Royal Treatment

by Tracy Wolff

  “What? The chance to publicly date you?” I snort. “Dude, you’re really not all that.”

  “You said yourself that your business is going crazy.”

  “Yes, so crazy that I’m not sure I can keep up with demand. Not being able to fulfill the orders I have is almost as bad as not having orders. And just to be clear, my business was doing just fine before you came along. I don’t need to use your name to make a living for myself and my employees.”

  “I didn’t say that—”

  “No, but you sure as hell implied it.” I’m close to seeing red at this point. I’ve worked my ass off to build my business from nothing, and there’s no way I’m going to stand here and listen to him imply otherwise. “And frankly, I don’t see why you need me at all. You and your ego make a beautiful couple all by yourselves.”

  Now he looks angry too, which is more than fine by me. The angrier he is, the faster he’ll leave. At least, that’s always been my experience with men. Why should Garrett be any exception?

  He opens his mouth to snap back, but closes it before anything can come out. Then he takes a deep breath. Runs a hand over the back of his neck. Shakes his head. Takes another deep breath and lets it out slowly.

  “I’m sorry,” he finally says, after the silence has gone from seething to merely sullen. “Can we sit back down and just talk about this for a few minutes?”

  There’s a tiny part of me that begrudgingly admires his self-control—and the fact that he’s still here. But that miracle doesn’t mean I’m not still pissed. “That depends.”

  “On what?” Impatience flashes in his eyes but doesn’t make its way into his voice.

  “On what exactly it is that you’re sorry for.”

  His laugh—big and booming—breaks the last of the tension in the room, and has my anger settling down if not draining away completely. “Can I just admit that I’m an ass and then we go from there?”

  “A really big ass?”

  He laughs again. “A huge ass. A colossal ass, really. And it’s not that I’m blaming the job for my behavior, but…I’ve spent my life thinking of little else but my country and its best interests. Which is good for Wildemar, but not so great for my relationships with other people.”

  Slowly, he walks over to the dining table and sits down. Then he picks up his coffee and gestures to the seat opposite him. “Can we try this one more time?”

  “Third time’s the charm?”

  “God, I hope so. I wear a size-fourteen shoe. I’ve only got so much more room in my mouth to stick the second one.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. And to cross back to the table so I can sit with him. Which is ridiculous, I know, considering every instinct I have is screaming at me to show him the door. Every instinct but one, that is, and I am so not thinking about that right now. Any more than I’m thinking about our kiss from last night.

  “Fine,” I say with a shrug as I pick up my now cold cup of coffee. “Hit me with your best shot.”

  He grins, then rubs his hands together like he can’t wait to dig in. And maybe he can’t—as heir to the richest and most powerful constitutional monarchy in the world, I’m pretty sure he cut his teeth on negotiations much tougher than this.

  That should probably scare me, but the truth is, nothing about Garrett scares me. His life, yes. The maelstrom he’s inadvertently tossed me into, absolutely. But him, no. There’s nothing about him that is the least bit frightening—except how much I want him, even now, when I know I shouldn’t.

  Chapter 13

  Garrett

  I want this to work.

  It surprises me a little bit, just how much I really want this to work. And not just because this is the first time in months that I’ve had even a glimmer of hope that I might have a chance at getting my old position—and the throne—back. Although, yeah, that’s certainly a major factor.

  The other factor is Lola. Which is just crazy, considering I barely know her. And what I do know about her would normally be considered far from perfect for what I’m asking her to do. She’s loud and brash and more than a little bit crazy. She’s got an unconventional job and an even more unconventional need to break the rules. And God knows, she doesn’t take anybody’s shit, even though she’s more than capable of shoveling a bunch of her own.

  But that doesn’t seem to matter when I’m with her. Any more than it seems to matter to my subjects. At least not if you judge by the online comments and social media feeds. Somehow, this bold, brash redhead—with a big attitude and an even bigger heart—has managed to capture the attention—and the imaginations—of my subjects. They never paid much attention to my ex-fiancée, the very proper, very perfect Felicity, but they’re fascinated by this woman who hops fences in the middle of the night and eats desserts by the boxful. This woman who pulled herself up by her bootstraps, who went from poverty to prospective princess in a real-world Cinderella story that is more about her than it is about the prince. About me.

  And why shouldn’t they be fascinated by her? I certainly am—whether I want to be or not.

  She’s not princess material and she’s definitely not queen material, but that doesn’t seem to matter—to the people or to my libido. Then again, maybe that’s okay. I had both in Felicity—and God knows I’ve been raised my whole life to consider myself king material—and even with all that, I managed to lose the crown. Getting it back after my abduction is a long shot anyway, so why not have a little fun along the way and give my people the fairy-tale romance they’ve been dying for? They missed out on the wonder with Kian and Savvy because they were mourning me.

  Which means, I suppose, that I owe them a little romance. A little fun. If that romance also helps gets me back on the throne, why shouldn’t I go for it? As long as the woman I’m having that romance with is good with being along for the ride, it’s a win for everyone involved.

