As soon as he exits through the glass doors at the end of the hallway, I pull out the slip of paper he’s placed in my bag, crumple it in my fist, and walk over to the nearest trash can. My hand gets to the edge of the container before I stop, unable to drop the paper in.

I grumble to myself. This is not how today was supposed to go. Today, I was supposed to be free—no more royal family articles, no more bullshit stories about celebrity antics no one should care about.

The near-growl that comes out of me draws a little more attention than it should from the other people in the corridor, and I drop my gaze to the ground, pulling my hand away from the trash as I shove the slip of paper with Andrew’s phone number into my pocket.

Elle was right about one thing—Andrew is an asshole. He seems to have a special gift for making a person feel she is somehow little more than dirt beneath his feet. And it doesn’t matter how gorgeous he is—or how good he smelled when he was standing so close to me. He’s an asshole, and that’s all I need to remember.

But he’s in trouble. There’s something about that knowledge that makes my heart beat a little faster—something about it that gives me a feeling that seems ridiculously close to glee. Bringing Prince High-and-Mighty to his knees would give everyone who reads about it that same sense of giddiness if it’s done just right. Showing the world the perfect prince is actually human—oh, he must be horrified at the thought.

As much as I might hate him for the stunt he pulled at the state dinner a few weeks ago, I know I’m not going to be able to let this go.

And he said he’d give me whatever I want…

What the hell do I want? It’s not something I let myself think about much. And the only thing I can come up with is… Not this. I want a career—a real one, not some placeholder job where I pretend to be a journalist. I want to report real news, not the latest celebrity scandal or baby bump or shopping spree.

I want a story. One that will put me on the map—one that will have the news bureaus calling me. A story that means something. And something tells me whatever it is Andrew is hiding falls under the category of celebrity scandal rather than real news. Otherwise, there are hundreds—probably thousands—of reporters he could have called. Real journalists—not the paparazzi his country seems to have a special hatred for.

I should at least hear what he has to say. I close my eyes at the thought—I don’t want to give that jerk the time of day, let alone actually listen to him. And he would have to agree to some ground rules—I’m not going to just write some spoon-fed story he wants published. It would have to be a real story that I write myself.

I pull the crumpled slip of paper from my pocket and take my phone out before I walk out the glass doors of my office building.

And I don’t put my phone to my ear before Andrew sidles up beside me.

He walks lockstep with me for half a block before I shove my phone back in my bag, forcing myself not to beat him over the head with it.

I finally stop and turn to him. “If you were going to wait for me outside, why even give me your number?”

His expression doesn’t change in the slightest—and whatever it is he’s feeling, he has it buried under lock and key. And he doesn’t answer my question.

“If this is some sort of game, Your Royal—”

“I assure you, Ms. Simpson, this is far from any game.” Something clouds his eyes, but he recovers quickly. “Do I take this to mean you’ve agreed to my terms?”

“You haven’t given me any terms, Your Highness.”

“Andrew. And I have given you terms, Ms. Simpson. You’ll accompany me to Montovia where you will be given the full details of what I require.”

I can’t help but smile. “What you require?” I chuckle. “I don’t think you understand how this works, Your Highness.”

His jaw clenches for a moment. “Andrew. And I’ve already told you, Ms. Simpson, I will be dictating the terms—”

I interrupt with a tilt of my head. “Actually, Andrew, you told me not five minutes ago you’d give me whatever I wanted. That, to me, means we’re going to play by my rules.”

He glares at me for a moment. “Name your terms, then, Ms. Simpson.”

“Well, first, call me Victoria.”

“Done.” His eyes flutter—almost in frustration. “Victoria. What else?”

My brow furrows and I let out a small sigh. “I want a job.”

“A…job? I’m afraid I don’t understand—”

“In the news bureau. In Montovia.”

He searches my eyes for a moment. “I’m not in a position to be able to offer such a position—”

“I think you are. Or you could be. Or you know who is.” I lift a brow—he has to know I’m not dumb enough to think he doesn’t have the full attention of his father, who is probably the final word on such jobs, if they even exist. “We can discuss the details later, if you’d rather. I think your country would probably do well to have a permanent American journalist reporting from there. Given how…difficult…your country can be with the media and all.”

