A Royal Disaster

by Jennifer Bonds

  “Thank you,” Lena said, smoothing her skirt as unease pricked at the back of her neck. She hated being indebted to anyone, and at the rate she was collecting favors from the prince, she’d be indebted for life before their month was up. “And thank you again for the dress. It’s really beautiful.”

  Nervous energy coursed through Lena’s veins and she bounced her right foot, which dangled in midair, below her crossed knees. Liam watched, seemingly riveted, as the muscles in her calf worked overtime. And was it her imagination or was there a spark of white-hot lust in his pale eyes?

  No, couldn’t be. Heat flooded Lena’s cheeks. Liam was probably just scandalized by her lack of pantyhose.

  Nia had warned her royal protocol dictated ladies never went bare legged, but honestly, she wasn’t the royal in this fake relationship and she wasn’t going to suffer for some arcane, misogynistic standard. A standard that had probably been written by a dude who’d never been forced to suffer the indignity of being cut in half by a pair of too-small nylons—assuming one could get them on without getting a run.

  “What? No heels today?” Liam finally asked, eying the sleek, studded ballet flats that had quickly become her new favorite shoes.

  “No. Fin had them send over flats.” Lena fully extended her leg, showing off the flat, red, not-likely-to-get-stuck-in-the-carpet sole. “Smart man.”

  Liam nodded. “Fin’s wasting his talents working as my assistant. He should’ve been promoted years ago.”

  “Says the man with the power to make it happen,” Lena quipped, relieved they’d moved beyond the study of her bare legs.

  “If only it were that simple.” Liam shifted his weight and rubbed the back of his neck. It was something she’d never seen him do before. Come to think of it, she hadn’t noticed a single nervous tick or tell. The media training was paying off, because he always appeared confident and in control, as if nothing could shatter his carefully crafted public persona.

  Including a gallon of Sherwin William’s finest.

  “You’re a prince. How complicated can it be?” Lena asked, scooting closer, because apparently, all it took was the world’s most comfortable shoes and a moment of naked vulnerability for her to be #TeamFin. The fact that Liam smelled like heaven didn’t hurt, either. “Surely you have the power to promote someone who’s earned it?”

  “Valerian politics are complicated. We’re one of the few monarchies left that wields the power to govern. For now, anyway,” Liam finished in a rare display of cynicism. There was a story behind his words and Lena thought he would elaborate, but when he spoke again, the edge was gone, replaced by his usual crowd-pleasing smile. “Fin’s the head of my staff, but any greater role within the palace would have to be approved by Their Majesties.” Liam shrugged. “They have yet to recognize Fin’s value to the crown, but it’s just as well, because the stubborn bastard’s already made it clear he won’t leave my service.”

  “You’re lucky to have him, then. It’s hard to find that kind of loyalty these days.”

  “Especially in the palace,” Liam said, glancing out the window as the car turned on Forty-First Street. “Looks like we’re almost there.”

  “Where are we going?” Lena asked, making one final plea for details. The last thing she needed was to make an ass out of herself in front of the press again.

  “You’ll see soon enough,” Liam said, giving her that damnable smirk again. “Just be ready for the cameras.”

  “Have you met me?” Lena wiped her palms on her thighs, wishing for the first time ever that she’d worn pantyhose. Ay Dios mío. Just the thought of facing the paps again had her sweating. “I’ll never be ready for the cameras.”

  “Remember what I told you before? It’s all about presentation.” Liam turned to face her, gently taking her hands in his. The man had great hands. Soft and refined with the kind of long fingers she could easily imagine tangled in her hair during sex. Not that she was thinking of sex with the prince.

  It was just— Oh, who was she kidding? Of course she was thinking of sex with Liam. God knew the whole fake girlfriend image makeover wasn’t working out. She might as well get some pleasure out of this ruse, if only in her daydreams.

  And in her daydreams, HRH was sporting a giant scepter.

