Her Bodyguard (Raunchy Royals Book 2)

by Paige, Sabrina

  She's still laughing as I pull her onto her side to face me, and she's giggling as I kiss her. When I pause for a second, her hand goes to my chest. "What's wrong?" she asks.

  "Nothing at all," I tell her, shaking my head. "Sometimes I just have to stop and take a breath because I can't believe you're mine."

  That's the damned truth, and for so many reasons. I can't believe a girl like her even settled down at all, and with a guy like me. That day at my house in Kentucky, the day she showed up to get me, was the end of all of the running. From that day on, she's been mine.

  But then, truth be told, she was mine from the very first day I saw her.

  She'll be mine until the day I die.

  I reach into my back pocket and pull out the ring. "I was saving this for later," I tell her. "I had a whole big speech and I was going to get down on one knee and everything but –"

  "Yes!" she squeals ,and the ring bounces onto the bed, but she doesn't care because she's too busy laughing and pressing her lips against mine. "Of course. Yes, yes, yes!"

  "You didn't let me finish," I tell her, taking a deep breath as she gives me her ultra-focused expression, even though I can tell what she really wants to do is slip the ring right onto her finger herself.

  "Okay, okay. Go on."

  "Princess Alexandra, you have been the biggest pain in my fucking ass since the day I met you. I mean, it was pretty obvious how much you lusted after me from the very first day we met, and you could hardly contain yourself in the presence of such masculine alpha male power –"

  She pushes me on the chest. "Your romance is overwhelming," she says. "Just give me the damned ring already."

  "Words I never thought I'd hear coming out of the mouth of the woman who used to hate the very idea of a relationship, let alone marriage."

  "Well, that woman reconsidered."

  I slip the ring onto her finger. Now I'm serious. "I love you," I confess. "I love every little part of you, and I'd be honored if you would be mine forever."

  "Don't make me tear up," she whispers, fanning her face with her hand. "Oh, God. I'm tearing up already. Crap, these hormones are making me soft. Shit, I was going to save this for later too, but I can't."

  "Save what?"

  "I'm pregnant."

  I think my heart stops beating. "You're pregnant?"

  She nods. "I'm pregnant. I took the test the other day, but I didn't want to tell you until I was sure. The doctor confirmed it for me this morning."

  "You're pregnant," I whisper.

  "You're … good with that, right?" she asks, her voice suddenly tentative.

  I put my hand on her abdomen. Mine. My baby is inside of her.

  "You know it's like the size of a pea or something," she says, laughing. "You can't feel it kicking."

  "Shh, woman," I say, about to burst with joy. "That's my baby in there."

  "You're happy?" she asks.

  Am I happy?

  I'm so fucking happy I could explode. This past year with Alexandra has been the happiest year of my life.

  We spent a few weeks in Kentucky after she showed up on my parents' doorstep. My mother obviously loved her immediately and had to take Alexandra down to her ladies' group to show her off within a day of her being in town. So much for keeping a low profile.

  Alexandra became a South Hollow legend, even more so after South Hollow and the capital of Protrovia became sister cities and Princess Alexandra became the official face of tourism for the state of Kentucky. She marveled at the awesomeness of fried everything at the state fair, and taught my father how to hit a target with a knife from ten feet away.

  Over the past year, we've split our time between Protrovia and Kentucky, flying back and forth. Albie and Belle's wedding will be the first time my parents have made it to Protrovia. When they get here, we'll be able to give them our good news as well.

  The best news of all is that I am obscenely happy with Alexandra.

  Every damn day.

  * * *

  ALEXANDRA

  "To the happy couple." My father toasts my brother and his new bride at the wedding reception. They are genuinely happy. I've never seen Albie as content as Belle makes him.

  Ironically, as miserable of a person as I thought Sofia was, she's also come around. I'm not sure what it was exactly that caused the change, but I think that seeing how happy Albie made her daughter shifted something for her. She's the one, as it turned out, who explained to my father just how good Max was for me.

  As fraught with conflict as our relationship was in the beginning, my relationship with Sofia has become something entirely different – something good. She wasn't as stuck-up and political as I thought she was. She has a sense of humor (albeit one she keeps largely tucked away) and I learned that she's a rock-climbing aficionado. So we had something in common, sort of; I'd never climbed a mountain, but I'd rappelled down the palace wall enough times that it turned out I was pretty good at climbing.

  My father and I are good, too. He admitted that he'd held onto a different standard for my behavior than for my brother's, and that he'd been disappointed in me for years. But he explained that the disappointment stemmed from how much of my mother he saw in me (not the running around and partying parts), and how much it made him miss her.

  Max's mother leans over and takes my hand, squeezing it. "Drink some Ginger Ale," she advises. "It'll help."

  "How did you know, Betty?" I whisper. "I only just told Albie. We were going to tell you after the reception."

  "You've been turning green just looking at this fantastic meal," she says, pausing. "Also, Max told me earlier."

  I shoot a look at Max, who's sitting on the other side of me. He gives me a "what did I do?" gesture.

