right thing” and stick a ring on his sister’s finger. But alas, only one of us carries an invitation-only Black Amex card with no preset limits.
Limits are for those who need them. I am no such man.
People can think I’m an arrogant ass all they want. They’re right. But at least I’m a consistent asshole. Fuck with me and I fuck back. No hard feelings. It’s how the people on top stay on top. And I can make it good.
Or I can make it hurt.
For those who beg nicely—I can make it both.
Got to say, being a prince is full of perks in all ways but one—I still answer to the king. It’s not my throne...yet.
I glance in the gilded mirror on my way out the door. Yep, still me. Bed-rumpled jet-black hair, a roguish mouth and gunmetal gray eyes. I clock in at six foot four and possess stamina for days. Last year I came in number one on a list of the world’s sexiest royals. The only thing surprising was that it was the first year it happened. Way I see it, Prince Harry over in jolly old England can eat his ginger heart out.
“For Christ’s sake. Wake up, Catriona,” Christian orders his sister as I exit the room. I outpace the unfolding drama and stride down the hotel hallway, hitting the button on the penthouse’s private elevator. My bodyguard, X, waits in the Rolls. He’s been idling there all night. He’s used to it.
I slide into the back seat without a word.
A language lesson plays on the sound system—Mandarin Chinese. X collects languages like he does medieval knives. Not my first choice for fun, but to each his own.
“To the castle, Sire?” he asks over the intercom, turning off the stereo. I remove my sunglasses from my pocket. Daylight reflects from the snow on the high mountain peaks. My growing headache isn’t in the mood for good weather.
“Home sweet home.” I slather sarcasm on my affirmative and slide on the shades to avoid the summer sun.
As X starts the engine, I reach into the minibar and pluck out a handful of miniature cognac bottles. By the time we cross the moat, I toss the fifth empty on the pile by my feet. But the liquor does jack shit to dull the sharp pain in my gut.
Fine. It was an unforgivable move to fuck my best friend’s little sister—revenge or no—but I’m sure as shit no Prince Charming.
Kate
I spread my hands across my pleated skirt, then think better of it and rest them atop the leather folder that sits on the table. If I wanted to, I could relax, even luxuriate in the high-backed, cushioned chair, no doubt made of the same buttery leather as the folder in front of me. But it’s not exactly easy when you’re sitting at a twenty-foot-long mahogany table in one of many rooms at the Palace Edenvale.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t been here before, but I don’t think a prep-school tour counts the same as an invitation that came hand-delivered by a royal herald. The envelope was even closed with one of those fancy wax seals.
Dear Miss Katherine Winter,
Your presence is requested at Palace Edenvale at 9:30 a.m. tomorrow morning. Please come unattended and plan on clearing your schedule for the remainder of the day. Your audience with the king and queen must be kept private. Tell no one where you are going, and after you’ve been, tell no one what transpires within the palace walls until—should they request your services further—the king, queen and yourself enter into contract.
The royal family appreciates you honoring your duty and complying with the above requests.
I huff out a laugh, which echoes in the empty room. Requests. As if I had any choice once I broke the royal seal. Sure, Your Highnesses, I’ll clear my day. Of course, my illustrious rulers, I’ll keep my visit to the palace a secret. Not because of any damned duty, though. If there is one thing I value, it’s my business and my independence. I am determined to keep the former and as much of the latter as possible, and if that means zipping my lips about my royal audience, fine by me.
There better at least be some sort of monetary compensation for this—this—request. God knows my sister and I need it. Our savings account has dipped into the red with Gran’s mounting medical bills, which has sent my internal stress thermometer in the exact opposite direction.
I glance at the thin gold bracelet on my wrist, an eighteenth-birthday gift from my beloved grandmother, back in happier times. Back when she still remembered my name.
I swallow the threat of tears. This is hardly the time or the place to wallow in my personal woes.
“We won’t lose the apartment.” The words are a mantra. “And we’ll still be able to take care of Gran.”
I figure if I say the words enough, they’ll be true. So I open my mouth once more to repeat the statements, but the conference-room doors part with a whoosh, and my worry fades into the distance as the same formal-looking man who delivered my invitation steps over the threshold and announces my small country’s rulers in a booming voice.
“All rise for His Highness, King Nikolai of Edenvale, and Her Eminence, Queen Adele.”
The herald proclaims the royal couple as if they are entering an arena, and I, of course, shoot to my feet. My first instinct is to bow or curtsy, but neither one of them spares me so much as a passing glance. Yet I’m the only one in the room. I’ve been requested for a private audience with the monarchy, and they don’t even deign to look at me.
Still, I wait for the attendants who trail behind the pair to pull out two chairs at the head of the table. I wait some more as they lower themselves into the plush leather seats. And as I’m about to do the same, a man wearing half a tuxedo bursts through the doors still tucking in his wrinkled dress shirt.
He winks in my direction, flashing a knavish grin before turning his attention to the king and queen.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, checking a nonexistent watch on his wrist. Then he kisses the queen on the cheek while the king, a salt-and-pepper version of the young man, simply gives his son—Prince Nikolai—a pointed look.
While his parents—make that father and stepmother—take residence at the far head of the table, the prince sits across from me and flips open the embossed folder in front of him.
“So,” he says, sprawling in his chair and thumbing through the folder’s contents, “what fire are we putting out this morning?”
He runs a hand through his black hair, and I squirm involuntarily in my seat. Sure, I’ve seen photos of him before. Prince Nikolai’s image has graced the front page of the tabloids almost weekly since he came of age. But that sort of sensationalism has never been my thing. I wasn’t the preteen with pictures of the teen heartthrob prince on my wall. I didn’t wallpaper my computer’s desktop with his devil-may-care smile, no matter how gorgeous he was.
And he was. Even then.
But he was also a grade-A asshole. Even then.
And from the looks of things—from the colorful headlines that always seem to feature Prince Nikolai’s name—it doesn’t seem like anything is changing soon.
Still, when those slate-colored eyes look up from the folder and meet mine, I squirm again. He was handsome in photos and the