  “You still with me?” Liam asked, sweeping his thumb across her wrist and sending an electric current straight to her core.

  Lena forced a smile. “Yeah, just thinking about the paparazzi.”

  “Trust me. You have nothing to worry about,” Liam said, meeting her gaze with the kind of smoldering intensity that could set a girl’s panties on fire. “You, Elena Murphy, are the kind of woman who rises to the occasion, no matter the circumstances.”

  Funny, she’d just been thinking the same thing about him.

  The car pulled to a stop before the Nederlander Theater, and Lena let out a squeal of delight when she saw the Pretty Woman posters plastered all over the front of the squat, brick building. No way was it a coincidence. “Nia told you, didn’t she?”

  Liam chuckled. “She might’ve mentioned your interest in seeing the musical before it goes dark at the end of the summer.”

  He’d talked to Nia about their date? The revelation unnerved her. Yes, she’d desperately wanted to see the musical, but it had never occurred to her that Liam would be the one to take her. And not just because it demonstrated a level of effort that went beyond the terms of their agreement. Still, she couldn’t deny she was moved by his thoughtfulness, because when was the last time a man had gone to such lengths to plan a perfect date for her?

  That would be never.

  When Liam spoke again, his voice was as smooth and smoky as a shot of whisky. “Now all you have to do is smile for the cameras and you’ll get your wish.”

  Right. Just like Cinder-fuckin-rella. Lena sucked in a breath as Ethan opened the door and extended his hand to help her out. “I’ve totally got this.”

  …

  Bloody hell. They should’ve brought more security. Liam scanned the crowd as he stepped out of the vehicle, smile fixed firmly in place. Once again, Fin had done his job too well. There were more paparazzi than Liam expected, and they descended like vultures the moment they spotted Elena.

  Not that he could blame them. She was a vision with her dark hair swept up to reveal the long lines of her neck, dramatic smoky eyes a man could lose himself in, and the shortest fucking dress in the history of short fucking dresses. It was all he could do to keep his cock in check, and he gave silent thanks she wasn’t wearing heels, because her golden legs were already driving him to distraction. The last thing he needed was visions of stiletto-clad heels digging into his ass as he fantasized about burying himself between her thighs.

  The paps pressed in close, dragging him back to reality with their frenzied questions shouted rapid-fire. Did these arseholes really believe acting like a pack of rabid hounds would increase their chances of garnering a response?

  Liam slipped an arm around Elena’s waist as Ethan cleared a path for them, pushing the more aggressive photographers aside with a sweep of his broad arm. Not that it helped much. Between the tourists, the fans who stalked the gossip rags for royal sightings, and the paps, it was slow going. Jack brought up the rear, protecting their backs from the surge of fans who were calling out desperately for autographs as the paps tried to block their forward progress. It was only another twenty yards or so until they reached the door, but Liam was certain they’d have to fight for every inch of ground. He stole a glance at his date, relieved to see she was smiling brilliantly despite the chaos.

  If the theater had this kind of effect on Elena, perhaps he should take her to an art gallery on their next date. It would be full-on euphoria. This was the kind of press she needed to right her image and convince people they were falling madly in love, which—with any luck—would also get his parents off his back once and for a
ll. Tonight they would give the masses something positive on which to focus their attention.

  Which, unfortunately, was easier said than done, given the provocative line of questioning from the press.

  “Elena, how are you planning to steal the show tonight?”

  “Is there a history of mental illness in your family? Should the prince be worried?”

  “Prince William, do you have a change of clothes in the car?”

  Anger stirred in his gut. The arseholes wanted him to lash out, but he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. He was a crown prince, not some indulgent celebutante.

  “Ignore them,” he whispered to Elena, even as he flashed a smile at the press and guided her toward the door.

  “Elena, what show are you going to see? Mean Girls?” asked one of the paps, shoving a camera in her face.