  "I thought we were going to wait," I scold him, but only playfully because I'm too giddy-happy about it anyway.

  "I'm going to be a grandma!" Betty exclaims, her voice slightly too loud. She claps her hand over her mouth.

  "Dad, cut Mom off," Max says, shaking his head. "No more champagne for you!"

  "Shut your mouth, Maxwell," she replies. "My son is going to marry a princess."

  Max's father snorts loudly. "Words you never thought you'd hear your wife say."

  Then Max snorts. "Every word that comes out of Alexandra's mouth fits in that category."

  I slap him playfully on the arm and stick out my tongue. "You love every word of it."

  He takes my hand in his and squeezes it. "Every damn day."

  My heart swells, and that's not just because of the hormones. I'm in love with this man, more and more every day I spend with him. I'm heels over head – or head over heels – in love, and I always will be.

  * * *

  I hope you enjoyed Her Bodyguard! Don’t forget to signup for my newsletter (newsletter signup is linked in the “Also By Sabrina Paige” section at the end of the book) to get the special epilogue I’ll be sending out soon that checks in with Max, Alex, Albie, and Belle (and all of their kids) eight years in the future!

  I’ve also included an extra epilogue to Prince Albert at the end of that book, so make sure to check that out as well!

  Sabrina

  52

  Prince Albert

  Prince Albert is a royal prick.

  He’s the most famous one on the planet, too – wealthy, gorgeous, and a notorious playboy. He’s also the most conceited, insufferable, arrogant man I’ve ever met.

  Did I mention he’s a freaking prince? An actual, real life Prince Not-So-Charming.

  He’s tattooed and pierced, too. Prince Albert has a Prince Albert piercing. That's right – he's pierced you-know-where. Allegedly. I’ve never seen it.

  My mother is marrying a king. Being a princess is every girl’s fantasy, right?

  Except that means Albie is my new stepbrother.

  Oh, and one more thing -- I accidentally married him.

  We’re keeping the biggest secret on the planet.

  Ever heard the fairy tale about the Pr
incess and her stepbrother?

  Yeah, I didn’t think so.

  I’m royally screwed.

  * * *

  Copyright © 2015 by Sabrina Paige

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real events, people, or places is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or distributed in any format without the permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review. If you have not purchased this book from Amazon or received a copy from the author, you are reading a pirated book.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status of products referred to in this book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without permission.

  This book contains mature content, including graphic sex. Please do not continue reading if you are under the age of 18 or if this type of content is disturbing to you.

  NOTE: All characters in the book are 18+ years of age, non-blood related, and all sexual acts are consensual.

  53

  Prince Albert Dedication

  To my husband, who’s the best man I know.

  To my darling daughter, who is the light of my life.

  To Joanna Blake and Jordan Marie, who put up with so many emails from me that began with “So…does this go too far?”

  To all of the readers who have been so supportive: I apologize for all of the over-the-top ridiculousness of this book. But not for the anal.

  54

  Belle

  “You,” I say. I blink my eyes several times in quick succession, silently offering up a prayer that I’m not seeing what I’m seeing. Or, more accurately, who I’m seeing. Maybe I’m having a mental breakdown and this is actually just some type of stress-induced hallucination.

  Losing my mind would be preferable to this. Hell, pretty much anything would be preferable to this.

  “You,” he says. He stares at me, unblinking. I swear, time stops completely. The rotation of the earth comes to a grinding halt as he stands there, no more than ten feet away, looking at me. Then, the corners of his mouth turn up -- just a hair. The movement is most likely imperceptible to anyone else, but I definitely notice.

  That asshole. It’s like he’s pleased with this development. It’s as if he expected this.

  You’d have to be a fucking lunatic to be happy about this.

  “I wasn’t aware that the two of you had met before.” My mother looks back and forth between us, her expression unwavering. If there’s one thing Sofia Kensington excels at, it’s revealing absolutely nothing when confronted with something potentially scandalous. She’s entirely unflappable, standing there motionless in her sage green silk shift and heels, her chestnut-colored hair pulled up in a chignon, perfectly-manicured hands folded neatly in front of her.

  She’s always looked regal. Becoming the Queen of a small European country is a perfect fit. I know, without even asking, that it’s the culmination of her life’s ambitions. It's everything in the world she's hoped for.

  And now, I'm standing here harboring a secret that could jeopardize all of that.

  If my mother knew the whole truth about me and the boy standing not more than ten feet away from me…

  Let’s just say the scandal would be one of epic proportions.

  A scandal of royal proportions is probably more accurate, given the particular circumstances.

  “I –“ I start, then stop. My mouth suddenly feels like I swallowed twenty cotton balls, and my heart is thumping so wildly I think it might actually beat right out of my chest.

  “I recall bumping into Isabella in Las Vegas last week,” he says, his voice light, teasing, the hint of an accent on his lips. Everything he says, even the raunchiest of things, comes out sounding like it’s spoken by a person who’s well-bred, well-educated, pedigreed.

  Of course, that’s because he is the ultimate in well-bred.

