Royal Bastard (Instantly Royal 1)

“He wants me to be his heir,” Nick said, concentrating on moving his knight and giving his bishop a clear shot. “Check.”

“Fuck,” Mace grumbled. “What is the old man, some kind of oil baron?”

“English earl.”

Mace’s head jerked up, his eyes wide with surprise. “Are you shitting me?” To the surprise of absolutely no one who’d ever met Mason Thomas Pell—nicknamed The Bulldog for his tendency to be stubborn—he kept pushing. “So what are you going to do?”

“Not a damn thing. Eventually the old man and his pain-in-my-neck secretary will take the hint and leave me alone.”

Mace squinted at Nick and then shook his head. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

“Don’t talk to me about luck. I make my own; I’ve always had to.”

Thanks in no small part to the stick-up-his-ass English earl who had tried his best to ruin Nick’s life before he was even born and then watched from across the ocean and done nothing as his mom died slowly and painfully, leaving him an orphan. Now that bastard wanted Nick to take over as his heir? Yeah, fuck that shit.

One chess loss, two more beers, and several hours later, Mace left and Nick tried to sleep. Insomnia was always the one thing he could never conquer. He’d memorized every mark on the ceiling, every croak in the night from the frogs looking to hook up that sounded between midnight and three in the morning. The quiet buzz of his phone vibrating on the kitchen counter stood out like a bunch of drunken frat boys singing a college football fight song in a library.

He didn’t have to guess who it was. He just knew. It was that woman again: Brooke Chapman-Powell. He was out of bed before he’d thought about it and marching toward the kitchen.

That was a mistake.

He hit his pinkie toe on the iron frame of his bed in his rush. Pain shot up from his foot like hot rocket fuel commensurate with the volume of his yelp of agony as he hopped toward the door. He was almost there when the foot that wasn’t throbbing landed on an abandoned sock on the floor that slid forward on the smooth hardwood. He skidded and almost rammed his nose against the bedroom doorframe. Catching himself just in time, he did a spin move through the door. Heart beating wildly, his toe still aching, and the fear of a vengeful God put into him, he was breathing hard when he took an unsteady step toward the kitchen, reached for the phone, and ended up whacking his elbow on the metal spice rack on the counter. He was cursing out loud by the time he snatched his phone off the granite counter and clicked on the new email message.

26 May

Dear Mr. Vane,

Please forgive the intrusion again, but I have not received a response from my previous email. This invitation is of the utmost importance and your immediate attention is much appreciated. I have tried ringing you, but my calls have gone to voicemail, the message of which says that it is full. The earl is most anxiously awaiting your response and I have included my phone number, if you’d prefer to call at a time convenient to you.

Faithfully yours,

Brooke Chapman-Powell

Personal Secretary, Earl of Englefield

01287 555 123

He was punching in numbers on his keypad before his brain caught up with his actions. She picked up on the fourth ring.

“Brooke Chapman-Powell.”

The woman’s English accent came through loud and clear, jabbing into his ear like a drill bit. It spun and pushed against the sensitive spot in his brain that decided around the time that his mother died that there wasn’t anything worthwhile or good about that damp, foggy, snooty island across the Atlantic.

“Leave me alone,” he said, putting all his years of accumulated resentment into those three little words.

She gasped, the quick intake of breath audible over the phone. “Who is this?”

Nice try. “You know damn well who this is.”

“I’m sure I don’t.”

The line went dead.

Nick stared at his phone, blinking in surprise. She’d hung up on him. After a two-week-long barrage of letters and emails, the woman who talked in that snobby English accent had hung up on him!

Not that he needed another reason why he was never going to England, but the disdain dripping from Brooke Chapman-Powell’s words sure sealed the deal. That whole country could sink into the Atlantic. Still, as he made his way back to his bedroom, he couldn’t quite get that woman’s voice out of his head—and not because of her accent. There was something in that not-quite-awake-but-already-emailing way she’d said her name that stuck with him, turned the curiosity spokes in his brain—sort of like when he got the nugget of an idea for an invention. He knew it wouldn’t go away until he knew more. Turning, he made his way back to the kitchen and picked up his phone ready to do a little Google investigating himself.

He had no more than pressed the home button before the damn thing rang in his hand. He recognized the number immediately—Brooke Chapman-Powell was calling him back. The question was, should he answer?