Royal Treatment

by Tracy Wolff

  “Geez, you’re getting touchy in your old age.”

  “Don’t you mean your old age?”

  “Umm, no. I’m the younger twin, remember? Those seven minutes make a difference.”

  “You think so? Because I’m not feeling the difference so much lately.”

  As soon as the words are out, I want to take them back. It’s not Kian’s fault that our father and national security advisors think I was compromised when I was kidnapped. Just like it’s not his fault that the King is debating whether or not to take his proposed changes in succession to the Parliament for a vote.

  “Fuck. Garrett, I’m sorry this is all happening right now—”

  “Don’t. This has nothing to do with you. Besides, maybe the King’s right. Maybe what happened to me does make me unfit to rule.” It’s just one of the thoughts that plagues me in the middle of the night when I’m too stressed out—too freaked out—to sleep.

  “Bullshit. There’s never been anyone, ever, more equipped to rule Wildemar than you. Dad will come around—”

  “He might not,” I remind him as I make a beeline for the last of the trees that frame the lake. “And that’s fine. You’ll make a really good king.”

  Kian’s laugh is devoid of humor. “I’ll make a passable king. You would make a kick-ass one. We just have to remind our father of that.”

  “No, we don’t have to do any of that. You have to do your best not to cause any more international incidents, and I need to—”

  “Go get laid. Yeah, I got it.” This time Kian’s laugh sounds much more genuine. “Then again, I should probably do the same thing. Get myself nice and loose before the big meeting tomorrow.”

  “Oh, absolutely. I always found that a good shag was exactly what put me in the royal frame of mind.”

  “Really?”

  “No! But say hello to Savvy for me, will you?”

  “I will. She’s worried about you, you know.” He pauses, clearing his throat. “And so am I.”

  “Are you kidding? What’s there to worry about? I’m having the time of my life.” I break through the trees as the lie trips convincingly—I hope—off my tongue. And find out that my gut instincts were exactly right. Every trace of Lola, from her sparkly flip-flops to her hot-pink backpack, is gone.

  Chapter 4

  Two days later and I’m still thinking about her.

  It’s five A.M. and I haven’t slept yet, but that isn’t unusual. Sleep doesn’t come easy these days and there’s a part of me that thinks it never will again. I guess there’s something to be said about the fact that tonight, as I lie awake, it’s images of Lola playing through my head instead of the PTSD flashbacks that normally haunt my middle-of-the-night hours.

  Still, it’s fucking nuts that I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind since we met at the lake. Especially considering I haven’t let myself think about a woman—really think about one—since the abduction. Even Fliss, the woman it was at one time expected I would marry, hasn’t rated more than a passing thought or two. But Lola, with her bright eyes, smart mouth, and crazy curves? I can’t get her out of my mind, despite the fact that we spent less than an hour together.

  Fuck it.

  Sick of tossing and turning, damned sick of staring at the track lighting in the ceiling, I throw the covers back and storm toward the French doors that lead out to the patio—and Ethan’s Olympic-size pool.

  I’m naked, so I don’t have to bother with shucking pajamas before I dive in and start to swim. Length after length, lap after lap, over and over again until my mind numbs and exhaustion dogs my every stroke. And still I swim. Still I try to outrun the demons that refuse to be outrun. Only when my breaths are coming in fits and spurts and I am unable to lift my arms above my head one more time do I pull myself up onto the edge of the pool and slump into an exhausted heap.

  I don’t know why I fight it every night. Don’t know why I don’t just give in and do this as soon as the thoughts—or the nightmares—start plaguing me.

  Stubbornness.

  An unwillingness to bend even after my captors nearly shattered me.

  A need to prove that—even after everything that’s happened to me—I’m still in control.

  Whatever it is, I wish I could just turn it off for a little while. Wish I could just walk away from it and find peace, if even for a few minutes. Once again, an image of Lola pops into my mind, unbidden. She’s standing by the edge of the lake in that ridiculously tiny bikini, water dripping down her curves and sunlight glistening on her skin.

  For the first time in what feels like forever, my body stirs of its own volition. For weeks, months now, I’ve been willing myself to arousal, willing myself to perform—more because I’m looking for something to anesthetize the pain than because I felt any real desire for the women who came on to me at party after endless party.

  This is different, though, my dick going hard and aching at just the memory of Lola.

  At just the thought of her lush body, sarcastic wit, and don’t-give-a-fuck attitude.

  With a groan, I slide a hand down my stomach to my cock. Once there, I fist my palm around myself and use the warm slick of water to ease my way as I pump a few times. As I do, I call up an image of Lola stretched out on that rock, red curls tumbling over her shoulders and heart-shaped ass on full display.

  It gets me harder, makes the ache sharper, and I let my head fall back and my free arm cover my eyes as I chase release—from the need clawing down my spine, from the incessant throbbing of my dick, from the hidden torment that slices through my every waking moment.

  Flashes of Lola give it all to me.

  Her blue, blue eyes watching me, all wicked and amused.

