“I am Princess Camille of House Winterbourne. I demand you look at me when I’m talking to you.”
Her accent is beautiful… a slightly dry English tone that’s been passed down over hundreds of years from when Bretaria belonged to the British crown.
Ladd’s gaze meets mine, a sly smirk on his face as he shakes his head. He knows I’m not crazy about babysitting a princess.
Dozer’s head pops up when she continues on. “I also demand that you give me the full details about what the hell is going on. You answer to me as much as to my father.”
“Oh man,” Cruce murmurs upon a chuckle, sitting straighter in his chair. “She sounds like a pistol.”
Like a spoiled brat.
Dmitri answers her, but his voice is too low—very calm—and I can’t hear exactly what he says. But within just a moment, the knob turns and the door swings open. I see Dmitri, but then my vision is filled with Camille Winterbourne as she walks through the door.
My gut tightens, not in reaction to her extreme beauty, which, to be fucking honest, is unparalleled. She’s got golden skin, sun-bleached hair, and light blue eyes. Her face is exquisite, her body perfectly proportioned.
But that’s not what has me doing a double take.
It’s that she’s wearing a pair of frayed denim shorts, an old T-shirt, and a pair of nondescript sandals. Her hair is in a bun with locks of it coming loose to frame her face, and she doesn’t have on a lick of makeup.
She looks … normal.
Although highly irritated.
Her blue eyes sweep the room, passing right over me, Cruce, and Dozer, landing on Ladd to stick there. “I understand you’re part of my new protection detail for my upcoming travels to the United States.”
It’s no surprise she narrowed in on Ladd. He’s the oldest of our crew—not that forty-one is old—but I’m sure his premature salt-and-pepper hair makes him look like he’s the mature one in charge. He rolls with her assumption and steps forward to greet her while Cruce, Dozer, and myself rise from our chairs.
The dossier briefed us on royal protocol, including meeting a royal and how to address them. The Winterbournes aren’t as formal as some sovereign families, so all that is required is a slight bow, really more a bob of the head and Ladd extends his hand to her.
She takes it to shake without hesitation as he says, “I’m Ladd McDermott from Jameson Force Security. I’ll be helping lead a team for your perimeter security on all your stops in the States along with Cruce Britton and Dozer Burney.”
When he announces their names, he tips his head to them and the princess gives each a short smile of acknowledgment.
She then turns those pretty blue eyes my way. “And you are?”
I don’t bow, bob, or offer my hand. “Jackson Gale. I’ll be your personal bodyguard during your trip.”
She takes the higher road, stepping toward me and extends her hand. She doesn’t chastise me for not showing her proper respect, and I’m shocked by that as we shake. “I’m Camille.”
That’s it.
Just Camille.
No Princess Camille. No Her Royal Highness Princess Camille of House Winterbourne, or whatever bougie titles they give themselves.
She releases my hand and turns back to Dmitri who has entered the room and closed the door. “I still don’t understand why you can’t head up my security. You’ve always done so in all my travels.”
Dmitri is one cool son of a bitch and doesn’t hesitate to lie to the princess. “You’ve never been to the United States before, and the American government insists on providing security for your trip. Jameson will cover your cousin’s wedding in London as a means for us to judge their worthiness.”
The lie is that the American government is in no way insisting on providing security. We’ve merely been offered as a kindness, which was accepted, but come to find out today, the reason we were so gladly accepted by Dmitri and approved by King Thomas is that Camille doesn’t have the biggest threat potential right now.
What Dmitri shared with us—and which we’ve been forbidden from revealing to the princess—is that her father has a very active threat of assassination hanging over his head. This was picked up not by the Bretarian security forces but rather by Interpol who caught chatter about a plan forming to take out the king.
Apparently, the status of the royal throne isn’t as concrete as one might assume. When the royal charter was enacted in 1682, an obscure clause was included that provided for stability should a monarch die before his or her heir was sufficiently mature enough to take over duties of not just the throne but more importantly, the ruby mines. Specifically, the charter decrees that if the ruling king or queen predeceases their heir apparent before said heir reaches the age of twenty-five, then the heir is not qualified to assume the monarchy. Instead, the title will pass to the next in line to inherit.