The Princess and The SEAL
A Navy SEAL Royal Romance
Alana Albertson
Bolero Books
The Princess and The SEAL
Copyright © 2020 by Alana Albertson
Cover design by Aria Tan of Resplendent Media
Cover Photography: Kelsey Keeton
Cover Models: Matthew Samson & Megan Renee Kelly
Bolero Books, LLC
11956 Bernardo Plaza Dr. #510
San Diego, CA 92128
www.bolerobooks.com
All rights reserved.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Author’s Note
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To every girl who has ever kissed a frogman and prayed he would turn into a prince.
The Princess and The SEAL
“She’s a princess, and I’m a frogman. If I kiss her, I’ll turn into a prince.”
A love affair. One week in France.
She’s a classy princess; I’m a low-down and dirty SEAL.
She’s been promised to another man; I’m married to my Team.
She plans to commit to a loveless marriage for her country; I’m willing to die for mine.
Until I fall in love with her.
Nothing will stop me from making her my woman. Centuries ago, I would have defeated my enemies in battle, claimed her as my prize, and been crowned a king. Who says I can’t turn back the hands of time? I’m a Navy SEAL—the ultimate warrior. No one will stop me from getting what I want.
And I want this princess.
Epigraph
The Frog Prince
When the princess awoke on the following morning she was astonished to see, instead of the frog, a handsome prince, gazing on her with the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen and standing at the head of her bed.
He told her that he had been enchanted by a spiteful fairy, who had changed him into a frog; and that he had been fated so to abide till some princess should take him out of the spring, and let him eat from her plate, and sleep upon her bed for three nights.
'You,' said the prince, 'have broken his cruel charm, and now I have nothing to wish for but that you should go with me into my father's kingdom, where I will marry you, and love you as long as you live.'
The Brothers Grimm
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
1 The Virgin & The Rockstar
About Alana
Also by Alana Albertson
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Ryan
I DOWNED MY SHOT OF WHISKEY in a single gulp, the smooth liquid coating my throat and relaxing my mind as the train rolled into Bayeux, France. Gazing out the window, I had to catch my breath due to the beauty of the picturesque landscape: towering trees, a bright blue lake, and old stone dwellings completely mesmerized me. It was definitely an upgrade from where I’d spent my last seven months. My skin still singed from the scorching heat of the desert hell, where I had been fighting ISIS.
I grabbed my pack, stopping for a moment to stare at the camouflage nylon duffel bag containing my belongings. A memory popped into my head—me as a young boy, clutching my teddy bear and a black plastic trash bag as I lugged my few possessions to my next foster home, praying that my new caretakers would welcome me into their family and make me their son forever.
Spoiler alert—they didn’t.
Twenty years later, I was still alone, a warrior with no place to call home.
That was the way I liked it.
I stepped into the station, a faceless man among throngs of people. I admired the last glimpses of the sunset over the city steeples with a massive mountain looming in the background. A river flowed through the center of town. Pine trees, spicy herbs, and fragrant flowers scented the air. Vacation had begun.
Though I’d deployed overseas many times, I’d never been to Europe. I’d only been in France a few hours, but I was worlds away from my hometown in Gilroy, California.
I would check into my bed-and-breakfast and spend a day relaxing in town before renting a car and heading to Omaha Beach.
For the next week, I would live my life selfishly. I planned to visit all the historical battle sites I’d dreamed of seeing as a kid, when everyone told me I’d never make anything out of myself, never leave my piss-poor town.
I’m here now, a complete badass.
I had one week to recuperate from the hardships of war by fucking some hot European chicks, who preferably wouldn’t even speak English so I could smash and dash.
Time to get started—I was ready to sample the local cuisine, and then I needed to find a woman.
I studied the map on my phone, and I plotted my route to a place to eat and then to the bed-and-breakfast.
As I put my phone in my back pocket, my gaze quickly focused on a beautiful blonde sitting on a stone bench, her nose buried in a book. Maybe she’d tuck me in and give me a nightcap.
Admiring her curves, I zeroed in on my target before noticing two swarthy men looming in her shadow.
Why were they standing so close to her?
Before I could approach, one snatched her purse, knocking her to the ground, and ran off to the left. The other grabbed her luggage and came straight at me.
“Au secours!” she screamed. “On vient de me voler!”
I leaped into action, tossing my pack aside and tackling the motherfucker.
He swung wildly. I ducked out of the way. With a firm kick to his ribs and a punch square in the face, I knocked him out.