  Elena’s smile faltered, the light in her eyes fading. Liam’s temper spiked, and for the first time in his life, he wanted to take a swing at the press. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he bit back an angry retort. Who the fuck did this guy think he was, talking to Elena that way? He wouldn’t stand for it. Granted, it was possible she had the world’s worst luck, but she didn’t have a mean bone in her body, and she’d been through enough without this prick piling on. The media had its value, but at times like this he could hardly fault his brother for taking a swing at the bloody wankers. But Liam was crown prince, and he’d mastered the art of the stealth attack long ago.

  “We’ll be seeing Pretty Woman this evening,” he finally said, slamming his foot down and grinding his heel on the toes of the photographer attempting to block their path. “A more fitting title, don’t you think?”

  The arsehole winced in pain, the look of outrage making it clear he knew Liam had intentionally trampled his foot. Liam winked at the self-righteous bastard. With the thick crowd, no one would notice, but if the photographer called him out, he’d issue a completely insincere apology that would fool even his mother.

  Just another trick in the arsenal of an HRH who can’t afford to be seen brawling with the press.

  “Who’d have thought HRH likes to play dirty?” Elena whispered when they finally entered the opulent theater, leaving the throng of paparazzi and royal fans behind.

  “Caught that, did you?” Liam smirked. “The prick deserved it.”

  Elena laughed, the low, throaty sound going straight to his cock. “Thank you.”

  “Just doing my duty,” he said, lowering his mouth to her ear. His lips brushed the outer shell, and she inhaled sharply. “What kind of fake boyfriend would I be if I didn’t defend your honor?”

  The smart kind who doesn’t get emotionally invested.

  The head of the theater met them inside and, after a brief round of pleasantries, led them to their seats with Jack and Ethan running interference. Fin had managed to secure box seats at stage left—a feat he swore had been nearly impossible given the short notice. Fortunately, money talked, which meant they would be able to watch the show in relative peace without the piercing stares of strangers or whispers about their relationship.

  Liam watched as Elena scanned the theater, taking in the ornately gilded walls, plush carpet, and gold-trimmed velvet curtain, her earlier enthusiasm returning tenfold. A quiet hum hung in the air as theater patrons flooded the orchestra seats below.

  This sort of thing—the almost palpable air of excitement—happened every time he tried to do something normal. Which was why Jack and Ethan were turning away yet another patron requesting to meet the prince, though he’d been seated less than two minutes.

  He supposed he shouldn’t judge too harshly. The closest thing Americans had to a prince was the first son, and from what he’d read in the papers, the boy was being kept on a very short leash. The direct result of a rather wild European tour that Liam’s brother Xander had planned last year.

  It was the kind of indulgence Liam himself could never afford. Not if he wanted to keep his crown.

  The lights dimmed, signaling the start of the show, and Elena gave a quiet squeal, reaching over and gripping his hand. Despite the chill of the theater, an unexpected warmth spread over his skin as she wrapped her slender fingers around his and gave them a gentle squeeze.

  “In case I forget to tell you later,” she said, “I had a really good time tonight.”

  Liam grinned. “What happened to making me work for it? Fin would be disappointed.”

  Elena’s jaw dropped. “Forget Fin. It’s a line from the movie.” Her eyes narrowed and she flattened her lips in consternation. “You’ve never seen Pretty Woman, have you?”

  Liam shook his head, and Elena’s face lit up as she scooted her chair closer to his. “I can’t believe you’ve never seen it before. It’s your typical ‘corporate raider falls in love with a prostitute’ Cinderella story.”

  “Sounds like a classic,” he deadpanned, wishing he’d taken the time to read the playbill before he’d so smugly run his mouth to the reporters outside. Could he be a bigger bastard? “I’m sorry about what I said before, to the reporters. When I compared you to the show, I didn’t realize—”

  “It’s fine. I appreciate your attempt to defend my honor,” Elena said, the corners of her lips twitching. She shifted her attention to the stage as if his faux pas had already been forgotten. Incredible. No lady of the Valerian court would be so forgiving of such a blunder—even an accidental one—which further solidified Elena’s impeccable character in his mind. “Most people don’t know this, but Pretty Woman was supposed to be a dark, gritty film,” she whispered. “Thankfully the rom-com gods did their thing and we got a happily ever after cult classic I will defend to my last breath. You’re going to love it.”