  Her voice all smooth and dark and sexy as fuck.

  Her full breasts straining against her bikini top as she takes deep, shuddering breaths after our race.

  Pleasure skates along my nerve endings, has my dick throbbing and my breath coming in short, tortured gasps. I close my eyes, arch my back, pump harder and faster as I imagine those full lips of hers closing around my cock. Imagine her tongue licking along my length. Imagine her throat closing around me and—

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I’m coming, legs tensing, body trembling, hips stuttering against the patio as ecstasy slams through me.

  When it’s over, when a warm lassitude has invaded my limbs and I can breathe and think and function again, I push to my feet and pad silently back into my bedroom. I rinse off in a quick shower, then settle back into bed, hoping sleep will finally claim me. But as I close my eyes, all the old shit creeps back in and I know it’s no use.

  Sleep won’t be coming anytime soon.

  Chapter 5

  Lola

  My phone rings at ten A.M. and there’s a part of me that wants to just let it go to voicemail. I’ve been on conference calls since four this morning and I have another one scheduled in fifteen minutes. All I want is to spend the fifteen minutes I do have just sitting here with my coffee, doing nothing and thinking about nothing.

  But a quick glance at my phone tells me it’s an unfamiliar number, and I’ve got feelers out about three different estate sales in Paris next week—not to mention a trunk show from one of the top fashion houses, where they plan to sell off select garments from previous years’ collections. Right now the whispers I’m hearing about it put it somewhere between total myth and long shot, but in this business that’s more than enough to have my spidey senses tingling.

  It’s the thought of all that orphaned couture that has me putting down my much longed-for coffee and swiping to accept the call.

  “Lola Barnes here. What’s up?”

  There’s a pause, then a deep voice with just a hint of a French accent responds, “Lola. Hello.”

  “Who’s this?” I ask, heart beating a little more quickly. The vo
ice sounds familiar, but I can’t place it and I’m hoping—please God—that it’s the Chanel rep I reached out to this morning.

  “Oh, right. It’s Garrett.”

  Garrett? I flip through my mental Rolodex for a second, trying to place the name, when the answer suddenly hits me like an eighteen-wheeler. “Gorgeous Garrett?” I blurt out before I can think better of it.

  He laughs. “I’m going to go with yes, though I tend not to think of myself by that moniker. Seems so egotistical.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve always believed if you’ve got it, flaunt it.” Not really, but attitude is 99 percent of the game, so I go with it.

  “I can see that about you.”

  I don’t answer, just wait for him to tell me why he called. But when he doesn’t say anything either, silence stretches taut between us.

  Because uncomfortable silences have always been my kryptonite, I jump back in just to make it stop. “How did you get my number?”

  “I don’t know.”

  That gives me pause. “You don’t…know?”

  “I called the head of security for the royal family, asked him to figure out the name and phone number of an American tourist I met at the lake. He did.”

  Right. Because when you are Gorgeous Garrett, that’s what you do. You just ask and whatever you want magically appears, even if you have to put your country’s answer to the Secret Service on it.

  For a second, I wonder what that must be like. Then decide I would probably hate it. For me, the chase is always at least 80 percent of the thrill.

  But that’s another issue altogether, and right now I’ve got other things to wonder—and worry—about. “Why?”

  “Why?” He sounds confused, and a little intrigued.

  “Why did you want my number?” I settle back in my chair and take a long sip of coffee. “Why are you calling me?”

  “You left before our conversation was over yesterday.”

  “I’m pretty sure you’re the one who left. Don’t you know it’s rude to keep a woman waiting for over half an hour?”

  “It’s exceptionally rude, and I’m so sorry about that. Let me make it up to you by taking you to lunch today.”

  “Lunch?” Even though a part of me was expecting the invite—why else would he be calling?—I’m still surprised. I mean, it was surreal enough to run into him at a local lake the other day. But this?

  “Lunch,” he repeats. “That meal between breakfast and dinner?”

  “I know what lunch is. I’m just…surprised.”

  “That it exists?”

  “That you want me to share one with you.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” His voice is warm, bemused, and I kind of want to wrap myself up in it. Which is reason enough for me to take a giant step back.

  Men are often amusing, sometimes pleasurable, and always forgettable is a motto I live by. Which means that thinking about wrapping myself up in a man’s voice—or any other part of him—is totally off the table.

  “Look, Garrett, I’m flattered. But I thought it was obvious the other day that I’m not into bowing and scraping.”

  “Oh, believe me, it was. Then again, I thought I made it more than obvious that I’m not either.”

  “You’re a prince.”

  “Second in line to the throne. Of a lesser principality. There’s a lot less bowing and scraping than you might think.”

  It’s the last thing I expect him to say and I burst out laughing. I can’t help it. The whole self-deprecating charm thing is…charming.

  “Maybe so, but you’d never know it from the tabloid articles.”

  He snorts. “You don’t want to know what I think about tabloids.”