  I take a minute to formulate a good argument—considering my last one was anything but impressive to her—but just as I figure out what I want to say, Lola’s computer beeps with some kind of notification. I’m watching her closely, so I see the way she freezes up when she glances at it, even before she starts swiping across the laptop’s touch screen.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask after she’s been silent for a little too long. Her eyes are narrow as she reads the screen, her lips pressed together in a tight line.

  Lola shakes her head and starts to close the computer, but I snatch it away before she can. She squawks in outrage, but she doesn’t come after me and try to get it back. That, combined with the suddenly defeated slump of her shoulders, tells me all I need to know. As soon as I’ve got the laptop facing me, I’m scrolling back to the top of the screen, trying to see what she saw.

  And I do. She must have a Google alert set up on her name, because once I get to the top of the screen, the name of the site—belonging to one of the most prominent “newspapers” in Wildemar—jumps out at me. Followed by an incredibly offensive headline that basically calls Lola a prostitute.

  Under the headline are a number of pics of Lola in high-end clothing in provocative poses.

  A quick skim of the article tells me the paper has taken even larger liberties with the truth than the headline suggests. From what I can tell, when she was first starting her business Lola used to take photos of herself wearing the vintage clothes she was selling, then post those pics on her website so that shoppers could see what the clothes looked like on a person instead of on a hanger—like most Internet order sites do. But this article makes it sound like Lola was selling a lot more than clothes with those pics.

  It’s strange, because I’d expect her to shrug it off. She’s the one who doesn’t care about rules, doesn’t care what anyone thinks. And yet this article obviously got to her. It’s written all over her carefully blank face, and in the dejected slump of her shoulders.

  No.
Not just no, but hell no. Fuck no. I’m not having it.

  I put up with a lot of shit—real and fake—because papers and gossip sites and everyone else in the world want clicks, and Kian and I are good click bait. Just the idea of starting an argument with every website that publishes something false or unflattering is absurd. We’re used to it, and who has the time, anyway? Not to mention the fact that libel laws are much harder to enforce when you’re famous.

  But this? This is crossing about twelve different lines and I am not putting up with it. Lola didn’t ask for any of this and, while I can’t protect her from everything that’s happening right now, I sure as shit can protect her from this.

  I’m practically seeing crimson by the time I fumble my cellphone out of my pocket and get Jacob on the phone. The second he answers, I roar, “Have you seen the article running on the home page of the Wildemar Inquisitor?”

  “I have,” he answers hastily. “It’s ugly, no doubt about that.”

  “Ugly? It’s disgusting and I want it taken down, now.”

  “Believe me, Your Highness. I understand where you’re coming from. But it’s just one article, and if we make a big deal of it, it will only draw attention to it. It’s better to just—”

  “Good. Draw attention to it.”

  There’s a moment of silence on the other end. “Excuse me?”

  “Make a spectacle of the damn article if you have to; just get it taken down. Then make sure you let every media outlet in the Western world know that if they ever want an interview with any member of the royal family again—if they even so much as want their question answered at a press conference again—they’ll steer away from this kind of false and inflammatory content. I will not have them going after Lola like this. I. Will. Not.”

  Another moment of silence, then, “I know these kinds of lies are difficult to see, sir. And if you want me to make an example of the Inquisitor, I will. I just need you to understand that if we make these threats and then carry through with them, it’s going to make a really bold statement.”

  I know exactly what kind of statement it will make, and even if I didn’t, I can read between the lines of what he isn’t saying. That going on that kind of offensive about Lola means she isn’t just a one-night stand. Right now, I’m more than okay with letting the newspapers think that—and not just because I want to force my father’s hand about the throne.

  “That’s the point,” I tell Jacob. “I want them to understand in no uncertain terms that Lola is off-limits. I will put up with some of their bullshit because we always do and because I don’t have a choice, but these kinds of false claims are not going to happen. Not to her.”

  “All right then, sir. I will take care of it right now.” He clears his throat, pauses, then clears his throat again. “But just to be clear, Your Highness, extending this kind of protection to a woman makes a really powerful statement to the media about who Lola is…and what role she will play in your life. We can get the article taken down without making quite that strong a statement.”

  We could, but that would mean someone else could come along and write the same thing—or something worse—about Lola tomorrow or the next day or the day after that. And as it turns out, I’m not okay with any of that. I’m the one who got us into this mess and I’m the one who’s asking Lola to stay in this mess. It’s only right that I make a statement that every media outlet in the world will heed.

  I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s gotten up from the table and is now staring out the glass-paned back door. I don’t know what she’s seeing—out there or inside her mind—but I hate seeing her so pensive. Nearly as much as I hate the fact that I’m going to have to get her away from that window. Who knows if there’s a photographer out there with a long-range lens taking pictures of her right now?

  “I want to make a statement,” I bark at Jacob, even as I move toward Lola. “This does not happen again. Not to her.”

  I hang up before he can say anything else, reaching out as I do to wrap an arm around Lola’s waist to guide her away from the window. Then I close the curtain, cutting off any chance of someone taking more pictures of her without her knowledge.