  Liam watched her smile broaden as the lights went down and the curtain came up. Elena was positively stunning and even the opening number couldn’t compete with her beauty. A day at the spa had done wonders, but it was more than the air of relaxation that seemed to emanate from her; it was her unbridled joy and unfiltered approach to life that called to him like a siren’s song.

  Elena was the complete opposite of the women at court who carried themselves with unnatural reservation, as if showing too much enthusiasm for life might be perceived as a sign of weakness or inadequacy. Whatever Elena was feeling, she seemed to just put it out there, whether it was abject humiliation or an apparent love of questionable nineties rom-coms. He admired that about her. Curse or no curse, it took a strong woman—a strong person—to be so unapologetically true to themselves, and he trusted her all the more for it.

  Probably not a wise admission for a man in his position, but there it was. He trusted Elena. And he wanted to be the kind of man she could trust in return, but it wasn’t quite so simple for him.

  It never would be, not with the expectations of the crown weighing him down.

  Prince William Louis Albert George Stanley, Duke of Carlyle, didn’t have the luxury of speaking his mind or making mistakes. As future king, every word—every action—had to be carefully considered for the good of Valeria and its people. But perhaps Liam Stanley could put the crown aside for just one night and enjoy the show and the company of the beautiful woman at his side.

  Three hours later, when the cast made their final bow and the curtain came down, Liam was on his feet with the rest of the crowd. Elena flashed him a knowing grin but managed not to gloat, further proving she was above the machinations of the Valerian court. The lights rose and she swiped hastily at her eyes as Liam turned to take her arm.

  “Everything okay?” he asked quietly.

  “Yeah.” Elena smoothed her skirt and forced a smile. “Sorry, I should’ve warned you. The ending gets me every time. The way he climbs the fire escape to rescue her? It’s so romantic.”

  “Really? You call that romance? The bloody fool didn’t even grovel or tell her he loved her,” Liam scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. “I
really think you need to raise your standards.”

  “He completely overcame his fear of heights to make her dream come true. The love is implied.” Elena sighed. “You know what? It doesn’t matter.” She slipped her arm through his as Ethan opened the curtain to escort them to the car. “I’m a sucker for the fairy tale.”

  Liam grinned and leaned close. “Aren’t all women?” he asked as they moved into the press of bodies trickling toward the theater exit.

  Elena considered him, a wicked gleam lighting her dark eyes. “Probably. But don’t let it go to your head, Your Royal Highness. The fairy tale isn’t always about a prince. Sometimes it’s about another princess or the dream job or a great pair of shoes. It’s different for everyone, and that’s the beauty of it.”

  “Indeed,” he agreed, guiding her down the carpeted stairs and into the lobby. “I may be an arrogant prick, but I’ve been at court long enough to know a royal marriage does not guarantee a happily ever after, despite what Hollywood would have you believe.” His parents were proof enough of that fact. And for Elena, he knew the fairy tale ending was repairing her image so she could run her studio peacefully and profitably. He wanted that for her, but he couldn’t deny the knowledge stung just a bit, although he couldn’t say why.

  When they finally spilled out the front doors of the theater with the rest of the crowd, the car was waiting at the curb, along with a half dozen paparazzi who were no doubt hoping—with good reason—the grand finale was yet to come.

  It gave Liam an idea.

  “It’s time to take our relationship to the next level,” he said, glancing down at Elena as they closed in on the crowd of onlookers. Her doe-eyed gaze was fixed on the paps and their cameras, the bright flashes confirming they were already firing away, determined not to miss a thing. “Elena,” he said, his voice going husky as he took her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze.