CHAPTER ONE
Nikolai
IT’S NEVER IDEAL to wake up after a one-night stand to find a European boxing champion glaring at your bare ass. It’s worse if the pissed-off guy in question happens to be a childhood best friend.
Scratch that...former best friend.
“Top of the morning.” I wryly yank the hotel’s satin sheet over my waist. A red thong is bunched on top of the unmade covers, right where I removed it with my teeth around midnight.
If looks could kill, Christian Wurtzer, Baron of Rosegate, would smite me faster than a lightning bolt hurled by an avenging god.
“You really are a first-rate bastard, aren’t you, Nikolai?” He balled his hands into meaty fists, a useless gesture, because here in the Kingdom of Edenvale, it’s illegal to strike a member of the royal family.
And as Prince Nikolai, third of his name, Duke of Westcraven, heir to the throne of Edenvale and our country’s eminent blue-blooded bad boy, I fall square into the “no hitting allowed” category. Rules are often a nuisance in my world, but that particular clause has proved beneficial since reaching my maturity, especially in predicaments regarding the opposite sex.
“Bastard?” I scrub the morning scruff prickling my jaw with a yawn. “But I’m the mirror image of my dear sovereign father, and don’t forget that my poor queen mother was forced to squeeze me out in front of an official court representative to ensure my legitimacy.” There is a sharp localized pain in the vicinity of my heart; the twinge always accompanies a mention of my long-dead mother. She died bringing my youngest brother, Damien, into the world, the first life that banished asshole ever took.
“You’ve gone too far this time.” Christian’s warning growl yanks my attention back to the present moment. “This was my sister. You compromised her virtue.”
Not the optimal moment to observe that he could give the ferocious bear stamped on his family crest a run for its money. Once our people were great hunters, the best swordsmen in Europe, as feared as the Vikings of old. Edenvale might be a small, landlocked kingdom, but we harbored a reputation as ruthless, lethal warriors. These days we’re better known for luxury casinos, discreet banks and glamorous mountain hideaways. Edenvale is a high-altitude playground for the rich, the famous and those aspiring to the same.
“What will I tell my parents?” He rakes a hand through his blond hair, pacing the plush carpet. “Catriona is ruined. Her prospects for a marriage alliance are now nonexistent.”
“Come, come. Ask any trust-fund baby in Ibiza. It’s common knowledge that your precious little sister gave up her virtue well before I sunk my flag.” If his family schemed to marry Cat off as a virgin, they lost that chance years ago. Typical Rosegate sentiment to attach significance to such an inconsequential thing as a hymen. But they are an old-fashioned people. The regional characteristic might be charming if their morals weren’t so fucking medieval.
Catriona Wurtzer stirs, snoring lightly, her pink lips crooked into a satiated half smile. A hot pulse of lust spreads through my sac. That luscious mouth pouts from the cover of three different high-fashion magazines this month alone, and last night it worked over my cock with such deep-throated skill that the interlude nearly distracted me from this morning’s royal duty.
I roll out of bed and slip on my tuxedo pants—commando—and shrug into my dress shirt, not bothering with the twenty-four-karat-gold cuff links on the nightstand. Catriona likes it rough, and the room was trashed during our sleepover. Those expensive baubles will serve as a more-than-adequate housekeeping tip. It’s time for me to return to the castle.
My father, the king, and my hag of a stepmother, the current queen, have summoned me for a private audience this morning at nine thirty sharp. This rare audience doesn’t mean anything good, which is why I guzzled three-thousand-dollar-a-bottle champagne at a gala benefit before burying myself balls deep into the supermodel who happens to be my best friend’s little sister.
“Your family have been loyal subjects for over two centuries. Based on this valued relationship, I shall issue a royal decree. Huzzah, huzzah. All hail Catriona, the realm’s newest countess.” I can’t resist a smirk as I tack on, “A new title for her trouble.” As if bedding me was a hardship. Which it wasn’t. But what the hell? Let her add a castle to her four orgasms. I’m in a generous mood.