He glares at me for a moment. “I can make no promises. That kind of decision—”

“Would be your father’s,” I interrupt. “I get that. But if the rumor mill is true—and I have no reason to think it isn’t—you’re being given more and more responsibility every day. In fact, a little bird told me a few days ago it might not be long before your ascension to the throne is—”

“That little bird’s name wouldn’t happen to be Elle, would it?” He almost growls the words. “I swear, I’ll have that woman locked in—”

“Actually, I haven’t spoken to Elle since she disappeared from the state dinner. Before I was deported.” I smile. “But thanks for the confirmation, Andrew. It’ll make my story—”

He interrupts, grabbing my wrist. “There will be no stories—not until I tell you everything. It is against the laws of Montovia—”

“And yet, here we are in America, where there are no such laws. In fact, we hold our freedom of speech and freedom of the press very dearly here, Andrew. Something you wouldn’t understand.” I twist my arm out of his grasp, trying to ignore the little thrill of electricity I feel—I’m not sure if it’s from his touch or from the argument. Maybe both. Either way, it’s definitely…something.

“Which is why we will be returning to Montovia tonight. On my personal aircraft. Where you will speak to no one unless you have cleared it through me.” He stares at me for another long moment. “Unless you wish to be deported again.”

I grin. “See, Andrew, here’s where you fail. You can’t get what you want by threatening people. You’re certainly not making your case for why I should even entertain the notion of coming to Montovia again. You can’t really believe I would willingly go back there with you, can you? After the hell you put me through before?”

His lips press into a line and he glares at me again. “You are not the only person capable of digging up distasteful stories on your subjects, you realize.”

I lift a brow. “Is that a threat?”

He lifts his shoulders in a small shrug. “You don’t think I would come here without a backup plan, do you?”

“Well played, Andrew.” My gaze narrows. “What is it you have on me?”

I swear his lips curl into the smallest of smiles. “That is for me to know and for you perhaps to never have to find out. If you’ll agree to my terms, that is.”

My gaze narrows again as I search his face for any hint he might actually know something about me. I shake my head. This is stupid. Even if he did have something on me, who would care? I just quit my job—and even if he has the most scandalous of stories, I’m nothing more than a tabloid writer. No one would give a damn about anything about me.

I search his eyes again, and I swear I see something there. Some knowing or something that gives me the tiniest bit of hesitancy.

He’s bluffing. He has to be. There’s no chance, not even the remotest possibility that he could possibly know anything—that he would even want to dig that deep.

But his gaze doesn’t waver.

I set my jaw and meet his gaze. “Are you trying to blackmail me?”

“I would never do such a thing, Ms. Simpson… Victoria.”

My eyes don’t even blink. “I want a job. In your news bureau.”

His lips tick up into what might barely pass for a smile. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Fine.” We stare at each other for what seems like a beat too long. “What are we talking about here? Is this about you? Your father? Leo?”

He takes a moment too long to answer, something flashing in his eyes before he speaks. “We’ll talk about it when we get to Montovia. After you’ve signed all the necessary forms and I’m under the protections of my own country’s laws.”

“I…I need to know if this is worth my time. If this is worth anything at all. I mean, you’re not telling me anything—you’re asking me to take you at your word there’s even a story here—”

“I assure you, Victoria, there is a story for you to write. Several stories.” He rubs his jaw for a moment, breaking our gaze. “I imagine this might be the kind of news story that would make you a celebrity yourself.”

“Why me, then? You seem to have a special kind of hatred for me in particular, Andrew. And like I told you up there…” I motion with my arm to the office building behind us. “There are plenty of reporters who are probably more capable, more experienced…hell, more willing to sit in a room with you for an extended period of time.” I stare at him for a moment. “Why are you so sure I’m your girl?”

“I’m not.” He keeps his face devoid of expression, something he seems to be a master at doing. “You’ve somehow earned the trust of my mother, and in my country, whether for good or not, that is the bottom line. At least for now.”

“I see.”

“We leave now.” He touches my elbow, pulling me gently beside him as we start to walk down the street again.

There’s no question the electricity that pulses up my arm at his touch this time comes from him. It’s just too bad that whatever attraction might be here is pretty obviously totally one-sided. He doesn’t seem to be affected by me at all.

Figures. That’s about how my luck runs with men.