“I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
I wiggle my eyebrows. “I’m all about the compliments.”
Sarah shakes her head. “Anyway. Once word got around school, no one else wanted to come near me. And here I am—twenty-five and probably more of a virgin than the Virgin Mary was.”
Sarah makes the sign of the cross, just in case that’s blasphemous, I guess.
“But you have some experience, don’t you?” I slide my fingers together meaningfully. “Even . . . just with yourself? Rubbing one out is good for the soul.”
Her reaction is a level-five blush . . . crimson.
“That’s private,” she murmurs.
“That’s a yes.”
And holy hell, the images that come to my mind. My cock moans—willing to give up a neighboring nut for a peek at Sarah Von Titebottum pleasuring herself.
“Since I’m staying in your room, we should work out a system. A sock on the door or such. I don’t want to deprive you. Or . . . you could let me watch—I’m a fantastic audience member.”
She glares, still blushing. “I don’t like you anymore.”
I tap her nose. “Liar.”
When we pull back into the castle courtyard, James is waiting. And he does not look happy. Actually he looks like a blond Hulk . . . right before he goes smash. Sarah sees it too.
“He’s miffed.”
“Yep.”
We get out of the car and she turns so fast there’s a breeze. “I should go find Penny. ’Bye.”
I call after her. “Chicken!”
She just waves her hand over her shoulder.
Slowly, I approach him. Like an explorer, deep in the jungles of the Amazon, making first contact with a tribe that has never seen the outside world. And I hold out my peace offering.
It’s a Mega Pounder with cheese.
“I got you a burger.”
James snatches it from my hand angrily. But . . . he doesn’t throw it away.
He turns to one of the men behind him. “Mick, bring it here.”
Mick—a big, truck-size bloke—brings him a brown paper bag. And James’s cold blue eyes turn back to me.
“After speaking with your former security team, I had an audience with Her Majesty the Queen last year when you were named heir. Given your history of slipping your detail, I asked her permission to ensure your safety by any means necessary, including this.”
He reaches into the bag and pulls out a children’s leash—the type you see on ankle-biters at amusement parks, with a deranged-looking monkey sticking its head out of a backpack, his mouth wide and gaping, like he’s about to eat whoever’s wearing it.
And James smiles. “Queen Lenora said yes.”
I suspected Granny didn’t like me anymore; now I’m certain of it.
“If I have to,” James warns, “I’ll connect this to you and the other end to old Mick here.”
Mick doesn’t look any happier about the fucking prospect than I am.
“I don’t want to do that, but . . .” He shrugs, no further explanation needed. “So the next time you feel like ditching? Remember the monkey, Your Grace.”
He puts the revolting thing back in its bag. And I wonder if fire would kill it.
“Are we good, Prince Henry?” James asks.
I respect a man willing to go balls-to-the-wall for his job. I don’t like the monkey . . . but I respect it.
I flash him the okay sign with my fingers.
“Golden.”
THE MATCHED CREW WAKES US up before dawn, banging on doors like drill sergeants, to the vocal disgruntlement of the contestants. If there’s one thing the female aristocracy values above all else, it’s beauty sleep. Staff have been fired—and in the past, killed—for less.
I think the producer intentionally wants them on edge, moody, and pissed off—ready to snap at each other.
Drama sells, almost as well as sex.
They tell us to pack an overnight bag quickly. Only one bag per person, which for this group is a challenge. They don’t tell us our destination, only to bring clothes appropriate for a pool party. Danish pastries and tea are laid out on the dining room table, but we have to grab and go, to the airport.
Once there, we’re ushered into a very large back waiting room, separate and shielded from the public. The rear wall is all windows, facing the tarmac where private planes sit. Henry gazes out the window, in a white button-down shirt and tan slacks, his broad back to the room of ladies, leaning one hand on the glass. He seems fixed on something, staring.
I come up beside him, peeking under his arm, to see what he sees.
And my heart drops.
Because it’s a military plane. Four uniformed soldiers have deplaned, and with practiced, almost beautiful precision, they carry a casket, draped in the gold-and-purple Wessco flag, and place it onto a silver-wheeled table.