“Too kind, Highness.” Christian nearly chokes on his words. He wants to beat my ass into Luxembourg, but the microstate of Rosegate has long been a disputed territory with Nightgardin, the country to the north and our ancient foe. The powerful Wurtzer family has been allied to mine for generations, and he knows—without reminder—three salient facts:
I’m an asshole, a leopard can’t change his spots, and Edenvale’s small but lethal military is the only thing protecting Rosegate against a Nightgardin power grab.
Revenge is a bitch.
Christian and I attended Swiss boarding school together and shared a dormitory room for five years. I love the guy like family, but he recently racked up too many gambling debts playing high-stakes blackjack. My sources say he decided to pay for them by selling titillating gossip about me to the tabloids. I’m not saying banging his hot sister is payback for his betrayal.
But I’m not saying it isn’t, either.
A muscle twitches deep in his jaw, the same tic that would act up back when he’d pour over his calculus lessons during late-night study sessions. I’m sure he’d love to order me to “do the 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 few times I’ve seen him on television. Not that I watch much of that celebrity crap that’s thrown in the public’s face on a daily basis. But I’m not prepared for my reaction to the prince in the flesh.
He is nothing short of dazzling.
My lungs revolt, unable to take a deep breath even though I need air badly.
And as if it isn’t enough that he has some sort of superpower effect between my legs, I feel my nipples stand at attention against the lace of my bra. Thank God I’d had the forethought to keep my suit jacket buttoned.
“Nikolai—” the queen begins, but the prince holds up a finger as he returns to scanning the contents of the folder—the one I have been waiting for permission to examine myself. Apparently, the rumors are true—stepmother and stepson do not get on as they should. That explains the blatant disrespect.
His shuttered gaze roams the first page, then the second, and several more after that. I watch as his father crosses his arms and humors his son with a look that says no matter what antics the prince displays, the king will have the final word.
Prince Nikolai slams the folder closed and lets out a raucous laugh.
“Please, Nikolai,” the king says, steepling his fingers in front of him. “Do tell us what you find so amusing.”
The queen rests a hand on her husband’s forearm, but the man’s icy gaze remains directed at his son. All I do is stare, my head bobbing like I’m watching a tennis match in slow motion.
The prince narrows his eyes, pinning them on me, and my core tightens in disobedient response.
He takes his sweet time scrutinizing me, the corner of his mouth quirked in a crooked grin. Then he splays his hands on the table, leaning forward so that he’s close enough for me to smell the tang of alcohol on his breath.
“I find it hilarious,” the prince says with an edge to his words, “that you not only expect me to marry but that you think Little Miss Matchmaker-Dot-Com is the one to take care of the job. I mean, why not open me a royal Tinder account and be done with it?”
He has the nerve to sneer at me and my career? Oh, hell no.
Red-hot anger replaces that sensual tightening in my core.
The prince pushes from the table and smooths out his wrinkled shirt. “Father. Stepmother. As always, it’s a pleasure to see you both.” He doesn’t hide his sarcasm.
On instinct, I stand as he rounds the table, my cheeks blazing with repressed fury.
“I—I am not some dot-com organization. My matches are personal, well thought out...” I sputter as it sinks in not only what I’ve been called here to do but that my client is anything but willing.
“Save it, sweetheart,” he says. “I’d sooner fuck you than let you arrange my nuptials.”
The queen gasps, and King Nikolai slams his fist on the table.
“Enough,” the older man says, the finality of his authority dripping from the word. “Benedict is entering the priesthood. Damien is banished. If you do not marry with the intent to produce an heir, the throne falls out of the immediate family and to your cousin Ingrid. You will not fault on your duty.”
The muscle in the prince’s jaw pulses. “That’s right, Father. I’ve had enough.” His penetrating stare, though, stays on me the whole time. That’s when he leans in, hot breath on my cheek. “And you’d enjoy every goddamn second of it,” he whispers. “The word enough won’t even exist in your vocabulary.”
He bows toward his visibly shaken parents before making his dramatic exit.
I give myself a mental pat on the back for at least believing the stories.
The prince is a grade-A asshole.
My soaked panties, on the other hand, apparently did not receive the memo.
Perhaps they’re waiting for one with the royal seal.