Dirty Royals

by Thorne, Gigi

  Dirty Royals

  Gigi Thorne

  DIRTY ROYALS

  Gigi Thorne

  Copyright © Gigi Thorne /SJC

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.

  Although every precaution has been taken to verify the accuracy of the information contained herein, the author and publisher assume no responsibility for any errors or omissions. No liability is assumed for damages that may result from the use of information contained within.

  Cover Design: Mayhem Cover Design

  Editor: GFY Editing

  First Edition

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  Who is Gigi

  Also by Gigi

  1

  Lily

  I fasten the top button of my lavender dress shirt, smooth my hand over the fabric, then check my reflection in the mirror. Professional. Serious. Something that absolutely says I won’t take shit from anyone—even if they are an insanely attractive, arrogant bastard of a prince.

  Leaving the bathroom, I head into the living room of my small London flat just as I hear the fridge slam shut, the condiments in the door rattling.

  My roommate, Karen, saunters out of the kitchen, her brown hair a messy pile on her head and her eyes still puffy from sleep. She cracks the tab on her diet soda and takes a loud gulp while she gives me a quick once-over. A wry smirk tilts the corner of her lips. “You’ve lost your mind.” Another annoying slurp. “You realize that, right?”

  “It’ll be fine.” I wave her off as I grab my purse from the couch and take a deep breath. To be honest, I’m not convinced it will be fine. I’m pretty sure this is going to be a catastrophe. A disaster of epic proportions. But who in their right mind passes up a promotion, even if it is being assigned as the lawyer to the conceited, narcissistic, total whore of a playboy and PR nightmare that is Prince Alex of Lancashire.

  I’ve seen the long list of non-disclosures, the mountain-high paperwork trail of PR disasters with all their gloriously complicated legal ramifications. I’ve also seen the exhaustive list of people who have quit. Either because he drove them insane, or because he fucked him. Huffing, I grab my starlet-red lipstick from my clutch and quickly apply it with a pop of my lips.

  Karen shakes her head on a sigh. “If you don’t want to end up fucking him, I’d take off that lipstick.”

  I scoff.

  “Don’t roll your eyes at me. It’s public knowledge he’s a playboy.”

  “And?” I zip my purse and sling it over my shoulder on my way to the door. “I’m a professional, Karen. I’ve handled plenty of celebrities.”

  “He’s not a celebrity.” She lifts a disbelieving brow. “He’s a dirty royal. Urban legend says: one snap of his fingers and your panties fall straight to the floor.”

  Ignoring her, I grab a new agenda pad from the coffee table and shove it in my briefcase, then snap it closed with a deft flick of my wrist.

  “I’m warning you," Karen says. “Even the biggest of prudes can fall victim to a royal’s charming ways.”

  I stop, my hand on the door as I glare over my shoulder. “Did you just insinuate that I’m a prude?”

  “Yep.”

  “I love you, but go fuck yourself.”

  Karen tosses her head back on a deep-belly laugh. “At least I warned you.”

  And with that, I step out of the apartment, heading to my first day with the overly attractive playboy who just so happens to be heir to the throne of England.

  * * *

  _____

  The file makes a thud when it hits the top of the mahogany desk. “That stripper—pay her to keep her mouth shut.” Mary shoots a stern look over her wire-rimmed glasses, her graying hair rolled into a neat French twist that makes her look dreadfully serious. “Today. Non-disclosure.”

  I nod. “Consider it done.”

  “And then there’s a lawsuit from—”

  The door flies open, startling Mary. In rushes a petite brunette in a sharp dress suit, a flood of mascara running down her face. “I can’t do this anymore.” Her breath catches on a pitiful sob.

  Mary’s chin drops to her chest. She yanks her glasses from her face and hangs them on the collar of her overly starched dress shirt before pushing to her feet. “What has the fool done now?”

  “He’s intolerable.” The young woman snatches a badge from a lanyard at the waist of her skirt. It skids across my desk when she throws it, stopping only when it hits the back of my laptop. Printed underneath the iridescent royal crown in purple ink: Leslie Davis-PR.

  Please God no. Not on day one. Don’t let the PR girl resign on my first day!

  “Take a day and think it over.” As soothing as Mary’s voice is, I doubt it will do any good from the looks of how frazzled Leslie is.

  Leslie shakes her head adamantly. “I can’t. It’s too stressful. It’s non-stop. He’s a…a…”

  “Leslie. Please.” Mary reaches for Leslie’s shoulder, but she takes a step back like Mary has the plague and one touch will send her to her death bed.

  “If you can’t give me a reference since I’m not turning in a notice, I understand.” And with that, she steps over the threshold, scurrying down the hall.

  Mary massages her temples, mumbling about needing a strong drink. “She lasted longer than the other ones…”

  My gaze strays to the manila folder crammed with crinkled papers. His PR person just walked out, and I’m trying to maintain my cool here. But I need a buffer, someone to rein him in and make my job easier. Without someone on his ass, I know he'll be a loose cannon. “How long will it take to fill her position?”