I knelt down beside him and slapped him on his sallow cheeks until he came to. His brown eyes blinked open, then locked on me with a watery gaze.
A small crowd had gathered, but none of the bystanders stepped in to help. “Where’s your friend?”
He shook his head.
I rolled him over onto his stomach, pulled a cell phone out of his back pocket, and frisked him for weapons. I found a switchblade, grabbed it, and then flipped him back over like a pancake. “Call him and get him to bring back her purse.”
“No English.”
Liar. The chances of recovering this woman’s purse were fading by the minute. I was sure the thief had stolen her money and credit cards and tossed the purse into the river.
I grabbed the guy by his throat and forced myself not to choke him out. I didn’t want to get arrested overseas for assault. Instead, I pulled him up by his clothes, retrieved the lady’s luggage, picked up my pack, and marched him over to the woman. I’d let the police deal with him.
I scanned the distance for the other thief, but there was no trace of him.
A few people were staring at me, but I didn’t give a fuck. The blonde still cowered on th
e ground, and not a single passerby had stopped to see if she was okay.
I threw the thief back on the ground and tied his wrists to the bench post with my shoelace. “Don’t try anything funny, or I’ll kill you.”
He didn’t respond.
I turned my attention to the beautiful woman, reached out my hand, and helped her up.
She smoothed her hands over her clothes and looked right at me. Long, thick eyelashes framed her large eyes, which hypnotized me with their unusual cornflower-blue shade. “Merci beaucoup, monsieur.”
I eye-fucked her slowly. She looked like she was in her early twenties, and her golden-blonde hair framed a heart-shaped face before it cascaded down to her ample cleavage. Heat pulsed through my veins—she was a knockout. “I don’t speak French.”
Her face brightened. “You are an American?” she asked in perfect English laced with a sexy accent.
I gave her a charming smile. “Damn straight.”
America was the only woman I’d ever loved. I’d bleed for her; I’d die for her.
“I can walk you to the nearest police station to file a report. Or we can call the cops. Do they have 911 over here?”
She shook her head no, and her lower lip trembled. “That won’t be necessary. I doubt the police would be able to recover my purse. Please, just let him go.”
Confusion set in. “You don’t want to call the police? Why let this bastard get away with his crime?”
“I just don’t want the trouble, okay? It’s hard to explain. Please . . . let him go.”
I exhaled. I didn’t want to let this jerk off the hook, but it wasn’t up to me if she didn’t want to press charges. Why did she want to keep this quiet? Maybe she was on the run from someone or something.
Whatever.
I reluctantly released him. “Piece of shit. Get the fuck out of here.”
The man broke through the crowd and scurried away like a scared little mouse.
What kind of motherfucker stole from a gorgeous woman? He was lucky I hadn’t killed him, but I’d killed too many men in my life. There was no room for death on my vacation.
I handed her the luggage.
“Thank you for retrieving my suitcase. How can I ever repay you?”
By getting on all fours and letting me fuck you from behind.
I pushed the thought away. Over the years, I’d grown very good at reading people, and my gut told me she wasn’t the type of woman who would be interested in a casual hook-up. Besides her designer luggage, she wore a loose silk blouse that looked like it was expensive and sported huge emerald earrings.
And a massive diamond engagement ring.
Dammit. I was looking for a one-night stand—not someone else’s relationship drama.
I had two rules when it came to women: never sleep with the same one twice, and never fuck some other man’s woman. Cheaters repulsed me, especially after seeing so many of my Teammates return home from deployment to find their wives had been unfaithful.
“No need. Are you hurt?”
She placed her hand on my arm.
“No, I’m fine. A bit rattled, but I’ll be okay. But my documents, my money, and my phone are gone.”
That sucked. “Can I escort you somewhere? Your hotel?” I’d take her somewhere she would be safe. I didn’t owe her anything else. She was engaged—I refused to get involved.
Her shoulders dropped, and her voice sounded weak. “I don’t want to be a bother.”
“You aren’t a bother. I’m happy to help.”
“I appreciate that, but I’ll be fine. Thank you again for getting my luggage.” She grabbed her bag from me, walked a few feet away, slumped on a bench, and clutched her book.
After a few moments, she began to cry.
Fuck. I couldn’t leave her alone after she had just been mugged. I wasn’t that much of a dick.
Fine, Ryan. Just get her situated and then go on your way.
I walked to the bench and sat beside her. “What are you going to do? I have a cell with international minutes. Would you like to call someone? Maybe your fiancé?”
