Royal Bastard (Instantly Royal 1)

No “this will work.”

And certainly no “I look forward to seeing you.”

Just a bright-yellow thumbs-up. How very American of him.

She shouldn’t be annoyed. She shouldn’t even care. But the thing was, she did. Since the earl’s announcement of his dementia diagnosis, she’d been noticing more forgetful moments—especially in the evening—and he’d become even snarlier. It wasn’t that he’d ever had a reputation in the village for being particularly pleasant, really most everyone agreed he was a giant pain in the arse, but she couldn’t help but feel bad for being cross about him before.

It hurt her heart to see the man realize he was telling the same story he’d just told or couldn’t remember the name of the Financial Times columnist he’d been reading for years. He’d drop his gaze, his jaw would tighten, and then he’d dismiss her for the evening. Add that to the guilt she was feeling for knowing something that would affect so many but being sworn to secrecy, and it was no surprise that her antacid intake had increased dramatically.

However, all it would take for everything to be exponentially better for everyone would be for Mr. Vane to accept his duty and agree to stay on at Dallinger Park even if he was—on paper at least—utterly unsuitable for the job.

She flipped open the folder and, again, began going over the report that outlined so much that was just unacceptable about him. She turned the page, revealing a photo of Mr. Vane wearing nothing but a swimsuit and a sexy smirk as the golden sun highlighted every one of his abs. He had eight distinct abs. She’d counted. Twice. But only because, as the earl’s private secretary, she understood the importance of being thorough. She wasn’t ogling her employer’s heir. That just wasn’t done.

Heart beating a little faster, she slapped closed the folder containing the investigator’s report—including more photos of Nick sleeping in a fishing boat, lazing on what looked like a floating lawn chair in a lake, and sprawled across a porch swing with a bottle of beer and a blonde.

Her mobile buzzed.

Daisy: Is he as fit as he looks in the pics?

God, she hoped not. She needed this job to work.

Brooke: Shouldn’t you be in class?

Before the McVie University for the Deaf closes for good, she added in her head but left unsaid in text. Mundane responsibilities were Brooke’s area. Daisy took care of the taking-over-the-world-someday part of their sisterhood. It had worked for them since childhood, and Brooke didn’t believe in messing about with an established and successful scheme. She colored within the lines. Daisy went all over the page in neon glitter.

Daisy: I’m at uni. Relax. Are you already shagging him?

Brooke: Not appropriate.

She shifted in the back seat of the ancient but pristine Mercedes, her gaze darting over to the closed folder with his photo inside.

Daisy: I’m just taking the piss. But really, what’s he wearing?

Brooke: I haven’t seen him yet. We’re almost to the airport now.

Daisy: Shirtless = Pics to me.

She chuckled.

Brooke: No.

Daisy: Live a little.

She was. She just did her living in a shirt-buttoned-to-the-collar, navy-blazer, matching-trousers-and-sensible-shoes kind of way.

Brooke: Get back to class.

Daisy: Yes, Mum.

Smiling despite herself, Brooke slid her mobile into her handbag as the butler/driver/whatever-else-needed-doing-man Mr. Harleson pulled into the airport car park. There were no loose ends after that, only the rush of getting to the passenger pickup area. Of course, she spotted Nick right away. The American heir to the Earl of Englefield looked like he’d been hit by a coach on the A1, but instead of being in desperate need of going to hospital, he’d walked away from the wreckage arm in arm with a leggy flight attendant.

Not even his appearance or the fact that he really was walking toward her with a flight attendant/model waiting to be discovered hanging on his arm had any impact on his oh-so-American swagger. His light-brown hair was going every which way, his clothes were askew as if he’d pulled them on in a rush, and his eyes were at half-mast as he scanned the waiting crowd. Still, his whole vibe was that of power and confidence wrapped in utter relaxation. She almost envied him, except it completely reminded her of her ex. And that little comparison was enough to make her forget six of those eight abs Mr. Vane was hiding under his T-shirt.

Well, then. He’s a right proper git from the looks of him.

Good thing she’d learned the hard way in Manchester just how to handle someone like Nick Vane.

…