  “Who knows.” Shaking her head, she opens the file and thumbs through the papers. “The story about him climbing out of a hotel window at three am.”

  “Why would he have been climbing out through a window?”

  “We assume it was Minka Dauveroux’s room.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “The French President’s daughter?”

  Closing her eyes, she drops her chin to her chest. “Alex likes to push people’s buttons.”

  Oh, the scandal. President Bernard has made countless public statements on what an embarrassment Alex is. Even going as far to say he'd disown his own daughter if she ever brought the likes of him home—prince or not. I wouldn't doubt if that's the sole reason Alex was messing around with her, to piss in Bernard's Cheerios.

  She tugs a photograph from the stack of papers and turns it around. It’s a blurry picture of a man scaffolding down the side of the London Radisson. “You can’t even see his face.”

  “So claim it wasn’t him,” I offer.

  A pleased grin shapes her face. “Exactly!” With a sigh, she pushes out of her seat and rounds the desk, stopping beside me to pat my back. “Non-disclosure and, I hate to bother you, but since Leslie just walked out, would you mind fielding the reports on this today? Just today until we can get something situated for his PR?”

  Against my better judgment, I agree and she excuses herself.

  The chair creaks when I take a seat and grab the folder, bringing it into my lap. I leaf through the documents, skimming articles of debauchery and wild flings with models. In my hands is tan
gible proof of what a PR nightmare Prince Alex is—and also proof of what having a good “communications secretary” can do for one’s namesake. Sure, everyone knows Alex parties hard and goes through women like a box of toilet tissue, but the fact that the photograph of him motorboating a stripper in Hideaway Harry’s—a brothel pretending to be a strip club—hasn’t surfaced is amazing. I can’t begin to fathom the fallout the royal family would receive over that.

  At half past twelve, I hang up from my call with Todd Wentworth, a journalist for The Daily Mail. I told him the same story I relayed to BBC and The National Inquirer. Lucky for Alex, Minka’s ex-boyfriend has a striking resemblance to him, and he's also a sucker for money. Ten grand and Bastien Lafayette agreed to say it was him.

  At least I can say this job should never get boring…

  My stomach rumbles, reminding me I should grab some lunch. Just when I lean over to snag my purse, the door bangs against the wall, startling me so much I nearly topple out of the chair. I grab the edge of the desk for leverage and steady myself.

  There, with his arms braced in the doorway, and a fitted T-shirt clinging to his muscles is Alex in all his I’d-fuck-you-raw glory.

  My breath catches as my gaze lifts, meeting his piercing blue eyes. I expected him to look like he walked straight out of an editorial; what I didn't expect was the power that radiates off him like some super nova on a collision course with Earth. Like a traitor, my body reacts to his presence, heating in places I wish it wouldn’t.

  “So you’re the new PR bird?” His gaze narrows and he pulls in a deep breath that puffs his chest up like some macho-man.

  “No. I’m your new lawyer.” Shit. Do I say “your highness”? The chair goes rolling out from under me when I clumsily push to my feet. “Excuse my manners. I’m Lily.”

  His gaze drags over me and I swear, I think I catch a slight snarl to his lip. “I don’t care what your name is.”

  I bristle, my jaw clenching ever so slightly as I meet his intense stare. This guy is every bit as much of an asshole as I’ve heard, and I refuse to bow down to him—regardless of the actual rule saying I should.

  There’s a subtle quirk to his lips, which makes me notice how full and kissable they are, and then his arms drop to his side and he stalks toward my desk. “I don’t care where you’re from, what you like to eat, where you went to school.”

  He’s right in front of me now, his chest straining against the thin material of his shirt. I swallow when his palms land on the desk with a thwap. When he leans over, his spicy cologne seems to wrap around me like a seductive cocoon. He's the spider and I’m the little insect trapped and helpless…

  “I don’t care about anything except you fucking with my life.” He jabs his finger on top of the file folder.

  With a roll of my eyes, I cross my arms over my chest, which only draws his attention to the plunging neckline of my shirt. My first thought is to pull the material closed, but on second thought, when I notice how his white teeth rake over his bottom lip, I decide not to. Let him look all he wants. He’s not touching me. Ever. Even though my pussy just clenched in protest to that thought.

  “And how exactly am I fucking with your life?”

  “That was me climbing out of Minka’s hotel room.” His nostrils flare and a slight touch of red colors his cheeks.

  I tsk. “Of course it was.”

  “And the media is saying it was her ex, Lafayette.”

  I nod with a pleased smile. “I know.”

  He shoves away from the desk, taking one last glance at my chest before he drags his hands through his unruly blond hair. “I don’t need anyone screwing around with my life, okay?”

  “I just tried to deflect the—”

  “Don’t deflect shit.” His voice booms around the room.

  I uncross my arms and lean back in my chair, studying him. His jaw keeps ticcing and he’s now pacing the length of the room. He’s actually angry over this. “This is where you and I will have a problem, because, you see, I was hired to manage all the crap your PR people deflect.” I grab the file folder beside me and hold it up, shaking it. “And there seems to be an awful lot of it.”