She bit her plump lower lip and fidgeted with the diamond on her finger. “Oh, you noticed my ring. It’s not what it seems.”
I rolled my eyes. “Sure it isn’t, lady. Tell that to him.”
“I mean, it is. I’m technically engaged, but we’re not together romantically. It’s more of . . . a business arrangement.”
I leaned in closer. What was her story? I didn’t know her at all, but something in her voice and her eyes made me curious about her. Normally, I didn’t give two shits about other people’s personal lives, but she intrigued me. I had to get to the bottom of this.
“An arrangement? That’s sexy.” What year was it? Who still had arranged marriages?
“It’s not meant to be sexy. It’s meant to be practical.”
I wasn’t even going to go there with her. Marriage and practical should never be used in the same sentence.
“Where are you staying?”
“At the Château La Chenevière. But without my documents, I’ll be unable to check-in. I could call my father, but I’m too embarrassed. He warned me about traveling alone. He’ll just tell me, ‘I told you so,’ and I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Daddy’s girl. An engaged daddy’s girl. Even so, she spoke with an innocence I found refreshing. “I get it. You want to be independent.”
She looked up at me. “It’s not just that. Now I realize he was right. It was foolish of me to travel alone. This is none of your concern—I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
But she didn’t look fine. She forced a smile like she was trying to keep everything together and not break down.
I studied this woman next to me, who didn’t seem to blend in with either the casual locals or the sloppy tourists. Even though I was on vacation, I was a Navy SEAL twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if something happened to her. She’d already been mugged, and though I’d retrieved her luggage, she didn’t have her purse. So far, she’d been sweet, shy, and was surprisingly open to answering all my questions. Nothing like the other women I’d hooked up with. Definitely a challenge.
And I never backed down from a challenge.
“Let me take you to dinner first, and after we’re done, I’ll walk you to your hotel and make sure you’re settled.”
Her brow furrowed. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I don’t want to ruin your night with my troubles. Furthermore, I don’t even know you.”
I needed to assure her that I wasn’t some psychopath. I scooted away from her. “Then get to know me. My name is Ryan Shelton, I’m a Navy SEAL.” I reached into my back pocket and flashed a military ID at her.
Her eyes widened. “A Navy SEAL? I read once that Navy SEALs were trained to kill in over three hundred ways. So, you’re a killer? That’s supposed to make me feel more comfortable with you?”
Not the reaction I was going for and definitely not the one I was used to. Back in the states, many women dropped to their knees and opened their mouths when I told them I was a SEAL.
I put the ID back in my pocket. “I protect people like I protected you. I’m one of the good guys. What’s your name?”
“Giselle. Nice to meet you, Ryan.”
“Would you like to join me for dinner or not?”
She played with a lock of her hair and stared at me. After an uncomfortable pause, she finally said, “I’d love to.”
“Great. Let’s go.” I took her luggage and walked down the street with her right beside me, her heels clicking on the cobblestones. I took a moment to stare at her luscious ass, which sent a jolt to my cock.
As we walked further, I kept stealing glances at her, trying to assess her. Giselle had perfect posture, luxury clothing, expensive jewelry, and an elegant way of speaking. I still couldn’t place her accent—I wanted to say it was French or Ita
lian. Still, judging by her grammar, it was obvious that she had been educated in English-speaking schools.
Maybe she was the daughter of a diplomat. Or of a global entrepreneur. Or of some head of a cartel or Mafia-type organization. Or from a deeply religious family. Who else would force her into an arranged marriage?
I’ll find out tonight.
After walking only a few minutes, a man ran in front of us, his camera flashing in our faces.
“Gisela! Votre Majesté!” He was speaking so rapidly that I couldn’t follow what he was saying.
What the fuck? I knocked his camera out of his hand, but it was attached to a strap around his neck. The man yelled more words I didn’t understand and continued taking pictures of us.
Giselle shielded her face and ran up the street. The man chased after her.
Where was she going? Who was this girl?
I bolted after her, racing past the loser with the camera, tripping him on the way.
Once I reached her side, I grabbed her arm then turned her to face me. “Why is a paparazzo taking pictures of you? Who are you? Don’t lie to me.”
Her eyes blinked like she was deciding whether or not to tell me the truth. Finally, she spoke.
“I didn’t lie to you. My name is Giselle . . . Garabaldi.”
She looked at me expectantly, as if the name should mean something.
“I’m afraid I’m not current with Swedish pop music.” I took a stab in the dark.
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