  There’s more than annoyance in his tone now, and I can’t help flashing back to the million or so stories that have been written about him in the last year. Can’t help thinking about the pictures that leaked after his rescue, pictures of pain, torture, emotional devastation.

  It makes me feel like a jerk for being so flippant, when I rarely let myself feel much of anything at all. This guy has been to hell and back several times. The fact that he’s still a sane, functioning human being is worthy of more respect than I’ve shown him so far.

  “I bet. I’m s—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, please don’t apologize. I’ve had far too many apologies from far too many people over the last nine months. They don’t…” He cuts himself off, as if suddenly aware of how much he’s revealing. And how vulnerable those revelations make him.

  Because just the mere idea of being vulnerable makes me itch, I cut the poor guy some slack with a quick topic change. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to get going. I have a work call scheduled to start in three minutes.”

  “A work call.” He sounds surprised. Then again, most of the non-torture-related tabloid pics of Garrett show him frolicking with socialites who don’t have a clue what work is.

  “I’m here on business.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “You got my phone number and not my bio?”

  “The bio seemed like prying.”

  “Nice to know you’ve got your standards.” The alarm on my phone goes off, announcing that my calls starts in one minute. “I really do have to go.”

  “What about lunch?”

  I think about it. For about one second. But the rest of my day is jam-packed, and making room for a guy who just wants to get laid—no matter how charming he is—isn’t in the cards. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’m busy all day.”

  “What about tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow, too. And then I leave for Paris. But it was nice meeting you, Your Royal Hotness.”

  He laughs. “No one’s ever called me that to my face before.”

  “Their loss. You’ve got a good laugh.”

  “Lola—”

  “I really do need to go. ’Bye, Garrett.”

  I hang up before he can say anything else. And before I can change my mind.

  Chapter 6

  Garrett

  She hung up on me.

  Lola Barnes. Hung up. On me.

  Hours later and my mind is still boggled.

  No woman has ever hung up on me before. Nobody has ever hung up on me before. When you’re royalty, it just isn’t done.

  Lola obviously didn’t get the memo, though. Then again, from the moment I met her, nothing about this woman’s reaction to me has been normal or expected. It’s why I’m still thinking about her two days later. And why I’m now more determined than ever to see her again.

  The fact that she doesn’t feel the same way is a problem, but not an insurmountable one. I’ve brokered numerous treaties that government experts said couldn’t be done. Surely I can convince one sassy, intriguing, sexy-as-fuck woman to have a meal with me.

  The old Garrett certainly would have been able to.

  But as a knock sounds on my office door, I’m forcibly reminded that I’m not the old Garrett. And I probably never will be again.

  “Come in,” I call, even as I pretend to focus on the laptop in front of me. Scrolling through email is a normal thing for a person to do, I remind myself. Even if there are no longer any messages of import to deal with.

  “Hello, Your Highness.”

  “Hello, Michael. How are you today?”

  “Good, thanks. And you?”

  “Great, as always.” I wave the man who has been both my nemesis and my salvation these last nine months toward a chair. “The sun is shining, the birds are chirping. Yada, yada, yada.”

  “Optimistic as always, I see.”

  “Optimistic is my middle name.” I gesture to the coffee service sitting on the table in front of me. “Would you like some?”

  “Just had some, actually.”

  “Well, have a seat, then
. I’ll be with you in just a second.”

  As Michael seats himself in the chair opposite me, I stubbornly keep my eyes on my laptop. It’s a weak power play, one I’m sure he’ll see through the way he always sees through me. But as I scroll down an email about yet another ridiculous gala I’m supposed to attend in a few weeks, I focus on it like it’s the most important thing in the world.

  Buying time. Trying to pretend—to both of us—that everything is normal. That I’m normal and so is the life I’m living now.

  He waits patiently. Everyone does when you’re royal—can’t rush the man who might be king, even if the gallows is no longer a thing. Michael’s patience is different, though. Part kind, part cunning, I’ve done enough of these song-and-dance routines with him to know that it’s designed to get me to speak.

  And I will. I always do. I just need a minute to figure out what I want to say and how I want to say it.

  Seconds tick by, become minutes.

  Today—much like the first time I met with Michael—I don’t have a clue where to start.

  He must sense my dilemma, because for the first time in months, he speaks first. “Rough night?”

  I shrug, shake my head. No rougher than any other night this week. This month.

  “If the meds aren’t enough, we can look at increasing the—”

  “They’re enough.” I want off the damn pills, not to have to choke down more of them.

  “How many hours of sleep are you getting a night?”

  “I get by.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  Maybe not, but it’s the only answer I’m willing to give. “I’m good. Some nights are rougher than others, but I’m solid.”

  “I know you are.”

  It’s not the answer I was expecting and when he laughs, I know my surprise shows on my face.

  “Did you expect me to say something else? You’re the only one who thinks you aren’t doing well, Garrett—”

  “That’s bullshit and we both know it. I’m the one who keeps telling you that I’m fine and you’re the one who keeps pushing back against it.”