  When I turn around, Lola’s staring at me, wide-eyed. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  She starts to argue with me, but in the end she just shakes her head like she can’t figure out what to say. Maybe she can’t, because the next thing I know she’s reaching her arms up and wrapping them around my neck. Pulling my mouth down to hers.

  And just that easily, the world fucking explodes.

  In the back of my head, there’s a little voice telling me that I need to be careful. That I can’t afford to blur the lines between us when I’m counting on this—counting on her—to help me get the throne back. And while I know that’s a reasonable argument, we’re only in this situation because I’ve been blinded by lust from pretty much the first second I laid eyes on her.

  Which means, plan or no plan, warning voice or no warning voice, there’s no way I’m moving away from her right now. Not when she tastes like cinnamon coffee and feels warm and lush and gorgeous pressed up against me.

  Which is why I wrap my arms around her instead of taking a step back. Why I pull her even closer. Why I kiss her until the top of my head feels like it’s going to blow clean off.

  She tastes so good, feels so good, and as my mouth explores hers—as my tongue slides along her plump bottom lip—my head grows fuzzy and my body heavy. All I can think about is Lola. In my arms. In my bed. Naked, beneath me. Naked, above me. Soft and warm and wet as she slides down my dick and pulls me deep inside her.

  I’m rock hard now, my body all but screaming for relief even though all we’re doing is kissing. With Lola, what we’re doing doesn’t seem to matter, though. One look, one touch, one kiss and I’m fucking desperate to bury myself inside of her.

  I slide my hands down to cup her ass and she moans a little. Taking instant advantage, I slide my tongue between her lips and stroke deep inside. She moans again, her tongue tangling with mine now, and it’s all the invitation I need.

  Turning, I press her up against the nearest wall, lifting her so that her sweet, warm pussy lines up with my cock, separated only by her yoga pants and my suit pants and underwear. I press deeper, relishing the softness and the heat of her. She responds by wrapping her legs around my hips, arching against me.

  And fuck. Just fuck.

  I need to think, but I can’t. Not when she feels so good. And not when I want her this badly.

  Tearing my lips from hers, I try to breathe. Try to think. But Lola’s having none of it. As I try desperately to suck air into my starving lungs, she wraps a hand around the back of my neck and pulls my mouth straight back down to hers.

  I go with it—of course I do—picking up where I left off only seconds ago. She moans again, low and breathy and sexy as all fuck. It does something to me, does everything to me. Has every joint in my body locking up and electricity slamming down my spine. And my dick? My dick is rock hard and begging for relief.

  Lola gasps as I slide my tongue against hers. Then she slides her hands up my neck to the back of my head so that her fingers can tangle in my hair. I love the feel of her fingertips against my scalp and give a small groan of encouragement even as I slide my hands onto her firm, heart-shaped ass and squeeze.

  She responds by tugging on my hair, not hard enough to really hurt, but definitely hard enough that small licks of pain shoot along my nerve endings, followed by longer, deeper waves of pleasure.

  Fuck, she’s hot. And fuck do I want to bury myself inside her. Just say to hell with the reporters outside. To hell with my subjects who want every detail of my life, lascivious or otherwise. To hell with anything, and everything, that isn’t Lola Barnes.

  But even as I’m thinking that, even as I�
��m rocking my hips against hers until she’s crying out a little bit with each broken breath she takes, I know that it’s not to be. Not right now, when we’ve got so many other things to settle.

  With that thought in mind, I start to pull away. But Lola’s not ready to let go, her hands clenching in my hair, her mouth working frantically against my own. And fuck. Just fuck. I’m trying to be a good guy here, but all I want to do is fuck her up against this wall until the only thing she can think of—the only thing she knows—is me.

  It’s that thought more than any other that finally gives me the strength to lift my lips from hers and to slowly, slowly, untangle our bodies.

  She moans a little as I pull my hips back from hers, as I help her slide her feet back down to the ground. Like her other sounds, it goes straight to my dick. But this time, I force myself not to be sucked back under.

  It’s hard, harder than it should be, especially when her eyes meet mine. I want to ask if she’s made a decision, want to demand that she say yes so that we can do this again and again and again.

  But before I can so much as open my mouth, Lola whispers, “Yes.”

  “Yes?” I repeat, wanting to clarify what we’re talking about here. Going to bed together? Pretending to be a couple? Or something in between.

  “Yes. I’ll do it,” she answers. “I’ll pretend to be your American girlfriend for as long as you need me to.”

  Chapter 14

  Lola

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I want to take them back. Or at least that’s what I tell myself. But as I open my mouth to do just that, all I can think about is Garrett on the phone with his PR person, ordering him to get that hideous story taken down. Ordering him to make sure it doesn’t happen again.

  Ordering him to protect me.

  No one’s ever protected me before. Admittedly, I’m not usually the type to need protection—I carry pepper spray for any situations my loud mouth can’t get me out of and am not afraid to use it. More to the point, I would normally kick the balls in of any guy who thought he needed to play hero to little old me. But there’s something about Garrett that makes me feel okay about letting him handle things that I can’t.