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

by Pippa Grant

  “Your Majesty,” Leonie says again.

  Alexander pulls Peach away. “Come, let’s get you rested so that I can decide if you or my brother got the worse end of this marriage. Vodka, wine, or would you prefer some of the finest Stöllandic mead that mere commoners such as myself must smuggle into the country in our suitcases?”

  She smiles broader, and an overwhelming irritation claws at my gut. I clear my throat.

  Alexander lifts a brow at me, his own lips twitching higher. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

  “I’ll thank you not to steal my wife before I kiss her goodbye.”

  Her eyes momentarily flare wide before she catches herself and forces a pale smile. Alexander swipes a hand over his mouth, clearly amused, and releases her.

  The crisp, fresh Amorian air must have infected my brain, because I’m actually anticipating kissing Peach again.

  To throw her off-kilter, I tell myself, though it’s a lie.

  I close the two steps between us, and this time, I don’t fumble with pulling her into my arms. She visibly shivers, but she doesn’t break eye contact.

  And despite the dark circles, despite the rigid set to her jaw, there’s heat lurking in the depths of her eyes. Her fingers settle on my biceps, and she tilts her chin up.

  “This is so gross,” Papaya mutters.

  Peach doesn’t flinch.

  I lower my head until our lips brush.

  There’s no need to make the kiss long, but the idea that she expects a short, sweet, for-show-only kiss has me quite put out.

  I’ve no options of kissing another woman for at least a year, possibly longer, should Papaya take well enough to Europe that Peach wishes to stay until she’s of age to attend university.

  Why should I not enjoy a kiss from the only woman I’m allowed to kiss?

  She gasps when I lick the seam of her lips, and I take advantage of them parting to suckle her lower lip between my teeth. Her fingers dig into my arms, her nails sharp and dangerous, but her tongue touches mine, her breasts press into my chest, and I realize I’ve awakened a beast.

  She intends to make me break first.

  Well then.

  We shall see who can outkiss the other.

  I stroke up her back whilst I stroke into her mouth with my tongue. She retaliates by gripping my tie and pulling it tight. I trail my hand back down her spine to cradle her arse cheek. Her tangy scent blends into the mountain air, her hot hands electric in the sunshine, her plump lips silky and welcoming.

  I should not want to kiss this woman. She’s been contemptuous and mouthy since the moment we met.

  Yet I can’t resist seeing how far I can push her.

  At the risk of my own enjoyment.

  She sucks on my tongue and makes sparks explode behind my eyelids and sends every nonessential blood cell in my body—and quite a handful of essential cells as well—careening into my twig and berries.

  The gods have mercy, she may well win this round.

  I press her hips hard to the swollen thickness of my cock, and I feel her smile against my lips.

  As though she’s tasted victory.

  As though my instinctive reaction to a woman’s touch is her doing.

  Which I very much fear it may be.

  Yet I still can’t bring myself to stop touching her. Kissing her. Holding her.

  ‘Tis a matter of principle.

  And appearances.

  And—

  “Quit sucking my sister’s face, you asshole.”

  A shower of cold, musty water rains down on us. Peach gasps and sputters, leaping back. I spin toward the danger, and find Papaya standing wide-legged with the broken vase of the cupid from the fountain dripping in her hand. She points it at me. “Keep it in your pants, you dirty old man.”

  “Miss, you’re not to speak to the king that way,” Leonie bristles.

  “’Tis a family matter,” I tell her. I look to Peach, whose hair is dripping, her wet suit slicked to her breasts as she murmurs something to Papaya. When her gaze shifts to mine, I nod to her. “And I shall see you this evening, my lady.”

  She doesn’t blink, but instead, holds my attention captive. It’s a struggle to not look down.

  It’s also a struggle to not toss her over my shoulder and order the palace empty so that I might consummate my marriage, our agreement be damned.

  “I suppose you shall,” she murmurs.

  “Hoo, mercy, it’s hot out here,” Meemaw says, tugging at the collar of her wildly colored and quite loose dress.