  His gaze drifts to the folder, then to me. There’s a beat of silence where his features grow hard, his eyes glaze over with annoyance. And then, suddenly, his expression softens. The hard scowl morphs into a smirk that only a devil could wear. “Oh, the fun I’ll have with you, Lily.” Then he turns and struts through the doorway.

  When his footfalls are no longer audible, I release the breath I’d been holding. Then sink into the chair, the leather squeaking behind my sweat-dampened back.

  Alex wears arrogance like a fitted leather jacket, confidently and with an amount of swagger fit for a rock star. While he may be an asshole, there is no denying an air of charm that seems to ooze from his every pore, not to mention the rugged jawline and lips that I bet would feel more than exquisite pressed in places I shouldn’t think about his mouth being anywhere near.

  Damn. Karen was right. But if I never admit to finding him annoyingly attractive, I don’t have to be ashamed.

  2

  Alex

  I’ve not made it to the end of the hall before my assistant, Tom, has found me. Now he’s following along behind me, rattling off events and fundraisers I’m to attend.

  Finally, I stop, lean against the wall, and look at him. “I’m not going.”

  “But, Your Highness, you—”

  “I have a date with a stripper.” I arch a brow at him.

  His mouth opens and closes several times like a fish gasping for water. I’m sure he doesn’t know whether to believe me or not, but with my track record, it’s safer for him to assume I’m serious.

  “Tell my mother to have Andrew fill in. Besides, he’s the well-behaved one.”

  “Yes, but you’re the heir to the throne, and it’s customary for…” He drones on and on about pomp and circumstance bullshit, and I’m only halfway paying attention because that leggy blonde lawyer just stepped out of the office. And she has curves for days! I missed that when she was behind that desk.

  My dick delights in the way her hips swish from side to side. You’d think they’d know better than to put an attractive woman in that role by now.

  “Alex, are you listening?” Tom huffs.

  “No.”

  I push off the wall, walking after Lily as she heads through the entrance and down the concrete steps. The wind catches her hair and the soft, vanilla scent of her shampoo blows across my face.

  “Quitting already?” I ask.

  She jumps, clutching at her chest before she spins around. “I’m going to lunch.”

  “Okay.”

  Without so much as a second glance, her heels are tapping over the pavement, and I follow along beside her. “Where are we going?”

  She stops dead in her tracks and cocks one of her perfect brows at me. “Excuse me?”

  “Where are we going to eat?”

  “I was going to Dave’s Pub.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Her brow lifts higher, creating a small wrinkle in her forehead. “I didn’t invite you.”

  “I didn’t ask.” I inch toward her, placing my lips beside her ear and breathing the scent of vanilla deep into my lungs. “And don’t worry, I don’t need your permission.”

  Shaking her head, she huffs before moving along the sidewalk. Much to my delight, I think this one will be all too easy to rile.

  “What are your credentials, Lily?”

  “My credentials?”

  “Am I going to need to repeat everything I say to you?”

  Another huff, which makes me grin. “I went to law school at NYU.”

  “So an American lawyer who now works as the shit-shoveler for the heir to England’s throne. Impressive.”

  She turns the corner without a word.

  People along the street stare. Tourists with fanny packs hold up their phones, snapping pictures. A photo of me walking beside
a leggy blonde is much too tame, so I take the liberty of draping my arm around Lily’s shoulder. She yanks away from me so fast I nearly lose my balance.

  “I swear to God…” Her left eye twitches, and she points a finger at me. “Don’t touch me.”

  Nodding, I pull my phone from my pocket, swipe over the screen, and quickly tap out a message. Of course, she keeps walking, and by the time I’ve slipped my cell back into my pocket, I have to jog to catch up. She reaches for the door to Dave's Pub. Like the gentleman I am, I maneuver in front of her and hold the door open. “It’s rude to leave me like that. You shouldn’t walk ahead of royalty, kitten.”

  “I’m not a feline. And again, you invited yourself.” She ducks underneath my arm.

  “In case you were wondering what I was doing—”

  “I wasn't.”

  “I was making a note that you told me not to touch you.”

  A waitress in short shorts skirts by with a tray full of chips, forcing Lily to come to an abrupt halt. She glances over her shoulder at me, her brow wrinkled. “You have to make a note to remind yourself personal space is something most women appreciate?”

  “Of course not. I’d simply like to have the correct date to throw in your face when you beg me to fuck you.”

  Her cheeks stain the slightest shade of pink. I imagine that’s exactly how her face flushes when she comes. My cock stirs at that thought, and I make no qualms about adjusting myself.

  Her attention goes straight to my crotch before she diverts her gaze with a roll of her eyes. “Don’t royals have to take etiquette classes?”

  “You tell me which is more refined. Adjusting my dick or letting my semi hard-on tent my trousers.”

  She doesn’t acknowledge me, just marches past all the middle-aged men ogling her curves and straight to a rickety table in the corner. With one chair.