or less nonstop, though she’s assured me she’ll speak less once Viktor’s up to speed on his responsibilities as king—holy hell, this is insane—and in the meantime, she’s occupying all his time so he can’t annoy me.

  Annoy me.

  Tempt me.

  It’s all the same.

  And it’s all temporary.

  We each have a year—me to straighten Papaya out
, him to straighten his country out, and together to get fricking Judge Liverspot to pull that stick out of his ass and sign the permanent adoption paperwork.

  Could Papaya and I ignore the judge’s order and stay in Amoria indefinitely, hiding behind the protection of Viktor’s title?

  Yep.

  But if I ever want to go home again, and if I ever want to find my pride again, I have to make the stupid judge happy.

  I also have to make the entire country happy and convinced I love Viktor with all my heart.

  But it’s for a good cause.

  If Leonie suspects our marriage is for show, she hasn’t let on. I thought the plane ride might be a problem, but everyone fell asleep as soon as we were in the air.

  Everyone except me.

  And Viktor.

  Who completely ignored me, burying his head in a book.

  And I completely ignored him, taking advantage of nine solid hours in the air to catch up on paperwork for Weightless.

  When I wasn’t glancing at him in the private jet. Wondering if he was thinking about his new responsibilities to a country that exiled his family fifty years ago, or about leaving Manning behind after so many years of working for him, or possibly thinking about me and that kiss and how in blazes we’re going to survive pretending to be in love for the next year.

  Thank Thor that Papaya’s going to need me so much, and that there’s so much paperwork from Weightless to keep me occupied when she starts school in a couple weeks.

  Because boredom and I do not get along well.

  Especially when my body keeps reminding me how long it’s been since I last got laid, and that the muscle-bound, broody-faced, grumpy-pants king mere feet from me is technically mine now.

  We’re all leaning forward or toward windows since we’re getting close. With packing and making sure Papaya had time to say goodbye to her paternal family and keeping her from sneaking out to run away with Brantley and sorting out everything with the balloon felony charges and making sure I left good notes for the employees at Weightless who will be doing my job for me until I can get back—not that I could tell them I’d be back, and I still get a dip in my belly anytime I let myself even begin to think that I may never make it back to my role as co-owner of Weightless again—I haven’t had so much as three spare minutes to look up my new home.