  Peach grabs both Meemaw and Papaya by their elbows. “Did you say something about beds?” she asks Alexander in that Southern accent that seems to stand out brighter here amongst the mountains. “These two need naps before they’ll be fit to be introduced to anyone, especially family as charming as you.”

  I fear I need a nap before I shall be fit to do anything.

  Or perhaps another bucket of water to the head.

  I married Peach so that I might save my grandfather’s country.

  Not so that I might lose myself in becoming obsessed with my wife of convenience.

  I’d do well to remember my priorities.

  11

  Peach

  Viktor’s brother, Alexander, could not be more different. He has a normal amount of muscles, a neck smaller than the width of his head, he’s not quite as tall, and he smiles.

  He also doesn’t make my nape tingle every time he looks at me, nor did he just leave me lightheaded and barely able to hold myself upright.

  I slick my wet hair back with a grimace.

  “I’m dearly looking forward to getting to know the woman willing to marry into not only Viktor’s life, but also a mess of a monarchy,” Alexander tells me while we navigate the walkways between overgrown bushes that resemble…hearts? “I was unaware his prowess was strong enough to persuade any woman, let alone one as lovely and accomplished as you.”

  “That’s gross,” Papaya complains.

  Alexander and the man with him—Samuel, he told me by way of explanation, and I assume this is the husband Leonie stuttered about in the car—both smile wider.

  “It is quite disgusting, isn’t it?” Alexander says to her as he leads us into the back wing of the castle. “We shall be the best of friends and suffer together.”

  Papaya squints at him. “You’re old.”

  Samuel nods. “He is.”

  “Not as old as you, my dear,” Alexander retorts.

  Samuel smiles behind his wire-rim glasses. No fakeness, no secrets, no pretending there.

  I sigh.

  “Oh, no, my lady, don’t give up just yet. You’ve not yet seen the glory of the monarch’s apartments.”

  I should probably cringe, but I’m actually hoping the apartments have been just as neglected as the rest of the castle.

  I don’t like for show. I like real. And I desperately need Papaya to know the difference between appearances bought by money and unconditional love.

  Was Brantley one of those rich, arrogant assholes who was just using her? I don’t know. But I know that something would’ve gone wrong between the two of them.

  And that when it did, she’d most likely be the one suffering the consequences the rest of her life.

  Because that’s how the world works.

  Alexander produces a key and steers us from a dusty hallway draped in painter’s cloths as he unlocks a thick wooden door. He swings it open, ushers in Meemaw, Papaya, and me, and we all stop.

  And not just because this is apparently the air conditioned part of the castle, and it’s so freaking cold in here that my nipples have just turned to nipplesicles.

  “Holy shi—”

  Meemaw silences Papaya with a hand over her mouth. The two share no blood—Meemaw being my daddy’s mama—but she’s still an extra authority figure.

  Mostly.

  “Fuckin’ A,” Meemaw breathes as she looks up.

  A chandelier the size of my house back home in Alabama is dangling
from the ceiling three stories up. But it’s not a normal chandelier.

  Instead of clear crystal baubles, hearts in varying shades of pink dangle from the silver chains. And rather than being round, or even square, the entire monstrosity is a work of nested hearts, so that it resembles an exploding firework of love.

  Meemaw whips out her phone and starts snapping pictures.

  “I wonder how high it can swing,” Papaya says reverently.

  “Not very high,” Alexander reports. “Samuel already took it for a spin, and I’m rather afraid we weren’t able to secure it properly back into the ceiling.”

  “Is he always like this?” I ask Samuel.

  “Oh, no,” Samuel replies, also in that stuffy Stöllandic accent, though he accompanies the words with a faint smile of his own. His brown hair is neatly trimmed, and the lines at his eyes suggest he has a few years on Alexander. “He’s often quite worse.”

  “Wow, is that really how bulls mate?” Papaya asks.

  I tear my gaze from the ceiling and realize we’re in some kind of entry hall lined with paintings.