  “I didn’t realize who she was," he says.

  And I definitely remember the way he speaks the raunchiest of things.

  "Yes," I murmur, the word barely audible. "I believe we bumped into each other."

  That much is true.

  "Oh my God. Why don’t you watch where you're going!" I don’t even bother to look up at the asshole who just ran into me. I’m too focused on the fact that there’s a wet spot spreading across the front of my dress, gin and tonic seeping through the fabric and causing my nipples to harden under the amped-up air conditioning in the casino.

  "My apologies for your dress, although I'm not sorry I bumped into you," he says. And a handkerchief appears in front of my face. Who the hell carries a fabric handkerchief nowadays? "I'd be happy to pat that dry for you, if you’d like."

  The accent is what throws me – European or something I can’t quite place, but definitely out of the ordinary here in a Vegas casino – and I look up at him, ready to give him a piece of my mind. The combination of alcohol and the fact that this is the worst day of my entire life has made me edgy and beyond irritable.

  Holy shit.

  Even in my drunken haze, this guy is spectacular, gazing down at me with blue eyes filled with mischief. Literally, spectacular is the only word for it.

  He’s the most beautiful man I've ever laid eyes on, with eyes a periwinkle color that’s nearly purple under the lights in the casino, and lips so lush that I can't think about anything except what it would be like to feel them against my skin…

  Of course, that’s the image that immediately pops into my head, sending a shiver down my spine as I picture his head close to me, his lips trailing across my stomach, then down farther.

  There’s something familiar about him, but my booze-addled brain can’t quite place it. For a second, I think I might have seen him before, but I tell myself that’s stupid. It’s just my brain playing tricks on me.

  This is not the kind of man you’d ever forget seeing.

  "Is that your shtick?” I ask, the waver in my voice betraying my sudden nervousness. “Spilling drinks on girls and then patting them down?"

  He laughs. "I don't need a shtick, luv," he says, leaning close to me to whisper softly. "Unless you mean the one between my legs."

  "You're crude," I say, wrinkling my nose. But I can’t help but glance down, exactly where he wanted me to look.

  "You're…" His voice fades away for a moment as his gaze trails down the length of my body, making me flush. "Like a drunken disheveled Cinderella."

  "So that would make you, what, the not-so-charming prince?" I ask, glancing down at my shoe on the ground. I lost my shoe. So what? I was running from her -- my best friend. My maid-of-honor.

  The traitorous bitch.

  The corners of his mouth turn up as he looks at me like he's pleased. His smile is superior, patronizing almost, as if I'm a child who's amused him. "Something like that."

  Something like that.

  The bastard. He had conveniently failed to mention that it was exactly like that.

  "I apologize for the secrecy," my mother says. "Whisking you off to Protrovia on a private plane was designed to make things…efficient. Less messy.”

  "Less messy," I repeat, the irony of the words apparent only to me. She hasn't spoken the words aloud yet, but if she's about to say what I think she is, this is going to be beyond messy.

  It’s going to be positively nuclear.

  "Isabella," she snaps, then clears her throat. "It's ill-mannered to simply repeat what I'm saying."

  The man beside her – King Leopold IV of Protrovia, who’s already introduced himself in the most bizarrely casual way (“Call me Leo”, like he’s a regular guy and not royalty – as if we’re not standing here in the middle of a palace) places his hand on her arm. "Sofia, please," he says quietly.

  My mother takes a deep breath, as if my very presence here is trying her patience. "The secrecy was all for your benefit," she says. "I didn't want this to overshadow your bachelorette party, or your wedding plans.”

  My wedding, I realize, a sinking feeling in the pit of my
stomach. My engagement.

  In the midst all of this ridiculousness – being flown on a private jet without being told where I was going (I'd like to say the intrigue was unusual but I'm used to my mother's antics), taken straight to a palace -- I'd forgotten to tell her.

  Oh, God.

  "I'm not getting married," I say, my voice soft. I swear the air goes out of the room, and everything becomes perfectly still.

  "Excuse me?" My mother's normal reserve cracks again. Usually that would give me some small sense of delight, except that this time it doesn't. This time, it just makes me feel worse.

  "I. Am. Not. Getting. Married," I repeat, this time more slowly, emphasizing each word clearly. My head is spinning.

  I’m not getting married.

  I don't say the rest of the words. But I think them in my head, panic rising in my throat.

  I am not getting married -- because I already am. The thought makes me want to vomit.

  I’m already married.

  To my brand-spanking-new stepbrother.

  Prince Albert, the Crown Prince of Protrovia.

  This is a royal fucking nightmare.

  55

  Belle

  “Isabella Kensington,” my mother hisses. “This is not the time nor place.”

  If she only knew how badly this was not the time nor place.

  “Oh, juicy.” King Leopold’s daughter stands on the other side of the room, leaning against an ornate carved wooden statue that's trimmed in gold and glittering with precious gems, her torn jeans and faded t-shirt emblazoned with the name of an indie rock band from the United States. She is a stark contrast to the formality of this room in the palace.