Prince Albert(57)

"Miss Matheson?" my mother asks. "Please consider my invitation open-ended. You're obviously important to the Prince."

"Thank you," she says, smiling smugly. "I will certainly consider it."

"What invitation?" I hiss at my mother as soon as Erika is gone.

"Oh, I invited her to the summer home when we were talking earlier this evening," Sofia says, waving dismissively. "After the incident tonight, I thought it better to keep her and the Prince under close watch, if there's something going on there. Minimize the possibility of scandal before the wedding."

"What incident?" I ask. My chest feels tight. I swear that my lungs have suddenly decreased in capacity. I can't seem to take in enough air.

My mother leans close, speaking softly. "The bomb scare earlier this evening," she whispers. "There was no bomb. The remote was apparently a…ahem…device that was used by the Prince and a romantic paramour."

A romantic paramour.

That would be me.

"What does that have to do with Erika?" I ask stupidly.

My mother looks at me, her head cocked to the side. "Don't be obtuse, Isabella," she says. "Erika was obviously personally involved. Now, I must get back to guests. Go lie down. You're looking a little peaked."





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE



Albie



"Come on, man," Price says. "What the hell is your problem lately?"

"What?" I ask. "Nothing. No problem."

"Then you won't mind if I take home both of these girls." He nods toward the women on the other side of the room, both of whom are perched on the edge of one of the sleek black modern sofas artfully arranged to create a sitting space. The redhead waves back before crossing one long leg over the other, her foot tapping in rhythm with the bass in the club downstairs.

Redheads used to be my favorite.

Used to be.

What the fuck is wrong with me? One screw – one filthy as hell night with Little Miss Do-Gooder – and I'm completely preoccupied with her.

There's something messed up with that.

What I should do is get her out of my system. She's been avoiding me ever since the night of the engagement party, obviously regretting what happened in the throne room.

"Albie?" Price asks, irritation evident in his tome. "This is exactly my point. You're not even paying attention to me saying I'm going to screw both of these girls."

"It's fine."

"Really," he says flatly. "Since when is Prince Albert just not feelin' it?"

"Go," I say, sliding my phone out of my pocket. "Pick up all the girls you want. With my blessing. Have fun."

Price rolls his eyes. But he turns around, holding his hands up in the air. "Ladies, I'm all yours."

I open the screen on my cell phone and start typing a message.



Stop avoiding me. You know you want me.



She doesn't respond, which only irritates me. The music in the club downstairs is getting on my nerves, and I'm watching Price on the other side of the room as he sits back against the sofa, with his legs spread and girls on either side of him. He looks like such a jackass.

That's how I used to be.

The fact that I'm thinking in the past tense doesn't escape me.

Belle doesn't respond to my text, until later, when I'm back at the palace.



Obviously I'm replying. So, I'm not avoiding you.



And she's obviously pissy.

I type out my reply.



Good. When you pack for the summerhouse, make sure to leave your panties behind, because you won't need them.



I pause for a second before hitting the send button. Maybe I should just let it go. Maybe I should just write off what happened with Belle as an unfortunate byproduct of our proximity to each other and nothing more.

It was just a convenience fuck.

Or crazy hormones.

Or the fact that she was simply hard up for sex.

Or all of the stress of our parents' engagement.

There are a million excuses for what happened. All of them are stupid as hell. I wanted Belle when I saw her, and I want her now.

I hit send. She doesn't respond.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Belle



"How's Princess Prisoner?" Raine asks.

"Don't get me started." I roll my eyes so hard I think she might be able to hear the movement over the phone.

I want to tell her about what happened with Albie. I want to confide in her.

But I can’t bring myself to actually speak the words.

Prince Albert made me come at our parents’ engagement party. At the dinner table. In front of everyone.

"Is it all cocktail parties and tea with the future queen?" she asks.

"Pretty much."

And fucking on the King's throne.

I leave out that detail – the most important detail.

"You know, Phoenix and I are in Prague," she says. "We can come spring you from the clink if you want us to."