  Including paintings of bulls giving each other blow jobs.

  “It is if they’re—oof.” Meemaw rubs her side and gives me the eyebrow of what the fuck? “She’s fourteen. You think she doesn’t know about sex?”

  “If my room is decorated like this, there’s no reason at all Fred can’t stay in it with me,” Papaya declares. She’s getting the stubborn tilt to her jaw again.

  I know that tilt.

  We both got it from our mama.

  “I’ve picked a special room just for you,” Alexander tells her. “The bars on the windows are quite lovely, and it locks from the outside. I’ve also hidden some liverwurst behind the radiator. You should be right at home.”

  “Hardy-har-har. When do I get to meet people my age?”

  “Most definitely not until you say please.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  I silently swear I’m going to make Alexander peach cobbler, even if I have to special order the peaches from Georgia. I can’t bake much, but I can make anything out of peaches.

  Shut up.

  I have to have some reason for liking my name.

  “Who’s hungry?” I ask, though I’m suddenly feeling less hungry and way, way more sleepy. Which isn’t good, because I haven’t seen a single royal guard yet, and god only knows where Papaya will disappear to if I let myself close my eyes for a thirty-minute nap.

  After a shower.

  Oh, fuck.

  Do I even have clean clothes? After all the discussion about what was coming in the plane and what was being packed for later, I don’t actually know if I’ll have clean underwear before my winter wardrobe gets here.

  And by winter wardrobe, I mean jeans and sweats and lightweight sweaters.

  “Are you quite all right, my lady?” Alexander asks.

  “If one more person my ladys me, I’m going to hit something.”

  “She probably means you or Viktor,” Papaya supplies helpfully. “Though she’s the one who decided we needed to move all the way around the freaking world, so I don’t think she should get to complain about what people call her here.”

  The two men share a look.

  “Hangry,” they say together.

  “Come, come,” Alexander adds. “Our private kitchen is this way, and it’s newly stocked with turnips and fermented salmon.”

  All three of us Alabama women gasp and gape.

  Alexander laughs. “Oh, Viktor must be having quite the time of his life with you three. I jest, of course. We stocked up on chocolates and cheese when we were down in the valley yesterday. Samuel, if you’ll show our dear Meemaw and Papaya to the kitchen, I’ll have the lovely Peach set up in her chamber for a shower.”

  “You’re forgiven,” I tell him. “But only if the water’s hot.”

  “The pipes are only on the verge of bursting, my lady. We most likely have another three to four days before we lose our last vestiges of modern society within these crumbling walls.”

  I think he’s joking.

  But I don’t actually trust that he is.

  Papaya and Meemaw are following Samuel to a back hallway. “I should go with them,” I say.

  “Samuel is well aware of your sister’s proclivities,” Alexander assures me. “She’s quite safe, and she shan’t get far even if she should attempt to escape. Come. I believe your luggage beat you here, and I cannot wait to see your face when you see your bedroom.”

  That doesn’t sound promising.

  But I can’t deny the appeal of a shower.

  And ten minutes to myself.

  “Are you sure—”

  He stops me with a squeeze of my arm. “My lady, our family is in your debt. Rest assured Papaya shall be quite safe and meticulously watched over. You’re not alone here. And you should feel free to be as genuinely you as you need to be.”

  Okay, that’s suspicious. “Me isn’t very queenly.”

  He smiles, and I see hints of Viktor. “You shall find your way and your causes, I’ve no doubt. If you’d like suggestions on where an intelligent business woman might start in Amoria, I’ve several. But first, let us get you settled. You look as though you might collapse of exhaustion, and that’s hardly the first thing the staff should need to see of you.”

  He does have a point. And I could use clean clothes and a little time to myself.

  Just a few minutes.

  Before I have to pretend to be a woman who knows what the hell she’s doing again.

  12

  Peach

  I don’t know where I am, but it’s dark, and there’s a man in my room. A big man, by the look of the shadows moving through the dim shafts of light coming through the windows of the round turret room.

  He’s stealthy. Quiet. Like a panther.

  Though he smells like sausage.

  Reality tumbles into place, and I sit bolt upright with a gasp while I check to make sure my clothes are still on—I am dressed, but I don’t know whose clothes these are, since mine are lost somewhere between the airport and this room—and then I nearly tumble off the bed because I forgot the damn thing is shaped like a heart.

  A fucking heart. With red silk sheets and a red velour comforter.

  There should be a slot to put in a quarter to make it vibrate, but I haven’t found it yet.

  “Papaya!” I exclaim as the rest of my life comes rushing back.

  “Sleeping soundly in her bedroom after a rousing game of mancala.”

  I’m instantly suspicious, because first, when Viktor’s voice is both familiar and comforting, I should be suspicious, and second— “A rousing game of mancala?”

  “’Tis a marble game, my lady.”

  “I know what it is. I don’t know how it can be rousing.”

  “Then perhaps you’ve been playing it wrong.”

  He approaches the bed in the dark.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper-shriek.

  “Your sister reports your appetite has been quite off since we wed.”

  “Not pregnant, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I quip.

  “I should be quite concerned if you were. Have you slept?”

  I open my mouth to sass him—it’s almost as natural as breathing—but there’s a hint of concern in his voice that stops me.

  A soft light flickers on in the massive, gaudy room as he flips the switch on a table lamp—yes, the lampshade is stained glass decorated with hearts—and the entire last week comes rushing back so fast I go lightheaded. “I think so.”

  “The staff shall be pleased. ‘Tis my understanding no one has been able to sleep in that bed since King Roland died in it.”

  I leap up, get tangled in the worn satin sheets, and trip from my knees onto my shoulder in the bed, barely stopping myself from falling headfirst off the heart.

  I finally get my balance, and I look up barely in time to see Viktor smiling.

  A full, twinkly-eyed, uninhibited
smile.

  And Holy. Hammer. Of. Thor.

  The man has dimples.

  Adorable, deep twin dimples over that marble jawline. Dimples that make him more boyish than brutish, momentarily leaving me completely unable to utter a word.

  If I’d known he had dimples, I never would’ve agreed to marry him.

  Dimples are dangerous. I can pass on the six-packs and the tattoos, but the dimples—fuck me, I think I just ovulated.

  “My apologies, my lady. ‘Tis unfair of me to take advantage of your weakened mental state.”

  Well. That helped. And there go my eggs, scurrying back to my ovaries. “Weakened mental state?”

  “You were carrying on about caterpillars eating your bonbons when I entered the room.”

  “I was not—”

  “And you haven’t eaten a bite since we left America four days ago—”

  “Four days?” Oh, fuck. I could’ve sworn I was only asleep a few hours.

  Viktor coughs. “Ah, I’ve done it again. Can’t help myself, it seems. It’s so rare I can win with you, I fear I’ve taken advantage once more.” He sits on the fancy-dancy red brocade chair with the seat shaped like a heart and the back shaped like another heart and gold trim carved with hearts and even the claw feet shaped like hearts, and he pulls at the black tie around his collar before pulling off his shoes.

  As though he intends to stay awhile.

  “Wha—who—why—what are you doing?”

  “Some of us were unable to sleep the day away, my lady. I’m preparing for bed.”

  “The hell you are.”

  “’Tis on the royal schedule. Bedtime. Eleven o’clock sharp. Up at four if I’m to have time to exercise before language lessons and a round of royal ass-kissing ninnies chewing my ears off.”

  “Then you can go sleep in your bedroom.”

  “This is my bedroom.”

  Once again, I’m momentarily mentally hamstrung.

  But only momentarily. “For the love of Thor,” I mutter. “We’re just going to have to tell everyone that you snore.”

  “I beg your pardon, my lady.”

  “Or that you have to sleep spread-eagle. That’s the only way we’re going to be able to explain not sleeping together.”